The short answer? Kind of.

The long answer…

In flight school, every single thing you do is graded by your instructors. Every test, every brief, every takeoff, every landing… Everything. There are detailed grading rubrics where each event is awarded a point value, so the majority of your performance is quantified. Pilot training classes typically consist of 20 students, and the goal is to have the highest grades——to be at the top of the class.

Being number one is good for the ego, but it also carries tangible benefits. At the end of the training syllabus, each flight commander “racks and stacks” their students, creating a one through twenty list. The students, meanwhile, are working on their own “rack and stack” where they annotate their platform preferences.

Every pilot training class gets a different set of aircraft and location options; these are based entirely on needs of the Air Force at that given time. Essentially, where are the holes that the need to be plugged? Colloquially, we call these options “the drop”——they come in the form of a “drop sheet.” This was the drop sheet my pilot training class was given:

Sometimes, the aircraft and/or location you want isn’t on your drop sheet. It sucks, but you’re entirely limited to what’s in the drop——it’s just luck of the draw. (For example, I originally wanted to fly the C-5, but it simply wasn’t available to my class.)

Once the students’ dream sheets are in, the flight commander steps into a matchmaker role. The commander goes down her own list, one student at a time, and compares what each student wants to what aircraft and locations are still available——starting with whoever is number one. If a student is at the top of the class, there is an extremely high likelihood they’ll get what they want. But if a student is number twenty, they’ll probably end up with whatever is left over.

Of note, there is a certain amount of luck at this stage. There is a chance every student wants something different, which means even those at the bottom of the class could get what they want. Does this happen often? No. But is it possible? Sure.

Then… The students wait. They stress. They run through worst-case and best-case scenarios in their minds, and their flight commander sits on the knowledge of everyone’s futures until “Drop Night,” when assignments are formally announced at the Officers Club. There are no hints; there are no leaks. There is zero chance anyone will find out any information early——honestly, I imagine it would be easier to get ahold of nuclear launch codes.

For me, I’ve never been as stressed as I was in the days leading up to Drop Night. I picked at my fingers so aggressively that I had to bandage each of them, and my classmates started calling me Edward Scissorhands. By the time I was called up to the O’ Club podium, in front of hundreds of attendees, I thought I might actually pass out from the anxiety. My entire life——where I’d live, what I’d fly, the types of missions I would execute——all depended on that one announcement.

But suddenly… It was over. Following a short roast (standard practice), my flight commander spoke my future into existence: “C-17s to Charleston.”

I had gotten my first choice in both platform and location.

The room erupted in cheers.

I ran to hug my mom.

I cried happy tears.

It was, hands down, one of the best moments of my life.

If you ever want a quick dopamine hit, YouTube “USAF Drop Night.” You’ll see the pure joy in students’ reactions to their airframe assignments. Years of hard work——literal blood, sweat, and tears——finally actualized in the form of their futures.