The Switch Part 2, or Keep Right

Joe and I headed out from North Island in our KA-6D (the one with the living room switch to control the tail hook) to catch up with the Connie, she was steaming west under the typical low cloud cover found in the Socal ops area every morning. It didn’t take long to pick up the azimuth and dme on the tacan and zero in on the ship. Joe checked in with Warchief, filled in all the blanks for those on the carrier who needed to know ‘zackly who we were and what our intentions were, and we switched over to approach.
This is where it got interesting. The shipboard controller we contacted said he’d be glad to give us a precision approach (CCA) to the Connie, basically a talk down (the needles were out of service), but he mentioned that his radar had undergone maintenance in port and wasn’t calibrated yet. Question marks flew around in my brain pan, non-calibrated radar wasn’t in my database. Had to ask, what does that mean to us? The answer was that we might not be precisely on course as he brings us down through the clag to land.
Not precisely on course? This didn’t resonate much with me as being a big problem. If there were mountains around and cumulo-granite clouds to reckon with my worry factor might have been higher, but what the hey, how far off can it be? It’s daytime, no storms, no rain. Let’s press on.
Can you pick up on the vibes here? A jury rigged tail hook switch, a brand new never-been-to-the-boat B/N in the right seat, and now a shipboard radar that may or may not be capable of accurate guidance.
The wisdom of many years of aviation since then give me pause as I write this. Grampaw Pettibone surely would be asking, “What was this lad thinking?” My present self says “Not much” and my past self had no thought other than OK, we’ll deal with things as they come, forward with enthusiasm. Joe’s first look at the back end of the boat would be fun for both of us, right? Right! Onward!
Onward it was, through the clouds, into the descent, drop the gear, flaps, and the all important tail hook, start the approach. The approach indexers on the glare shield are not flashing, which confirms that the hook is down and the living room switch on Joe’s side is working.

The approach was sterling. Got all the “on glide path, on course” callouts over and over again, with minor deviations here and there. I was impressing myself so much with my airmanship…
Joe and I get to the point where we are just about breaking out of the overcast, there is ocean below on both sides of the jet, Joe tells me there is another ship out here, he can see the wake off to the right, and the controller gives us the call I’d heard so many times before: “three quarter mile, call the ball.”
Which is where I look up and see the ship, pick up the meatball, call paddles and continue on to trap aboard the big grey boat.

Didn’t happen that way, though.
I look up, we pop out of the overcast, and I look ahead at nothing but the deep blue sea! What the…!
Joe comes up on the ICS and says there is a carrier over here and I look to the right to see the Connie, we are maybe a quarter to half a mile left abeam the ship. Well sonovagun, that’s what the radar guy meant about “not precisely on course.” Joe’s first look at the back end of the boat didn’t ‘zackly turn out the way I intended. Nice look at the side, though.
No chance to save this approach, it’s a go around, add the power and suck the gear up to get back in the pattern, go downwind, and try again.
Wonder what Joe’s thinking over there? Wonder what the LSO thinks of my aviation skills? Bet he’s never seen a jet at the 180 going the wrong way…
Back with the controller again, now I’m getting proactive and asking questions. Can you adjust the radar? We were waaaay left of the boat when we broke out of the clouds.
Nope, can’t just change the settings, how about another approach? Hmmm, OK, let’s try again. I tell Joe my game plan, we will fly the approach to the right and see what happens.
That’s what we did, at about 2 miles from the Connie I made a turn to the right and held it for a handful of potatoes while the controller gave me the “Going slightly right of course, going right of course, going well right of course” litany. Rolled back on to the ship’s heading when I couldn’t stand it anymore and kept going with the “well right of course” callout coming over and over.
Got to the “three quarter mile…” call and we popped out of the clag with the Connie darn near dead ahead! Woo hoo, this is too good!
Joe is struck silent at this point, I make the ball call, on glideslope and correcting to centerline.
“Roger Ball”, comes the welcome response, followed by “Wave it off, foul deck.”
Fill in the language here for me. You can match my words but not exceed them, I’m sure. #$%^$ and @#*& apply. Full power, back into the overcast, downwind again. Joe talks to the controller. Now I’m silent.
Again the approach, again the right turn at 2 miles, again we hold well right of course all the way down.
Pop out of the clouds right where we should be. Good start, call the ball, deck is clear. “Roger Ball.”
Fly the ball all the way, keep it in the center, watch the line up, paddles has nothing to say. Bam, hit the deck, full power, wait for the deceleration, and…we accelerate down the deck and take off again as paddles tells me what I already know: “Bolter bolter bolter.”
Well, poop. The hook skipped over the 3 and 4 wires. You may match my words once again but surely cannot exceed them. Only one bolter, the LSO doesn’t need to repeat himself, I mutter.
Wonder what Joe’s thinking over there?
Again the trek downwind, again the approach, again the right turn at 2 miles, again we hold well right of course all the way down.
Pop out of the clouds right where we should be. Good start, call the ball, deck is clear. “Roger Ball.”
This time we hit the deck and are slammed against our restraints. Huzzah!

Joe has his first trap.

The wire pulls us back, the taxi director in front gives the hook up signal, I flip the living room switch to the off position and push the hook retract button. It all works. Joe folds the wings.
The deck is alive with moving planes and people, we are directed to a tie down spot in front of the bridge and shut down. Joe waits at the base of his boarding ladder for me to come get him. I guide him through the jet blasts and whirling props to a ladder that takes us below the flight deck.
Once below, we stop and take our helmets off. Joe is a sweaty mess, and so am I. He looks at me with a big grin and says, “That was amazing! Is it always like that?”
Once in a lifetime you are handed a straight line.  Joe just gave me mine.
“No, Joe,” I said. “Sometimes it gets exciting.”

The Switch

It was a morning in February of ’77, I remember it well for all the unusual things that happened that day, starting with the fact that my carrier, the Constellation, and my A-6 squadron had left San Diego without me.
Seems that there was a broken KA-6D, a tanker version of the A-6, sitting on the ramp at North Island awaiting repair, and my squadron skipper assigned me to sit with the plane until it was fixed. Why the plane was not on the Connie already along with the rest of the squadron was never addressed and I viewed the assignment as a chance for another trap. Carrier pilots are greedy like that.
Oh, and another thing, says the skipper, there’s a new B/N that just joined the squadron, Joe is his name, we pulled him out of the RAG before he had any CQ, so bring him up to speed with the full carrier ops brief while you are waiting on the jet.
There are two ways to look at having a complete FNG in the cockpit going to the boat for the first time, I chose to view taking a new B/N to the boat for the first time ever in his career as a treat and a privilege. Joe would get the best brief I could give and his first look at the back end of the Connie would be fun for both of us.
So the Connie has gone to sea and we–Joe and I–will catch up with her today. I meet Joe for the first time in the ramp ops spaces, he was cheery, enthusiastic, and attentive. Leaving ATC behind and getting into the pattern at an aircraft carrier is a whole new world, the lingo is all new, the landing pattern is different, the tempo is stepped up greatly. There was a lot to pass on to Joe, he was expected to handle the radio comm for the entire flight and he was busy taking notes as we briefed. We also had to go over the nuances of the systems on his side of the airplane. Joe had been flying A-6E’s in the RAG going through his training. The B/N’s side of the A-6E is a plethora of switches and knobs, an inertial nav system, a radar system, an attack computer, and other things I could only speculate about, me being just the driver of such a vehicle.
However, the tanker A-6 was a different story, I knew all about Joe’s side of this airplane. His panel was a blank grey expanse suitable for post it notes and doodling, except for an 8 day u wind it clock.
Then the maintenance Chief comes in to let us know what is going on with the tanker sitting out on the ramp.
Seems that the problem is with the tail hook, he says, there is a short in the system somewhere. What happens is when the hook handle is pulled in the cockpit the hook extends to the proper position and then immediately retracts again.
The Chief now has my full attention, it would be really good to have a tail hook that works to land on the boat. Joe is paying even more attention to the Chief than he did me.
The Chief went on to explain that the problem lies with a tiny switch behind the hook release handle that controls the hook lift circuit. The switch is broken and we don’t have any available here, says the chief, so we’ve had to “make do” with some other parts.
What other parts, I ask.
Well sir, Mr. B, says the Chief, I made a quick trip to the Base Exchange and got a switch that will do the job. You’ll see it when you get out to the jet, says he as he walks out the door. Your jet is ready when you are.
Joe and I finish up the brief, gather up our gear, and walk out to the jet. Joe goes up the steps on his side of the airplane to settle in while I do the walk around, and then I step up to strap in on my side.
I get to the cockpit and sit down. Joe is staring at the panel in front of him.
There, next to the 8 day u wind it clock, is an ivory wall switch like you might see in any room of your house, complete with matching cover plate. Two white wires come out from behind the top of the plate and wind their way up the panel, behind the glare shield, then down between the instruments and disappear behind the hook release handle.
The Chief is right behind me at the top of my boarding ladder and he leans in to explain what we are seeing. Mr. B, we didn’t have time to check the circuit properly, so you’ll have to start up and we’ll see which position of the switch makes things work right, says he.
You’re kidding, I said. Got to be kidding.
Nope, says the Chief with a smile, go with me on this.
And descends the ladder.
I decide to go with the Chief on this, what the heck. The ship is getting farther out to sea every minute, let’s get started, Joe.
We run the checklists, put power and air to the jet and start the engines. Everything looks good, I give the Chief the signal to disconnect the power and air, after that we are ready to check the hook operation.
The Chief signals drop the hook. I pull the handle and there is a dull thump way behind me, followed by another dull thump. The Chief shakes his head and pantomimes that the hook went down and then immediately retracted. He makes a gesture with his right hand as though he is turning the lights on in his living room.
I look at the wall switch, which is in the “off” (down) position. I flip it to the “on” (up) position and nod to the Chief. He gives me the hook down signal.
I pull the handle. There is a single thump.
The Chief smiles.
He gives me the hook up signal. I push the retract button and look at the Chief. He shakes his head and motions that the hook is still down.
I put the switch to the “off” position and push the button. There is a faint thump and the Chief smiles and gives me a thumbs up.
We go through this routine a couple of more times and confirm that in order to make the logic of the thing work the wall switch must be in the “on” position to drop the hook and in the “off” position to raise the hook.
I then take out the grease pencil I have in my shoulder pocket and mark “DOWN” on the panel next to the switch in the “on” position. And then next to the “off” position I write “UP”.
Then I give the Chief the thumbs up and tell Joe to call ground control and tell them we are ready to taxi for takeoff.
No response. Joe? Joe?
He’s still sitting there, staring at the ivory wall switch, wondering how it is that his first operational day in the world’s mightiest nuclear navy could start out with base exchange parts and grease pencil instructions.
Little did either of us know that the day was going to be full of the unexpected.
But that’s another story.

The United States navy, circa 1812

There I was sat up in bed this morning, reading my current bedtime read of Patrick O’Brian, when I came upon a passage that I thought I must share with my Lexican pals, for t’was they – well the Navy guys anyway -  it made me think of and smile when I read it:

Picture the time, it is 1812 during the reluctant Britain/America `war that should never have happened` and a British warship under the command of the legendary Captain Jack Aubery (aka “Lucky Jack”) is on the trail of an American warship that has been raiding whalers in the South Atlantic. A sail is spotted on the horizon and crafty Captain Jack reduces sail to remain just below the horizon, plotting a course to intercept the next day.

At first dawn there she lay, placidly holding her course under the low grey sky……. Jack was on deck in his nightshirt……his whole heart and soul had been turned to the chase – he had been engaged in naval war for more than twenty years and he was very much of a sea-predator, perfectly single-minded when there was the near liklihood of violent action – and now in his most natural voice in the world he said, “Good day to you, master gunner. I fear there will be no great chance of expending your stores this morning.”                    The rising sun proved that he was right: It showed a line of figures leaning along the stranger’s rail in easy attitudes, some with moustaches, some smoking cigars. The United States Navy, though easy-going and even at times verging upon the democratic, never went to such extremes as this; and indeed the chase turned out to be the `Estrella Polar`, a Spanish merchantman from Lima  for the River Plate and Spain.

Yes, `easy going verging upon the democratic` is one thing, but leaning along the rail, moustachio’d and smoking cigars?  No, not The United States Navy.

I enjoyed that.

The Daily Lex – March 26th

yet another…

Originally published March 26, 2009.

Repost

yaJames

The Daily Lex – March 25th

OK, Sarge. I’ll try one…

Originally published March 25, 2009.

Somebody Say Something Funny

… Lex “re-posted” on that day.

Jim

Moe and Larry take a cat shot

2012 was a grim year for all of us. It follows that 2013 has to improve. Let’s get started…

Why it is that one “takes” a cat shot is beyond me. Could be that the crew has no choice once the cat fires, you have to take it because there is nothing else you can do whilst the cat is pushing the airplane up to speed. Gives a real meaning to the phrase “Along for the ride.”

Here’s a look at the airspeed indicator in an EA-6B during a cat shot: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1K6az_GLlU

The video is taken on a night launch, you can bet the front seaters have their eyes glued to that indicator as their flight begins. The best way I can describe a cat shot to the uninitiated is this: Imagine yourself in a VW bug sitting at a red light on the boulevard.  The light turns green, you lift your foot off the brake to press on the gas, and at that exact moment a MACK TRUCK doing 160 miles an hour rams your Beetle from behind. There you have it. A rough approximation of a cat shot.

Now you have an idea what it’s like as I go on with this narrative. Larry (my B/N will be Larry) and I (I’ll be Moe) were first cruise guys in our A-6 squadron. We weren’t really rookies in the full sense of the word, we’d been with the squadron a while and suffered through REFTRA on the Connie for months on end. REFTRA means the ship does a lot of drills and training while most of the air wing sits on its collective butt for weeks on end.

Now we were at sea and the training stuff was behind us, the ship and air wing was getting up to tempo for a WestPac cruise and there were lots of opportunities to bag some cats and traps. Larry and I had done our share and were getting comfortable in the A-6E and working around the boat.

So one day our names show up on the skeds for a flight in the KA-6D, one of our squadron’s 5 tankers. Nothing new here, we had flown the tankers before through CARQUALS and done our share of penance in a left turn orbit about the ship. Even the A-6E’s were tankers as soon as a buddy store was installed on the centerline station, which was a frequent event. But this time was going to be different for a couple of reasons.

First of all, none of our flights had ever been at a full load. Most of the time we shot off the front end to come back around and bag a trap or two, so we didn’t have a full load of fuel or weapons. This time, the tanker was full of fuel. Instead of a launch at around 36,000 pounds gross weight we were going to weigh in at something like 58,000 pounds for the launch.

Here’s where I confess that I’m not a rocket surgeon.  I was a business major in college, and somehow all that mass, inertia, energy, acceleration stuff never found a place in my unscientific brain to roost. To me, this cat shot was going to be just like all the others Larry and I had been through. Those of you reading this who have a science or physics background can figure out that the energy to blast 58,000 pounds down the cat track has got to be a whale of a lot more than the energy needed for the 36,000 pound flying machine.

Larry and I were oblivious to this fact. And we were going to try something different on this launch which, in hindsight (ain’t hindsight great?), was not exactly the right time to try it.

We were going to launch seated upright. Not with our heads against the headrest, as we had done all the time, but leaning forward slightly and counting on our manly man neck muscles to keep us off the headrest and looking cool. The F-14 guys did it all the time! What we didn’t know is that the geometry of the F-14 was different on the cat, the nose compressed down for launch and the force vector was a little down and back, not straight back, so yes, they could look cool on the cat stroke and stay upright.

Larry and I also forgot to consider that fighter pilots have considerable less brain matter than attack pilots, which helped them and hindered us in our efforts to stay upright. Could be a valid observation…

All righty then, we taxi onto the cat, give a thumbs up to the 58,000 pounds on the weight board, feel the nose drop over the shuttle, feel the cat take tension. Throttles to the max, check the gauges and flight controls, salute the catapult officer and brace yourself, Larry, here we go. With our heads off the headrests.

One potato, two potato, and Ka Wham. No, more like KA WHAM! Cripes, what an instant physics lesson…

The boot in the keester was way past what we were used to, waaaay more than before.

And, because Moe and Larry were being cool and didn’t have their precious brain pans tucked up tight against the headrest, several things happened all at once.

Moe’s head (that would be my head) slapped back against the headrest tout de suite. On the short trip to the point of impact my helmet rotated a little bit aft.

This little rotation and impact unlocked the dark sun visor which I thought was down and locked tight. The visor rotated up out of sight.

Moe’s oxygen mask, which does have some weight to it, also moved a bit on his sweaty face.  OK, more than a bit. The whole dang thing, which is attached to the helmet on both sides with a fitting just below the ears, rotated with the helmet and smartly changed position from over the mouth, nose, and chin to over the nose and eyes. Caramba!

There is no way I can reach up and adjust anything during the cat stroke, remember I’m just “along for the ride” at this point. And totally blind.

So Moe (me) had to wait until the end of the cat stroke before reaching up with one hand, then both, to rip off his mask, which didn’t want to simply slide back in place over the chin, and then frantically grab the stick and assess where the airplane was in relation to the deep blue sea.

Grumman designed it all nicely, the airplane had rotated off the cat just like it always did, we were climbing, wings level.

And I could see Larry out of the corner of my eye, flailing about, trying to get his mask off his eyes and nose.

Ah, yes, we were manly men and ever so cool.

Not.

Christmas At Sea

This story is from the Neptunus Lex Facebook page.

By Gil.

On Christmas Eve, 1981, my ship, USS Truxtun (CGN 35) was about three months into what turned out to be about an 8 month WestPac/IO cruise. I was somewhat stressed as it was my first ship as a chaplain, I was a JG in a Commander billet, and the Chief of Chaplains (2 star) stayed about 10 days in our Flag quarters while he hopped around visiting other ships in the Battle Group. We set up Christmas Eve service in the helo hangar with chairs facing aft. It was a pretty good service but the best part was the closing hymn, Silent Night. Just as we started singing, my assistant turned off the lights and opened the hangar door. We were transfixed looking out at all the stars visible in the black sky of Northern IO. Our XO was as no-nonsense a nuke officer as you can imagine but I saw that even he had a little tear on his cheek.

“This is going to be bad.”

The carrier aviation world is full of shortened names and numbers. Lex has taught us that an F-18 Hornet might be referred to as a Bug. An E-2 Hawkeye is always a Hummer, an A-7 Corsair was a SLUF, the venerable S2F, when it was around, was a Stoof. The USS Constellation was the Connie, the USS Saratoga was simply the Sara. The aircraft tail number 111 was Triple Sticks, tail number 500 was Double Nuts, and so forth. The Air Force did the same. A B-52 Stratofortress is just a BUFF, the F-105 Thunderchief was a Thud, and the A-7D was, well, still a SLUF. I even remember the Connie (CV-64), when tied up at the pier, being referred to as “Building 64″, just another structure at North Island.
There was an F-14 on the Connie back when I was there, the tail number was 111, and I have a vivid memory of that particular Triple Sticks.
We were launching off the waist cats to start the day. Ask the typical landlubber where aircraft launch off an aircraft carrier and most all of them will tell you that the aircraft launch off the front end, the bow.
Not so fast, landlubber. The Connie, like all modern carriers, had 4 catapults, 2 on the front end that most people are familiar with, and 2 more waist cats on the port side. I guess the name “waist cat” comes from the fact that the catapults are just about where the waist of the ship would be if you were looking at it from above. Launching from the waist cats is not unusual, particularly on the first launch of the day when there are no aircraft to recover and the landing area is not needed. When you launch off the waist cat you become airborne at the same place you would be going off the end of the landing area if you boltered.
Triple Sticks was in front of us on the #4 cat, the one farthest port of all the cats. (Nautical lesson here: the only way I finally figured out port and starboard and which was left and which was right was that port and left have the same number of letters and are the same.  Starboard is the other way.)
Our A-6 was ready to go, we were the second plane to launch that morning, Triple Sticks was fully configured. The JBD came up in front of us, and my bombardier and I watched as the pilot of the big F-14 got the runup signal and advanced the throttles. Things looked good, and Triple Sticks pushed the power up more. Both afterburners lit.
We had the best seat in the house.  The roar is intense and you can feel it even with the jet blast deflector between you and the wicked exhaust.
The cat officer checked everywhere, got a thumbs up from all the observers around the fighter, dropped to one knee and touched the deck with his extended arm, the launch signal. Buttons were pushed on the deck edge and with a sudden jerk the double tailed fighter accelerated down the deck and the JBD began to drop back into the deck to make room for our launch.
But all was not well with Triple Sticks. About halfway down the cat stroke the bright flame from the afterburner on the starboard engine disappeared.

Burner blowout.

Yikes.

As I learned later, the considerable distance between the two engines on the F-14 combined with a huge difference in power when one engine is in afterburner and the other is not makes for an instant control problem. In this case, with the right engine putting out far less power than the left engine, the airplane wants to and will go to the right. Dramatically so.
Which is what happened the moment Triple Sticks left the deck.
From our perspective the view went from a tail on aspect of an F-14 to a side view. Time stopped. The plane seemed to be suspended for an unbelievable length of time over the end of the cat. Pointed at the bow.
A bow absolutely packed with parked aircraft, 2 squadrons of A-7′s and a squadron of A-6′s.
I do remember thinking the F-14 was going to stall and tumble into the pack.
Self says to me: “This is going to be bad. Really bad.”
Then, in rapid fire succession, things happened. I saw spoilers pop up on the left wing, both rudders went left, and the the bright flame on the left engine went out.
The pilot had reduced power on the left engine to equalize the thrust.
Triple Sticks’ nose swung back to the left, we again saw both exhausts, and then bam bam, both afterburners relit and stayed relit.
The F-14 accelerated ahead, the landing gear came up, and the jet started a climb.
I started to breathe again, and my B/N and I both had the same two words to describe what we had just seen, something to do with things that are blessed and things that are brown and smell.  We both commented about how insanely cool the F-14 driver had to be to pull off what we had just seen.
The cat crew turned to face us and we were given the hand signals to taxi forward and get ready to launch. Things went back to normal that quickly. Somewhere ahead of the ship Triple Sticks was fast becoming a small dot against the clouds, accelerating up and away.
The Air Boss couldn’t stand it any more. He had to ask, breaking radio silence.
“Triple Sticks, are you OK?”
The response got us all laughing.
“I am now!” came the voice over the radio.
The voice was not the calm, cool, nerves of steel and cojones of brass voice we expected. It sounded a lot like the owner of the voice had been breathing helium and had transformed into Tweety Bird.
Adrenalin overdose can do that for you.
We were still chuckling about what we had seen and then heard when the cat fired and we were on our way as well.

The Thanksgiving That Wasn’t

Today, on this, one of the most unique holidays in the United States, (along with the Day of Independence) I’m enjoying family companionship and basking in the sun very close to Lex’s (and mine own) old haunts in Sandy Eggo.  But I reflect, with a somewhat rueful smile, on a time, long, long ago, on a sea far, far away…

Now as I remember it, and since this is my sea story, I get to remember it this way:  We scallywags were embarked, as it were, on the Mighty Big John, basking in the dubious position of being both the unwanted and unpopular, both by the Air Wing and the ship itself.   Given our shadowy mission, it wasn’t too surprising that we couldn’t really explain why we were there to other than a few.  Since only a few outside of the Flag Staff were “read in,” we were seen as, at best, an inconvenience and more often as an outright annoyance.  Time is distance, and to reach out as far as we could with our abilities, we needed to launch early in the event cycle.  But Big John’s CO didn’t want to tax his fossil-burning plant by getting up speed early in the launch cycle to help lift the mighty Skywarrior off the pointy end of his war vessel, and so consequently, we launched last, sometimes 40 minutes into a big launch.  Gee, thanks for that.  You just cost us a few hundred miles in our radius of action.

The Whale, undeniably, was big.  How big, you ask?  Uh, how’d you think we got our nickname? So we were deeply unpopular with the Handler.  And just about everyone else in the Air Department.  We clogged the deck, in their view, and took up precious real estate.  Something, I might add, that every other carrier had dealt with since the late 1950′s, but on this cruise, for whatever reason, we had become a “problem child.” (Of course, pointing out that if they launched us first, instead of last, maybe they’d have room wasn’t well received)

Screwing With The Deck Multiple (Not The Guilty Party Referred To)

Now, before going further, I just want to add that as itinerant gypsies, we were hosted by a squadron in each Air Wing. Some were more gracious than others. Many times, due to our historical aircrew career cross-pollination and airframe history, we joined up with our VAQ brethren, leading to a lot of mutual cooperation and learning. Sometimes, not so much. On this cruise, we started off with our VAQ mates and five days after their very early cruise Change of Command, we found ourselves abruptly welcomed into the Ready Room of VA-34, the well-known Blue Blasters. It was a move we all found to be much to our mutual enjoyment.

So, it came to pass, as the cruise wore on, the Op tempo waxed and waned.  As we came closer to Thanksgiving, we began to look forward to break in the daily routine.  For when at sea and in the Air Wing (and ship’s company, too, I might add) you only have two days: Sunday and Not Sunday. Sunday is usually marked by some improved fare in the chow line up in the non-formal Wardroom, known then and now as the “Dirty Shirt Wardroom,” where flight suits and wash working khakis of folks like the Shooter and gang could eat without needed to make themselves pretty. Every other day, where the food was pretty much the same, was obviously “Not Sunday.”  But Thanksgiving was different. That day was a feast, and unless Directed By Higher Authority, we would fly minimally, if at all possible and other ship’s work would also be put aside wherever possible.  Visions of turkeys and sweet potatoes began to dance in our near-adolescent heads.

Calendars were marked and days counted.  Until, about three days prior, came The Word. The Powers That Be had decided our forward edge of American Sea Power was needed to flex its muscle elsewhere and Thursday would be a Fly Day.  But, in his address to all the ship’s crew over the 1MC, the ship’s CO told us that this was but a temporary inconvenience and that the New Thanksgiving would be the following Saturday, a mere 48 hours later.  While not subject to huzzahs, it at least gave us the prospect of two-count’em-two consecutive Sundays as it were.  Feasts to be enjoyed, albeit in the confines of the large, grey steel apartment house with the airport conveniently located on the roof.

And so we worked that Thanksgiving Day.  I could go into my logbooks and tell you how many hours and hops I logged that day, but shan’t. It was all good and done in the name of defending America from the insidious Communist Menace. We flew the next day, too.  We knew what lay ahead come Saturday.  Until, that is, just as we went off the pointy end on the last of our scheduled sorties on the Friday, going out to do our Spooky thing in the nooks and crannies of the Theatre, I heard from the front office those words that every aircrew just really loves to hear: “Uh, oh.”

This was not a good phrase.  At all. It never portends good things. Such was the case.  Our airplane, the finest of late-1940′s design that rolled off the Douglas Aircraft line about 16-17 years before, had A Problem.  A Problem such that no matter how much we may have wanted turkey (and I might add, all our gear in our staterooms and berthing spaces) on Saturday, the best thing to probably do was to head west and into Home Plate in the southwest corner of the Iberian Peninsula. To where the parts were.  Where we had squadron maintenance, and lots of maintainers.  And home. But we really wanted that turkey dinner. A lot.  But, given our great popularity on The Boat, the moment we announced that we had a slight problem and needed to talk to the lad designated to not fly this hop and remain on board as the “Squadron rep,” the immediate reply was “your signal Bingo, divert authorized. Notify us by message on your safe arrival, out.” OK, we can take hint.

So it was that we returned home that Friday night.  Several of us repaired to the very quiet Club, there to meet up with a few very surprised friends who greeted us gamely.  Who then proceeded to regale us with the delightful Thanksgiving feast we had all missed the day before.

Thus it was, Dear Readers, that those who remained at sea the next day feasted and stuffed themselves in Holiday Routine.  Your Humble and Obedient Servant, along with his fellow fliers, did not.  We were betwixt and between, and thus we resorted to other, more creative measures to alter our bemused status.  When we returned a couple of days later, on a Monday, to The Boat, we were forced to hear of The Feast We Missed.  To which we replied, “Yes, but you missed a great deal of ice, cold beer.” And smiled.

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all.

 

A Marine Story

A note here to begin: I thought a bit about posting this, the timing being close to the Lex birthday and maybe folks having thoughts to post about that and reflecting on what’s lost. Then the brain percolated a bit and you know, we all have good memories about lots of things, and this is about the Connie, Lex’s favorite BGB (big grey boat), and we need to smile and keep going! So there.

It being the Marine Birthday and all, it’s time to share a story about Marines. That’s capital M with intent. Marines. You can’t get anyone better to cover you. You can’t find anyone better to go in first. You simply can’t find anyone better. Marines are superbly trained and follow their orders. Precisely. OORAH!
We were on board the Connie, CV-64, in the mid-70′s, the Connie had been in the yards for some mods, most of which involved the transition from CVA-64 to CV-64. You could look it up, lots of changes to BGB #64.
Connie was at sea for an extensive period of time after all the modifications, undergoing numerous trials and training, most of which came under the title of REFTRA (Refresher Training). My squadron was aboard the Connie for several months during this evolution. Traps were scarce, boredom was rampant, and the crew of the Connie were subject to endless drills and training. That’s what the Navy is all about. Be prepared. For anything.
General Quarters sounded frequently, one never knew if the alarm was for real or for training. When GQ sounds, all hands race to their battle stations, wherever that is. The narrow passageways quickly fill with sailors in a hurry to get in position.
Those of us with the air wing had no battle stations. The best solution for airedales was to keep out of the way when all the scurrying about began. Our skipper made it clear for us, if you are in the ready room, good. Stay put. If you are in your stateroom, good. Stay put. Stay put seemed to cover our position well.
The Marines on ship had a specific assignment. Yes, there were Marines on the Connie, a detachment of Marines for security purposes dwelt within the bowels of the carrier and I assume they still do the same on all aircraft carriers. Their presence helps to maintain good will and order, and if that fails the Marines are in charge of the ship’s brig.
When GQ sounds the Marines have an assignment they take seriously: the Marines guard the weaponry spaces on the ship, wherein are kept the things that are scary and go Boom in a big way.
The standing orders for the Marines, so the story goes (I did get all this second hand, I was in the ready room when all this occurred, and you know you just can’t make this up) is upon hearing the alarm for GQ the Marines will stop whatever it is they are doing at that instant, grab their weapons, and IMMEDIATELY proceed to the weapons spaces where the things that go Boom in a big way are. Guard the weapons. Be in position quickly.
The parties that relayed this story to me were squadron mates who happened to be in the wardroom for chow when GQ sounded. The wardroom, for those of you who are not familiar with the term, is the chow hall for officers. Don’t know what the protocol is today, but at that time no flight suits were allowed in the wardroom, so if you were an airedale most of the time you were in the dirty shirt wardroom up forward. Only the officers of the ship’s company and air wing officers in the uniform of the day were in the wardroom. It was upscale. Table cloths and all that.
A few of my aviator compadres were not on the schedule for the day, therefore they were in the uni of the day and basking in the more polite company of the non dirty shirt crowd.
The event, as they described it, went like this. GQ sounds, most of the blackshoe crowd in the wardroom gets up and heads out the doorways en route to their stations. My compadres settle in for a bit more morning coffee.
A few minutes later a Commander enters the wardroom. His uniform is wet, wet with what appear to be footprints in various places. All going the same direction. The Commander was smiling and shaking his head.
What happened to him? What’s with the footprints?
Well, it was that the Commander was walking down a main passageway, minding his own business, when GQ sounded. The Marines had just finished morning calisthenics and were all in the shower cleaning up. The Commander was in the passageway just outside the Marine quarters just a few seconds after the GQ alarm went off.
That’s when the first barefoot nekkid wet Marine with an M16 in his hands and a towel around his neck came out of the Marine showers, made a sharp turn, knocked down the Commander, and ran over him. There were 11 more nekkid wet Marines with M16′s behind the first one, and they all followed the first Marine. Headed for the weapons spaces. They all ran over the Commander. Quickly.

Marines.  OORAH!