Al Carpenter Combat Flight

Al Carpenter Combat Flight

Introduction:

Allan R. Carpenter, call sign

"Soapy," enlisted in the Navy in 1955, right out of high school. He

rose rapidly through the enlisted ranks to Petty Officer First Class, was

commissioned through the old Integration Program, and received his wings in

1963. He joined the Blue Hawks in 1964, made the ,65 Vietnam cruise on

Independence and part of the ,66 cruise on FDR. He was shot down twice on that

cruise, the second time resulting in a 6 year, 4-month stay in North Vietnam as

a POW. Returning home in 1973, Al did a tour in the instrument training

squadron, VA-43; again flying the A-4, spent two years in the College Degree

Program at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, and retired as a Commander in

1978.

Al flew the A-4E during Westpac/Vietnam deployments in 1965 and 1966. The above story was written in

preparation for an October 2002 reunion of VA-72 in Fort Worth, Texas. A collection of stories,

including Al,s, was printed and distributed at the reunion.

John Lamers, Skyhawk Association VA-72 Blue Hawks SDO.

at that time and since, have played such an important part in it.

• Carolyn,

  my wife, my all-time love and inspiration for living , then, and now.

• The

  officers and men of Attack Squadron

  Seventy-Two, particularly my good friend and roommate, Joe

  Mossman,

• CDR Harrison B. ("Harry B.") Southworth, now Captain, USN (Ret), the right leader, in

  the right place, at the right time. We love you, "Hairy B!"

  and the "glue" who bound together and inspired the incredible

  style=,color:#3366FF,>1966 Combat Bluehawks.

* * * * *

My life was ending , I was sure of it - and I could not have

imagined that dying would hurt so much! Death was having its way with me in

intense and highly focused slow motion. It was not my life "flashing

before my eyes," in the oft-touted panoply of images one reads of. No,

this end was arriving in a horrendous explosion of noise, unbelievable pain,

and violent starbursts of white-hot light searing my brain.

Mere moments before, my trusty war bird and I had been

fulfilling the noblest traditions of the then latest iteration of the original

"dive-bombers," a role described at that time in the naval aviation

community as "light attack." We were well engaged in meeting our ultimate

challenge, that for which each had been created and were well prepared , the

projection of U.S. military might to the enemy. Suddenly, with the burst of one

85 millimeter anti-aircraft round, that challenge had been overcome by the most

basic of human challenges - survival , and my body screamed at me that all was

not going well in this battle!

* * * * *

The best few years of my career in the U. S. Navy started in

Virginia Beach, Virginia at Naval Air Station Oceana, one hot day in June of

1964. It was with great excitement and anticipation that I checked in with the

Duty Officer of Attack Squadron Seventy-Two (VA-72), aka the "World Famous

Bluehawks," the light attack squadron of my choice after flight training,

which had just recently acquired the very latest model of the A-4 Skyhawk, the

A-4E.

I was quickly made to feel right at home. My first jet

instructor, in Basic Flight Training at Meridian, MS had been Pat Kober, an

ex-Air Force F-100 jock, who had wisely traded silver wings for gold only a few

years earlier. Pat epitomized the "dream" instructor that all flight

students wanted, but few ever had. He was professional, but "cool,"

an excellent "stick" and a really great guy , we had become good

friends. Imagine my surprise to find Pat, then a senior LT, welcoming me to my

first fleet squadron!

Shortly thereafter, while stowing my flight gear in my newly

assigned locker, I noticed something that gave me an eerie feeling and caused

the hair to rise on the back of my neck. The name on the locker next to mine

was Joe Mossman, and it was not the first time I had seen it. The first time

had been on the locker I was assigned at VT-7, in Meridian. But then, it had

happened again in Advanced Training at VT-23 in Kingsville, TX, and again at

VA-43, the A-4 RAG in the adjacent hangar that I had just come from, and here

it was for the fourth time, at my first squadron! I couldn,t help but think,

"Who is this guy?" It would not be long before I would find out, but

first, it was time to meet "Bull" Walker!

The C.O. met me in the ready room, with a big, beefy

handshake, and a smile from one side of his shiny baldhead to the other.

"Howdy," he beamed, in a voice as beefy as his hand. "Welcome to

The Bluehawks! Ahm the Skipper,, an The World,s Oldest Nugget!," I knew

right away, we would get along just fine. Later, I was to find out that not

everyone would say that!

Grover "Bull" Walker escorted me into his office,

sat me down, and gave me a quick rundown on what he expected of his pilots and

officers in general, and of his plans for me, in particular. Although he

claimed to be a "nugget," I truly was one, fresh out of flight

training, about to fly in my first operational squadron, and rapidly

approaching my first "cruise" aboard a carrier! I didn,t really know

what to expect, but it was what I had been training for and looking forward to

for most of the preceding two years and I was eager to "get on with

it!"

It was then that Bull reminded me that since I had just

finished Naval Justice School, and the squadron was in need of a Legal Officer,

there was little doubt as to what one of my jobs in VA-72 would be! He softened

that blow nicely however, with the observation that, with my ex-enlisted

experience in air traffic control, and the fact that I was a little older and

presumably more mature than other nuggets newly arrived or expected, I would be

a perfect candidate for the vacant job of LSO , if I were interested!

RUSM?… Interested?! Does a bear s… in the woods? Is the Pope

a Catholic? I would probably have accepted mess cooking, if that were an

accompanying requirement! I was one joyous LTJG Bluehawk, from that day on!

The rest of that day, and the next few days as a Bluehawk

were an exciting blur , flight gear issue, meeting the other officers and

pilots and some of the troops, checkout flights, etc. Although we might be

called upon to fly with any other pilot, at any time, we did have

semi-permanent leader/wingman assignments, and I was delighted to be assigned

to Pat Kober, as his "wingie!"

I also met, and was quickly taken "under the wing

of", so to speak, the mysterious (until now!) Joe Mossman. Joe had been in

the squadron for only a few months, but in that short time he had already

commenced the process of becoming a legend in his own time! One of his last

flights in VA-43, before reporting to VA-72, had ended in a flameout while on a

Standard Instrument Departure (SID) off the coast of Virginia Beach, in

February. His resultant ejection and survival without a "poopy suit"

in the cold VACAPES waters had made him an object of some considerable

curiosity, locally, particularly to impressionable young nuggets like me, Dave

Griggs and Hank Richarde.

We had each joined the squadron within a few days of each

other, and were seen as "raw meat" by Joe, the practical joker, self-proclaimed

egotist and sort of "bull ensign" Bluehawk (despite the fact that he

, and we , were already JG,s). Joe was happy to no longer be the nugget, and he

felt it was his obligation to Navy tradition to ensure that the three of us, to

be followed shortly by Hal Brewer, Carl Moslener, Johnny Bittick and Errol

Quinn, would have ample opportunity to enjoy the nugget experience! With his

innate South Philly instinct, Joe seemed to sense that I might be more gullible

than the others , besides, he liked me , so he quickly took advantage of every

opportunity to "teach me the ropes" and, of course, make me feel

stupid and look silly in the process! I was on guard and not new to Navy ways,

so he didn,t score very often, but when he did, it could be memorable! More on

that later.

To Joe,s credit, he did help each of us quickly transition

to fleet squadron activities and shipboard (particularly wardroom) protocol,

once we were embarked on our first cruise. We were also warmly welcomed and

indoctrinated by the Lieutenants and "old-timer" JG,s, the

experienced JO,s, who formed the core of the squadron officers. Not only the

older, "almost LCDR types," like Pat and "Giz" Winslow, but

also "big brothers" like "Leaky" Hoch, Herb Recktenwald,

Bob Manser, Dick Koffarnus, Bob "Slats" Crippen and Duane Tuttle, all

contributed significantly to the start of the seasoning process for us, the

"Magnificent Seven" (Please , indulge me here!) new Hawk fledglings!

We didn,t have long to wait for a taste of Carrier Air Wing

Seven shipboard operations. Our first cruise aboard U.S.S. Independence

(CVA-62) was to New York City for the 1964 Fourth of July celebration. My

logbook shows only 3 flights and a total of 8 traps on that trip, but I,m sure

that each flight was great fun and, I seem to recall that each trap was an

OK-3!

The next 3-4 weeks were a flurry of activity for everybody ,

low levels and FCLP,s, as we prepared for our upcoming North Atlantic NATO

cruise, then packing up and moving aboard Indy for the couple of months we

expected to be gone. When I wasn,t flying, I was frequently at Fentress, with

CAG LSO,s, "Sim" Simerly or "BV" Wheat, learning my new

"trade." I loved it , day or night, hot or cold , I was totally

dedicated to properly learning the potentially life or death skills required of

an LSO. What an important and rewarding job! Carolyn might not have liked the

prospect of the upcoming cruise, but she knew I was starting to finally live my

dream, and she tolerated the situation cheerily , at least, on the surface!

Unfortunately, my new life was not all fun and games

however, as a few enlisted perennial "problem children" of the

squadron never stopped making "busy work" for the Legal Officer. They

did change their tone a bit, once they realized that this "new guy"

was ex-enlisted, and had heard or tried most of their excuses in his own recent

past! I was to soon find out, though, that just going to sea would cut the

disciplinary load in half! (You must remember that this was a long time before

females were assigned to sea duty on carriers!)

The NATO cruise was a blast, and a wonderful learning

experience! It was my first shipboard sea duty and my first officer experience,

outside of the student role. I discovered quickly that there is no better place

for a naval aviator to live and work at his profession than on a ship, at sea.

No distractions, no unanswered phone calls, near total immersion in work,

exciting flying, a movie every night (frequently the same movie!), and plenty

of "bug juice" and hot dogs at "BJ,s Beanery!"

I had a lot to learn about the A-4 and shipboard employment

of it, and those lessons came hard and fast. One of the first, and most

memorable, was how to compute the gross landing weight with a tanker package

installed. Let me be the first to point out that I didn,t truly acquire that

skill until after my first trap with one! Ops and Maint. and just about

everyone else was all over my case for being so stupid as to land 800 pounds

over, but the Skipper just let me off the hook and chewed out the flight

lead/mission briefer instead, for an inadequate brief! I,ve forgotten who that

was, but I owe him one!

The NATO cruise was also my first opportunity to witness the

natural phenomenon of flight ops developing from near chaos in the first few

days at sea, to the marvelously coordinated and well-oiled operation of an

effective fighting machine, by about day ten. To this day, I still feel

tremendously privileged to have witnessed and participated in that

"beautiful dance!"

I will never forget the extremes of flying missions in the

North Atlantic, in September and October of ,64. The beauty of Norway, as seen

from 200 feet and 360 knots; the fjords, with their sheer rock walls and

mini-waterfalls turning to mist above one wing, as sturdy fishing vessels

passed beneath the other; tiny villages nestled at the fjord,s end, clinging to

the rock ‘round the only low ground and harbor access within miles. Then there

were flight ops at the ship; wind and waves, rain, pitching deck; and sliding

sideways on an icy deck, as the ship heeled in a turn, while flight deck crew

of all colors scrambled to get chains on my uncontrollable beast!

For a new, carrier pilot it was about as good as it could

get and, for an LSO trainee, the cruise was a treasure trove of experience

which just could not be bought. Nearing the end of the short NATO schedule,

Indy was unexpectedly called south, to replace the ailing FDR in the Med, and

the scenario shifted accordingly. New SIOP targets; tightly limited sea room

for flight ops; the Med "milk bowl;" simulated strikes in France and

Belgium; hassling Vautours, Mystere IV,s and Mirage IIIC,s at 300 ft. over the

French countryside; Palma, "Gib," and home before Thanksgiving , life

was good!

In no time at all, I had learned not only how to compute and

get down to max landing weight (tanker package or not!), but also how to

successfully rendezvous, predict and find a "Fox Corpen," make a

"Charlie time," and get the tanker aboard in a hurry when the Air

Boss said, "Decoy Tanker, Charlie NOW!" For me, and for the rest of

the "Seven," the rough nugget edges were becoming steadily smoother

and more polished.

Returning to Norfolk/Virginia Beach in the first week of

November we had a couple of months to relax and enjoy the holidays, before really

turning up the heat in preparation for our upcoming WestPac cruise in May.

Weapons training, navigation training, FCLP - a short cruise in February,

shakedown in April and fly out to the ship on the fourth of May for the big

one. This one would be for real , combat!

The first ten days or so were spent enroute to and operating

in the Caribbean, culminating in our Operational Readiness Inspection (ORI),

which we must have passed , ‘cause we went, anyway! After a brief liberty in

St. Thomas, it was off for the war! I remember very little of the crossing,

except that the great majority of ship and air wing personnel, including me,

were pollywogs! In retrospect, that was a very good thing. The ratio of many

"wogs" to few "shellbacks" lessened any particular wog,s

chances of being seriously harmed or humiliated in the ageless "Crossing

The Line" ceremony that countless sailors have experienced ever since it

was known there was a line!

For nearly the next month, there was no flying, as the ship

plowed across the South Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, and on up the

east coast of Africa, through the Indian Ocean and the Strait of Malacca, where

we stopped briefly at Singapore. Most days saw heavy attention to training, for

everyone , from the most junior enlisted man, right up to the skipper. As a

pilot, my focus was on my new SIOP missions, loading drills, E&E, survival

techniques and equipment, pistol practice and the like. For me, it was

interesting, exciting and, in retrospect, the most necessary training I could

have hoped to receive.

Singapore was a thrill , man, I,m really in the Navy now!

"Join the Navy and See The World" had, until then, been a largely

empty promise, punctuated with images and leaden memories of Argentina,

Newfoundland; Lajes, Azores and, of course, the slightly more exciting

Gibraltar and Palma de Majorca in the off-season! Wow - Singapore! Lush,

tropical, exotic! Tiger Balm Gardens, warm beer and drinks at the Royal Navy

O,Club! And then there was that "All O,s" dinner at the main

restaurant in the Mandarin Hotel , Peking duck - the works! I can,t remember

why the C.O., Joe Adkins, wasn,t there, but X.O., Harry B., as SRO and apparent

gaggle elder, did us proud in a story I have related with gusto to inebriated,

hysterical dinner guests ever since.

In a flash, there was Singapore in the rearview mirror, as

Indy headed for the P.I. The combat anticipation level continued to build over

those few, short days, as we resumed flight ops and swept a few cobwebs off the

flight deck and out of our operating procedures. A week in Cubi Pt., with heavy

day and night FCLP,s, and just enough time to squeeze in jungle survival

training, brought the entire air wing up to snuff for the task ahead. It was a

lean, mean, fighting machine that departed Cubi Point on June 28 for Dixie

Station, in the South China Sea, and wouldn,t you know I,d bolter on my first

shot at the deck, on the fly-out! There would soon be plenty of chances to

improve upon that sorry start!

Combat flight ops started for Air Wing Seven on 1 July 1965.

Several days down south, on Dixie Station, to work out any remaining kinks and

get up to speed with real ordnance, then north to Yankee Station to hammer the

North Vietnamese, big-time! Yeah , well, at least that,s what we thought we

were going to do! Over that line-period and those to follow, it eventually

became obvious that the "sortie war" with the Air Force was more

important to Washington than putting weapons on target with minimum exposure of

aircrews to danger. If I had gotten smoked trying to knock out a bridge with

only the two 250 pound fat bombs we sometimes carried over the north, I would

have been a lot more upset than I was when it finally happened to me with a

full load!

It was great flying, though! Talk about gaining experience

in a hurry! I flew sixty-four hours in July, all "greenies," and got

29 traps. Got to see Vietnam, North and South, from top to bottom , even

visited beautiful downtown Danang (the base, that is), briefly, when a few of

us were diverted because we lacked enough fuel to get back to the ship, and no

tanker was available to help out. Really thought it was cool to check my pistol

at the door, when I went to the O-Club for lunch! Got another seven traps in

the first week of August, then a little vacation, as we left the line for a few

days R&R in Cubi, then Hong Kong.

Ahhh, Cubi , and its world famous O-Club (which,

incidentally, since the closing of Cubi, has a new, permanent home at the Naval

Aviation Museum in Pensacola)! San Miguel, lumpia, Black Russians, Stingers and

a dancing floor buffer! After a hard day of training, in the P.I. heat, there

was nothing quite like an AOM at the O-Club , drinks and good steak for all! My

best remembered night there has long-since competed with a few others in my

life, as least distinguished, but most demonstrative of my bad judgment and

compulsion to "live on the edge."

The occasion was the "going away party" for Duane

"Tut" Tuttle, on August 15, after our first line period; all O,s

except the SDO were in attendance. My favorite drink, at the time, was a

"Stinger", and I can remember kicking off that evening with a nice

cold one, which went down oh so nicely and quickly. "Moss"

volunteered to buy the next round and, not wanting to hurt his feelings, I

acquiesced. Dinner orders were taken and, halfway through this second drink,

another appeared magically, next to it. I was puzzled but, never one to

"look a gift horse in the mouth," I finished off my working drink, to

make room for the new one.

Some conversation with Moss ensued, during which he pleaded

guilty to buying my drinks, and disclosed that the last two had been doubles,

compliments of him! A sly grin played across his shameless countenance, and I

remember thinking, "Oh jeez , I,ve been had!"

My next recollection is of many voices, some with a touch of

concern in them, seemingly emanating from squadron-mates clustered around me.

"Geez, would you look at that!" - "Man, he,s trashed!" -

"Al , anybody home?" - "Let,s get him on his feet. He needs to

walk it off." - "Walk? You,ve got to be shitting me , he can,t even

open his eyes!"

I next became aware of a totally different quality of sound

and conversation around me, and of the presence of a very bright light. It was

quieter than before, but one voice was saying, "Jack (Runnells, our flight

surgeon), I don,t know. He doesn,t seem to be responding to anything. Think you

better take a look at him." Boom! There,s that light, and an extreme

close-up, out-of-focus shot of Jack,s face, eyes peering into mine. "Drunk

as a skunk," Jack opined, as his face slid out of view, but his fingers

continued to hold open my one eye. In the second or two before the fingers were

withdrawn, and that eye was allowed to close, I could see clearly why my hands

were cold, and my shoulders and knees felt so strange. I saw a vertical, chrome

pipe, superimposed over crossed hands and wrists (mine, apparently). The pipe,s

lower end terminated in a white porcelain object, suspiciously resembling the

top of a urinal , and then the light went out as my eyelid support was removed.

It slowly dawned on me that I was suspended from the supply plumbing for a

urinal , probably in the O Club head , the pipe was quite cool, and the

pressure on my knees was from the way they were jammed up against the wall, on

either side of the urinal. I had been literally "hung out to dry" ,

depending upon the aim and intentions of other visitors to this "place of

harsh lights!"

My friends left, but other folks came by from time to time.

Sounds of laughter and derision mixed with those of leather soles on tile, the

rumble of toilet paper holders rolling, and the unmistakable "whoosh"

of high-pressure, institutional devices being activated, became my immediate

sensory world. Every few minutes, one of my true "buddies" would

check on me, and I became aware that I was hearing all that transpired, but I

was unable to move, or communicate in any way!

Soon, I heard someone say, "Dammit, Al , they,re

bringing our dinners! We can,t leave you like this , let,s see if you can

walk." Whereupon, I was removed from my chrome and porcelain restraints,

and literally dragged away! Voices conferred regarding my temporary

disposition, and it was agreed that I could not be taken back to the table, as

my presence there would likely constitute a multiple hazard to others (need I

say more?). After a few feeble attempts to get my legs working, it was decided

that this whole foolishness was tiring and that their dinners were probably

getting cold, so it was outside with me to the cool darkness of a small palm

tree not too far from the club entrance.

To their great credit, my true friends propped me up against

the tree in deep shadow, where it was unlikely that I would be seen by anyone.

Of course, being decidedly drunk, my body abandoned that position as soon as I

was left alone , it just fell over, and I lay on the ground next to the tree. I

was comfy there, and it was far less public than my previous location, so I

just relaxed and tried to get in touch with my body with a view to rejoining my

squadron-mates as soon as possible. The concentration required was enormous!

After some minutes, seemingly right out of the blue, I was drawn from my stupor

by a sensation of warmth, starting on my back and spreading quickly down to

pool under the side where I lay upon the ground. While puzzling over this

latest development, I heard two, short little snorts in rapid succession,

accompanied by bursts of grass and dirt hitting both my back and the back of my

head and one ear. How undignified, I thought, but there was little I could do

about it , still couldn,t coordinate my brain (?) and body!

Just as I was starting to become less "comfy" and

more annoyed, a contingent of burly Hawks exited the club,s front door, and

strode straight to my place of refuge. It appeared that dinner was over for

them, and that my disposition was next on their "to do" list. They

bundled me into/onto some sort of transportation and delivered me to the

officer,s brow of the USS Independence. By the time we arrived there, I was

just beginning to re-learn the arts of opening my eyes and verbalizing,

slightly. I was also establishing contact with my stomach, and the sensations

emerging did not bode well for my immediate future!

To the best of my recollection, both Hal and Carl were with

me, and both were ready to rejoin the evening,s activities as soon as possible.

I would not make it easy for them! We jointly concluded that I could not yet

walk, so Carl seized the moment (and me) and started up the brow, carrying me

before him like an offering to the gods.

Not so fast, G.I.! Like a grass-eating dog, little quivers

and convulsions shook my hitherto lifeless-appearing body, and I managed to

groan something about "puke!" A hasty retreat by Carl saved the day,

and we rested up for another attempt. We actually tried this three or four

times before Carl had had enough. "Alright, you s.o.b.," he said,

"Damn the torpedoes , full speed ahead!" With that, and with my head

positioned so that it overhung the side-rail, he sprinted up the brow, reported

returning aboard (for both of us) to the OOD (Ron Hyde, as I recall), and

delivered me to my stateroom , all without incident!

By then, uncommanded movement had returned to my body and it

would not stay put in my rack. Carl found something with which to tie me down,

and then he turned off the light, wished me well, muttered something else under

his breath, and left, closing the door behind him. Do you remember how dark it

is in an interior stateroom aboard ship, with the lights out? Vertigo, vertigo,

wherefore art thou? I about died from mental confusion and panic, but blessed

loss-of-consciousness followed before long, as I fell into a troubled sleep.

I awoke to Tut,s voice saying, "Al , how ya doin,?

Sorry you missed the party , the steaks were incredible - we had a great

time!" "Yeah, me too," I said. "Well, just wanted to say

goodbye," he said, "I,m leaving the ship right now." To which I

replied, "All the best, buddy , say, could you turn the light on for me,

before you close the door?" "Sure," he said , "See

ya!" With that, he was gone , I would never see him again.

Damn , why didn,t I think to have him untie me! The

intensity of the single overhead light burned through my eyelids and into my

brain. There it mixed with the halting rhythm of a huge, throbbing pulse, which

worked its ever-changing beat through my frontal lobes, around my central

nervous system, and into the cranial cavity where, despite the mushiness of

what brains I might have had left, it seemed to bong around, like an errant

clapper in a big brass bell, long since cracked and toneless.

Of course, eventually someone else came by, untied me, and

helped me to learn to walk again! With the departure of Bill Bakun and Jack

Northrup during the last in-port period, and now Tut, it made sense to shift

stateroom assignments somewhat, and I shortly thereafter moved my belongings

over to Mossman,s stateroom. It seemed the inevitable had come to pass , I was

no longer following him around , I was sharing a room with him!

Although very different in background and personalities, Joe

and I got along great. Neither invaded the other,s space but, by choice or

happenstance, we were often together, trying to add to the knowledge base of

each, and honing our professional skills, as well as sharing personal

experiences, information and aspirations. Those who knew Joe very well, will

recall that he was a very private person in many ways, and what you saw (or

thought you saw!) was very often not what you would get.

He was intelligent, moody, complex and , both physically and

mentally , very strong. Witness the "Stinger" episode, he also had a

driving, compulsive sense of humor, which often had a bit of a cruel edge to

it. Regardless, with barbs and practical jokes flying in both directions, we

respected and enjoyed each other,s company, and consequently spent a lot of

time together.

One evening, perhaps while underway from the P.I. to Hong

Kong between the our first and second line period, Moss and I boogied on down

to BJ,s Beanery for a quick hotdog and bug juice before the movie was to start

in the ready room. The weather was hot, very hot , one of those nights when

you,d break a sweat just holding your eyes open! My VA-72 ball cap floated on

my nearly shaved head like a drunken rodeo rider on a greased pig , sure felt

good to take it off at BJ,s and consign it to a peg on the wall while waiting

for a half-cooked hotdog.

Now, I vaguely recall that, as I wiped the sweat from my

brow, it seemed unusually slimy (even for an LSO!). I noticed, also, a familiar

smirk on Moss, face, but with my mind more focused on hotdogs and bug juice

such observations quickly faded. The food and drink went down quickly, and the

promise of a movie yet unseen was enough for us to grab our hats and retrace

our steps to the Bluehawk ready room in time to lay claim to a good seat for

the evening,s entertainment.

On the way back I became even more aware of the heat and

humidity. My cap just wouldn,t stay in place, and the sweat trickling down my

forehead and into my eyes caused a familiar but seemingly inappropriate

stinging sensation. Entering the ready room, again it was a relief to get the

cap off and hanging on a hook. As we headed for our seats, I noticed Moss, sly

smirk re-emerge.

He glanced around the room to be sure he had everyone,s

attention, before reaching over to wipe my forehead and remark, "Hot,

ain,t it Al!" My "Mossman Alert" was just beginning to register

on my bug-juice-soddened-brain, when the ready room erupted in laughter , this

was to be another Stinger night for yours truly! Joe rubbed my head vigorously

for a moment, and then placed his hand before my eyes , it was covered with a

thin layer of white lather! Wiping it off quickly on the leg of his flight

suit, he reached under his seat and came up with an aerosol can of shaving

cream. Straightening up, he reached for my cap, grabbed it off the hook, and

proceeded to fill it from the can , only then did the full realization of my

plight dawn on me! "Looks like you,re getting a little low, Al , I mean

‘Soapy, , time for a refill," he chortled, as he and everyone else roared

with laughter.

From that day forth, I was, and I remain to this day,

"Soapy." The name stuck, and it permeated every aspect of my life ,

flight schedules, call sign, name tags … everything! For that one act alone,

Joe Mossman lives with me daily , but I have long since forgiven him!

From Hong Kong, we went straight to Dixie Station, arriving

26 August, for close air support (CAS) missions in South Vietnam. From then

through 10 September we stayed quite busy, flying CAS in the south, and

occasional road recce,s, etc., around and just north of the DMZ. On the 11th,

we went north, to what, within a few days, would become the worst day of my

young life.

Moss and I and perhaps one or two other J.O.s had been

designated MOPIX pilots. We would frequently be assigned aircraft with special

motion picture cameras installed to get movies of mission action, more for PR,

I think, than for bomb damage assessment (BDA). The cameras had recently been

upgraded to take color movies, and we all wanted to get some "good

stuff" and see the results. Moss had been more or less permanently

assigned to fly wing on CAG Gerhard whenever he flew with VA-72, and we knew

the "boss" would love to have some great "home movies" with

which to "blow Air Wing Seven,s horn" Consequently Moss usually had a

mopix while flying with CAG.

13 September 1965 -- the day after Lane,s brother-in-law,

Paul Skarlotos, tried futilely to save a fully loaded C1A that entered an uncommanded

flat spin right off one of the waist cats -- one aircraft and one young

enlisted troop, gone forever. 13 September -- the day the Vietnam War really

came home to this 27-year-old lieutenant. 13 September -- the day I wrote the

following in my journal:

13 Sept. 1965 , 1830:

" Today, sometime around 1700, my roommate and very

good friend, Joe Mossman, was shot down over Dong Hoi, N. Vietnam, while on a

road recce with CAG, CDR H. E. Gerhard."

"Information right now is very incomplete, but apparently

he was following CAG,s rocket runs with color mopix, and either got so low he

couldn,t pull out, or had mechanical problems, or took a hit in the cockpit at

low level and couldn,t recover. CAG said he looked behind him after his pullout

from the rocket run and saw a path of flame over the ground. Realizing it

couldn,t possibly be his rockets, he called Joe, but there was no answer. He

then made three passes over the area at low level and saw the tail section of

the aircraft and various other pieces scattered around. He also saw Joe,s chute

billowed, evidently near or in the wreckage, as if it had popped on impact or

perhaps the seat had ejected on or near impact. He said the chute was burning,

too."

"The Fudds in the area heard a PRC-49

"beeper" about the same time, so it,s felt there,s a possibility Joe

made it out OK. Another thought is that the PRC could easily have been

activated on impact, also. At any rate, it didn,t last long. Joe Mitchum was

sent to the scene from the ResCap station and heard no beeper and spotted

nothing. He got a 50 cal. through his drop tank for his trouble. The search

continues, but it,s getting dark now. From what I,ve heard, I personally don,t

think he made it but, knowing Joe, I can,t believe he didn,t. There,s always hope!"

The days that followed were dark and interminable , but they

came, and went, as days do, despite the aching void in my life. My next journal

entry was 17 September:

"Joe was officially declared KIA (killed-in-action) the

next day, Sept. 14, after a ResCap Effort by CAG, that indicated Joe couldn,t

possibly have made it. Dave and I were assigned by the X.O. to inventory his

personal gear, and we started the night of the 14th. It was tough to say the

least! Dave left about midnight."

"All my thoughts were of Joe, and memories , it was

more than I could take. Thirty minutes later, I called Jack Runnells, who

brought me a couple of sleeping pills, and talked with me until they took

effect. That did the trick."

"The next morning, memorial services were held on the

foc,sle, and it was grim, all over again. It,s getting easier to take, all the

time now, though."

The very next sentence shows life returning to

"normal," with the matter-of-fact revelation of the then unknown, but

nonetheless ominous, hidden prediction of that which lay in my future:

"Today marked Pat,s and my introduction to ‘Iron Hand,

missions, better known as the ‘Kamikaze, flights. …"

That night we lost another A-6 near Bach Long Island , CDR

Vogt and LT Barber(?). I would fly many more Iron Hand missions in the weeks,

months and even year ahead. I always derived a perverse thrill and sense of

satisfaction from these missions for to me they embodied the attack role at its

best , huge risk, but potentially huge payoffs as well, both psychologically

and in "hardware." If I were ever to get a DFC (and we all wanted

one!), it seemed likely that it would be earned on an Iron Hand.

With this new reality of war, I realized I was starting to

become numb to the apparent worst it could offer, but there remained a personal

mission, a duty, that would not be denied before I could surrender to the

numbness.

18 September 1965:

"Flew one hop into N. Laos today , didn,t accomplish

much. Wrote letter to Diane Mossman, and got it mailed , some job, but I feel

better , hope it will mean something to her , Joe meant so much to us

all."

 

And with that, it was done. The work, the routine , the

numbness , pushed the grieving ever deeper in my memory, to be overtaken by the

here-and-now insistence of responsibilities to wingies, leaders, and family. Of

course, in my case, there was also the personal bond and the

not-to-be-forgotten image of the name, "Joe Mossman," preceding mine

on lockers in nearly every locker room where I had ever suited up. The message was

clear, "Careful, Al!"

A couple of days later, on the 20th, Jon Harris, in #313,

with my name on it, was shot up and he ejected near Hon Gai. Jon was picked up

in good shape within a few hours, so why did I get the feeling that my dance

card was being punched?

The following day, the 21st, was the last day of our second

line period, and then we were off toward Japan for some well-earned R&R!

Unfortunately, in more ways than one, on the 22nd one of the Fudds ran out of

fuel, while trying to find an out-of-position, TACAN-less Indy, and we had to

reverse our course to assist in the search for and recovery of the crew. Then,

the ship had to go in circles for a while, to make a big enough slick to enable

the waterlogged Air Force HU-16 Albatross that had picked them up the night

before to get airborne! No one hurt, and only a day late to Japan , could have

been much worse.

Our last day in Japan was a momentous day for a non-pilot

friend and me. A quick trip to Tokyo and a renowned "clip-joint" saw

us in and out before noon, sporting little bandages on our, ahem,

"privates," and walking with a cautious, uncomfortable stoop. Our

kid-stressed wives, and the family-planning types back home would now love and

respect us even more than before!

We were back to Yokosuka in time for me, Dave, Hal and Carl

to grab our flight gear and catch a Navy bus to Atsugi NAS. Bright and early

the next morning, we launched into the goo, headed for Cubi, via Naha, Okinawa

in our trusty Skyhawks. Over the Pacific, we broke into the clear soon enough,

but have you ever really looked at a chart of that part of the world? There,s

more water and precious little else out there than the mind can comprehend! Two

point six, Atsugi to Naha, and two point one on into Cubi, all at about 500 knots

groundspeed, and all out of sight of land , I was impressed! Of course, Hal and

Carl also impressed the Naha troops by blowing tires on landing, so it was an

impressive day all around. I did notice that after five hours in the cockpit my

stoop was noticeably more pronounced, and stepping off a curb felt more like

landing a high jump than just putting one foot in front of the other!

By 16 October we were back on the line and off to an

inauspicious start. RVAH-1 crew Jim Bell and Duffy Hutton and their RA5C parted

company on a pre-strike photo-recce run between Haiphong and Hanoi. Jim and I

had become acquainted during survival school in Brunswick, and continued

contact as Vigi pilot/LSO while aboard Indy , I always liked Jim. That same

night Carl and X.O., Harry Southworth, got a little too chummy in the night air

overhead and married-up #306 and #310, with the vertical stab on 306 getting

severely ripped in the process.

The next day was worse , much worse! The occasion was an

Alpha Strike on the Thai Nguyen Bridge, north of Hanoi. The attack group was 16

A-4,s in a diamond-of-diamonds, with a section of F-4,s spread to either side.

We went in low , really low , I remember well, because as the slot man in the

slot division I was frequently looking up at trees and little ridges. At times,

if I had dropped the hook, I would have been the envy of John Deere tractor

operators worldwide! Things were interesting but relatively peaceful until we

started across the valley containing a road and the northeast railway between

Hanoi and the border with China.

Thirty-seven millimeter (37mm) AAA bursts make little white

puffs when they explode. By the time "Tail-End Charlie" (me!) reached

the near edge of the valley, portions of it closely resembled a cotton field in

Mississippi, with most of the "cotton" blooming 100 ft. above the

valley floor! It was scary, but what the hell, it was all above me, and for

some obscure reason, that made me feel much safer!

One of the F-4,s in the section to our right called that he

had taken a hit. I quickly glanced right, just in time to see a huge fireball

as an F-4 impacted a karst outcropping. I looked again, as far back in its

flight path as I could, given our speed and my low altitude , no sign of chutes

, Stan Olmstead and Porter Halyburton had just ratcheted the casualty meter up

by two! Another F-4 call , Tubby Johnson, saying that he had taken another hit

, time to RTB! The strike group pressed on.

The bridge awaited us , and so did its protectors -

thirty-seven puffs and red-hot tracers all over the place. The intel guys would

later call the flak "moderate" , looked heavy to me, but what did I

know , I was only the last plane on target!

The trip back? Oh yeah, right through "Happy

Valley" again! I crossed my fingers and tiptoed across the cotton, but

Ralph Gaither and Rod Knutson, right behind me in their Phantom, weren,t so

lucky. The last A-4 on the runout, a guy from VA-86, I believe, saw two good

chutes, and then he took a round in his tail section, which, I,m sure, shifted

his focus, somewhat! I considered going back to ResCap the downed crews but

quickly discarded that notion as unrealistic and foolhardy. See ya later, guys

, if I get back, I,ll toss down a brew or two in your honor!

Apparently, Ron Mayer, of VF-41, pilot of one of the F-4

MigCaps for the strike, decided to see if he could help Ralph and Rod so he

came in from his station at the coast. The result was just more fodder for the

AAA gunners and a fourth F-4 casualty. Total score: three F-4,s down over NVN; one

returned to the ship, with strike damage (Tubby had a huge hole in his

starboard wing, and lost his starboard engine. I mean lost it , nothing left in

the cavity except dangling wires, tubes and hoses!); at least one crewmember

KIA (not sure about Mayer and his RIO); and three guys off to jail (POWs).

Later, the Oriskany lost a photo F-8 on a follow-up strike to the same target.

And the bridge? Post-strike BDA showed heavy damage, but it

was still standing - no spans down. The only redemption, if it could be so

considered, was that we (VA-72/U.S. Navy) knocked out the first SAM site of the

war. X.O., CDR Harry Southworth, led his flight of four (Harry, Jack Davis,

Dick Koffarnus and Carl Moslener) and an A-6 (Pete Garber; BN unknown) to

obliterate the site, including missiles, launchers, trailers, and transporters

, the works!

Officially, it was touted as the first "mobile"

SAM site but, in fact, it was the first SAM site, hard or mobile, to be

attacked and destroyed in that conflict. A few days before, the Air Force had

made a highly publicized hit on a supposed site northwest of Hanoi. BDA showed

it to be what we later came to call a "cardboard" site, with phony

missiles, launchers, etc. made of plywood or cardboard , a perfect "flak trap."

They had lost F-105s on the strike and weren,t really keen on having their

costly mistake exposed!

The days droned on. Combat missions were becoming routine!

Sounds strange, perhaps, but to a large degree that was my feeling at the time.

Witness this entry in my journal: "May be another Alpha strike or Iron

Hand tomorrow , hope I make it, if so. Must be crazy, but I like those things;

sort of like racing cars , naturally it,s dangerous, but that,s what makes it

fun!" Another passage catches my eye: "Flew a pre-recce strike today,

on a bridge at Quang Khe. Koff got a beautiful hit with a MK-83. Pat and I

didn,t do so well, although I managed to completely obliterate a large house

near the bridge!" Sounds awful, doesn,t it? But it is illustrative of the

reality we faced daily, with "iron bombs," primitive delivery

systems, and a healthy respect for Vietnamese gunners! This was long before the

days of LGB,s (laser-guided bombs), effective computer gunsights, and

high-altitude releases. None of that sissy stuff for us , we wanted to get down

in the mud! Well, maybe not quite that low!

8 November , our last Alpha strike, on the Me-Xa Bridge,

between Hon Gay and Haiphong. Lane, Errol, Pat and I were SAM killers , with no

SAMs to kill! So we got a go at the bridge, also. Dust and smoke over a huge

area, so I just centered up the pipper on the middle of it and dropped

everything I had. Per usual, I was Tail-End Charlie with the MOPIX so, after

bomb release, I dropped down and swung back under the dust cloud for BDA. It

was fairly clear, underneath, but the sight was disappointing , no significant

damage noted , and then it got exciting!

 

The dust cloud obliterated the sun, so it was darker than

expected down there, but still light enough to find the bridge, get the pics,

and get oriented for my escape route. Suddenly there were flashes of light

across my left wing - I glanced right and got a repeat performance , not a good

sign! Peering forward, I could see a hill just past the opposite bank of the

river, its top flattened and pockmarked with a circle of those ugly,

pimple-like growths with which we had all become so intimately acquainted: AAA

sites. These were alive with bright little lights, which grew in a second or

two, before stretching into streaks of fire around my aircraft. I could clearly

see these searing ropes from hell pass between my eyes and the top surface of

each wing! Convinced that I was a dead man anyway, and not wishing to increase

that possibility by pulling up or turning, I held what I had, reached down to charge

my guns, and mashed the trigger , hard!

For once, both guns beat their staccato rhythms, and fired

out their full 75 rounds. I could only marvel at the craziness of the

situation! There I was, in my tiny Skyhawk, with the whole world throwing heavy

metal my way, and I was charging down their gun barrels with my puny 75 rounds

of 20mm! I had but an instant to consider the A-4,s oft-advertised

one-square-meter cross-section, and hope it was small enough! Then the hill,

the pockmarks, and the streaks of fire disappeared beneath the aircraft,s nose

, it was a new and different world , I couldn,t believe that I was still alive,

and that my aircraft seemed okay!

The trip back to the ship was relatively uneventful, but it

was a very sober JG, who exited BuNo 149973 that day, and checked it over

closely. The only indication of what it had been through (not counting the dark

stains in the seat!) was a missing green wing light lens , it had been shot

off, but the bulb was unbroken and it still worked!

No more Alpha strikes in the 3 remaining days of operation,

so they passed relatively stress-free. Then it was on to Cubi for a couple of

days before departing for home. What a completely different flavor to the

transit home compared to the anticipation experienced in our trip to WestPac! A

highlight was meeting Enterprise and Bainbridge on their way over to relieve

Indy , wow, could those two nuke-powered ships move! The fly-off, on 12

December put the cap on it all , great flight, and families waiting for us. Life

was truly good again!

The time between the ,65 and ,66 cruises passed in a blur ,

there was so much going on! There was the Hawk alpha strike on Carl and Janet,s

wedding; some basking in the limelight of the still-rare, east coast

"combat veteran" status; preparations for the upcoming "base

loading" move to Cecil Field; and, finally, the move itself. In fact,

Carolyn, I, Pat and Norma were to leave early, so that Pat and I could

constitute the advance party at Cecil, but only Carolyn and I made it on time,

leaving in the middle of the biggest snowstorm to hit Virginia in decades. The

date was January 29, and it was about a week before anyone else could follow!

Then at some point, amidst all that confusion, came

"the moment," that knee-jerk reaction moment that would forever alter

the course of (and perhaps the length of) my life.

As best I can recall, it happened in February, right after

the change-of-command ceremony on the 11th at which CDR Harrison

"Harry" B. Southworth relieved CDR Joe Adkins of command of the Blue

Hawks. Joe was very well liked by all and we hated to see him leave, but life

and careers do go on, and it was time for Joe to step up to a new cushy job and

leave the Blue Hawks in the eager hands of "Harry B."

Whatever the occasion, we squadron officers were assembled

in the ready room, generally congratulating ourselves on being not only heroes,

but very dashing and handsome heroes at that, when the new skipper called us to

order for an important announcement. VA-72 had been chosen to return to WestPac

for another combat cruise, the first east coast attack squadron to be so

honored , a direct result of our stellar performance on the cruise just

concluded! Each pilot would be allowed to make his choice known (to go, or

not), and individual wishes would be honored to the extent possible. The new

C.O. would be in his office, shortly, if anyone had questions or personal

matters to discuss with him , AOM dismissed!

I may never know exactly why, but at that precise moment my

leadership gene awakened, apparently observing that this seemed a most

propitious time to exert itself. How extraordinarily cool it would be (it

noted), to be the first to show real support for the skipper, by volunteering

to go back to the South China Sea with him! (Hey , we were all probably gonna

have to go back, anyway!) I grabbed Dave and Hal (maybe Carl, too), and

scampered after Harry B., almost on his coattails. Waiting only until he could

get to the other side of his desk and look up, I knocked on the doorframe.

"What do you guys want?" he grinned.

"Just want you to know we,re with you, Skipper. If

you,re gonna take the Hawks back to Vietnam, here,s three (four?) you won,t

have to find replacements for!" said the lead fool.

"Well, that,s really nice, guys" he replied.

"I,m touched , but don,t you want to take some time to think about

this?"

"No, Sir! Can,t let you go without your first team;

besides, we need more medals!" another brain-dead loudmouth, later to

become an astronaut, offered.

"Alright then. Let,s get this outfit in gear and get

ready to go back over there and do some serious ass kicking!" Harry B.

snarled, again with a grin. High fives and pumped egos all around, as we exited

the C.O.,s office, with a re-found sense of purpose and, possibly, more

apprehension than any of us let on to. The die had been cast!

Although we were the first, over the next few days the other

pilots each had their own "moment" with Harry, and "stuff"

started to happen! Pilots left, replacements arrived, training ratcheted up,

and the entire squadron made the move to Jax and Air Wing One. At that point

memory blurs, but my logbook reflects a busy flying schedule, with at least a

couple of at-sea periods on the FDR. The replacement pilots dovetailed nicely

with us "leftovers" and we were all approaching a figurative

"fighting trim" as departure date arrived.

Departure - June 21, 1966. Why did this time seem so

different? Could it be that the bloom had left the rose since that heady

"moment" only a few months earlier? Was it because the kids were just

a little older? Perhaps it was only that Carolyn,s mood seemed so much more

somber? Or maybe we just recognized that the triple-A defenses in the north

were substantially more formidable this year? There were many more American

POWs in Hanoi,s prisons, now , could that be a factor? Or was it just that

reality now exerted a greater influence on our testosterone-fogged brains than

ignorant excitement had a year ago? Time might tell, but for now it was just

time to leave.

Fortunately, it doesn,t take long at sea for work and flight

operations to fill the void, leaving little time for doubts, fears and longing

for home. There was a flurry of activity enroute to and in the Caribbean,

including our less-than-happily-successful Operational Readiness Inspection

(ORI), but we passed, just like last year (what did we think , if we flunked,

they,d tell us we couldn,t go to war?), and headed south, toward the Equator

and Rio de Janeiro.

Rio was great , warm weather, good food and drink, interesting

sights (Corcovado, Sugarloaf, Copacabana and Ipanema Beach) from 8-11 July, one

last touch of western civilization. Those few days were enough, though. It was

time to get on with the business at hand , we had a war to get to before it

ended without us!

Two days out, enroute to Capetown, came an ominous predictor

of what might lie ahead , a VF-32 Phantom went straight in, for no apparent

reason , pilot and RIO killed. Then, on the 22nd, a VF-14 Phantom,s ruptured

centerline fuel tank made for an impressive fireball show off the starboard

cat, and the bowman in the starboard catwalk went for a swim to escape the

flames. The helo picked him up right away but, as I could see from the platform

when they brought him back, he was not a pretty sight , first and second degree

burns over most of his body!

It was August 10 before we reached Yankee Station, after

several days in Cubi for some light training and R&R. It was not

particularly good to be back. My first mission, however, yielded a bonanza!

Rolling in on a suspected jeep, crossing an intersection below, I punched off a

couple of Mk. 81,s, got close hits and saw the vehicle come to a stop. Couldn,t

resist the temptation to drop down into the flak zone for a closer look, and

"what to my wondering eyes should appear, but…" , a water buffalo! He

was severely "morted," lying in the middle of the road, with all

fours sticking straight out! Felt kinda bad about the mistake, but was relieved

to not see any kids around, who might have been onboard.

The days piled up, one after another, as days tend to do.

Standard stuff for us leftovers, but it was interesting to see the reactions of

the "new guys" as they returned from their first exposures to the

varied missions, conditions and types of enemy fire. Guess they had been

listening to us, ‘cause they really took it seriously! Come to think of it, I

know I was taking it pretty seriously, too. We were getting better missions and

loads than we had had in ,65, but the price was heavier caliber flak, and there

was a lot more of it! Also, I was getting to lead much of the time, which added

an element of challenge that I thoroughly enjoyed. My "wingie" was

usually Terry who, typically, would whine that everyone else was getting all

the "good" missions , good targets, good flak (?!), SAM,s, etc. - and

he was missing out on all this "good" combat experience! A little

"milk run" on August 14th changed that tone from a whine to a scream!

While Terry and I were finishing up a road recce on the

river NW of Vinh, the boys at the "Bowlegs" AAA "Training

School," apparently feeling that they had been neglected in recent days,

decided to throw everything they had on hand in our direction. Not

unexpectedly, the clear summer skies started clouding up! Little white cotton

balls (37mm) magically appeared in groups of 10-15; whole clouds of gray

developed in other areas (57mm), with tendrils of smoke following our flight

paths in a dotted line; and, yikes! What was that ugly black stuff, with the

dull orange centers, that suddenly appeared at every turn? Could it be 85,s or

105,s? Sure looked like it, so acknowledging discretion to still be the better

part of valor, we beat it out of there to clearer skies!

Upon return, Terry was irrepressible. "Man, did you see

that flak? White stuff, gray stuff, and those huge, black balls of fire!

Soapy,, they were tracking right up your ass!" Don,t you just love such

youthful enthusiasm? I yawned, and informed him he was now probably caught up

with everyone else on type and amount of AAA , all that remained was to

introduce him to some SAM,s, up close and personal. Little did I know that it

would take a couple of months before we would do just that!

The "hunting" was better in ,66 , something new,

different, or exciting nearly every day. Actually caught two trucks moving on

the road, in broad daylight! The shrapnel from a well-placed MK-81 (50 ft. hit)

cleaned off everything from the floorboards up on one truck, and sent it

bouncing across a field. The other got away with dirty underwear for the driver!

Three-thirty one morning saw Moz and me firing Zuni,s at lights along Route 1A

between Vinh and Than Hoa. We,re talking significant "Roman candles"

here! You haven,t lived until you,ve seen a show like that from the cockpit and

preserved your night vision, too!

The "waving" (LSO duty) was also considerably

better for me in ,66. I had become fully qualified for all air wing aircraft,

one of only three LSOs on the ship (including the two Air Wing staff guys) to

be so "qualled," so I got plenty of platform time. The rewards I had

expected with the job were all there and very fulfilling , the respect and

confidence of my peers, cool sunglasses, and a killer tan , in spite of a

demanding schedule, my professional life was going well!

Then, on August 21, things got very interesting! My journal

tells it thusly: "My one hop today was an historic one, for me at least.

It was an Iron Hand to the Than Hoa area, in support of an F-8 photo bird. Carl

Moslener and I jigged around just south of Than Hoa at 5-10 thousand, trying to

locate Fansong radars on my single Shrike missile. I wasn,t having much luck,

so I made a run on 5 boxcars below me, and let them have a LAU-3 pod

point-blank. It looked like I had reasonable hits and, since it was a hot area,

we departed to continue the SAM hunt. My radio was not the best, but I wasn,t

aware how poor it really was. After another ten or fifteen minutes of fooling

around, I went back and fired 2 LAU-3,s at the same railroad cars. I pulled

off, looking for Carl, and couldn,t see him or talk to him. He had me in sight

but I didn,t know it at the time. I pickled the empty rocket pods off and saw

Carl pass me to the right. Thinking he would bend it around and follow me, I

headed for the beach, but he had called me on the radio - he thought I was

following him!"

"Shortly thereafter, I heard and felt an explosion of

sorts in the aircraft, so I headed for the beach, by the shortest route, and

called Carl to tell him my intentions. We never did get together; I never could

raise anyone on the radio, and my engine noises got worse and worse,

culminating in compressor stalls at the rate of 2-3/second, and limiting my

power to 92%. I found the ship on my good TACAN, buzzed it at 4000 ft. about

four times, hoping someone would notice me, and finally shelled out at 1800 ft,

200 knots, when the TPT started climbing rapidly. This was at 1142 local time,

about 30 minutes after the first bang. According to a COD pilot who observed my

ejection, flames were cycling out my exhaust with every compressor stall, and

just as I ejected a big ball of flame gushed out the tailpipe. Apparently she

wouldn,t have flown much longer. I was picked up by our helo within five

minutes, and things returned to normal after a shot of "medicinal"

whiskey. No injuries , everything okay."

The next day, flight gear all rinsed and dried, I was first

off the cat for a two-Shrike Iron Hand with Bob Moloney in support of a strike

near Haiphong. I locked up a Fansong in high PRF and fired both Shrikes at it.

Good guidance, and the radar dropping off the air several seconds later

indicated a probable kill. Pat Kober and Ken Craig had a similar experience on

the north side of town, so it looked like a good day for VA-72 , until Ken

starting emulating my compressor stall experience of the day before! He made it

as far as the PIRAZ ship (U.S.S. King) before jumping out and a being rescued ,

love those Douglas RAPEC seats!

On September 6, Norm Bundy, of VFP-62, wasn,t so fortunate

as we. He appeared to just fly into the water off the coast near Than Hoa.

Losses were becoming more frequent as the targets got juicier and North

Vietnam,s defenses seemed to strengthen. As we headed for Yokosuka September

12, after the last day of flight ops for the line period, our unofficial

"survivors party" was cause for celebration certainly, but also it

was a time for sober reflection, remembrance, and tribute to the ever expanding

list of our fallen comrades.

On September 26, our last night in port, after much needed

and appreciated R&R in Yokosuka, the squadron O,s met en masse for a final

dinner at the Yoko O-Club. I will never forget that night, not for any ceremony

or planned significance, for there was none. What occurred would, I suppose, be

significant under any circumstances, but in those times, with our combat-bonded

buddies, it amounted to an extremely stark and powerful experience. Although

the entry is long, please bear with me, for I cannot tell my story without it.

I will edit it only slightly, to avoid undue hurt or harm to those involved.

26 Sept. 1966

"It,s now very early in the morning of this day, our

last day or part thereof in this port, Yokosuka, nerve center of Naval Forces

Japan. It,s 0300, much too early to be writing, but it,s been a memorable day,

week, in-port period, and there is something to be said."

"I,ve just escorted the Skipper on a tour of J.O. land,

O2 forward, and he was suitably impressed. He was very drunk, and very much the

Blue Hawks, own , our very own and much loved C.O. There is not on this ship,

and probably could never be, another quite like him. In Navy terms, or any

terms, he is not perfect , but he is closer than any man has a right to be in

such a position. No more can be said of a man in a combat unit than that we

would bust our asses to save his , knowing full well that he would do the same

for us, any time, under any circumstances."

"I saw tonight something I dislike, but want to

remember for the rest of my life, and it,s my prime reason for writing now.

Though I,m not at all drunk, I should wait to write, but I,d miss the feeling

of the moment, and I can,t , it,s something I must keep close."

"A man left the Bluehawks tonight. He was a man

dejected and fallen, a shell of his former self , not an aviator, and not a

Hawk, though once he claimed the honor of both distinctions. He was a second

tour pilot, on his first cruise in jets, and his first cruise in combat. He was

unfortunate enough to pick up some flak on his first combat hop over NVN, and

it,s bugged him ever since. I,m sure he went through mental hell making the

decision, but in the weeks that followed that fateful day, he determined to

quit , turn in his wings of gold, and silently fade away."

"Today he left. He said his final goodbyes at the club

tonight, about 0100, and it must have been tough for him. He was dressed in

service dress khakis, preparatory to traveling home, and a more naked, shell of

a man I have never seen; stripped of his wings and his self-respect, the only

credit I can give him is that he didn,t leave without a word , he tried as he

has since this thing started on him , he did have the courage to say goodbye,

more than I might have under similar circumstances."

"The impression on me was deep, and it will be lasting,

much like seeing a man mustered out of the service, shod of rank, dignity and

self-respect , I,ll never forget it!"

"For whatever else I have been or will be, hero or

coward, invaluable or worthless, I will never give up my wings. There are few

things in a person,s life that can be so meaningful. The pedestal of my life

right now is my wings of gold , without them I would be merely mortal and

ordinary. Not that they make a Superman of anyone, but they are a symbol of

everything that means anything to me, and I could not willingly part with them.

Given the choice, I think I would cheerfully die in the service of my country

as a naval aviator before I would turn in my wings."

"John, my heart goes out to you, for you,ll never be

the same , and you know it, too. You,re a coward, John, perhaps a smart one,

and you may live a long life, but you won,t sleep well at night, and the mirror

will be tough to face for a long time."

3 October 1966 , "Well, the preceding words, though

perhaps a bit flowery, were the sincere thoughts of the drunk who wrote them at

the time! I,m sober now, yet I still vividly remember the emotions that

prompted me to write those words. I can,t be ashamed of them , they may be the

inspiration I need someday to make an important decision of my own."

Well, so much for the ranting of a drunk! There was a deep

nerve touched with that experience , and it is still very responsive today. You

know - some of us still tear up at hearing our national anthem , same nerve!

Getting back on the line, the FDR, somewhat true to form,

threw a screw, which really "screwed up" our schedule and combat

mindset! It was back to Yoko for a week, to fix things up, and 19 October

before we got back to Yankee Station to go to work. One day into it, the air

wing had its first casualty, VA-172,s LTJG Fred Purrington, downed and captured

near Than Hoa. Figured that would be the last I would see of him, for a while ,

wrong!

The Oriskany fire, on the 26th, brought the reality and

danger of combat flight operations into sharp focus. Many of us knew pilots who

had been killed in the tragedy, and physical similarities between "O

Boat" and FDR were quick to surface in our minds. The same thing could

happen right where most of our staterooms were! I think many of us quickly

reevaluated our escape routes and procedures from "Bow Rat" country.

The Martha Raye USO show that evening helped to take our minds off it , a

little , but the fire was a horrific event, not soon to be forgotten.

So far, the weather on this line period had been lousy.

Because of it, very few productive missions had been launched and, as I suited

up on 1 November 1966, the outlook for that flight seemed no better. I was to

lead Bob "Whoosh" Wilson and Terry on a combo Iron Hand/coastal

recce, starting near Haiphong. The Iron Hand portion of the mission was in support

of a flight of photo F-8,s, tasked to get pictures of shipping in the harbor.

My flight would provide SAM protection until the F-8,s exited, then we would

move up the coast toward the China border looking for targets of opportunity.

In my view, it promised to be an interesting and lucrative mission, and I was

eager to get on with it! Before launch, weather recce reported the only

possible area for operations in North Vietnam would be right where we were to

go. All other missions were scrubbed , it would be a lonely world out there!

My flight rendezvoused off the cat and headed for Haiphong.

On the radio, we could hear Norm Green and Ed Andrews in the F-8,s getting

together to position for their high-speed, low-level photo run while we

proceeded leisurely to our pre-arranged 5000 ft. perch just off shore. Once

there, we remained spread while I s-turned to keep my APR-23 and Shrike

receiver head pointed toward the expected threat and started a gradual climb.

The "Saders" turned in, lit the burners, and started their run.

Immediately, the Fansong I was monitoring switched to high PRF, and I went to

100% to finish my climb to 9000 ft., my pre-determined minimum altitude for a

"down-the-throat" Shrike shot at the range I estimated to the

Fansong. A few short seconds later, "Andy" (With The Red-Hot Candy!)

started screaming his personal vulgar code word for SAM warning, and I noticed

something different in the cloud-shaded dark landscape below. Although we

rarely saw lights on the ground in NVN, there was one down there this gloomy

day, and I marveled that someone could be that careless!

It wasn,t moving, so that was comforting but, wait a minute,

it was getting bigger and brighter!!! Oh shit! "Missile in the air ,

missile in the air!" I squeaked through nearly paralyzed vocal chords. (I

have the recording made of that transmission , I,m not proud of it, and no, I

won,t let you listen to it!) Over the top at 9000, put the pipper on the light,

check the "Abba Jabba" (attitude indicator), and carefully pull the nose

up fifteen degrees. Check station selector on Shrike, Master Arm "ON"

and hit the pickle. Away that beauty went, like Cupid,s arrow and, at motor

burnout, I could see it start to track. I watched in fascination, my scan split

between that wiggly smoke trail, the SAM snaking toward my flight, and the dust

cloud on the surface, marking its point of departure.

Having topped out with only about 200 knots airspeed, I felt

an urgent need to concentrate on getting some back! Keeping the target in

sight, I dropped the nose, switched the station selector to my Zuni pod, ran

the mil setting up on the gunsight, and called my wingies in for the kill, with

a confident, "Let,s get it!" Damn, Norm, you,re annoying me with all

these calls expressing an interest in the location of the SAM and what it,s

doing! "You,re clear , it,s after us!" I yelled. About then, my

Shrike impacted the site and the inbound SAM "went stupid." It was a

relief to have that problem eliminated!

The SAM site grew rapidly in my gun sight, and I could start

to make out individual trailers, missiles, etc. in what appeared to be a grove

or orchard. There was a lot of dust from my Shrike hit, blowing clear of the

area, and I was unable to quickly evaluate what damage my missile might have

done. No time for that, anyway, as I had more important things on my mind! Flak

was everywhere , no little white "cotton balls," either! This stuff

was big, black, and ominous, each centered on an ugly orange fireball that

faded to black as the round spewed its shrapnel in all directions. It was

really getting intense, but I concluded, perhaps wrongly, that it would be just

as bad in any direction, so we continued to press the attack.

I had my pipper steady, in the middle of the site, when I

reached 5000 ft., my firing altitude for this 45-degree run. With the rocket

selector set on "Single," I "stirred the stick" vigorously

as I snapped off four quick Zuni,s. In my mind,s eye, I could imagine the

impact of those four rockets on this relatively "soft" site. Our Zuni,s

were VT (proximity) fused, which meant that they would explode at a pre-set

distance from the target, sending shrapnel forward and out, like a blast from a

sawed-off shotgun worthy of Paul Bunyan. Gotta love those Zuni,s!

I watched the rockets "do their thing," then

pulled hard to escape the impact area and set up for a run to drop my remaining

four MK-81,s. It was not to be! At something slightly above 3000 ft. and 450

knots, just as the pullout G-forces took hold, the aircraft rocked and I heard

a muffled explosion, which was followed immediately by a huge red light under

the glare shield that silently but forcefully proclaimed, "FIRE!"

"This is Soapy Lead. I,ve been hit , got a good one here , let,s turn

around and put some bombs on ‘em on the way out," I called to Whoosh and

Terry. About then, wingman Terry started a play-by-play over the air on the

terrible condition of my Skyhawk. I caught phrases like, "… a lotta

smoke…" "…burning bad…" "…better get out!" etc., to

the point where it influenced my decision to make a bombing run on my way back

to sea! I got the bird turned around and level at about 3000 before pulling off

bombs, racks, empty LAU-10 pod, everything. Shortly thereafter, all the lights

went out, as I lost primary electrical power. Might be a good time to pull the

RAT (ram-air turbine - electrical generator), I thought , so I did, and the

lights came back on, temporarily. The radio came back up on the tail end of a

transmission , someone was trying to talk to me. I had better things to do, so

I started a climb, with the intention of climbing to 9000, whereupon I would

shut the engine down, wait a reasonable time for the fire to burn out (oh, I

don,t know , maybe 10 milliseconds!), and then try a re-light and escape to

sea. I removed my kneeboard and flashlight, and stowed them on the side

consoles. I figured that if my scheme didn,t work, I would be forced to eject

at low altitude, slow speed, so I purposely hooked up my zero-delay lanyard.

That would give me minimum time in the seat and a better shot at success under

my anticipated ejection conditions. Well, as they say, "It was New Year,s

Eve , seemed like a good idea, at the time!"

Suddenly the flow of oxygen cut off to my mask! If it had

been fueling the fire back there, that might have been a good thing. As it was,

and without knowing, I didn,t see it that way! I thrust my jaw forward, to

break the mask seal, so I could breathe, and just then, the lights went out,

again! In another short moment, at approximately 5500 ft., the aircraft lurched

sickeningly sideways, cockpit noise changed in tone and increased in volume,

and both stick and right rudder pedal slammed full forward. My trusty A-4

commenced an uncommanded rudder roll to the right, and my mind raced to keep up

with this rapidly developing scene of which I was such an integral part. From

twenty degrees nose high and upright, the aircraft rolled to inverted at the

horizon , it was increasingly obvious that this was one dying bird, from which

it might behoove me to part company , soon! I considered, but quickly rejected

the idea of pulling the throttle back to idle , what was the point? My airspeed

certainly wouldn,t change significantly, but I almost certainly would end up

hanging forward in the straps , not the ideal position for a high-speed

ejection.

Speaking of which, just how fast was I going, anyway? A

final instrument check confirmed most to be dead, as expected, but the

pitot-static system still worked, and it indicated 550 knots and climbing

rapidly, as the roll continued to upright, again, at about forty degrees nose

down. I had waited purposely, not wanting to eject inverted (why?!), and had

also decided that I would follow training directives, and use the face-curtain,

for this decidedly high-speed, out-of-the-envelope attempt. I thought,

"Man, I,ll bet this is gonna hurt!" ‘Nuff said! Sit erect, knees

together; grasp the handle, elbows in, and PULL!

JEEZ, LOUISE! Every millisecond breezed by in sharp focus!

There was a loud "PFMPH," as the canopy fired and left the aircraft.

My arms continued the downward pull, and I heard, and felt, the seat fire. It

happened fast but in searing detail I was aware of each step in the sequence.

The now-familiar kick in the butt led to awareness of every inch of the ride up

the rails. I could feel the wind pressure scrape down across my body like a

blade, as I sliced up and into the wind stream. The noise was incredible! Don,t

believe me? Stick your head out the window of your car, the next time you,re

doing in excess of 600 MPH! I felt the rocket stop firing, and immediately felt

the seat pull away from my body. Compared to me, it was very light, and the

separation was quick and violent. With the zero-delay lanyard attached, seat

separation occurred prior to the curtain cutter firing, hence the seat, acting

almost like a drag chute, yanked my arms up and into the air stream. My right

elbow caught the air, tearing my grip from the curtain handle and forcing my

arm out even farther. The arm ripped from its shoulder socket with a crunch of broken

bone, torn ligaments and intense pain. With my left hand, I felt the drag from

the seat suddenly release, as the curtain cutter fired. Released from its

protective strain, my left arm, fully extended, shot behind me at an odd angle

as that shoulder, too, violently dislocated and sheared pieces of bone from the

humeral head.

The pain was unbelievable , but it was just beginning!

Slowing from over 550 kts., my body writhed in agony, with all extremities in a

maximum flail condition, flopping, twisting and snapping in the wind. In a

somewhat detached fashion, feeling much like a rag doll in the mouth of a

playful dog, I marveled that such pain could be experienced and endured, short

of death!

Training and focus returned in a rush, as I realized my chute

had not yet opened. I wasn,t low enough to be truly concerned, but I would be

getting there in a heartbeat if something didn,t happen, soon! Shortly

thereafter, in exquisite detail, I felt the pack release and open, felt the

risers whip out, felt a tug as they reached full extension, and,

"WHAM" , opening shock!

They used to tell us that the RAPEC seat would deliver about

19 G,s to a 170 lb. person, when it fired. Assuming that information to be

correct, and that I had experienced a typical shot, this chute opening had to

be at least 40 G,s! At least, it brought the violence to an end , temporarily.

I opened my eyes, only to find that I had bigger problems

than I could have imagined , I saw nothing! My overwrought brain suggested that

perhaps the optic nerves had been severed or, worse yet, my face was gone!

Reaching up with my right hand, to remove my oxygen mask and prepare for

landing, a tentative touch indicated that that, indeed, might be the case.

Through the flying glove still hanging on the fingers of my right hand, I found

only a smooth, wet surface where my face should have been! Full of dread for

what might lie ahead, I moved my hand to the top of my shoulder, searching for

the fittings, so that I could release my oxygen mask. Strangely enough, I found

them, but they were the fittings for the opposite side of the mask , my helmet

had turned 90 degrees to the right, leaving my mask over my right shoulder! I

quickly snapped the fittings loose on both sides, dropped the mask, and jerked

my helmet back to the left.

Voila , I could see! My eyes, released from the black

confines of my helmet,s left ear cup, had vision, once more! That was the

greatest feeling of relief I had ever experienced, and just in time, too, as I

saw a huge plume of water and smoke, directly in front of me, where my little

bird had made its final landing. Glancing up, I saw a chute in tatters. Two and

a half gores were completely blown out, the ripped fabric wafting gently in the

breeze of my descent. At first, I thought they had been shot out, as the din of

war was no longer on the other side of a cockpit canopy, but then I realized

that it was that tremendous opening shock that was responsible for the damage.

"Lucky me!" I thought , but then I took stock of my own physical situation,

and re-evaluated that judgment!

I hurt, terribly, all over, but my right arm and hand were

still somewhat functional. The left side, however, was another matter. That arm

had not seemed to respond to my calls upon it, so I looked down and to the left

to try to determine why. What I saw sickened me. Where once there had been a

shoulder, now there was nothing , it seemed my neck started down in my chest,

somewhere! Instead, I saw a large bump on my chest, from which protruded an

arm, upright, but extended to the rear. When I watched the arm and tried to

bring the hand to my face, it came up from behind me, rather than from the

front! It was very bizarre, and it hurt like hell, so I mentally tuned that

appendage out of normal movement modes, and focused upon that which I could do.

With difficulty, I extracted my PRC, pulled the antenna up with my teeth,

turned it on and tried to talk to my wingies. The noise from all the triple-A

going off, engine noise from my wingmen,s aircraft, and still having a helmet

on, combined to make it very difficult for me to hear the radio. I announced

that I was conscious and OK (a little white lie!), and I thought I could hear a

reply, but I couldn,t be sure, and certainly couldn,t communicate well, under

the circumstances.

My next concern was the upcoming landing. I could see that I

was getting much closer to the surface, that I would land in the muddy waters

of Haiphong Harbor, and that there appeared to be about fifteen knots of wind

blowing. I was descending fast, due to the missing sections of my chute, so I

anticipated going deep and subsequently being dragged by the wind. I worked to

stow my PRC, but found it impossible to get it back in position, or to refasten

my Mk-3C flotation device, which I had had to unfasten to get the radio out in

the first place. With the water coming up quickly, and not wanting to lose the

radio, I made a snap decision , jam it down in my harness, and hold it in place

with the antenna in my mouth. So what, if it hit the roof of my mouth on

landing , at least I would still have what I knew to be the single most

important piece of survival equipment with me! I struggled to pull the

inflation toggles with my barely functioning right arm, and got one, but could

not activate the other.

I hit the water hard, like a sack of … sand! Even with one

chamber of the Mk-3C inflated, I went deep, and immediately felt a hard pull on

the risers, as the wind laid my chute over, transforming it from parachute to

power sail. Several feet under water, with no bailout oxygen (remember, I had

tossed my mask earlier), I became a wind-propelled torpedo. With my useless

arms, there would be no rolling to my back and releasing my Koch fittings.

Helpless, and in great pain, with my breath nearly gone, I wondered how long it

would take for me to die, and how aware I might remain throughout the process.

Just then, the wind,s terrible tug on my body ceased, and I

popped to the surface, sputtering. It would be much later before I would deduce

how my life had been spared. A recent modification to our chutes was a narrow

band of fabric, sewn along the entire canopy rim, on the top side, thus

forming, "deflation pockets." They were designed to scoop into the

water, as the canopy bounced along under high wind conditions, and effectively

"trip" the canopy and cause its deflation. I,d like to thank the

genius who came up with that brilliant idea , he saved my life!

My problems were still far from over. I had been pulled into

the middle of the canopy and risers, which then started to slowly sink. Lines

wrapped around my legs, and I couldn,t reach them with my injured arms to free

myself. The one flotation chamber I had managed to inflate offered little help.

I was slowly sinking in my watery version of quicksand.

As I bobbed to the top of a wave, I could see two or three

wooden sailing vessels headed in my direction. Nowhere did I see or hear a

helicopter or, except for my wingies who were making constant low passes by my

position, any other efforts to rescue me. I was floating very low in the water,

having to tip my head backwards to breathe, and still taking frequent snorts of

water from the tossing sea, for my efforts. Realistically, I knew I had only a

few minutes remaining before I would drown. I started babbling, just to the

boats in general, telling them they had better hurry, or they would be

retrieving a dead man, when I heard a shout behind me. Straining to see the

source, I found myself looking up the barrel of a machine gun on a boat perhaps

75 feet away. Its operator seemed pretty agitated, as he screamed and gestured

in my direction. Ejection , water landing , pickup; "Third time,s a

charm," I thought , "This sonofabitch is gonna kill me, for

sure!"

He yelled some more and lifted both arms up to show me

that,s what he wanted me to do. Now I was mad! "F--- you, you slimy little

bastard. My arms don,t work and, if they did, I,d blow you away with my trusty

9mm. I,ve got it right here! (somewhere?) Just shoot me, and get it over

with!" There , that oughta show him who,s boss!

I wondered if I would feel the smack of the round that would

end my life , not that it mattered , anything would be better than being

captured and becoming a POW in this theater. Damn , I,ve got the LSO duty

tomorrow, and it doesn,t look like I,ll make it , how will they manage without

me? Hmmm, I,ve gotten way too fat on this cruise , bet I,ll lose some weight,

now!

Such were the thoughts racing through my brain, as my life

as a Bluehawk ended, and a long, new chapter began.

Allan R. Carpenter.

Copyright Allan R. Carpenter.