Neptunus Lex

Me: So. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself and then I thought, geez: Sucks to be you.

Urinal:

Me: I mean, my part’s relatively easy.

Urinal:

Me: Well, not so very easy. I mean, I’ve been doing this for nearly 28 years now whenever my number pops, and it’s not like I’ve ever had any fun doing it. You’d think maybe that if I was going to be a pothead, I’d have been caught by now. Ya’ know what I mean?

Urinal:

Me: Crazy pothead captain! Woo-hoo! Look at me, at 45 I just started smoking grass!

Urinal:

Me: Reefer madness!

Urinal:

Me: Anyway.

Urinal:

Me: I wish that observer guy would leave off rattling the change in his pocket. It’s distracting.

Urinal: You going to do something, or you just going to stand there all day waving at me?

Me:

Urinal: Punk.

(later)

Urinal: I feel so dirty… So used.

Me: Don’t look at it like that, baby.

Urinal: Call me?

Me: Sure.

“Why yes, Laz. You were missed. In fact the better part of 5000 people have been looking for you for the last two hours and…(muffled, aside:) Yes, sir it’s Lazlo. Just a minute, Laz - The Skipper would like to speak to you.”

All throughout Ready Room 8, Compartment 2-242-0-L aboard the USS Constellation, a warship then at sea in execution of national tasking in the Indian Ocean, junior officers lowered their faces thoughtfully into month-old magazines, staring with a fixed and terrible intensity on single words or even punctuation marks in the text while their associated ears nearly herniated themselves in straining to capture every rapturous moment of the tide about to burst upon the person of Lazlo, poor unfortunate Lazlo.

Having caught some whiff of the reason for Lazlo’s unexcused absence from the ship, the CO’s towering rage, which had already been approvingly described as “pretty darned epic” in scale, somehow astonishingly re-doubled itself. The effect took place to such an alarming degree that those who cared for him grew concerned for his well-being, not to mention his state of mind and he was just getting up a good head of steam as he got to the phone, ripping it from the duty officer’s hand and quickly asking of Lazlo whether, in his studied professional opinion, it was really true that the naval service was little more than a transportation system for his wedding tackle? Because that was the way it might appear to the disinterested observer.

Without pausing for reply, the CO then offered Lazlo fairly detailed sartorial advice in preparation for a face-to-face meeting right there in the ready room, just as soon as he could change out of that ridiculous costume the entire ship had seen him wearing, disgrace that he was to his squadron in particular and the service in general. During this meeting it was plausibly forecast to Laz that the CO might frabbing kill him, cork-sticking gasper that he was, even going so far as to offer detailed anatomical descriptions of how the deed might be accomplished, complete with promises of sterner measures which would immediately follow.

All of this was put on hold however, as the squawk box beside the duty officer crackled to life with the stern salutation of, “Ready 8, Bridge!”

“Ready 8 aye!” responded the duty officer, just as he’d been taught, and with perhaps a somewhat greater mindfulness of his duty than usual given the current atmosphere in the ready room. In doing so he manfully forbore from the normally overwhelming temptation to make hilarious squawk box responses such as belches and even worse than belches in reply gentle reader, disgusting as they were and having only the slenderest thread of plausible deniability to go along with them. This would all have been in the time honored aviation tradition of biffing the blackshoe professional surface warfare officer, which although it was a simple sport, not unlike clubbing baby seals, was yet considered worth the effort, if only for the practice that was in it.

Something in the current mood made him pause, and a right good pause it was too, for the very next voice to come through the box itself was that of the Actual Captain of the Whole Frabbing Ship, who in no-nonsense verbiage studded with short, stout, Anglo-Saxon derivatives strongly desired and required of our CO that the sun of a beach piece of carp that had kept the Entire Goram Navy from getting about the nation’s business join him up on the bridge for a short but exciting conversation, adding that it would not be very much resented if the CO came along as well, if he wasn’t too busy?

Collar devices were mentally consulted for relative merit, and as events unfolded, our CO’s leisure suited the Captain’s pleasure. The two of them, Lazlo and The Man (who would in a matter of moments and a nine deck climb be just “a man” again) y-clad not in flight suits gentle reader but in khakis as befits a walk-of-shame, reported to the bridge no very long time later, sweat streaming down their faces, chests heaving and eyes bulging out of their heads. What followed after your humble scribe cannot reliably relay, lacking as he did the physical courage to attempt to follow, and not being able to wheedle it out either from Lazlo himself, nor any of the junior officers on watch up on the bridge, selfish bastiches that they were, and we’d have shared it with them maybe, had the roles been reversed. We are left with the strongest impression that the conversation could not be considered a dialogue really, unless your definition of “dialogue” is expansive enough to cover a discussion wherein the party of the first part is entirely in transmit, and the party of the second almost entirely in receive, apart from a few carefully timed “yessirs” and “nosirs” and the occasional, remorseful “no excuse sirs.”

What I can tell you is that a letter of reprimand is better than no mail at all, and that the next four weeks saw a great deal more of Lazlo at the duty desk and wearing khakis, with only someone to spot him at the desk every seven days or so for him to get a night trap and thereby maintain night currency, great store being set in night currency on the line. Of daylight flights there were few or none, which was all to the good for the rest of us, for we’d gladly take his day hop. When the time came for fitness reports, there were 10 of us in the top 1% category, which is the way things were done in those days, and one of us in the top 5% category, which was the kiss of professional doom. I do not know for a fact that Laz was our anchor man, but if he was not, then some one of the other of us must have been caught by Dad diddling livestock, and word of it never got down to our level.

Laz was with us the best part of year before leaving the service, that being the best thing all the way around, really, and joining a major airline, where I imagine he remains to this day. He has by now no doubt risen to the august rank of airline pilot captain-type guy, and if you’re traveling this Christmas gentle reader, who knows but that you may be placing your life in his hands?

And you know where they have been…

True story!

Once upon a time, in the summer of the Year of The Big Guy one thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven, your humble scribe and his band of merry brothers were in the bight at Diego Garcia, swinging on the hook on account of the fact that there wasn’t enough money to steam the great warship aboard which he had the honor to serve. Ronald Reagan was at that time Head Guy What was in Charge of Stuff, which may sort of help you put that whole “there’s never enough money to go around” thing into perspective, nearly 20 years on.

And even anchored as we were, taken as a whole, our time in the bight was not a comprehensively horrible experience, chiefly because, through one of those “only in the Navy” vagaries, there was plenty of money with which to fly the pilots, which is one of the very few things pilots really care about, except for beer, which it turns out was also to be had in heroic quantities, our hosts at D-Gar being Brits, a stout race of men whose admiration of beverages made with malt, barley and hops has previously been remarked upon.

Work there was to do aboard ship, but being as we were young, and pilots, there was not so very much. We’d flown some jets off to the local airstrip and took turns at the flying of them over the deep cerulean sea, brawling amongst one another like playful puppies in $40 million cages and dropping the odd practice bomb while the joy of our laughter echoed across the open spaces. Meanwhile, back aboard the carrier the blackshoes professional surface warfare officers sullenly conducted their general quarters drills while swinging on the chain, no doubt wishing in their dark and secret hearts that we were all well clear of land what with all its nasty shallow water, and beer and fun.

We were required to be home before midnight and to sleep aboard the ship at night rather than a nice soft bed ashore because Dad Said, but apart from that when we were not working or flying or sleeping we were free to romp about on dry land in pursuit of whatever trouble we could get into that wouldn’t end up in our Permanent Records.

So of the three basic needs of man, we had two in ready supply between the flying and the beering, and the third was tantalizingly close at hand as well but, alas, forbidden to us. The problem was that, fetching as many of the subjects of our potential affections might have been (not to mention a few who were clearly willing) they were also in the naval service. Which would not in and of itself have been a barrier to that union most devoutly to be wished for those of us sentenced to the monastic existence of a sailor at sea in the prime of his life, except for the fact that their service was in the enlisted ranks, and so therefore any class of association between them and ourselves that did not scrupulously follow naval protocol was Severely Frowned Upon Indeed, the distinction being thought important, and noli me tangere was the order of the day.

Now some of us are oaks, and some are elms and none of us should judge lest we be judged, unless of course we are in a position of statutory authority as defined by Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, in which case, have at it, judge away. The fact that getting caught in such a dangerous liaison could get you frowned right out of the service was no obstacle to the hero of our tale, whom we shall call Lazlo, since that was in fact his name. He had somehow contrived to make a Special Friend while ashore, and spent evenings so late as to become early again in that friend’s company. This caused something of a scandal in his mess but while there might have been mutterings, grimaces and sideways glances between his junior officer brothers, none of this bubbled up to the point where it might reach the ears of Dad because he was The Man, and we, as yet, were not.

Day after day passed like this in something very near to pastoral bliss for our happy tribe, each morning comprised of breakfast and a hangover cure, paperwork ‘til lunch followed by a nap, a flight and dinner ashore, complete with ice cubes. Nothing lasts forever though, and finally it came to pass that something or other untoward occurred somewhere in the world, the President himself asked, “Where are the carriers?” as presidents are wont to do and orders came to get our own particular carrier underway, and that right quick, the money necessary to steam her being found between the cushions and we should have looked there to begin with, what we were thinking?

Being the juniorest pilot afloat, your humble scribe was sent ashore to fly one of the jets parked at the airstrip back aboard, the extra landing being thought positively accretive to my overall experience level. There I waited with three of my brothers from other mothers for the ship to get up and go (ships being inordinately slow things, being manned chiefly by surface guys) and dined on a breakfast guaranteed to turn a cardiologist’s hair white, safe in the knowledge that anyone who flies fighters off aircraft carriers at night and worries about heart disease is an irrepressible optimist. Thus engaged and suited up for instant action, g-suit harness and the rest, who might have walked into the greasy spoon wherein we dined but Lazlo and his Special Friend, himself dressed not in a flight suit nor even khakis gentle reader but rather in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat and flip flops, a get-up most unsuitable to the circumstances of either flying aboard or getting underway.

“What are you doing here?” we cried in unison and dismay, but Lazlo only laughed and made vague deprecatory motions with his hands while we tried to explain to him the story of the carrier’s emergency sortie from the bight. “Tell it to the Marines,” he replied, he was nobody’s fool and wouldn’t be rattled by transparent fictions of emergency sorties woven by shipmates jealous of his successes; what did we take him for?

Well, gentle reader, we took him for to see, and stepping outside we pointed out into the bight the evidence of a Kitty Hawk-class warship belching black smoke from her stacks while all about her decks Sailors swarmed, readying her for sea and leaving him to draw his own conclusions. At last seeing the truth in our tale, and beginning to suspect that this might End Badly (missing ship’s movement being considered a grievous offense), our hero quickly hired a small boat to take him out to sea in an attempt to come up the boarding ladder, as surreptitiously as ever he might. Quickly did they cast off and quickly race across the bounding waves in their brave attempt, but no: It would never do. The ship had already cast off the breasting barge to which the boarding ladder had only lately been secured; the anchor was a-trip, colors shifted and herself making way purposefully out to sea. Having motored around the ship once or twice, enough at least to startle into deep and thoughtful silence those Sailors walking the carrier’s weather decks, unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a young man in a power boat, wearing Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat and flip flops circling the ship as it got underway, hollering and waving his arms at them, Laz and his driver headed back ashore. There things might have gone very badly indeed, had he not cajoled the plane guard helicopter crew on the beach into smuggling him aboard once the fighters had safely landed and been tucked away.

So things were looking up, but not all the way up: Once a Navy warship gets underway, whether it be from homeport or foreign anchorages, it is considered a Right and Proper Thing to hold a man overboard drill. You see, it’s not that anyone is actually concerned that someone might be having fallen into the sea after such a routine evolution, but that a man overboard drill requires a full and complete muster of all hands, and a report to Higher Authority. Because this is the Navy, there is a premium attached to doing the muster quickly, and it’s considered very bad form and something of a disgrace to not be able to report your squadron mustered in less than five minutes, it being written there somewhere in the leadership position description that you ought to be able to count your people, in a pinch. But our squadron could not report a full and complete muster gentle reader, because, while I and my other fly-on pilots were accounted for, Lazlo as you are aware, most certainly was not. And soon the whole ship knew as well, since our hero’s name was repeatedly called on the ship’s announcing system in censorious tones, obliging him to report immediately to the Big XO on the bridge with his ID card in hand. This occurred every five minutes for over two hours, and by the time Lazlo made it aboard, our squadron commanding officer and executive officer were in an exceptionally high state of lather, with the XO offering to personally drown Lazlo once his whereabouts were established. Those of my brothers remaining aboard the ship showed all due mournful deference if The Heavies looked around, but made antic gestures and comical faces at each other once they looked away because few things are as truly delicious to contemplate as someone else’s pending evisceration.

Well, we trapped aboard, and the plane guard helo followed, landing right aft on centerline. Down in our squadron ready room, the CO and XO morosely stared at the pilot’s landing aid television set in the ready room, having nothing better to do between biting their nails and silently fuming. Thus boiling, they were gratified by the sight of the helo’s starboard side door opening up, and a certain FA-18 pilot by the name of Lazlo, dressed as he was in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, straw hat and flip flops jumping out of the helicopter, down to the gray and greasy flight deck and into our hearts forever.

The PLAT camera zoomed in for a deeply incriminatory moment and dwelled lovingly on Lazlo’s features before he could duck around the left side of the helo and into the port catwalk. The heavies were poleaxed into immobility by this almost incomprehensible display, exceeding as it did so dramatically the previously understood limits of universal possibility. Well before either of them could move from their chairs, Laz found his way to a phone so as to call down to the squadron duty officer, asking hopefully,

“Anybody miss me?”

(Previously)

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

The JOOD walked to the bridge-to-bridge transceiver and gathered her thoughts briefly while grimacing in the darkness: The civilian mariners who ply the waters of the Arabian Gulf are not known for their disciplined use of BTB comms, she reflected, and many of them were inclined to make juvenile and even disgustingly suggestive replies to the sound of an American English-accented, female voice wafting through the ether. It was a feature of life here in the Gulf that the JOOD had accustomed herself to without ever truly forming an appreciation for - sexist pigs, she thought. She waved impatiently aside the momentary desire to pass the mic to the OOD and let him make the call - this was her task.

In his port side chair, the Captain reached his across his chest in the darkness with his right arm, away from prying eyes and pinched the skin above his own ribs hard between thumb and forefinger, trying to become more fully awake. It had been such a long day. Such a long, long series of days. He had become suddenly so very tired with the setting of the sun, a kind of fatigue that had been an almost physical blow - “Boats,” he croaked to the Boatswain’s Mate of the Watch,

“Sir!”

“Get me a cup of coffee, will you?”

“Aye-aye, sir,” replied the bosun, marching off to the starboard side bridge wing.

He must be fully awake - these kinds of interactions occured every night, sometimes as many as a dozen times in a night, and any one of them could go wrong in the blinking of an eye. The ship herself would not be damaged in the least by a collision with one of these wisps of bark of course, but a dhow would be snapped to kindling by the merest brush of the carrier’s hull, taking her crew to the swirling bottom along with the Captain’s own career and the ship’s reputation, inextricably intertwined as the two were. Not for the first time the CO marveled at the apparent carelessness with which the local fishermen sailed these seas in utter darkness in much the same manner as they had for a thousand years or more; no radios, no radars, little in the way of lighting and nothing but the frailest of craft to protect them from the greedy, inrushing Sea. You’d think they’d want to get out of the way of a hundred thousand ton aircraft carrier bearing down on them out of the darkness, lights blazing, warning horn blaring its five short blasts of the hazard alarm, but every night the smaller contacts they would encounter maintained a kind of disinterested passivity, the local habit of fatalism summed up in a word, “inshallah.”

If it be God’s will…

He heard the JOOD speak into the bridge-to-bridge VHF, thought to himself, “She’s a fine officer, will do well,” and wondered briefly how his own daughter was doing back at home, back with her mother in Norfolk. In her middle adolescence, the relationship between the two of them had become strained and striving. He wondered how all of that would turn out, and what part he had to play in it: “Not much, from here.” Back to work.

“Unknown vessel 35 miles southwest of Bushehr, course 190, speed five, this is a United States Navy warship off your port bow for 11 miles. I am currently conducting flight operations and restricted in my ability to maneuver. Request you alter your course to the southeast to maintain a safe distance, over.”

The JOOD unkeyed the mike, awaiting the contact’s improbable reply - none of these little dhows seem to have radios and few that did spoke English - while steeling herself for the inevitable jeering from the bridges of those merchants large enough to have both VHF radios and English-speaking crewmen, or at least, those who spoke a kind of English. These latter were not long in coming, and even while they were the sort of routinely revolting displays of inanity to which she had become accustomed, they were yet the more frustrating given her pressing need to hear some sort of reply from the contact vessel as the range continues to close, to engage in a mutually advantageous contract to avoid a collision. An aircraft carrier is not a frigate, she thought to herself. We cannot turn this thing on a dime, nor stop it at will, and the launch is not so very far away. This ship must be into the wind at launch time. She leaned over the squawk box, selected the watch center of the CO’s Tactical Operations Plot, a darkened radar room just aft of the bridge and spoke into the box, saying, “COTOP, get me a lat/long for Skunk Bravo Echo.”

“COTOP aye.”

She selected a different pushbutton on the squawk box, “Lookouts, Bridge, what have you got on the bow, 005 relative? Should be just hull up.”

“Bridge, lookouts, single white light 005 relative,” and after a pause, “No bearing drift.”

Great: A dhow for sure, constant bearing, decreasing range - collision course. No radio, no radar, no clue and no care. Still there was a form to follow, and COTOP had called back with coordinates of the contact:

“Unknown vessel in vicinity of twenty-eight degrees, forty-two minutes north, fifty degrees, forty-five minutes east, course 190, speed 5 knots, this is a United States Navy warship ten miles off your port bow. I am engaged in flight operations and restricted in my ability to maneuver. Request you contact me on this frequency and alter your course to the southeast to maintain a safe distance, over.”

Unkeyed the mic: Catcalls, hoots, howls, jeers and obscene suggestions. She frowned, thinking, cast a furtive glance at the Captain in his chair. Ten minutes to launch.

Half an hour previously, the FA-18 squadron CO had wrapped up his brief, looking at his wingman, a troubled young aviator in the form of a lieutenant junior grade, one of many such as he had seen either sink or swim in the course of his long career. For the first time now, he was seeing one of these from the uniquely powerful, responsible - and yes, he thought: Accountable - vantage point of command. The squadron CO was in the position now, as his predecessors had been before him, of being quality control, the one man who could and would ultimately decide this young man’s fate. That is, the CO reflected, if he didn’t kill himself first behind the ship. With an encouraging smile on his face but cool evaluation in his eyes he’d said to the young man, “Just about walk time. Ready to get this done?”

The JG had lifted his chin a touch, almost defiantly, while smiling in return - a smile that somehow did not quite make it all the way to his own eyes - and replied, “Yes sir. Let’s do it!”

Now both sat in their turning fighters on the flight deck thinking their private thoughts. Their start, post-start and pre-taxi checklists were complete, and they’d each of them given the thumbs-up to their aircraft directors. The yellow shirts in turn stood patiently in front of the fighters on the cat track, lighted wands crossed in front of them, signaling, “Hold brakes,” and looking aft for the visual signal from the midships Fly-2 petty officer to send their charges aft, back to the waist catapults.

Of the drama playing itself out in slow motion on the bridge, they had no knowledge.

(To be continued…)

So it’s two days after I got turned inside out by a flight surgeon in celebration of my 45^th birthday, and today I wake up with a sore throat.

Coincidence?

I think not!

It was a long time ago, now.

But never forget:

When a West Coast ship enters Pearl Harbor, as it inevitably will either going to, or returning from a forward deployment, the ship will “man rails” on either side of the ship and “render honors” to the USS Arizona as they pass.

Sometimes an old salt will look at the young Sailors coming into the Navy and breathe a soft sigh of despair - many of them are so very different from those of us whom they will replace. But when you see them fight for a spot up on the steaming flight deck inbound to the harbor, when you see them compete with the embarked Marines for sharpness of dress and military bearing, when you see them stand at attention and present-arms with ramrod stiff postures and deadly seriousness in their eyes, you know: It’s going to be OK.

They remember.

Phase II of the flight physical today. In the room alone with the doctor, the stethoscope and the tube of cold jelly.

Oh, the indignity!

So many things get better in the Navy, as one grows more senior. Your jokes get funnier. You get a nice parking place. Everyone calls you “sir,” and very often they appear to mean it. Which is a tremendous improvement from ensign days, let me tell you. People tend to be nicer in general, even solicitious at times: “Would you care for the VIP room, Captain?”

“Why yes. Yes I would.”

You could get full of yourself, if you weren’t careful. All puffed up, even. But in a flight physical follow-up on the wrong side of forty, you are not offered the VIP treatment. Oh no, my son, not at all - not if it were ever so. In fact, it begins to appear as though this is how they let the hot air out:

“Elbows on the table, grandad. You know what to do.”

You: Did the fact that your doctor was a fetching lass of some thirty-odd summers do nothing to mitigate the intense position of moral disadvantage you found yourself in, Lex?

Me: It did not, Gentle Reader. To a surprising degree, it did not.

You: Were you at all concerned when the conversation, pre-… well, you know - when the conversation turned to how difficult it could be to be a female flight surgeon in a male dominated world at times?

Me: I will confess to a moment’s Seinfeldian angst at where this might take us, Gentle Reader.

You: Because of the payback potential?

Me: Precisely.

You: Ah.

Me:

You: Oh, right - it’s still my go. Was it cold in the room, Lex?

Me: Oh so very.

You: And because of that, did you experience any…

Me: That’s quite enough, I think!

So. 364 days and a wake-up.

At least she had small hands.

From the USNA Alumni Association, bad news:

It is with the deepest regret that we announce the passing of Vice Admiral William P. Lawrence ‘51, USN (Ret.), on 2 December.

In addition to being recognized by the U.S. Naval Academy Alumni Association as a Distinguished Graduate in 2000, Lawrence also won the gold medal from the National Football Foundation and Hall of Fame and the National Collegiate Athletic Association Theodore Award. As a midshipman, Admiral Lawrence was instrumental in developing the honor concept for the Brigade of Midshipmen. His concept has stood the test of time.

Amen.

Update: The Admiral was the Academy superintendent when I was a mid. First flag officer I ever saw up close. An exceptionally impressive man. Spent the better part of six years as a guest of the NVA after being shot down on a strike over Hanoi. Returned with honor. Here’s his bio.

And here’s the bio of his daughter, who was a year ahead of me at Navy.

Rest in peace, Admiral.

“Home is the sailor, home from the sea
and the hunter home from the hills.”

- From the epitaph for Robert Louis Stevenson

I don’t know if you ever saw the movie, but one of its closing lines still holds a place in naval aviation culture: “Where do we get such men?”

Of course, it’s quite often used ironically these days, and followed up by, “and where shall we put them,” but never mind - occasional correspondent B2 sends along the excellent read on the real story behind this Korean War-era strike you’ll find appended below:

THE BRIDGES AT TOKO-RI:
The Real Story by CAPT Paul N. Gray, USN, Ret, USNA ‘41, former CO of VF-54.

Recently, some friends saw the movie “The Bridges at Toko-ri” on late night TV. After seeing it, they raid, “You planned and led the raid. Why don’t you tell us what really happened?” Here goes.

I hope Mr. James Michener will forgive the actual version of the raid. His fictionalized account certainly makes more exciting reading. On 12 December 1951 when the raid took place, Air Group 5 was attached to Essex, the flag ship for Task Force 77. We were flying daily strikes against the North Koreans and Chinese. God! It was cold. The main job was to interdict the flow of supplies coming south from Russia and China. The rules of engagement imposed by political forces in Washington would not allow us to bomb the bridges across the Yalu River where the supplies could easily have been stopped. We had to wait until they were dispersed and hidden in North Korea and then try to stop them.

The Air Group consisted of two jet fighter squadrons flying Banshees and Grumman Panthers plus two prop attack squadrons flying Corsairs and kyraiders. To provide a base for the squadrons, Essex was stationed 100 miles off the East Coast of Korea during that bitter Winter of 1951 and 1952.

I was CO of VF-54, the Skyraider squadron. VF-54 started with 24 pilots. Seven were killed during the cruise. The reason 30 percent of our pilots were shot down and lost was due to our mission. The targets were usually heavily defended railroad bridges. In addition, we were frequently called in to make low-level runs with rockets and napalm to provide close support for the troops.

Due to the nature of the targets assigned, the attack squadrons seldom flew above 2000 or 3000 feet; and it was a rare flight when a plane did not come back without some damage from AA or ground fire.

The single-engine plane we flew could carry the same bomb load that a B-17 carried in WWII; and after flying the 100 miles from the carrier, we could stay on station for 4 hours and strafe, drop napalm, fire rockets or drop bombs. The Skyraider was the right plane for this war.

On a gray December morning, I was called to the flag bridge. Admiral Black Jack” Perry, the Carrier Division Commander, told me they had a classified request from UN headquarters to bomb some critical bridges in the central area of the North Korean peninsula. The bridges were a dispersion point for many of the supplies coming down from the North and were vital to the flow of most of the essential supplies. The Admiral asked me to take a look at the targets and see what we could do about taking them out. As I left, the staff intelligence officer handed me the pre-strike photos, the coordinates of the target and said to get on with it. He didn’t mention that the bridges were defended by 56 radar-controlled anti-aircraft guns.

That same evening, the Admiral invited the four squadron commanders to his cabin for dinner. James Michener was there. After dinner, the Admiral asked each squadron commander to describe his experiences in flying over North Korea. By this time, all of us were hardened veterans of the war and had some hairy stories to tell about life in the fast lane over North Korea.

When it came my time, I described how we bombed the railways and strafed anything else that moved. I described how we had planned for the next day’s strike against some vital railway bridges near a village named Toko-ri (The actual village was named Majonne). That the preparations had been done with extra care because the pre-strike pictures showed the bridges were surrounded by 56 anti-aircraft guns and we knew this strike was not going to be a walk in the park.

All of the pilots scheduled for the raid participated in the planning. A close study of the aerial photos confirmed the 56 guns. Eleven radar sites controlled the guns. They were mainly 37 MM with some five inch heavies. All were positioned to concentrate on the path we would have to fly to hit the bridges. This was a World War II air defense system but still very dangerous. How were we going to silence those batteries long enough to destroy the bridges? The bridges supported railway tracks about three feet wide. To achieve the needed accuracy, we would have to use glide bombing runs. A glide bombing run is longer and slower than a dive bombing run, and we would be sitting ducks for the AA batteries. We had to get the guns before we bombed the bridges.

There were four strategies discussed to take out the radar sites. One was to fly in on the deck and strafe the guns and radars. This was discarded because the area was too mountainous. The second was to fly in on the deck and fire rockets into the gun sites. Discarded because the rockets didn’t have enough killing power. The third was to come in at a high altitude and drop conventional bombs on the targets. This is what we would normally do, but it was discarded in favor of an insidious modification. The one we thought would work the best was to come in high and drop bombs fused to explode over the gun and radar sites. To do this, we decided to take 12 planes; 8 Skyraiders and 4 Corsairs. Each plane would carry a 2000 pound bomb with a proximity fuse set to detonate about 50 to 100 feet in the air. We hoped the shrapnel from these huge, ugly bombs going off in mid air would be devastating to the exposed gunners and radar operators.

The flight plan was to fly in at 15,000 feet until over the target area and make a vertical dive bombing run dropping the proximity-fused bombs on the guns and radars. Each pilot had a specific complex to hit. As we approached the target we started to pick up some flak, but it was high and behind us. At the initial point, we separated and rolled into the dive. Now the flak really became heavy. I rolled in first; and after I released my bomb, I pulled out south of the target area and waited for the rest to join up. One of the Corsairs reported that he had been hit on the way down and had to pull out before dropping his bomb. Three other planes suffered minor flak damage but nothing serious.

After the join up, I detached from the group and flew over the area to see if there was anything still firing. Sure enough there was heavy 37 MM fire from one site, I got out of there in a hurry and called in the reserve Skyraider still circling at 15,000 to hit the remaining gun site. His 2000 pound bomb exploded right over the target and suddenly things became very quiet. The shrapnel from those 2000 lbs. bombs must have been deadly for the crews serving the guns and radars. We never saw another 37 MM burst from any of the 56 guns.

From that moment on, it was just another day at the office. Only sporadic machine gun and small arms fire was encountered. We made repeated glide bombing runs and completely destroyed all the bridges. We even brought gun camera pictures back to prove the bridges were destroyed.

After a final check of the target area, we joined up, inspected our wingmen for damage and headed home. Mr. Michener plus most of the ship’s crew watched from Vulture’s Row as Dog Fannin, the landing signal officer, brought us back aboard. With all the pilots returning to the ship safe and on time, the Admiral was seen to be dancing with joy on the flag Bridge.

From that moment on, the Admiral had a soft spot in his heart for the attack pilots. I think his fatherly regard for us had a bearing on what happened in port after the raid on Toko-ri. The raid on Toko-ri was exciting; but in our minds, it was dwarfed by the incident that occurred at the end of this tour on the line. The operation was officially named OPERATION PINWHEEL. The pilots called it OPERATION PINHEAD.

The third tour had been particularly savage for VF-54. Five of our pilots had been shot down. Three not recovered. I had been shot down for the third time. The mechanics and ordnancemen had worked back-breaking hours under medieval conditions to keep the planes flying, and finally we were headed for Yokosuka for ten days of desperately needed R &R.

As we steamed up the coast of Japan, the Air Group Commander, CDR Marsh Beebe, called CDR Trum, the CO of the Corsair squadron, and me to his office. He told us that the prop squadrons would participate in an exercise dreamed up by the commanding officer of the ship. It had been named OPERATION PINWHEEL.

The Corsairs and Skyraiders were to be tied down on the port side of the flight deck; and upon signal from the bridge, all engines were to be turned up to full power to assist the tugs in pulling the ship along side the dock.

CDR Trum and I both said to Beebe, “You realize that those engines are vital to the survival of all the attack pilots. We fly those single engine planes 300 to 400 miles from the ship over freezing water and over very hostile land. Overstressing these engines is not going to make any of us very happy.” Marsh knew the danger; but he said, “The captain of the ship, CAPT. Wheelock, wants this done, so do it!”

As soon as the news of this brilliant scheme hit the ready rooms, the operation was quickly named OPERATION PIN HEAD; and CAPT. Wheelock became known as CAPT. Wheelchock.

On the evening before arriving in port, I talked with CDR Trum and told him, “I don’t know what you are going to do, but I am telling my pilots that our lives depend on those engines and do not give them more than half power; and if that engine temperature even begins to rise, cut back to idle.” That is what they did.

About an hour after the ship had been secured to the dock, the Air Group Commander screamed over the ships intercom for Gray and Trum to report to his office. When we walked in and saw the pale look on Beebe’s face, it was apparent that CAPT. Wheelock, in conjunction with the ship’s proctologist, had cut a new aperture in poor old Marsh. The ship’s CO had gone ballistic when he didn’t get the full power from the lashed down Corsairs and Skyraiders, and he informed CDR Beebe that his fitness report would reflect this miserable performance of duty.

The Air Group Commander had flown his share of strikes, and it was a shame that he became the focus of the wrath of CAPT. Wheelock for something he had not done. However, tensions were high; and in the heat of the moment, he informed CDR Trum and me that he was placing both of us and all our pilots in hack until further notice. A very severe sentence after 30 days on the line.

The Carrier Division Commander, Rear Admiral “Black Jack” Perry a personally soft and considerate man, but his official character would strike terror into the heart of the most hardened criminal. He loved to talk to the pilots; and in deference to his drinking days, Admiral Perry would reserve a table in the bar of the Fujia Hotel and would sit there drinking Coca cola while buying drinks for any pilot enjoying R &R in
the hotel.

Even though we were not comfortable with this gruff older man, he was a good listener and everyone enjoyed telling the Admiral about his latest escape from death. I realize now he was keeping his finger on the morale of the pilots and how they were standing up to the terror of daily flights over a very hostile land.

The Admiral had been in the hotel about three days; and one night, he said to some of the fighter pilots sitting at his table, “Where are the attack pilots? I have not seen any of them since we arrived.” One of them said, “Admiral, I thought you knew. They were all put in hack by the Air Group Commander and restricted to the ship.” In a voice that could be heard all over the hotel, the Admiral bellowed to his aide, “Get that idiot Beebe on the phone in 5 minutes; and I don’t care if you have to use the Shore Patrol, the Army Military Police or the Japanese Police to find him. I want him on the telephone NOW!”

The next morning, after three days in hack, the attack pilots had just finished marching lockstep into the wardroom for breakfast, singing the prisoners song when the word came over the loud speaker for Gray and Trum to report to the Air Group Commander’s stateroom immediately, When we walked in, there sat Marsh looking like he had had a near death experience. He was obviously in far worse condition than
when the ships CO got through with him. It was apparent that he had been worked over by a real pro.

In a trembling voice, his only words were, “The hack is lifted. All of you are free to go ashore. There will not be any note of this in your fitness reports. Now get out of here and leave me alone.”

Posters saying, “Thank you Black Jack” went up in the ready rooms. The long delayed liberty was at hand.

When writing about this cruise, I must pay homage to the talent we had in the squadrons. LTJG Tom Hayward was a fighter pilot who went on to become the CNO. LTJG Neil Armstrong another fighter pilot became the astronaut who took the first step on the moon. My wingman, Ken Shugart, was an all-American basketball player and later an admiral. Al Masson, another wingman, became the owner of one of New Orleans’ most famous French restaurants. All of the squadrons were manned with the best and brightest young men the U.S. could produce. The mechanics and ordnance crews who kept the planes armed and flying deserve as much praise as the pilots for without the effort they expended, working day and night under cold and brutal conditions, no flight would have been flown.

It was a dangerous cruise. I will always consider it an honor to have associated with those young men who served with such bravery and dignity. The officers and men of this air group once again demonstrated what makes America the most outstanding country in the world today. To those whose spirits were taken from them during those grim days and didn’t come back, I will always remember you.”

Clarence Page, writing in the Chicago Times (registration required) headlines the latest bogus scandal-of-week thus: “When press is paid to lie, the truth always comes out”

Hard to disagree with that sentiment, except of course that the story he’s referring to is the one broken by the LA Times last week, in which it was revealed that the US military was paying the free Iraqi press to run truthful stories that had admittedly pro-government, pro-US slants.

Let us stipulate and then move on: It is a vast improvement over the bad old days to discover that an Iraqi editor might have the option to run, or not run, an article supportive of the government for pecuniary gain, rather than in fear of his own or of his children’s lives - in Mr. Page’s eyes, running a self-serving truth is the height of moral arrogance, not to mention folly: Who do these people think they are, over there? The good guys?

It is not entirely surprising that Mr. Page would expect those of us in favor of freedom and democracy in Iraq to commit ritual suicide at the revelation that the military has indulged in an Information Campaign during a time of war, although it does reveal something of his limitations as a strategist. Apparently he thinks it would be far better for US troops and their Iraqi allies to fight, die and lose the war by having conceded the moral high ground to witless passivity and mere brute force.

This is a campaign that will be decided in the hearts and minds of the Iraqi people, and ultimately to the hearts and minds of the broader Arab and Islamic street - that’s the tie-in between Iraq and the Global War on Terror that people like Mr. Page obdurately refuse to acknowledge: Freedom and modernity vs. a fantasist return to a land-that-never-was, the pipe dream of the 7^th century Islamist caliphate. In competition with the idea of “one man, one vote,” we face an enemy that not only proudly cuts peoples throats on internet videos as a part of an on-going intimidation campaign, but often strategically times their mass casualty attacks against innocent passersby to attempt to push good news off the front pages and television screens, thereby hoping to achieve information battlespace dominance for their own IO campaign. In this, alas, their allies, witting or otherwise, are legion.

It would have been perfect if we could have gotten good (and to repeat: truthful) news into the Iraqi media without having to pay for access to their pages, but we don’t yet live in a perfect world, and Iraq is still very far from being a perfect democracy. Whether it gets there or not is the issue in contest, and the IO campaign to convince the Iraqi people that there is a future in self-rule through demonstrated successes is the quickest way to sap the will-to-fight of the insurgency while continuing to attentuate its passive support. In combination, this would mean ending the killing, ensuring security, installing democracy and bringing our troops back home.

Which you’d think that Mr. Page would support, but it turns out: No. Because it’s clear from his writings that we’re not supposed to win. That winning, either for us or for a fledgling Iraqi democracy, would be somehow wrong.

It would have been helpful if the LA Times could have resisted the urge to publish their findings that the military was paying to run truthful stories in the Iraqi media, thereby removing another arrow from the military quiver - an arrow, I might point out, that doesn’t actually kill anyone - but, and this is important, they were perfectly within their rights to do so. After all - as uninterested “citizens of the world,” admirably neutral, and having no particular care which way the chips might fall in Iraq: Bloody theocratic tyranny or popular democracy, a win for the US or a crushing defeat - who are they to judge?

But for Mr. Page to tendentiously argue that telling the truth, even one that serves our interest, is somehow equivalent to pushing a lie takes Orwellian logic to new and previously unexplored depths. We should thank him - rarely has a pundit’s descent into sputtering, indignant inanity had the benefit of so eloquent a diarist.