Single Action On Gonzo Station
(Eager tourists gather around the US-3 Viking utility aircraft, the only airplane with the legs to fly to Diego Garcia, and hence, the only way off Gozo Station in 1979080. Needless to say, she was a very popular airplane. Photo USN).
Gentle Readers, this is a day to cut the lawn at Refuge Farm and then head north rejoin the madness inside the Beltway. I was rooting around in the garage yesterday, something long overdue, and came across a camera-ready copy of the original manuscript to Nick Danger. I may inflict the whole thing on you one of these mornings.
Meanwhile, the Iran thing continues to occupy my thoughts. Supporters of the nuclear deal suggest there is only a binary way to look at what has been done. It was a choice between a less than perfect peace and a declaration of war. I have been in that position before, and it did not work out that way, though if you had told me this is where we would be 36 years ago I would never have believed you.
I am still concerned about how the Israelis will react, and what the Iranians will do with the hundred billion dollars that will start flowing their way now that the sanctions have been lifted by the UN, regardless of what the toothless Congress does. I guess we will see, won’t we?
But off in the parallel universe, the merry band of OFRP pirates continues to orbit endlessly in the Northern Arabian Sea. It is approaching Christmas of 1979.
22 December 1979
In point of fact, it is tougher than human endurance sometimes. I overstate the matter by a bit, but bear with me.
On the 22nd of December we got confirmation that a weird proposal from Lantfleet had been approved, and that the brand-spanking new USS Nimitz- “Numbnuts,” we call her- would be directed to pull the rods out of her Westinghouse reactors and steam like hell around Africa to relieve Kitty Hawk on Station at the Gonzo-rama,
With her she would bring two nuclear escorts, and she would be authorized a whopping 20 knots Speed of Advance (SOA). We knew it the day before, but Vinnie the Maximum Spook swore us to silence on the matter.
The implications from this tended to be fairly parochial. Naturally, Midway is like a union hire- first on and last off. The plan is to get Kitty Hawk back to cover the Korean Contingency, and let the Coral Sea pop out and relieve us. Fine and dandy.
The only sobering note is that Numbnuts can’t be here before about the 23rd of January, and after cross-decking the staff and some airplanes, that wouldn’t let the Hawk get anywhere out of the Indian Ocean for at least ten days. Then, allowing for poor old Coral Maru to get here would tack on another couple weeks, and there we are with the same amount of blue water to cover just to get to Subic Bay.
We all could do the math. That translates to something very much resembling the month of March before we see land again.
Oh, no big deal. At that rate, we would equal the post World War II record for at-sea days on the 28th of Jan, and forge on ahead to smash the record decisively by nearly 30 days. When you consider that 30 slow days in the slammer is about what you get for an encore drunk driving rap back home it makes you wonder.
The record, incidentally, (at least by one reckoning, and we concede there are several dubious claims to it) is 78 days, set by the Enterprise way back in ’64. Our attempt, should things go by the tentative program, would be something on the lines of 108 days. Just another attempt to demonstrate the combat readiness of the Navy’s finest airwing and ship.
God help us.
Which they are in the process of destroying. The Engineers are tearing their hair out now. The whole concept of the Midway deployment points out the glaring flaws in the ship construction policy that has dogged the Navy since the days of Whiz Kid McNamara, We were supposed to get an “incremental” maintenance program, which would be done by the industrious Japs in 20 day shots throughout the course of a busy year of Pacific deployments. The shortage of assets has thrown that Into a cocked hat.
Our contingency deployment earlier this year (24 hrs. notice for 18,000 miles of steaming) was of necessity unscheduled, and this one is about going to finish off some of the plant equipment. Two 10,000-gallon fresh water tanks currently stand unusable due to seepage of bilge water. Basic processes of corrosion are taking their toll in a thousand little spots; the flight deck is bare brown steel, and slipperier than a greaser’s hair. And all this only l/3rd of the way through the length of the deployment this promises to be.
I haven’t mentioned the fact that as crew dissatisfaction (read boredom, crankiness, and fatigue) some idiot will start chucking quarters down the intakes of the J-79 engines of our Phantom jets, and we will start finding ourselves out of the airplane business. It happened last time, and in even the best crews there are fuck-ups and dirtbags whoe grasp of the big picture ends at the end of their crank.
All that sort of thing would end at the slightest hint of combat action, but even steel must rest sometimes. And the flesh is weak, God knows.
The other implications are subtle, and have ripples that spread far beyond our parochial little spot in the pond. Pulling Nimitz out of the Med would leave only one carrier there, and the very fundamentals of NATO quake at the thought. Our Sixth Fleet presence is the main opponent to the Soviets; that is a given in all strategic planning in that Theater.
The abrupt removal of the foremost of our assets there can only point up how spread out we are. Our NATO buddies (the self-same ones who are still going at the arms sales opportunities in Iran: to wit, the U.K., Italy, and our erstwhile comrade France) are going to have to consider this very carefully.
It Is already on the planning table in the Kremlin, I have no doubt. There are so many areas to test now. The Vietnamese are about to begin the great offensive in Kampuchea, which will include some scrimmaging in Thailand without a doubt. How are we to react to that one, with only one carrier in the South China Sea? The Soviets could out-gun us in our own home turf. Even five years ago the South China Sea was an American Lake.
Strange days.
Also in the news today was our Soviet Natya tattle-tale escort. She signaled our bridge, passed the message that she would exercise her ADMGs off to the southwest, away from Midway. Bridge takes that message and passes to CIC.
Does anyone think to tell us in Mission Planning? Do the aircrews get it? Not a chance. An A-6 on the third event launch reports tracer fire from the Soviets. Jesus!
Also, an early morning thrill as we go to Flight Quarters early for the recovery of a Kitty Hawk F-14 Tomcat. It would be the first Tomcat trap for Midway. LSOs to the platform! Kitty has a main engineering casualty and can’t get the knots up to take the Tomcat aboard; some kind of inflight hydraulic problem prevents the jet from getting flaps down and is going to come over the ramp fast.
The CAG comes up on the box and says there will be NO, repeat, NO painting of the Tomcat in CVW-5 colors. Stickers, OK, but no paint guys…. At length, perhaps out of consideration for such shenanigans, Kitty pours the coals to it for one last try and successfully traps the tomcat.
There was mild disappointment that we didn’t get to pull one out of the fire for them. Something different.
A rumor going around that the Hawk got the body of the missing Marine, presumed to have snuffed himself the other day. No positive news, I would have presumed him shark meat long ago, on his lonely swim towards Israel.
Biff McCole suggested that it might just have been one of the bags of trash that we have been depositing off the starboard sponson aft for the last month. An interesting thought. Reports have literally thousands of the things bobbing about in the oil-slicked waters. The bags are supposed to perforated so as to sink within a few hours, but I suspect that they will be drifting for months. Perhaps providing the Somalis with a new industry…..
The North Arabian Sea does not get the Jacques Cousteau award for environmental excellence. This has got to be one of the most fucked up neighborhoods of the World Ocean; the supertankers apparently purge their tanks on the way in to on-load more crude. Looking off the sponson at the horizon, the water has an evil oily tinge.
It does not boil along the hull like it does in the cleaner water down south. It just has an iridescent hue as it slides astern.
I received letters from Dad and Uncle Jim which both included words to the effect that this would be one of the most memorable times in my life. I wonder if it is always like that; that the participants are too close to the action to discern anything more than fatigue and dull longing to be elsewhere, and the legend actually lies elsewhere.
I was perusing the Navy Exchange catalog (one of the few things to do in a situation like this is to plan where the pay checks which lie un-cashed in drawer and desk will be spent. Cameras, watches, guns) and Ed Markham strolled by my stool in Mission Planning. A Marlboro smoldered in the aluminum butt kit next to me, and the double paper cup on the planning table had been filled so many times that morning that it was starting to leak vile dark fluid out of the bottom.
We discussed the relative merits of double action handguns, Ed casually mentioned that a single action had very nearly got his head blown off one time. His war story was a classic.
It began:
“Well, I got shot down one time south of An Loc, see, and the Major who was in the right seat had his ankle trapped under the two armor seats that got unglued in the wreck. So, I moseyed down a ways to check things out. He got stuck for about 28hrs up there, but what I meant to say about single-action pistols was this. I came on back up to the fuselage where the Major and this Second Lieutenant was. The Looie was naturally dead, and he didn’t care, but I came around the wreckage and there was this Gook. I could tell he was a communist because I didn’t know him, and also by the AK-47 slung barrel-down over his shoulder, and so I pulled out my single-action Ruger Blackhawk.”
I asked Ed why he was carrying a big hog-leg like that, when the standard survival weapon was a double-action .38 Smith and Wesson.
He rolled his eyes toward the overhead. “They didn’t let us carry them issue, see, and I wanted to up-gun my survival gear. Of course, pilots are the worst people In the world when it comes to cleaning weapons, and I figured a single-action revolver don’t have as many moving parts as the .38s or those fancy semi-autos some of the guys carried. The Blackhawk was real Wild West style. Well, I’ll tell you, I was startled when I pulled the trigger and nothing happened. I was putting my arm back down and I remembered you had to cock them things. Nearly got myself plumb wasted, I did.” He yawned and stretched in his wrinkled zoom-bag.”Gotta go man the Alert. See ya.”
“Wait,” I said. “Did you shoot him?”
“Yeah. He got tangled up in the strap of his rifle. Thank goodness. Remember to cock the pistol, that is my motto.” He wandered off holding the Card of the Day, and I went back to doing whatever it was I was doing, making a mental note about revolvers.
Just for the record.
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303
Sunrise at Sea
December, 1979
I am not going to inflict the next episode of Nick on you this morning. In the process of getting from one thing to another, I ran across this ghostly note from a previous self. I scarcely recognize the young man. He was pretty full of himself. Well, that is what I think. I will leave it up to you to judge:
I stood on the flight deck this morning to watch the sunrise. It was a sky like a watercolor painting by John Singleton Copley, and the wind was brisk. The pastel colors were perfect. The Marines were doing Jody Calls as they ran around the quarter-mile circuit on the flight deck. It was enough to call back the strange days under the Florida Sun with our beloved Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Ronald Mace, USMC, and the misery of marching on the Pensacola grinder in the Gulf Coast August humidity by the seaplane ramps.
The representative of the Soviet Red Banner Indian Ocean Eskadra was about three miles in trail, the odd little bow-heavy silhouette of the Soviet Natya-class MSF- Fleet Minesweeper- grey on the grey oily water. He was around to provide target information in case someone wanted to whack us, which meant, of course, that the minesweeper would be the first to go if things got tense.
Plastic bags of trash floated off the starboard sponson aft.
Joggers and aircraft mechanics. The ship’s nav lights were still on. I was cool and collected in my flight-deck jersey. I wondered why my body had decided that 0130 in the morning was a splendid time to be awake. I walked around the deck after the sun had risen far enough that there was no possible doubt as to the fact that it was once again a fly day, The non-skid is totally gone from the landing area, worn away by hundreds of landings. The bare steel is oily and brown and very slippery.
I gave a portion of my numbed brain to an idle, dull hatred of the Iranians.
The situation today is as bad as the day before, and as bad as tomorrow. A ray of hope is the statement by Goat-ze-deh (the opportunistic Foreign Secretary who followed the erratic but easy to pronounce Bani Sadr) that he will release some of the hostages by Christmas. This is news to the Students, who claim that they are going to go ahead and try everyone for espionage.
Iran appears near to being on the brink of war with Iraq; heavy artillery has flown across the boarder already. The Soviets are conducting a massive buildup on the Afghani boarder, and in fact already have two airborne brigades deployed in country, I hold a dull hatred for them, too. Negotiations continue with the rebels in the province of Azerbaijan, who have rallied behind a more rational Ayatollah named Shariat Madari. Khomeini remains as crazy as a bedbug, I hate him with more than dull feeling, On him I would pull the trigger, and delight to see his ancient features writhe in agony,
And so a crisis goes on. No hope in sight, no way to pull the carriers off the line, because the situation is as bad as ever. Can’t be taken for a sign of weakness. And cannot act militarily for the same reasons we have not for the last month. Frustrating. Jesus.
The beat goes on out here. Larry Jensen, the Air Wing Intelligence Officer ,flew away on the US-3 yesterday. They bonged him away and minutes later the cat stroke put him light-years away from this steel island of repressed sexual longing. The latest Penthouse came aboard on one of the recent UNREPS and the pictorials had us squirming.
Are there such things as women, still? Or mail? Is anyone still out there, beyond the grey oval disk of the horizon?
Ah, I suppose we are spoiled here in the modern age of the 1970s: TV on the ship, the AP press-wire over satellite downlink; decent food (for institutional crap) and even the perpetual Space Invaders machine down in the wardroom lounge. Did you know that after ten racks of the little electronic critters it all goes back to zero again, and the score continues to mount?
That the elusive 500,000-point game has already been achieved, and that the tantalizing million-point record can only be weeks away?
That there are dope dealers on the ship was a known fact. The MAA in a routine search turned up over fifteen of the little dope pipes made from Lighthouse For The Blind Government-issue ball-point pens in our squadron’s Day Check Berthing?
Here is how they do it: the clicker end is unscrewed and a piece of foil twisted on to make a bowl.) I have heard rumors from those in a position to know that an ounce of dope is going for one hundred dollars. That there will be big money made by a few individuals is a known fact. I mean big bucks: the real stuff. Dealers who supply entire areas of Japan live right here with us on the ship. It is sort of interesting. If you get knocked over the head in Japan, it is probably another Yank that did it.
From noting sections of the ship’s Plan of the Day (POD), it would seem like the incidence of marijuana use on board the ship is ever increasing, c’est la Vie.
Numb. That is the only word for it. Sleep schedule all fucked up. I am getting fat. Can’t get the energy to work out. The Shah Is in Panama now, in a plush resort. A Senator in Minnesota has called for the return of the noted International criminal to the impartial hands of his former subjects for trial and eventual disposition.
I feel a dull hatred for him, too. I can only hope that The Senator’s constituents will have him shot, or not reelected, or whatever the worst thing is you can do to a political hack.
We had a flight deck cookout the other day. An Iranian P-3 came by to say hello, with a Kitty Hawk F-14 in trail. We munched burgers and got sunburns. My once vaunted Indian Ocean tan is peeling and fading. I can no longer dredge up the energy to do anything about it.
Maybe something will change tomorrow. It won’t rain or anything. Just give us something different.
Like today. First suicide of the deployment. It’s hard to evaluate. It was a Marine Sergeant, so you have to take into account the fact that his death wish probably goes back beyond the day he put up his right hand and vowed to do it all for Uncle Sugar and the Corps. He vanished from the flight deck clad in blue running shorts and white running shoes. They say he was up in Flight Deck control at one point and had described his desire to go to visit his brother in Israel, couched in mumblings and religious terms.
The Ship’s XO came up on the one-MC this morning and was inquiring for the whereabouts of the guy. Later, the Chaplain got on the horn (so odd to hear him before the ritual performance of the evening blessing that echoes through the spaces on the ship at 2155 each evening.)
This we took to be confirmation of the extraordinary nature of the search, the fact that the chaplain was calling from the navigational bridge. The helo searched for him in vain. There are bodacious sharks in these waters, and I expect that that is the last of that, save for the CACO call in some dusty town back in the World.
When you think about-it, this still is one of the healthiest populations around, Five thousand good Americans, all of an age where the bloom of youth is still on the downy cheek. And with all the heavy and dangerous machinery going bang and thump all the time, the JP-5 jet fuel in the water, and the murderous microwaves pumping through us all the time, it is remarkable that more are not squashed.
We have lost one or two in job related accidents (fewer, I would suspect, than what a comparable community loses in traffic accidents) and three or four in liberty-related mishaps.
Beer bottle upside the head for one guy, a good man, who stepped between two P.I. hookers. Felt fine till he got back to the ship and his bruised brain swole up and quit..
Another two in Pattaya Beach, Thailand, drugs and booze overdose. It is tough to go on Liberty out here; maybe tougher than just working. But there still was an eerie Veteran’s Day, or some such thing, when they commenced to firing off the saluting rifle up on the 0-8 level, and reading the List of the Midway Dead, their years and their names.
Down from the early war cruises off Vietnam, through the heat of the last great offensive, to our guys who died choking on vomitus ejectus in the small hours of the most beautiful nation of SE Asia late last year. We have more names, now.
And the Current Crisis. The conundrum. We are back to a training evolution. We are practicing the delivery tactics of the La Combatante class missile boats, which the Iranians have gone ahead and fitted out with the handful of Harpoons we were foolish enough to provide.
It is a ticklish problem.. What does one do when they make a head-in run towards engagement range? Do they become hostile by virtue of their course and heading? At what point can we end the charade and kill them?
It seems not to be my decision, and for that I am glad.
Don’t want any mach-plus speed missiles coming through the bulkhead: not in world famous Bunkroom Two. No goddam place to swim to.
We are thrilling the fans with our presence. We have reliable reports (the source of which is neither here nor there) that the commercial pilots are beginning to call our portion of the Gulf of Oman the “Fighter Playground,” After getting snuck up on (due to our grave
mistake in trusting the Kitty Hawk’s judgment in what exactly constitutes the threat axis.
What was that line from Animal House? “You fucked up. You trusted us” by an Iranian P-3, we have put a PIRAZ ship up due north and have been intercepting the shit out of everything that flies down the airways, military or commercial.
With good reason, too.
Although unsporting, certain unscrupulous people have been known to simulate all the identification, friend or foe (IFF) of the airliners, then suddenly plunged off the scopes and secured all modes n’ codes for an inbound run on us. We had not been overflown without an escort in five years, and in our neck of the woods, that is no mean feat. We went perhaps a little overboard in our prosecution of the civilians, (“I just wanted to see what the co-pilot was wearing. Honest. I wasn’t really that close.”)
They reported such diverting and endearing tactics as high-speed over and under fly-bys.
Certainly enough to give a sane man with plenty on his mind, like what hotel he was going to stay in that night, and what his chances of scoring with the new little number serving the fish back in second class the shakes. Seeing cold-blooded reality with two AIM-9s and a couple Aim-7s missiles strapped on suddenly flash by at Mach plus would certainly call for a stiff drink.
That is life in the Fighter Playground. Up there is threat and thunder. The surface of the sea around us is now covered with the plastic bags that contain our trash.
You can see the sharks hit them in the wake astern.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
What Goes Around
So, this has all been a hysterical week. There is so much going on in the circus that passes for our public life that it is quite enough to give one the vapors. Major topics among my little circle of associates included matters foreign and domestic. For record, I feel bad about the lion, but I am curious at the amount of ink on that, compared with the other huge issue no one wants to talk about.
One was local: what is going to happen in the Charm City when the charges against the six cops indicted in the Freddie Gray matter fall apart. The general consensus was “stay out of Baltimore.”
Then there is the hundreds- if not thousands- of classified emails that a prominent politician had on her private server. Dave Petreaus got his wrist slapped pretty hard for something much smaller in scale- no jail time, but two years probation and a hundred grand fine- but that was still censure for such a lofty public figure. I only know if I had pulled a stunt like that on active duty, I would be asking for the guard to light my Luckies at Leavenworth Barracks.
Seems like the higher you go the less the rules apply to you. It will be interesting to see how it plays out, won’t it?
Then there is the usual noise about the economy and the climate, and something that really concerned all of us. That is the question of what Israel is going to do about the Iranians. The “how” and the “when” were the issues, since the consensus was that something would happen sooner, rather than later, and likely before all those billions land in Tehran’s coffers now that the UN has lifted the sanctions.
Which of course brings me right back around to those Iranians. They have been screwing with us for a long time- and before you go on about the Shah and the coup we engineered, I will be the last person to claim that this story only has one side. But the rise of militant Shia Islam is something I am opposed to, and they would cheerfully kill me and everyone I know. I like the Persian people, their culture, art and cuisine. The Islam part not so much, amd I won’t pussyfoot around on that.
I think we are a long way past where we should have thought about our immigration policies. I don’t think much of The Donald, but it shows you he has put a sausage-like thumb on an issue that bugs a lot of people.
Anyway, thirty-six years ago I was worried about the rise of a virulent theocracy and here this morning I am concerned about exactly the same thing. The lines haven’t even changed. “Death to America!”
What goes around and all that. Along time ago, I tried to keep everyone’s mind off of that on Ma Midway, and this is what happened in episode 8 of the stupid detective story that changed my life:
“THE ADVENTURES OF NICK DANGER, PRIVATE DICK”
TODAY: “OUT TO LAUNCH”
I HAD BEEN KNOCKED OUT MORE TIMES THAN A FAT PITCH TO THE BAMBINO, It was getting old in a hurry. This time I came around and discovered I could not move. I raised my arms and found they were shackled behind me with chains. I was gagged with some kind of cotton wadding. My feet were tied together with thick manila cordage. A heavy link collar ran from my neck over to the wall.
I had a feeling the situation was starting to get serious.
I was in another one of a series of small grey rooms. I never did like gray. I liked it even less now. I desperately wanted a smoke, but the chains kept me from getting to my lighter. I would have had to smoke it through my nose, anyway. I was pondering the ramifications of that when the door began to swing open.
I was out to lunch and I hadn’t even had breakfast.
The Quack came in first. He was still wearing that crazy white robe with the hood. His dark eyes seemed to twinkle behind his spectacles. “I hope the accommodations have not been too discomforting, Socotra,” he wheezed. “I assure you any inconvenience will be fleeting.” He giggled after the last part, as though he had said something exceedingly witty.
“Mmmmnghgh,” I replied cleverly.
“Ah, I’m so glad you still have that famous indomitable spirit. The Fat Man will be most pleased. In fact, he told me he might be stopping by to see you personally.”
I struggled at my bonds. If I could only free my hands from the shackles, I could tear the gag out of my mouth, untie my feet, and rip the chain out of the wall and rearrange the little doctor’s grillwork.
I was still working on the first part when the door opened and a huge hand reached in and turned off the light. I had only a fleeting impression of a paw as big as a grizzly bear and an arm that resembled an obscene kielbasa. The fingers were like little knockwursts. God, I was hungry!
I had a sinking feeling in my gut, and it wasn’t all because I could have used a rasher of bacon, a five-egg combination omelet, some hashed browns, a side of sautéed mushrooms, a steaming pot of coffee, and a stiff bloody Mary. Not all of it.
In the light from the passageway, I just got a glimpse of a huge form. The door swung shut, and I was covered by complete darkness, black as ink and impenetrable as anthracite coal. But I could feel the presence. And a soft muffled breathing like a steam leak.
The giant loudspeaker I had been hearing for days sputtered to life: “The starboard sponson aft is now open for the dumping of ‘trash and garbage,” said the booming metallic voice.
An oddly-pitched squeaky voice spoke from the blackest part of the room. “That sounds like an exit line, Danger.”
TOMORROW: “THE FAT MAN SPEAKS
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303