Editor’s Note: This popped up in a search for something else. It was written onboard USS Midway, then home-ported in Yokosuka, Japan, and an account of an ancient military exercise in the height of the Cold War. Four US Marines were just lost in Norway in something similar in these strange times of a new century, with a backdrop of old threats naerly a half century old in countries that have changed the spelling of their islands and cities. It was interesting, then. We don’t know about NOW.

– Vic

01 April 1979

Cheju-do

It was a mild winter in Korea, or at least as mild as they come up there. We were able to fly every day, as were our good friends the Russians. We bored all kinds of holes in the sky and cut endless miles of blue water off Cheju-Do Island. We were re-enacting the Korean War, and we had only 16 days to do it. It took a supreme effort to ignore the fall of the Shah and the Chinese Invasion of Vietnam, but by God, we are nothing if not strong-minded.

The exercise, Team Spirit by name, was planned by the Air Force and the Army and coordinated with 150,000 of my close personal friends. We all got together for an amphibious landing over on the east coast of South Korea. Really fun. We brought Onion Dip and the Koreans brought Marines. Some of them got capsized in the rough surf and several drowned. Nothing was spared in the search for realism. But we got ashore, and commenced striking phantom regiments and blowing up imaginary bridges in earnest. It took over two weeks of constant alerts, intense planning, and hundreds of gallons of strong Navy coffee, but we won. We pushed the phantom regiments back to the Status Quo, declared Victory, and make preparations to go on home.

With, I hasten to add, a considerable sigh of relief from all hands. We had been at sea almost continually since October. Two weeks at Christmas for the family people, and a five day in-port. Otherwise we were down in Mission Planing, briefing like crazy, (they call me Crazy ENS Socotra, now) planning contingencies, and momentarily expecting to depart for the sunny climes of the Indian Ocean. The fact that the axe hasn’t fallen yet in no way detracts from the delicious sensation of hearing the latest rumor and realizing you only have a hundred coffee filters in stock for a possible two-month cruise. The consequences are mind boggling. The sharks are particularly vicious in those waters, and it is a long swim to Bandar Abbas.

Our adreniline was raised periodically by visits from the boys from Vladivostock. They would jump into the family Tu-95 and go for a spin; in the Cheju-Do modified location the blocks tend to be fairly long. They would motor on down and see what we would do. In turn, we would launch the alert hot-rods and intercept them at an appropriate distance from the big grey houseboat. Our flashy paint jobs must drive the conservative Russian nuts; a couple F-4s materialize on the wingtips covered with tiger-tail paint schemes and ominous visored figures. Once, the Legendary Snidley Whiplash ducked his head down and exchanged his helmet for a gorilla mask. Ah, Comrade, what are we to do against such enemies?

When we mosied up into the Sea of Japan for a quick look-see (those are rather constricted waters for large building 41 to operate in, inside the range of the Badger medium-range bomber. And yes, Virginia, there is a Dawn Launch in the Sea of Japan. They don’t say in the commercial that you have to get up at 0230 to get ready for it .) we start getting the double-team action. The long-range Tu-95s would motor on by in stately fashion, much akin to the dignified cruise of a Fleetwood Cadillac, while the Tu-16s would race down in pairs to come beyat low level. Hard to track the rascals. We performed our tasks in an exemplary fashion, until one early morning alert.We had intercepted a few dozen of the diabolical Communists up to this point, and we could have doubled our score on this particular encounter of the unsettling kind. We launched a couple birds, and the Russians seemed to go away. To avoid re-spotting the deck (a substantial effort) the commend elected to send our boys on in to the Beach. In the meantime, the distance between the Midway and our picket ship had grown to the point where our ability to provide cover for them was marginal at best. Suddenly, an entire air regiment appeared and ran a full blown attack simulation on our hapless cruiser. I am precluded from delving into the matter in further detail, but suffice it to say it was complete up to the pushing of a few sequence controls. Tres Funk.

As we were playing the Korean War over again, we deigned not to notice what Ivan was up to. There were several soiled under-trousers on the cruiser from reliable report. Ah well, we won the imaginary war, ignored the real one, and here we are Home Again, jiggidy-jig.

In-port. Time to kick back and relax, you say? But no! Not the most forward by-God deployed Air Wing in the Navy! We pulled in on Saturday, took Sunday off, and were back at 0730 on Monday. The Japanese workers had disassembled most of the life support systems, the jack-hammers rang with vibrant life, the noxious fumes of non-skid filled the air. It was, in the opinion of the Players, time for a Road Trip.

A Road Trip fits in somewhere between a one-time good -deal and flat-out fraud. This particular evolution involved the annual re-qualification for aircrews in the pressure-chamber and ejection seat simulator. The Navy, due to our addiction for large pieces of floating steel, enjoys a state of complete poverty in comparison with our sky-blue brothers in the Air Force. The only facilities available for the aforementioned tests on the Pacific Rim exist at the Kadena Air Base on Okinawa. A dexterous manipulation of the rules got the humble Air Intelligence Officer included on the roster. O Frabjous Day! We’re outta here.

We passed the time waiting for our airlift by entertaining a few platoons of Marines with hand puppets.

“Say hi to the Marines, Winky.”

“Say goodnight, Winky.” We moved on before the Marines could get bored.

We were the very souls of moderation at the Kadena O Club. Nothing got broken, and no one got hurt. The fact that I could barely see my eggs the next morning lead to a certain amount of apprehension on my part, as I realized (a bit late, I fear) that ENS Socotra would be at 25k feet within hours. I raised bleary eyes to my three Squadron Buddies.

“Vic.” They said “you might find it easier to read the paper if you held it right side up.”

“Yeah” coughed Nasty.

“I’m gonna get that lady tonight,” said Scooter.

“If we live,” I responded and slumped down face first into my omelet.

Well, there we were, locked into the long pressure chamber, masked and helmeted in bizarre nylon contraptions that made us all look Russian. We had the regulators on 100% oxygen to combat the lingering effects of debauchery. The massive pressure door closed. The chamber monitors finished pre-flighting our gear. The voice of the chamber chief rang in our ears: “Before we make our ear and sinus check, we would like you all to test your intercoms, gentlemen.

We checked in by the numbers: “One up” “Two aye” and so on up to fifteen, which was my humble self. One of the attendants knotted the end of a surgical glove and hung it from a hook on the ceiling. It hung limp and pale.

“Ok gentlemen. We are going to ascend to 6k for the ear and sinus check.” I valsalva-ed once – a fancy term for grabbing your nose and blowing it to pop your ears. Mist flowed gently through the chamber. We were there in a minute. No one reported any complications on the descent back to sea level. My breath sounded like the sequence in 2001 the one that drove you crazy after a few minutes. “All right, gentlemen, we will commence our flight to 25k in five thousand-foot intervals now. Remember, if you feel pressure just let it out ” at 5k the surgical glove began to swell. By ten thousand the thing began to distend. When we passed through 20k the thing began to resemble a cow’s udder.I belched a few times and realized my lower bowels were beginning to resemble that very gloveI raised a check and reduced pressure. Ah, sweet relief. When we reached 25k, the mist was everywhere.

“All set for the Anoxia demonstration gentlemen. If the even numbers would pick up the clipboard behind you and fill out the questionnaire as soon as you remove your mask.”

“Hey, Vic, we are going to check your shorts after this!” said Splash on the intercom. I dropped the right side of my mask and realized why. After what the combined CVW-5 crew had pumped through their lower bowels in the last 24-hrs, the equivalent of fifteen surgical gloves of methane gas had been released into the rarified atmosphere; and as the pretty aviation physiologist had helpfully pointed out, wet gas expands even more than dry. Whew! The recirculation system was taxed to its utmost and quite obviously failing the task.

While I was contemplating the odor, the subtle effects of anoxia were stealing over my already befuddled brain. I commenced to hear a faint buzzing sound, and as I struggled with the questionnaire I began to get tunnel vision. Then the buzzing switched to ringing, and I got quite giddy. In fact, I felt great. The questions were actually hilarious. I had never contemplated the comedy inherent in a column of figures I got to a question that seemed to say if you feel any of the symptoms of anoxia, you might want to put your mask back on – it was a swell idea, and I fumbled with the strap for a moment and sucked oxygen greedily. A few die-hards held out for five and half minutes. I had lasted about three and a half. Felt great, though, none of the nausea I had been expecting.

The best part of the Chamber Flight was the explosive decompression. They took us to 10,000 feet in the small room at the end of the big chamber. Then they ascended the big space to 30,000 feet with the connecting door closed. When released, it would result in our instantaneous ascent to 22k . The chamber monitor had the con on this one: “Ok, we are at 10k. You may experience explosive decompression at any time. Remember, don’t hold your breath. We had a flight surgeon who did, and he developed an embolism and was gone before we could get him down.”

Wow, I thought. Danger and everything. One moment of apprehension and they blew the seal. Mist blowing out of everything. My mask ballooned out and the air whooshed out of my lungs. I had a large desire to fart, a pleasure to which I promptly treated myself. Nasty had the only casualty of the flight. His Johnny Combat watch exploded in the mist. It was great. My Seiko survived intact; but then again, it has been 1530 for a few days now.

The seat shot device resembled nothing quite so much as a Soviet SA-2 missile launcher. It was all right there, with an ejection seat hung backwards on the launching rail. I walked into the high vaulted room and KAWHAM! Off went a student toward the roof. He slid back down the rail and the sergeant helped unstrap him. They launched about four folks like that, and there wasn’t anyone but me in the line.

HMMMit looked like there was no alternative but to go for it. I thought back to the Dilbert Dunker at Pensacola. An object of morbid fascination during the tortuous swimming instructions, it stood brooding over the south end of the pool, folded up like a praying mantis. In operation, the thing crashed and clanged like the very end of the world: the little cockpit module slid rapidly down the rail, crashed into a stop at the water level, and slowly pivoted upside down into the chlorine-flavored water. It forced water up your nose, and there you were, upside down, choking, and still strapped in. I had been hearing about the contraption for years from my Dad, and seeing it in person, with the full realization that it was going to get me, too, could only inspire great Fear and Loathing.

Like most things in life, the Dreaded Dunker was actually rather cool, and really no sweat at all. I could only think the same of the ominous missile launcher in front of me; still, I confess the loading platform was suspiciously like the hangman’s platform.

I walked up the steps and stepped out onto the seat. It had the standard harness, two shoulder straps running to the thick waist belt. I got myself hooked up, and the sergeant helped pull the things tight. He instructed me on the location of the simulated emergency oxygen, the function of the two arming handles and the trigger. “Please use all four fingers on the trigger, because if you don’t you will get a good pinch.” Oh thank you.

Fully gusseted and immobile they pushed me down into the cocked position. My eyes were on a level with the platform, and the guy on it stepped back and stuck his fingers in his ears. In front of my another sergeant (whatever all those stripes mean) began the pre-shoot drill.

“Now check your position. Back all the way against the seat. Head back on the pad. Knees together.” I contorted myself further. “Ok, you are cleared to raise the arming handles.” I reached down and raised both of the armrests. They clicked into position metallically. “Now check your position again.” I squired back into the seat. “You can go ahead and release your emergency oxygen.” I fumbled blindly around my belly for the green rubber handle. Finally found the little devil and gave it what I hoped was a decisive yank toward my midsection. “Alrighty, then. If you are happy with your position you are cleared to fire.” I was about anything but happy with my position, but saying so wouldn’t have accomplished much. What is it they say on the rifle range? Squeeze, don’t pull? I reached down with the four fingers of my right hand and slowly began to pull up the handle and was slowly sliding down the rail. I had a vague impression of having my head jerk forward for an instant, but that was it. Eight gees, roughly that of a catapult shot on the ship. So fast I didn’t hear it, and so short I barely felt it. It was neat, better than the amusement park, but everyone was taking it so seriously I thought better of asking for another one.

“Not bad, Sir, you kept your head back pretty well” said the platform sergeant.

Hell, I thought, I didn’t have much to do with it. “Thank you.” And now, it was getting on to that portion of the late afternoon better reserved for the club, and for the display of the noted CVW-5 Style and Tact which has unaccountably seemed resistible to the Birdmen (but not necessarily their ladies).

I can sum it up succinctly, and should, as there are reputations to consider. Just like Hollywood, Scooter got the girl, and the rest of us were left with about fifteen drinks, the non-stop drizzle, and much later, two hug portable lighting trailers unaccountably provided for us outside the VOQ.

“Aha!” said Splash. “A straightforward piece of diesel machinery.”

“Indeed” quoth Wally. “What this situation demands is a little light.”

“Hey, lookit this!” exclaimed Nasty. “The whole thing cranks up!”

“And this, if I am not mistaken, and I rarely am, is the master control panel.” Splash was in his element and took command. We almost got the engine started on the first one, but ran out of battery power before the culmination of our efforts. “We have got to get these lights up. The Zeppelins are nearly upon us!”

We raced to the second unit and commenced the starting drill as someone cranked furiously on the elevation crank. “The fate of western civilization may rest upon this!” Exultation! The beast began to rumble and the massive floodlights began to glow. “Eurika!”

And just as things were starting to warm up the engine sputtered and died. “Shit. It’s outta gas.”

“Goddamn it.” Somebody (one has to be very careful of identities about these things) suggested that we steal a truck and siphon the requisite energy into the tank. It was a splendid idea, and although no one was in the stockade the next morning, I cannot presume that we didn’t. Whatever happened, I bet it was well lit.

Copyright 2001 Vic Socotra