Dark and drear in the Piedmont this morning- not as cold as during the big storm last week, but the skies are gray and a chill rain is pouring. My joints are all complaining, knees throbbing, shoulders aching. Spring is coming, though. The Lady in Red on the flatscreen assures us that the warmth is approaching. Sometime. But at least February’s depth of winter will pass today, even if the official season drags on for a bit.

So, I regret dragging you back five decades into the past lately. It has been a fun journey, for me, at least, and of some moderate interest to some fine people in Southern California. They care for a very large piece of steel now anchored permanently near the old Supply Corps Building in San Diego Harbor. In the course of dredging up some things that might be of interest, I happened across some items left in stacks of papers for many years. Some bring back some cool memories of places far away. Sitting with pretty ladies in other climes. Having you, the taxpayers of this grand land, fund some travels to classic hotels of other empires in nations now closed to ordinary tourist travel.

Those places have their own little book, and I won’t trouble you with them now. But the interest lately is not in me, per se, but rather the 3,500 other young men who made that great piece of steel move around the globe, and routinely launch fierce birds of prey to conduct missions of predatory virtue. Last week I subjected you to a sort of overview of our Foreign Legion in the Far East.

Steaming ships across a broad ocean to signal some sort of “commitment” to “national policy objectives” was an expensive proposition. The Navy decided to save some money and place an entire Aircraft Carrier Battle Group on forward duty in Japan to cut expenses. The sailors of those ships all encountered a dramatic alternate world, and those who were married, dragged their mostly young families to live with them- sometimes- in a complex society not at all of our making.

It was strange and it was about as much fun as it is possible to have. A lot of us were taking the opportunity to get as far away from our old lives as we could. So, forgive the tendency to overly romance the experience. In front of all the exotic stuff, we made fun of the recruiting commercials, laughing at the inversion: “It’s not just an adventure. It’s a frigging job.”

One afternoon I was working. I think it was an eight-cycle day, which is to say our job was launching eight events of jets from the catapults on Midway’s black non-skid decks, recovering them, by turn, with fuel tankers in the air, helicopters humming throughout, safely recovering each ‘event’ in turn as the guys on deck moved aircraft around, cleared the landing zone, and prepared to recover a dozen howling jets in turn.

You know- a normal day at the office. I think my job that day was to follow the weather-guesser and prepare each cycle with necessary mission information, return to force procedures, communications plan and the other necessary minutiae of operating a steel airfield in whatever piece of ocean we happened to be in.

We normally split an eight cycle day in half, with others prepared to sit at the table with the guys coming back to get the facts of what happened on the flight. It is pretty busy.

I think I had the early launches that day, and turned it over to Dean, the other qualified briefing officer to do the last four events of the day. I could not tell you what I was doing- there was always something. “Squadron Coffee Mess Officer” was always looming, the duties being to hound the squadron guys to pay their monthly meal tabs. Or write the daily episode of Nick Danger to go in the ship’s paper, the Midway Multiplex. It is hard to unscramble it all, since the activities were curiously intermingled in both time and relative importance.

I think I had been down to the Dirty Shirt Wardroom, the more casual of the two feeding stations. Wolfed down whatever they were serving and was on the way to something else, up the ladder to the Hangar Bay, walking aft to the starboard ladder up to Mission Planning when the 1MC- the ship’s main intercom- crackled to life with an announcement. It was a significant one that required response from many. And it was about life, and the prospect of the alternative. By the time I got up to the 01 level I knew enough to be concerned. The problem was with a jet, it was one of ours, and they were going to have to throw it away. They hoped that the two guys riding in it could be saved.

There was a commotion in Mission Planning about the failure of the landing gear on the Phantom to cycle to landing position. I joined in the jumble of activity as a decision was made to ditch the jet after Chief, the Radar Intercept Officer, ejected alongside the ship. Then Big Bucks, the pilot, would bring the jet around to the same position and punch out. Normally a failure would require both to eject simultaneously. This would be organized, with helicopter and rescue swimmer ready to scoop up each in turn.

I wandered out to the port catwalk to watch in person. I was one of a dozen or so in that area, leaning against the steel, looking up. This was happening where we could see it, the darkness coming on in deep rich Indian Ocean indigo texture. It was all quite professional and meticulously organized. We could see the flash of the nav lights in the sky, Phantom and helicopter, and on the first pass Chief reached up, pulled the two handles fairly to bring down the face screen, blow off the canopy, and let the rocket hurl him out into the breeze.

From where we stood it was a small festival in lights. The help quickly moved into position as Chief’s chute brought him down safely to the low swells, and he did the training thing we had been taught. Flip the cops on the shoulder-straps to ditch the chute. Check seat pan for the raft, inflate, enter it, prepare for the swimmer to drop into the sea from the helicopter roaring above in the dark. Try to be helpful as the swimmer provides the sling and hoist above to the waiting SH-3. In the dark.

It worked, and as each step was complete the sailors around me muttered in appreciation of a job being well done by all concerned.

Big Bucks kept the Phantom aloft and in the pattern. When Chief was recovered safely and returned aboard, the Helo launched again to go fetch him. Again, calm on deck and aloft. As he brought the jet abeam the ship, he pulled the handle and did the same drill. There was a modest cheer as the flash of the ejection was observed. This was going to be an emergency well executed, with both our guys safe. I felt good to be part of this astonishing team. Until the jet did not do its mission unattended. With the canopy and pilot gone, the stick lolled slightly to the right and the jet began a stately slow and unplanned attempt to come home. Nose down, she turned toward us.

I understood later the cruiser astern did what they had to do. They were at general quarters for the evolution and prepared to shoot down the fighter before it plowed into us. I was not an interested observer at that point. I was moving as quickly as possible to the nearest hatch to get back inside and ensure there was sufficient steel between me and the mighty mass of quickly moving aluminum, steel and titanium suddenly headed our way.

I did not slow down until I got close to Ready Two, our squadron space on the starboard side. One doesn’t want to look….you know. Unprofessional.

By the time I got there, the situation resolved itself. The jet continued its turn with deliberation and grace, crashing into the waves sufficiently distant enough to have posed no real threat. The Helo recovered Big Bucks undamaged, and the squadron got first call on the movie list. I think the Admiral came down to watch with us as an expression of solidarity. Was it “Animal House?” I don’t know.

The next day we were back to flying. I drew a cartoon in between mission briefings, detective story wirings and collecting mess bills. I had not looked at it in twenty or thirty years until yesterday. As far as I know, most of those concerned are still alive.

There was a moment a long time ago that prospect was not quite certain. I forget what we called Big Bucks before that night. That event was when he got his callsign.

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
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