Chapter 25
AMONG THIEVES, LAWLESS, HYPROCRITES, LIARS, DECEIVERS,
MURDERERS, AND OPPRESSORS.
(Marine
Corps Air Station Cherry Point, Havelock, North Carolina: Part 2.
From the beginning of October 1972 to around the start of summer 1973.)
“Pilot
Boy Richard, that is an astounding chapter title!
Are we in for some astounding reading?”
‘Who
knows? I ain’t writ it yet. Just read on, and see what astounding
tales I can make up!’
“Richard,
are you a real-life character, or just a fictional,
make-believe character?”
‘Perhaps.’ J
My
Navy pilot’s logbook shows my last training flight in VMT 202 to be on 27 September
1972, and my first flight in VMA 121 to be 8 days later on October 5th,
with the squadron’s aircraft maintenance officer (Captain Val) as my navigator.
So,
between those 2 dates, I check out of 202, and check into 121 a few doors away.
Checking into 121, the CO, XO, Ops officer, Admin officer and such ranking
officers “greet” me. Aggressive Major F. (202 Ops officer who entreated
me to volunteer to transfer to California paradise), soon after got promoted to
lieutenant colonel. Upon that promotion, he was transferred here as the
commanding officer of 121. So, he is now my new CO. Also, I am again
amongst fellow pilots and navigators that I have previously trained with in 203
and 202 (in this “it’s a small world” bunch of Marine aviators).
In
addition to my foremost duty as a squadron pilot, I am
assigned to the S-4 Section (Supply and Logistics), as the squadron’s ground
safety officer, barracks officer, and building and grounds officer. These undesirable
billets mainly entail being the squadron’s head janitor. Thus, the
ranking officers, who assign them, shove them off onto an officer they do not
like so well. Thus, Little Goodie Two Shoes Christian Boy Lieutenant Yerby is
saddled with being squadron head janitor. I am most bless-ed!!
Captain Simmons (a B/N with whom I trained in 202) is transferred here to 121 about the same time as I. He is assigned as supply and logistics officer in S-4. He and I take up our abode in the S-4 office under Captain Jacobs (The S-4 Officer, a few years older than us). Captain Jacobs attacked Viet Nam for a year in the A-6 Intruder. He has exciting war stories about bombing an enemy supply train at night, and such.
From October
5th thru the 20th, I fly only 3 times, because this
squadron is most busy preparing to deploy to MCAS Yuma, Arizona to
practice dropping big (live) bombs (that go BOOM!)
onto targets in isolated, desert bombing ranges. The area around Cherry Point
is too heavily populated for us to go “Boom, Boom, Boom” here! So, the
military has such “highly restricted area” bombing ranges out in the isolated
desert, where no humans are on the ground below, except trespassing
hippies, tramps, vagabonds, vagrants, and such souls.
All of
us S-4 officers (about 4) and enlisted men (about 5), have much prep
work to do arranging for squadron equipment and personnel to be flown out to
Yuma on C-130 transport planes. Pilots and navigators will fly (ferry) most of
the squadron’s A-6s (10 or so Intruders) out to Yuma. I am assigned to pilot an
A-6 in a two-plane formation, flying Number 2 (wing) with my CO flying the lead
airplane. Each of us will be flying with a B/N sitting in his seat
beside the pilot.
On
October 20th, we four aviators leap into the sky to head west in two
A-6s, land at Tinker AF Base near Oklahoma City to refuel there, and fly on to
Yuma, Arizona in the desert (all in one day). Other squadron aviators fly out
in 8 or so Intruders on this day. The desert is most lovely! I enjoy gazing
down on it much for the following 19 days, as I fly one to three daily
flights through November 8th over this western scenery, dive
bombing and blowing up harmless, innocent, defenseless, non-resistant desert.
Landing
at Yuma, I’m plenty bushed from sitting in that noisy cockpit over 6
hours, wearing helmet with oxygen mask strapped tightly to my face. I go
to the squadrons’ ready room, fill out the paperwork for the flight, and listen
to the CO debrief our flight. Then I check into the BOQ, shower and change into
civilian clothes. Instead of going to the officers’ chow hall for supper;
I opt to treat myself to a delicious steak in the officers’ club my 1st
day in Arizona. When I enter the club’s dining area, it is almost deserted. I welcome
that sight because I want to totally relax and enjoy my nice steak
dinner alone in serenity.
But just
after I order my meal, in walks my CO. Seeing me, he greets me and joins me at
my table. Likely he didn’t want to eat with me any more than I wanted that. But
it would look improper for him not to join me. So, we endure each other
during supper. Lt. Col. F. has a most brilliant, sharp mind. He is stern
and demanding as a commander. OPPRESSORS
He was my operations officer in 202.
Thus, silently observing me for the past few months, his keen mind sees that I
am a kind, gentle lad. Such junior officers do not fit well into his plan for sternly
running his squadron with an Iron Fist. So, he makes the best of this 30-minute meal, while stuck with me, by
expounding to me the virtue of the “strong arm tactics” (physical assaults) he covertly authorizes
for his “staff grade” Marines (gunnery sergeants and master sergeants), to use
on the enlisted Marines under them, to keep those “lackeys” in line, working
hard.
His sales pitch is news to me and
surprises me. Why not simply give stern warnings to “out of line” low
ranking Marines? Then, if any did not “shape up”, process them out of the
Marine Corps with a general discharge (which is a fairly low discharge).
(I will receive an honorable discharge.) He could even threaten them
with a dishonorable discharge.
I perceive the following to be the reason for painfully oppressing LAWLESS Marines instead of kicking them out.
Recruiters are striving hard to talk enough guys into joining up.
They eagerly sign-up LAWLESS guys
to fill quotas. It’s plenty difficult to sustain the needed number of lackeys, even
without discharging one after another for being “out of line”. And if they were
to routinely discharge such “unfits”, the next guy the recruiter could talk
into joining (to replace the one discharged), will likely be just as LAWLESS and unfit.
By the time a young enlisted Marine
enters this squadron; our government has already spent tens of thousands of
dollars training him. If they were to discharge each one that refuses to stay
in line, it would become a constant cycle of spending big money to find and
train more replacements for the ones they kick out. Thus, the policy of covertly beating
up a Marine to keep him in line, and threatening him with worse if he squeals
about the beating.
“Naïve Farm Boy Richard sure is getting his eyes opened to
the cruel ways of the world!”
‘I sure am!’
As a junior officer, I quietly and
respectfully listen to my CO’s speech that sours my steak dinner in my stomach.
Doubtlessly, his sharp mind picked up on my reluctance to join the OPPRESSORS in cruelly oppressing the LAWLESS. Doubtlessly, that is why he now begins to
oppress lawful me.
Well, let’s switch to exciting
flying adventures; Boom, Boom, Boom, onto the vast desert!
The
ground crew would affix twenty-eight 500-pound bombs, externally, to the
underside of my A-6, and I would head down the runway at full throttle
with that heavy load. Beforehand (in the ready room), I had carefully
calculated the distance of my takeoff roll, factoring in total weight of
aircraft, wind, and air temperature. The desert heat might be as high as 116
degrees F. The thin hot air doesn’t provide much lift for aircraft
wings. It usually took 6000 to 7000 feet of this 8000-foot (?) runway at Yuma
to get airborne with 7 tons of bombs weighing me down (about one-fourth the
weapons load that a 4-engine much larger B-52 carries internally).
Upon
releasing brakes at full throttle, the plane is so slow and sluggish to
gain speed going down the runway. I keenly watch the 1000-foot
markers passing by, and glance at my airspeed to see if it’s as high as it
should be at that distance. I must keep in mind the abort point I had
calculated. That is the furthest distance down the runway I can
safely abort the heavy bird (pull off power and apply brakes), if
airspeed is too low (at that point) to get airborne by the end of the runway.
With one eye glued to my airspeed indicator, I watch the end of the
runway quickly approaching. Just as soon as the plane reaches liftoff speed, I slowly
pull back on the stick, and see the end of the runway flash close under
and behind me, as I stare down at desert sand just a few feet below.
Both navigator and I breathe a sigh of relief as the heavy bird slowly
climbs gaining speed. “Safely airborne. Whew!! Relief!!”
I fly
out to my assigned target in the desert. It might be old junk trucks and jeeps,
or concrete blocks stacked into blockhouses. I practice dive-bombing at 30 and
45 and 60-degree dive angles. Sixty degrees is a steep dive angle. I
practice dropping 1 or 2 or 4 bombs on each diving run. My navigator
sets the prescribed number into the plane’s computer. Then, when I dive in and
press the release button on my control stick at the prescribed airspeed and
altitude, the 2 or 4 bombs release half a second apart to hit the ground about
100 feet apart. Fun! A Powerful Blast of Fun! And death for some!
One
day, I fly out to concrete blockhouse structures to drop 4 bombs on each diving
run. An AV-10 spotter plane is buzzing around low to the side of the
target. Its pilot radios me, designating which blockhouse to attack first.
If I destroy it, then he will assign me the next one. After each dive, he will
radio my hits to me, telling me where they hit in relation to the target.
Arriving overhead, I switch to his radio channel and check in with him. He
assigns me a blockhouse by describing its position on the perimeter of the few
block piles thrown together. For example: “Blockhouse on the southeast corner.”
“Cheer
Zero Eight, would you care to bet a case of beer on whether or not you can take
out that blockhouse?” That vain nonsense came into my helmet
earphones from Spotter Pilot below.
Of all
the dumb carrying on! I’m here to concentrate on bombing
practice, but the AV-10 pilot wants to run a gambling house. He
gets bored buzzing around down low over the desert. (If I were to dive at his
little, slow prop plane, and release a “stick” of 4 bombs; maybe that would put
enough excitement into his day to make him repent of drinking and gambling!)
Instead, I key my intercom (on the throttle knob) to my navigator. ‘Mark,
I don’t gamble or drink either one. If you want to bet with
him, radio him and tell him so.’
Navigator
Mark pondered briefly, then pushed his radio “foot key” sideways. “Yes, I’ll
take the bet.” Mark showed confidence in this ace bomber pilot. Spotter Pilot
was glad for the aerial excitement, also hoping for the beer to share with his
drinking buddies. (He should have asked Snaky’s Ghost how good a shot I am. I’ve
come a long way in weaponry use since that day I first fired a rock from
a slingshot into my own chest.)
Captain
“Spotter” ⑮, on
this day, neither you nor I know that in less than 3 months you are going
to violently crush yourself to death when you crash that little plane into a
canyon wall. But Almighty God knows. The Grim Reaper is soon to take you out of
this life. You should repent of drinking, gambling, and all sins, and trust in
Jesus to save you now.
Lost
Reader Friend, as you read this, you should likewise repent to
God. Your journey across time, and across this earth into eternal Hell
fire just might end today.
“Farm Boy, Preacher Boy, Bomber Boy Ace Pilot, you’d better quit preaching, and concentrate on your bombing run!”
‘Don’t worry. I dive bomb much better when I’m preaching Hellfire and Brimstone! You too had better repent, and trust in the Lord Jesus to save you from perishing!’
Preacher-Bomber Pilot Boy rolls in on his first dive and presses the button. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! A line of 4 craters just to the right of the blockhouse. Spotter relays that message to me as I am pulling out of my dive, climbing and turning in the racetrack pattern.
On my first
bombing run, it’s hard to “get settled into the groove” (even
when I’m preaching hard). I climb to altitude, turn downwind, soon bank the
plane sharply 120 degrees to the left (partially inverted) and pull “back stick”
to pull around toward the target, and to pull down
into a dive. That heavily laden warplane rapidly starts plunging out of the
sky. I quickly flip wings level in a steep dive just before bomb release
altitude, kick in rudder to line up, squeeze the button, and pull up when I
feel the 4th bomb release. The B/N and I can feel the 4 explosion percussions
as they each reach our A-6. Exciting!!
“Well,
it looks like I owe you a case of beer.” Spotter’s voice comes over the radio.
As I climb and bank, I crane my head around and down, to behold that blockhouse
blown
to smithereens with sand, concrete powder, and bomb smoke filling the
air. It is a sight to behold! Fun! Fun! Fun! Spotter
assigns me my next target. More fun! That night as I return to the ready room
(dead tired) after a 2nd flight of night bombing
practice, the duty officer says to me: “The AV-10 pilot brought the case of
beer”. Afterwards, the drunkard aviators in my squadron
drank it (guaranteed to lower their bombing accuracy). (The AV-10 pilot was not
in our squadron.)
I
think Captain “Spotter” ⑮, was based
here at Yuma long term. (I am simply deployed here short time.) I never
saw his face. He was just a voice in my earphones. He soon
deployed to Cubic Point in the Philippines. Two or 3 months after I blew his
blockhouse to smithereens, I am back at Cherry Point one day when a flying
buddy says to me. “You remember the AV-10 pilot who lost his beer bet at Yuma?”
‘Y-e-a-h…??’
“Well,
recently he flew down into a box canyon in the Philippines for sightseeing,
but did not pull up in time. He crashed into the ‘box end’ killing himself.” Thuswise,
he ended his short life on earth of flying, drinking,
gambling, and such. Thank Thee, Lord Jesus, for saving my
soul to keep me from ever drinking and gambling. Thank Thee for safely
guarding over me, all thru out
my dangerous piloting days.
Unrepentant
Reader Friend, your Creator God is going to suddenly snuff out your sinful
life much sooner than you think. Repent now, while it is the
day of salvation.
I
practice extremely low-level flights just a few feet above the
desert sand. I fire 5-inch live rockets, awe struck as that large torch
launches from under my wing to its target below. I drop 1000-pound bombs one at
a time, only 5 of them attached under my plane per flight. I drop 2000-pound bombs,
only 3 of these heavy (one ton) bombs attached to the plane. On the 1st
dive, I select the one-ton bomb under my left wing, and prepare to push over “left
stick” when that heavy bomb falls from the left wing. Otherwise, the plane
would roll to the right. I must hold “left stick” on this loop around the
racetrack, till I release the bomb under the right wing. Now each wing weight
is balanced. On the last dive run, I release the bomb from under the center of
the plane on the 3rd dive. A one-ton bomb makes a Big
Boom, and
a Big Crater in the desert sand!
“Richard,
the way you describe those ‘Booms’, you sound more like a kid than an actual
bomber pilot. Which are you?”
‘Take
your pick. It’s a free country, or so simpletons say.’
At
night, as parachute flares float down (dropped from a transport plane higher
up) to light the Chocolate Mountains, I drop 500-pound bombs and fire rockets
onto targets among those hills. As the flares slowly float down lower, I have
to weave around them in my dive. Never a dull moment! Night dive-bombing under
parachute flares is a MOST dangerous business!
The
climax of this deployment is a massive Alpha Strike of all our squadron’s
planes attacking one target (the afternoon of November 7th).
That morning, I am scheduled for “normal” dive-bombing practice. As I
fly out to that target, I key the intercom to my B/N. ‘When we finish
this bombing practice, I’ll check “fuel remaining”, and the time. If both
suffice, let’s fly up to the Grand Canyon, and dip down into it!’
“Yeah,
that’ll be great!”
Upon
making my last dive-bombing run, I check-out with the spotter pilot on the
radio, and look at my fuel gages and the clock. ‘Let’s go for it!’ I
tell my B/N.
“Yeah!
Let’s go!”
Oh,
such breathtaking scenery along the way, rock buttes jutting up from
colorful barren rocky landscape! At low-level flight, I fly past them below
the tops of the highest ones. Reaching the Grand Canyon, I pick an area away
from the tourists, and dip my Intruder down into that famous canyon. Lovely
canyon walls flying by each side of my plane are a sight to behold! I make
sure not to get transfixed on them, but rather soon pull up in plenty of
time so as not to smash my B/N and myself (in Captain “Spotter” ⑮ fashion).
Popping
up above those majestic canyon walls, I climb and head direct for Yuma, on time
with enough fuel. Approaching Yuma, I radio Tower for landing instructions. “Hold
for an approaching plane with an emergency.” So, I climb up a few thousand feet
more to burn less fuel at higher altitude, and listen to transmissions on Tower’s
channel about the progress of the emergency. Tower is not allowing any other
planes to land until after this “emergency” lands.
My
fuel is getting low. ‘Tower, this is Cheer 07. When do you estimate you will
resume normal landing operations?’
“I
cannot say.”
I
switch to my squadron’s radio channel, manned in our ready room. ‘Base, this is
Cheer 07. I am diverting to my nearby alternate base to take on fuel, because
Yuma is closed because of the emergency now in progress.’
Squadron
Ops officer (a major) takes the radio’s mic from the duty officer to issue
orders to me. “Negative! Stay in your holding pattern and land as soon as the
field opens. We need to turn around (re-service and load weapons onto) your
plane for the Alpha Strike!” So, I stay in holding till fuel level necessitates
diverting. Though a major (a more senior officer) is commanding
me to stay in this holding pattern, I am the “pilot in
command” of this airborne bird, responsible for the safety of the
aircraft and its crew, 50% of that crew being me.
I
divert to the nearby small Naval air facility, take on a little fuel, and then
leap back into the air to head for Yuma where landing operations are now back
to normal. When I walk into the ready room, the Ops officer is livid
at me. He interrogates me fiercely. I endure it (happy that I didn’t run
out of fuel and flame out in the air). I then prepare to pilot the Number Two
plane in the Alpha Strike, flying wing on my CO’s plane that is leading
this big
strike. Why do I end up
flying on the CO’s wing so often? I don’t care for it!
Five pairs
of Intruders (10 warplanes) leap into the air one pair after another, armed
to the teeth. I am in the first pair, right on my CO’s wing. We ten planes
fly a quite long, low-level route, zigzagging low to various points (low
to avoid enemy radar and zigzagging to confuse the enemy as to where we
are headed). Of all my flights as a Marine pilot, this was one of the most
dangerous, flying just lower than and close behind the lead plane at
low-level while being cautious enough to not get just a little too low and plow
thru the desert sand. When I fly extremely low alone, I can well
concentrate on not plowing into the terrain closely below. But flying wing, I
must also
concentrate hard on not bumping into the lead bird, especially when he
goes into a turn. It keeps a pilot busy (after 2 previous flights already this
morn, with little time to eat).
Our
target is military junk vehicles, junk equipment etc., spread out on an acre or
two of desert to simulate an enemy base. As we approach it, my CO leads all 10
Intruders into a steep climb to prepare to dive onto the target. His plane and
mine each have a rocket pod (full of 5-inch, live rockets) attached
under each of the plane’s 2 wings. Upon reaching the prescribed high
altitude in that steep climb, he rolls his plane into a steep dive. Three
seconds later, I do likewise. Very soon after, he, and then I, fire all
our rockets at once from quite high altitude. Those rockets are to knock out
all the enemy anti-aircraft guns and surface to air missiles. Each pod held 5
or 6 rockets. It is a sight to behold all those flaming torches
(12 or so) launch out from under my wings.
As
soon as those 24 rockets flash from our 2 planes. We two pilots pull up and
away, because 8 other planes are rolling in behind us (in pairs), to drop their
500-pound bombs at a lower altitude (one bomb rack under each wing, with 6
bombs per rack, for 12 bombs per Intruder, times 8 Intruders).
Below,
two acres of desert powerfully explode in a massive facelift,
blowing much sand and junk metal up into the air (likely flavored with a
smattering of molecule size jack rabbit meat and diamond back rattlesnake meat,
finely processed in “Alpha Strike specialized method”). All of
this excitement after a morning flight to view the Grand Canyon from the air below
its rim. ’Twas truly a day of exciting adventure for a poor
farm boy! My livid Ops Officer never found out that I visited the Grand
Canyon this morning. Good!
“Pilot
Boy, what was the total cost to our government of your squadron’s 16-day
deployment to Yuma to drop all those bombs and fire all those rockets?”
‘Heaps
upon Heaps! I heartily thank all you friendly taxpayers for happily
financing my expensive fun!’
While
at Yuma, all squadron personnel daily work long hours day and night (weekends
included) to take full advantage of the short opportunity to drop live
bombs. But each Marine is given a little time off to enjoy the “area” (many
guys enjoying the available sin to the fullest). A few times, I put on my
jogging gear and jog out the gate and thru orange grove lanes where signs
abound warning orange thieves of maximum punishment. If I don’t fly on Sunday,
I catch the liberty bus into Yuma and look for a church to attend.
My
buddy Tom M. is stationed here. He was in my class at Quantico, and at Vance
AFB. Tom is married now. I look him up, and he invites me to his house for
supper on a Saturday night. I enjoy the evening with him and his wife.
Three
weekends pass while I’m at Yuma. On one of them, I get permission to take off
from work for a weekend. On that Friday afternoon, I board a passenger plane at
the local airport, to fly to Tucson. My sister and her young son (Tommy) meet
me at the airport, and take me to their house about the time her husband comes
home from work. I get to spend a most enjoyable weekend with her
family. Janiece is now living about 2000 miles from our childhood home. So, I marvel
that my work took me close enough to her house for me to visit her.
My
last training flight at Yuma is on 8 November 1972 (likely the very last day of
our flight operations here). I do not get to pilot an A-6 back to Cherry
Point. It’s another pilot’s turn for that. On Friday (10 Nov.), I ride back
non-stop on a C-130 transport plane, crowded full of Marines in my squadron.
Our
nation’s Marine Corps was started on a November 10th back in the
late 1700s. Each year, Marines celebrate that birthday with banqueting and much
drunkenness. “You’ve been assigned duty officer at Cherry Point on the 10th,
because you don’t drink.” At Yuma, a captain told me that in early November.
The other squadron officers will attend the “Birthday Ball” in the officers’
club at Cherry Point. At Yuma, I was also told that I am scheduled for a week
of “school” at Cherry Point, starting the Monday after I arrive there on
Friday.
Some of my
squadron’s personnel get all day Friday off, because it’s the Marine
Corps’ Birthday. Most who do not, simply sit on this C-130 flying across our
nation on this day. Most personnel get Saturday and Sunday
off (as usual). Plus, our CO gives the whole squadron Monday
off, as reward for our hard work and long hours at Yuma. Thus, many
squadron personnel get 4 days off. I am to be off only
2 days (Saturday & Sunday). I think on that, aboard the noisy
C-130 on Friday.
Well…
so be it. I’ll just make the best of it. When we land at Cherry Point
late this afternoon, I’ll assume duty officer from the officer manning the
ready room desk. I’ll get to rack out after 10 PM, and be relieved of that duty
at 8 AM Saturday. Then I’ll rest for 2 days before starting “school” on Monday.
Each
and every
day of the year, a junior grade officer is assigned squadron duty officer. When
I am duty officer on a workday, it basically means only spending the
night at work. I quickly saw that clean living lads catch more than their share
of duty on weekends and holidays, so the drunkards can be at
their drinking and reveling. This Friday afternoon when I fly in (as a C-130
transport plane passenger) from Yuma to my squadron’s ready room at Cherry
Point, the captain manning the duty desk there has a discriminating change
of news for me.
“We
decided it would not be enough duty time for you to assume the duty this
late in the day (though that was SOP for a weekday). I’ll
keep it till 8 AM tomorrow. You come in at 8 AM for Saturday duty.” So, I do
that, getting off at 8 AM Sunday. At 8 AM Monday, I report to “school”. The majority
of the Marines in my squadron were off 4 days straight. I get 24
hours off. The entire time of my active duty, I am assigned more
than a fair share of duty officer days on weekends and holidays, because
I don’t drink and party. OPPRESSORS!
So, I depart the ready room and drive to
my house this Friday night, to get some much-needed rest, before returning to
the ready room just before 8 AM the following day (Saturday), to take over as
duty officer. Saturday, the hangar is as quiet as a ghost town, most Marines
now with painful hangovers from wishing their Corps a Happy Birthday most of the
night. Late in the morning, our Operations Officer (the major) comes in to sit
in his office filling out some “most complicated reports” (to higher offices),
about our completed deployment.
During that time, he comes into the
ready room for something, shaking his head and remarking to me (wearily), that the reports are most difficult.
Instantly I feel sorry for him, though he is my oppressor. I realize that our stern CO is
riding this major hard; therefore, this major rides me (and others)
hard, simply trying to meet the CO’s stern demands. Realizing that, I sincerely feel sorry for him.
I had no idea that in less than 3 months, he will
drive to a hardware store in New Bern, buy a .410-gauge shotgun and a few
shells, drive to about 2 miles from my house, park by the roadside, walk into
the edge of the nearby woods, lie down, put the muzzle of the loaded shotgun to
his temple, and pull the trigger.
But
he did! (I will speak of that again at that future time.)
This weekend after Saturday duty, I
enjoy Sunday church services and much fellowship with Christian friends. Monday
morning, I start the week of classes (on something pilots have to be taught).
The school is in a building on base about 2 miles from my squadron. On Wednesday,
the scheduling officer calls me “at school”, saying I am scheduled for a 3-hour
flight that night. I fly it, missing Wednesday night church.
On Friday lunch break, my buddy (Captain
Bradley from Squadron S-4 office) calls me “at school”. “The barracks failed my inspection this morning. When I
reported that to the CO, he ordered us to prepare for him to inspect the
barracks at 5:30 PM today. You are to be there!” (I am the barracks officer.)
Each Thursday night was “field day”
(cleaning) at the barracks. Then, each Friday morning, either I, or another S-4
officer, or the XO, or the CO inspects the barracks. When one of us officers in
S-4 does the inspection, we afterward report the barracks’ condition to the CO
in person in his office.
I make sure to drive to the barracks on
time after a day of classes. Captain Bradley, the barracks sergeant and
resident Marines are present. The stern CO is plenty furious, and oppresses
us all with his strict inspection. (I prefer the pilot’s life of blowing up
desert jackrabbits and rattlesnakes.) I am scheduled to speak at 7 PM at a
meeting of my Sunday School class in Buster and Carol’s house. When our mad CO
finally dismisses us, I hurry there (no supper), just in time to speak to my SS class from the Bible,
wearing my Marine uniform and bushed from my CO raking us over hot coals.
When Thanksgiving Day arrives, I make
the most of that day in Christian fellowship. Soon the Christmas season comes.
My sweetheart and family kindly invite me to spend Christmas Day at their
house. It is a most enjoyable
time, and I greatly appreciate
them including me. All her family members are most kind to me. I thank God for much Christian fellowship at
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years. It was most needed!
The year 1973 arrives. I turn 27 years old. My
birthday brings on my annual NATOPS flight exam. Squadron executive officer (a
major who is a pilot) administers that flying test to me by sitting
beside me in the B/N’s seat, as I pilot the Intruder on an IFR flight to a base
in South Carolina to shoot an instrument approach there for him to grade. I
strive to shoot a precise approach, and do well on it. (I do
not
land at that base, just do a low pass close above the runway, and then climb
out.)
As I am pulling out of that practice approach
to fly away from that area, this high-ranking officer sitting beside pilot in command me, gives me an unexpected, illegal order. “Turn off your oxygen and let me get a
smoke.” (Each of us is wearing helmet and oxygen mask.)
Smoking near that A-6 warplane while it is setting on the ground
is strictly prohibited. It is more highly prohibited for pilot or
B/N to smoke inside that cockpit while flying. “Oxygen (thick, just having evaporated
from liquid state) seeps out around the edges of your mask, often soaking into
the collar and chest area of your flight suit and flight vest. The flick of a
cigarette lighter could easily
ignite that highly flammable
oxygen, instantly giving you a
collar of intense fire, right
there in the cockpit high up in the sky. Air crew lighting up while flying is strictly forbidden, and will be harshly punished.” The squadron aviation
safety officer, ops officer, XO, and CO all
sternly lecture us pilots and B/Ns on that. But this day, I am astonished to learn that the XO’s life-endangering nicotine fit takes precedence
over those sane, life-saving, safety rules. HYPOCRITES! LIARS!
In January, I also practice day and
night carrier “quals” (qualification) (a good number of flights). Then
in late January, I take a week or more of leave and drive home to Daddy’s. Soon
after Lucille died last summer, Daddy got a full-time job doing janitorial work
in a somewhat large factory near Sulligent. This is the first time in his life for him to have steady income for an extended
period of time. He is getting in good financial shape (a condition most rare
in his life till now).
Dad ceases renting additional farmland
to cultivate. He ceases growing cotton on our farm, and rents out our
cotton acreage to a “large-scale” farmer. Dad continues to grow corn,
watermelons, vegetables and such. He is now dating a Christian widow his age.
Now I meet her for the 1st time. Later when Dad and I are alone, he
asks me if I would mind if he got married. ‘Of course not!’ He asked all his
children that question. None objected. Rising above the poverty level and with
a bride-to-be, Daddy is happy (likely “as never before”).
Likely he is less burdened than he has ever been since he bought our farm in 1946, and started making regular
payments on the money he borrowed to buy it. Thank
Thee, Lord, for doing my godly Daddy much good and lifting him up
from many years of poverty and much despair!
My leave time at home always flies by
too fast. Soon (on a February early Saturday morning), I am in my T-Bird on the
long road back to Cherry Point, fervently
praising God for greatly
helping and richly blessing my
dear Daddy!
This Saturday morning as I am dropping
by friends’ houses in Vernon to bid them Farewell, my car radio news tells of
snow spreading from west to east across wide North Carolina. ‘Great!’ I thought
to myself. ‘Maybe I’ll get to see some snow!’ I soon come to deeply
regret
that heart’s desire! Entering N.C., I enter falling snow. The layer of snow on
the highway gradually deepens till my T-Bird can no longer plow thru it. I
become stuck in snow about 10 PM near Kinston, N.C. I lie down in the car and
try to sleep in the cold. I dare not
run the car’s engine and heater. Likely snow is piled against the car’s exhaust
tailpipe. The highway is lined with stranded vehicles, nothing moving.
After daylight Sunday, it has stopped
snowing and all vehicles get moving slowly (stop and go fashion). I am praying
hard that I can make it to my house, and am thankful for each slow mile
traveled. It is a relief to reach New Bern and drive thru town. ‘I won’t be
able to drive across the RR tracks and down that private lane to my house.’
With that mindset, I took Old Cherry Point Road coming east out of New Bern
with hopes of making it to Pleasant Acres to park in the church’s parking lot.
Upon getting stuck half a mile before the church, I walk to my sweetheart’s
house a quarter mile away.
Most New Bern residents are stuck at
home. No church services. No one going anywhere. I’m greatly relieved to arrive
in the warmth of my sweetheart’s family’s house. They are all “snowed in” at
home. I relax, and start phoning other men in the church to tell them of my car
stranded on the road (a bad situation). Brother Guy Hart comes in his truck. I
ride with him to my car. He cuts ruts for me with his truck, and I follow him
to the church parking lot, thank God!
The following morning (Monday), I drive
my car on to my house. I’m scheduled to report back to work at my squadron
(from leave). So, from my house, I call the ready room and tell Captain Shell
that U.S. Hwy 70 from my house to the base is not passable. ‘I’ll come in as
soon as road conditions permit.’
“Get on in here now!” he orders me. “With Major Ops death, the CO wants all us officers present now!”
Shock! ‘Major Ops death?!?’
“Yes, he committed suicide just the
other day. Get on in here to the ready room ASAP!”
I think it was late afternoon last
Thursday,
when he took his life. When he didn’t come home that night; his wife called our
CO. They suspected that he might have taken his life (knowing his terrible
stress). Local police and sheriff were notified.
Our CO ordered the officers in our
squadron to each cruise around the area, each in his own personal vehicle,
looking for the major’s car. Aircraft maintenance officer (Captain Val, with
whom I first flew upon arriving in VMA 121), spotted the major’s car alongside
a road. Val stopped, walked down into the edge of the woods, and discovered the
body. I think that was on Friday, before deep snow fell the very next day and night. Thank God,
they found him before deep snow covered him. ‘Sir, you sure needed the Lord
Jesus Christ to uphold you in your highly stressed state, like
the Lord upheld me under all the stress laid upon me by
ya’ll!’
Christ-rejecting Reader Friend, you need the Saviour of the world to save
you from the eternal torments of Hell fire (to which you are journeying), and to preserve you while on
earth!
I firmly
believe my Lord graciously sent me to Alabama to absent me from that tragedy my squadron has been
enduring since last Thursday. Had I been here when the CO ordered us
officers to cruise around in search of Major “Ops”, likely I would have
volunteered to search the area where I live. (No other squadron officers lived
in that area.) Possibly I would have discovered his body. When our CO made it clear to me that I
was to unduly oppress underlings, I refused.
Now, as they reap what their oppression sowed, let them handle it.
So, on this lovely, snow-white Monday
morning when I learn of his death on the phone, I get into uniform, slowly make
my way down “impassible” snow-covered U.S. Hwy 70 onto the base and into the
ready room’s gloomy atmosphere, where squadron fellow officers are reaping the harvest of
their policy of oppression. Captain Shell ordered me to tread the
snow there to do nothing, actually. (All flight operations on base are shut down due to the deep snow.)
Because it was a suicide, no
memorial service was held in the base chapel (I think). I well recall that our
CO boarded a commercial airliner to fly to the funeral in a northern state
where they put Major “Ops” into the frozen earth on a most cold day. As the
Marine bugler played the sad forlorn Taps, the bugle’s mouthpiece almost froze
to his lips.
Cherry Point’s military flight
operations cease for a few days at the snow-covered airfield (perfect timing
for my squadron to be idled a few days after our operation officer’s death). As
soon as my squadron leaps back into the air, I am assigned a flight. But when
flight time comes, a deep cloud cover from low to high sky has put us in IFR
flying conditions.
‘Flight Scheduling Buddy, I was away on
leave for days, and then the snow shut down our flying for days. The rules clearly state that (because I have
been out of the saddle for this number of days), my next flight is to be daytime VFR (clear skies).’
“We need you to fill this flight’s pilot seat. So, hop to it!”
HYPOCRITES! LIARS!
“Any
time you don’t feel like you are physically up to piloting, just say so, and we’ll take you off
the schedule. Safety comes first!” That’s the hot air they broadcast at squadron
safety lectures. H Y P O C R I T E S
! L I A R S !
I am to fly in the clouds (on instruments, IFR) down
to a base in South Carolina where the weather is better, shoot a few instrument
approaches for practice at that base (without landing), and fly back to Cherry Point. That will be more than 2 hours
of flying, and should put me back in the saddle well enough to safely make an
instrument landing in the
fog at Cherry Point. Landing is the most difficult phase of basic piloting (and a most necessary phase, as you can easily comprehend).
So, my trusty navigator and I strap on an Intruder,
and leap into the air with that flight plan. But wouldn’t you know it, the “out of the ordinary” happens!
“Cheer 02, you are squawking ‘Emergency’. Do you
have an emergency?” As I am climbing out of Cherry Point, Departure Control
makes that call to me.
‘This is Cheer 02. Negative!’
“Then turn off your emergency signal, Cheer 02.”
I carefully check all the switches on my IFF box
(Identification: Friend or Foe). Each switch is in its correct position.
The Emergency signal switch is in the Off position. I cycle IFF box switches On
and Off to no avail, till Departure Control orders me to return to Cherry Point
and land. Can’t have an airborne emergency beacon falsely beaming out its glaring signal over North and South Carolina for
the next 2 and half hours.
So, I climb up into a high holding pattern, and
jettison jet fuel for a few minutes into God’s clean air (where it atomizes),
to get down to landing weight. Then, as controllers guide me (on radar) down
thru thick soup of clouds and fog, I get vertigo so badly, enticing me to land right wingtip first. But,
because a loving Heavenly Father Faithfully watches over me, I believe the
aircraft’s instruments, as opposed to the vertigo-crazed gyros inside my
inner ears, and land safely (wings level).
Maintenance crew later thoroughly inspects the
aircraft, and finds the problem. Mounted into the floor under my pilot seat is
a slender spring-loaded metal rod (protruding upward), held down
by a metal flange on the bottom of my seat. (It is a much more complicated
contraption than my short explanation here.) That rod is “wired” to the
Emergency signal switch. If I eject, my seat blasts up and out of the cockpit, releasing
that spring-loaded rod which activates the Emergency signal. Then ground radar
can spot that signal before the empty plane crashes into land or sea (and send
some rescue team to search for me and my B/N, in that area).
Recently, maintenance crew removed the seat to give
it its required periodic inspection. In handling the seat, they bent
the flange (accidently), but didn’t notice that “damage”. Thus,
the bent flange would not hold the rod down. I was
the 1st pilot to fly this bird after that flange got bent. Thus,
upon taking off, as soon as I climb high enough for ground radar to start
painting me, they get a constant emergency signal broadcast from my bird’s
IFF box, and I had absolutely no means of shutting it off.
“So, there we have it, folks! Another nail-biting
day of sky high,
danger-filled adventure for Farm Boy
Pilot Boy!”
‘Hush, please. Let’s now get back on the ground
amongst all those villains listed in this chapter’s title!’
“Which is more dangerous; the villains you work
with, or the foggy, cloudy skies you fly thru when you’re rusty?”
‘Read on, and let’s see!’
Hop on a time machine with me. Let’s go back to when
I first arrived at Cherry Point, and checked into VMT 203. While waiting idle
several months before I start flying, I am assigned any available petty
chore. Group Headquarters assigns me to investigate four M-14 rifles, missing from Group’s armory. So, I put on my Sherlock Holmes’ hat and cloak, and
begin searching.
All 4 rifles had been assigned to enlisted Marines
in our Group, who had afterward been discharged from active duty. I send a
letter to each of them at their forwarding addresses. I receive a reply from
only one of the four. He said that he returned his weapon to the Group Armory,
and enclosed a copy of his checkout sheet that showed he had checked out with
the Armory. That is substantial
proof that he turned in his weapon. I receive no replies from the other three
ex-Marines. Searching and exhausting each and every possibility available, I
found none of the 4 missing (stolen) rifles. I type out my
detailed report, and submit it to Group Legal Officer. THIEVES!
In VMT 203, I’m soon put in charge of
the officers’ coffee mess (petty job). Besides, I don’t drink coffee. Monthly,
I collect a $2 fee from each officer in the squadron; buy coffee, cream (and
such) at the BX, and keep a good supply on hand. The duty officer is to daily
brew (and keep) hot coffee available in the percolator, located in a small room
off limits to squadron enlisted
Marines. They have their own coffee elsewhere. Recently, a fellow officer
scrounged a small used refrigerator, put it in that room and kept it stocked
with canned soft drinks from the BX. When an officer wanted to buy a cola,
he put his 20 cents into the box on top of the fridge, and chose his cola
(honor system). I’m now stocking the colas.
Squadron enlisted thieving Marines
(prohibited from entering this little room) would slither in there (with no honor), take a cola, and
take money out, instead of putting money into the box. THIEVES!
Now, let’s fast-forward in time to VMA
121. I observe that each aircraft mechanic is issued his individual toolbox and
(essentially) all the small tools he personally uses. He keeps his toolbox locked to keep fellow Marines from stealing his tools (for
which he is held accountable if they go missing). It would be much more convenient (and save
money) to have one large tool cabinet in each maintenance department. And each
time a mechanic needs a tool; he takes it and returns it when he is finished
with it. But, if we did that, one by
one the tools would disappear. Thus, it’s necessary to issue each
Marine a toolbox that locks, along with the small tools he uses, and make
him accountable for them. THIEVES!
I’m 121’s barracks officer. (These barracks are no
longer open squad bays, but “2 men” rooms with locks on each door). A single
Marine living in the barracks reported to me that he took a break from watching
his own TV alone in his room, to briefly visit the head (rest
room). He left his TV On. When he returned in 3 or 4 minutes, his TV
had been stolen, gone with the wind. We made a vain show of searching in vain for it.
(Theft was a big
problem amongst this cadre of “elite” Marines. I could speak at length of it. But let’s
move on.)
They were also great wasters. As
barracks officer, I obtain toilet paper, paper towels, cleaning supplies and
such from Group Supply. My squadron is assigned its allotment of such, simply
by being assigned a monetary figure (let’s say $500 each annual quarter,
3 months). Each time I go to Group Supply for such, that clerk adds up the cost
of what I take, and subtracts it from that $500 (or from its remaining
balance). (We don’t handle any money, just the dollar figures on paper.
But if those dollar figures zero out before the end of that quarter, I cannot
obtain any more supplies till the next quarter starts.)
At times, my money balance might hit Zero with 3
weeks remaining in the quarter. “We need toilet paper!” comes the loud, frantic
cry! Then I would call other squadron supply officers, and ask if they were
going to have a surplus of “money” that quarter. ‘If so, would you please
transfer a $40 figure to my squadron’s account?’ (‘It’s a most needy cause!’)
“Farm Boy, you could have brought them a
bushel basket full of corncobs, like the corncobs you used (instead of toilet
paper), as a boy in the back corner of a barn stable!”
‘Excellent
Idea!!’
Each 6 months, a standard form,
written evaluation is made on each Marine (by his immediate
superior officer, and is put into his file in S-1. When I entered 121’s S-4
Section, the Marine corporal under me was lousy. So, when it soon comes time
for me to evaluate him, I give him appropriate lousy marks. In various
performance areas, I rate him from 1 to 5, and write out a description of how well or how poorly he
performed. I turn in his lousy numbers to a corporal in S-1 (admin) for
him to file this official report by me, and then I stand there talking to an
S-1 fellow officer just a minute. As I turn to leave, my report
was still lying in view on a desk. My eagle eye locks onto it in shock, and I turn to that S-1 officer.
‘Those are not the numbers I wrote!’
He calls his corporal over and asks what
happened. “I thought that is what those numbers were, so I re-wrote them
like that.” Such was his brazen lie
for carefully making my handwritten numbers into higher ones (easily
changing a 1 into a 4, etc.). LIARS!
DECEIVERS!
My lousy number corporal was soon
transferred out of our squadron. His replacement is a much better Marine. But
before long, this newcomer single Marine corporal goes AOL (AWOL) (runs away).
He soon comes back. I stand beside him in front of the stern CO’s desk as the
CO holds “office hours” (low court martial) on him, and reduces him in rank.
‘Why did you go AOL?’ I ask him as I counsel
him in private (just him and me alone).
“Upon returning to the barracks after
work Friday afternoon, the smell of marijuana smoke was so strong that I sort
of snapped, thinking that I couldn’t stand living with that any longer. So, I
just got into my car and drove away.”
(Now, a separate incident.) The wife of
a different corporal in our squadron left him. He was upset (wanting her back),
so he went AOL (absent without leave) to search for her. He returned in two
weeks or so, and was busted in rank at CO office hours. Now, he hopes to speed
promotions coming to him by being as good a Marine as possible. So, he begins
to secretly squeal on drug users in the squadron by mailing a list of them to
our squadron’s executive officer (the airborne smoking major in my airplane).
This corporal comes secretly to me also when he can catch me alone, and informs
me of activities of drug users in the squadron. In private with our XO, I
verbally convey to the XO what information Squealer has told me. If the drug
users discover that a squealer is in the barracks, likely they will try to have
him killed. MURDERERS!
We squadron officers are almost walking around with our
mouths gaping open in shock, over the illegal escalating drug use among our Marines. We plan and set up a
surprise drug raid. I drive to the barracks when it’s time for “field day”
(cleaning) to start on a Thursday, after the workday ends. I firmly order the
barracks sergeant to order all the Marines outside, and to form them up in
formation in the parking lot. He does so. Squadron CO, XO, S-4 officer, legal
officer, and Sergeant Major arrive in their private cars. Marine police (drug
squad) come with search dogs, sniff thru each room, find drugs, and the CO
punishes the ones caught.
During several weeks, we try to find and
bust every “druggie” we can. Squealer hears that one pilot and one navigator
(officers) in our squadron were at a clandestine “pot” party off base on a
weekend, smoking pot. He gives me the names of these 2 fellow aviators. I pass their names on to our XO.
Soon, Squealer catches me in private. “The
druggies are mad that they are getting chased, caught, and punished! They say
they are going to sneak LSD into the officers’ coffee pot in the ready room!”
Had they been
able to
do so, any aviator who
drank a good dose of that LSD-laced coffee would likely have to be permanently
terminated from pilot or navigator duty because a “bad trip” could reoccur any
time in the future (while they were in the skies at the controls of an A-6). I
report this word to the XO. He informs the CO. “Let’s all watch our coffee pot
carefully,” the CO tells us officers. That lame plan was the best plan the CO could
devise to combat the druggies’ deadly scheme. I was most glad that I do not
drink coffee.
One day, the druggies in the ground crew
sabotaged the Intruder I was to fly, by placing a
short (but stout) metal rod onto the brace of each of the two main
landing gear struts. Had those 2 rods stayed in place till I raised the landing gear after
takeoff, likely each brace would have broken loose as the strut and brace
folded together (to store away). Then I would get an “unsafe landing gear”
indication on my instrument panel. Likely I would go into a holding pattern,
and call for another A-6 to takeoff and fly up close under my bird to look at
the position and condition of my main landing gear. That pilot and I would
confer by radio with Ops Officer in the ready room (and with Tower), to decide
whether I would attempt to make an arrested landing on a foamed runway, or if I
would fly to the nearest uninhabited area for the B/N and I to eject, and let
the crippled plane crash. MURDERERS!
An honest ground crew member
found and removed one of the rods, before I came down to pre-flight (inspect) my bird.
Then, as I pre-flight (inspect) my Intruder with one sabotage rod still
in place, this eagle-eye pilot didn’t catch it. I missed spotting it. But God in Heaven saw to it, that another honest ground crew guy spotted it, and
removed it after I climbed
into the cockpit. (Thank God for the good
Marines in my squadron!) This in-house sabotage of my USA warplane was duly reported up the chain of command, but nothing ever came of it.
I thought that the enemies trying
to kill me would be the military of an enemy nation, NOT my fellow Marines who service my bomber. Truly, working with all the villains
listed in this chapter title, was a most vexing situation.
Moreover, officers just above me in rank
continue to give me more than my fair share of duty on weekends and holidays.
They continue to harass me verbally. Much
about the barracks and the villain Marines in it continue to be highly problematic. I had studied hard and
trained hard to become a
Marine pilot to fly airplanes, not
to be in constant conflict with (and
greatly endangered by) fellow
Marines in my squadron, because they were villains as listed in this chapter’s
title.
My
training at Quantico and then at Vance had been most harmonious and
tranquil (following a set schedule with excellent
instructors and commanders who mostly treated me fairly). I immensely
enjoyed the grand, manly adventures and challenges of
both of those extremely physically and mentally demanding training periods.
But this mess of criminals and harassers I’m now amongst is a totally different
world, one of constant turmoil. I drive to work each day pondering what new
disaster I’m likely to encounter today. That dark cloud constantly
hung over my soul, robbing me of joy in life!
“And it shall come to pass.”
Upon
driving home from work in the afternoons, I jog or take long walks on the sandy roads in Croatian Forest
behind my house, to vent off the stress and oppression I had endured that day
at work. God ordained for walking to
enhance thinking and tranquility and peace of mind! I naïvely assumed that the wisdom
that stirred amongst my 3 brain cells originated in my own being, when actually
it was my Precious Lord Jesus soothing me with His Help, Peace, Comfort, and
Assurance, with the following thoughts that He graciously put into my mind as I
walked and jogged with my Sweet Lord.
Richard Boy, FIRST OF ALL you are
getting a most valuable eye-opener
education about the sinfully unfair, oppressive, atrocious, vicious, destructive, and even deadly murderous ways of the
world. This valuable wisdom
will be most profitable in
enabling you to avoid again becoming entrapped in the devil’s world system, after you serve your
required time in the Marines and get discharged. Your required period of active-duty
time is daily passing behind
you. Be patient. Daily perform
your job and duties to the best of your abilities. And look forward with
great joy to the day when it completely shall come
to pass, that you are set free from this
enslavement to the devil’s world, upon the day of your discharge from military active duty.
Consider that 3 years and 8 months of
your active-duty time has already come
to pass. Be patient, and the remaining 1 year and 9 months shall
come to pass also. (And as I write this at age 78, I rejoice to
tell you that it happened exactly that way!)
SECONDLY, you accomplished your high goal (dream) of experiencing
the thrilling flying adventures
of piloting military jet attack warplanes. Of all the red-bloodied masculine
young males that dream of such, so very
few see that dream become reality. You (a little poor farm boy, of all creatures) did see
it become reality. So enjoy it to the fullest! You have the status of a U.S. Marine officer on his way to
promotion to captain. You have a good salary with many good fringe benefits. Be thankful for it all and enjoy it!
THIRDLY, to the utmost of your
ability, daily vigorously tackle and accomplish all the various
duties you have as a Marine First Lieutenant and Pilot, trusting in your
Saviour to safely guard your life in this most dangerous endeavor. Each day shall
come to pass!
So, each
afternoon it will be an immense relief to drive out the gate from Cherry Point
(leaving all that mess behind you both physically and
mentally). Driving into this quiet sandy lane to your country home, often you
are greeted with the precious sight of Brian (about 7) and little Susan (about
4) joyfully running from their next-door yard toward your car to greet
you. Enjoy it! You have a most blessed church life with many
good Christian friends close around, increasingly teaching and serving at
church. Enjoy all these blessings! Live for thy Lord and for these, His,
spiritual riches, milking them to the fullest!
“Oppressed
Pilot Boy, those numerous wonderful thoughts certainly could
not have originated in your 3 brain cells. They had to be from our Gracious
Lord!”
‘Amen!’
So, I
put those thoughts into action, each morning begging God to enable me to do my
daily tasks well and to keep me safe up in the high skies. I
felt so free when sailing thru
those spacious skies, high above all the villains in my
squadron’s hangar building and barracks. I have read what 2 different Soviet pilots wrote after they escaped out of that
oppressive nation. They well described the constant horrible oppression of communism, and what immense relief it was each time they flew the high and wide
and free skies.
I experienced the same feeling when
flying! Then, each afternoon, such great joy and relief it was to drive out the base’s gate, and cruise down wide
divided 4 lane U.S. 70 to soon turn into the sandy lane at my house, often to
the welcome sight of precious Brian and Susan
joyfully running to greet me like a family member. God led me to buy this house for this very reason also, thank God.
Just a (very long) stone’s throw away
from my “haven of rest” (my abode), Major Ops (oppressed by men, and, in turn, oppressor of men) lay down in the edge of the forest
near the road, put the loaded shotgun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Thank
Thee, my Precious Lord Jesus, for Divinely upholding me amidst all that ungodly
oppression and danger!
So, I soak myself in church, attending
every service and event I possibly can in several surrounding churches.
Fellowship with a host of Christian friends greatly fortifies me!
Fred (my buddy from Auburn Navy ROTC)
comes to mind. ‘If he survived a year on the Viet Nam killing fields, he should
be back stateside by now. If he chose to come to the east coast of the U.S.
(which he likely would choose), he should now be just south of me at Camp Lejeune,
North Carolina.’ I call either public telephone Information for his area or the
Marine Camp Information, and Bingo!
Fred was listed. Praise God, the Viet Cong didn’t kill this close Marine buddy of mine! It’s a joy to hear his voice when I call his
number.
Fred and his wife invite my sweetheart
and me down to their house for supper on a Saturday evening. Upon serving half
of his year in Nam, Fred came to the States on R and R, and got married. He
wrote to me at Vance AFB to ask if I would be in his wedding (somewhere on the
east coast). I replied that it was a long way from me, and that my flight
training schedule was full and tight. ‘It’s just not possible for me to take off to attend your wedding.’
Thus, I begged out, but I was most honored that he asked me.
So, on this Saturday in spring of 1973,
we four have a nice evening in Fred’s house. After supper, as the two ladies
are talking together and I’m reminiscing much with Fred, he removes a “partial
plate” from the side of his upper row of teeth, and soon puts it back in.
‘What happened to your teeth?’
“One night we got overrun by the VC, and
an enemy grenade fragment hit me there on the side of the mouth, taking out 2
(or 3?) teeth.” Fred answered ever so calmly.
Thank God, that grenade didn’t take off
the side of his face and kill him, as happened to our Auburn buddy John!
“And
it shall come to pass.” And along about now,
much to my delightful surprise, much of the trouble I daily battle in
VMA 121 vanishes, and I sail into calm waters at work.
Thank
Thee, My Precious Lord Jesus, for being my Stay, my Safety, my Shield, my
Comfort, my Deliverer, and My ALL IN ALL!
The
End Of Chapter 25