Chapter 24

BY THE SEA SIDE

(Marine Corps Air Station Cherry Point, Havelock, North Carolina. Part 1: From late April 1971 to the end of September 1972)

The next morning upon reporting for work at VMT 203, I keep my ears wide open as I learn much from official “lecturing” and thru the grapevine mainly consisting of the fellow pilot trainees around me. Previously, upon reporting for duty at Quantico and at Vance, I immediately started a rigidly structured training program in which I mainly followed clear and firmly set schedules and orders to the best of my ability. I liked the simplicity of that because it made for smooth operation of that training. But right now at Cherry Point, the situation is more “fluid” and in somewhat of a mild upheaval, causing frequent frustration I had not thus far encountered on military active duty. I now enter the nitty-gritty of military life.

At this time the United States is steadily withdrawing its military out of Viet Nam and nearby air bases in Thailand. The U.S. is soon to cease sending Marine pilots to fight in Nam. Therefore they slow down this phase of pilot training, resulting in the start of my advanced pilot training in VMT 203 being put on hold for a few months.

I’m told to report in to work each morning at 8 AM and to sit around in the ready room thru noon. If the officers in charge find “busy work” for us, they assign it to us. After the lunch hour, if no work had been assigned to me for the afternoon, I’m free to leave for the day (on most workdays). So I suddenly find myself in an entirely different life from my previous daily intense training. “Hurry up and wait!” military personnel say of such (while shaking their heads in frustration).

Each morning in the ready room and at mealtimes at the officers’ chow hall, I listen much and ask many questions trying to familiarize myself with this “fluid” situation. I mention to a pilot buddy that I had to take a BOQ room because they were available. “No, you don’t have to take that room! Those rooms are now rated “substandard” because of the age of the old BOQ building. Because of that rating, you can vacate that room, apply for your housing allowance and get it.”

So I do that, now wanting to live off base because I have that choice here at Cherry Point. I check out of the BOQ and started staying nights in a cheap motel outside the base gate as I look for an apartment to rent. That apartment search quickly became frustrating, as rental “housing” in the immediate surrounding area is full up because of the large number of Marines returning here from Asia (mainly Viet Nam and Thailand).

Cherry Point is presently bloated with Marines. Searching diligently several afternoons, I find each prospective rental place to be full up. Daily rates at the motel quickly add up to expensive lodging. Also, it’s a most unsettled living situation. My few personal belongings are in boxes in the Thunderbird’s back seat and trunk (which I always keep locked). I’m desirous to get out of that motel into “more settled” living quarters.

Thank God that in just a few days, while chatting with fellow pilots in the ready room, Lt. Dudley mentions that an F-4 pilot he knows had bought a mobile home and wants to rent out the spare bedroom in it. I quickly contact First Lieutenant Will, soon drive the 8 miles or so down to Newport to find his mobile home in a quiet and attractive “trailer” park setting on a back road. Will shows me the small 2^nd bedroom at one end of the trailer. I rent it cheaply and soon move in “temporarily” while I keep searching for something more suitable. It’s a great relief to finally to unload my belongings from the car and put them into this room.

Will gives me my own door key and charges me either $40 or $50 monthly rent but doesn’t charge for utilities. I pay him cash each month. This rental transaction is so simple, no bothersome contracts, fees, or any red tape; just hand over cash to a fellow pilot to abide in his mobile home.

The monthly housing allowance that I now start receiving is $120 (I think). With the short commute of 8 miles one way (and cheap gasoline), I’m ahead financially with this arrangement. It’s an immense relief to be out of that daily rate motel tho it was a cheap one costing about $15 per night. (But multiply that by 30 to see it come to $450 monthly!)

So I now share the living room, kitchen and bath with Will. Each of us is out of the “house” much of the time, so there’s practically no conflict. Most every day I eat lunch at the officers’ chow hall on base (and usually supper also on the few workdays that I stay on base all day).

Along about now, one day as I sit eating lunch in the officers’ chow hall, from off to my side I hear a familiar voice call out to me.

“Hey, Yerby!”

I had not yet seen the caller. But I immediately recognized the voice as that of Jim W. from Navy ROTC at Auburn. (Back in Chapter 21 I told you that Major Cleveland at Auburn told me that Jim had been killed in Viet Nam.) So from that day till this day, I thought my buddy Jim was dead. But this voice calling me didn’t sound dead at all. I look up and there’s Jim, big as life. That was a joy to see! He joins me for lunch as we catch up on news. I calmly mention to him what Major Cleveland had told me.

“No, that was my brother that got killed in Nam.”

I tell Jim I’m sorry to hear about his brother. Jim is now a RIO (a radio intercept operator) that flies in the back cockpit of an F-4 Phantom.

At this point, I’ll tell how my personal life is shaping up in North Carolina, as I’m not flying or doing much on base. At the lunch table in the chow hall a fellow pilot said he was looking for a house to buy. Upon hearing that, a light bulb lit up in my dark brain. ‘Buying a house is a wise idea. Rental housing is full up. If I can find a house to buy, each monthly house payment will build up equity in that property.’ So I start looking for a cheap house for sale.

Till this day, I had never considered buying a house (more space than a bachelor needs, plus I won’t live in this area very many years). But (with time) I came to know that it was God’s Will for me to obtain my own house here. By His Grace, I did so, and living in that house and in its location became a tremendous blessing to me.

Returning to Will’s trailer early most afternoons, I frequently jog 3 miles or so on nearby deserted, quiet, sandy roads. Most of the year at Vance, I had exercised insufficiently (in my own opinion). So with plenty of free time now, I try to make up for it and immediately see my stamina increase close to the level it was at TBS in Quantico.

As I jog thru loose sand that necessitates more effort (and thus gives a better work out) I take in this new scenery of the “sand hills” of coastal North Carolina. (To me, it’s not as attractive as the Virginia hills or Oklahoma plains, but the nearby ocean is most beautiful.) By now it is hot weather and I return to Will’s trailer soaked with sweat, take a shower, change into clean clothes and eat supper. If Will is home, I ask him how it is to pilot the F-4 Phantom and we fellow pilots chat about flying and such.

I think I arrived at Cherry Point on a Tuesday evening (having left Florida the previous morning). The following night (Wednesday) I attended Pleasant Acres Free Will Baptist Church about 12 miles from Cherry Point going west on U.S. Hwy 70. The church is located on old US Hwy 70 (now a back road) near New Bern. I knew about this church because I saved its name and address when I saw it listed on Evangelist Bobby Jackson’s revival schedule some months ago (because I expected to come to Cherry Point). The Wednesday night service and the friendly people blessed me (especially Pastor Outland who was most welcoming to me.) Each time I moved to a new place, the most important thing was to go right to church to attend the services and to make Christian friends.

Upon moving into Will’s trailer in Newport about 8 miles east from Havelock (in the opposite direction from New Bern and Pleasant Acres church) toward the coast, I start visiting the Free Will Baptist churches further along that easterly direction in Morehead City, Beaufort, Davis and Stacy right along the coast on an ocean hwy. Take a look on a map of the locations of these towns in a lovely low-lying coastal and ocean area (with clouds of mosquitoes). I just soaked in this lovely scenery that’s new to me and enjoy it to the fullest. Each and every bit of God’s creation is most lovely and I relish the change of lovely scenery each time I relocate to a different spot on this globe!

Tho I do not start flying for a few months, I have various other “work” to do at intervals. First off, I’m scheduled for a pilot’s medical physical exam at the Navy hospital on base to determine if I’m physically qualified to be a military pilot. Going thru that checkup again, as soon as the Navy doctor’s ear was available to me, I tell him that just a few weeks ago I had received a pilot’s medical checkup at Vance AFB and passed with flying colors.

His face immediately takes on a serious look (as the Air Force doctor’s face had done about a year ago when I told him I had just had a checkup by a Navy doctor). Now, this Navy doc firmly lectures me about how Navy doctors give these exams correctly, clearly indicating that an Air Force doc might not do so. It sounded like he was reading from the same cue card as that AF doc a year ago, just reversing the places where he said “Navy” and “Air Force”. “Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.” Truly, all that is of this world is vanity!

I’m required to take a weeklong “Escape and Evasion” course that trains us pilots and navigators what to do if we are shot down over Viet Nam and possibly captured. In the classroom we are taught ways to evade the enemy that is searching for us, to forage for eatable plants and animals in the nature around us, and such.

Then we are taken out to the forest near the Neuse River to live off the land a couple of days, eating plant leaves, roots, bulbs and such, digging clams on the shore of the Neuse and killing and eating the snakes we saw. When I return from walking thru the forest foraging for edibles, a moccasin was lying on top of my canvas “lean to” that I had stretched out and tied between trees to sleep under that night.

‘So, you came to sleep with me, serpent foe?’ I kill him and we cut him up and put him in the pot along with a jumble of such edibles and boil it all for supper. Tasted terrible. It was apparent that poisonous serpent wanted to spend the night with me. So I let him spend the night in my tummy and in a few buddies’ tummies. Likely he was more comfortable there than I was sleeping on the hard ground with ticks crawling in, seeking a blood donation. I was definitely more comfortable with him in our tummies than if he had been crawling around on me as I slept.

Then at the end of the 2^nd day, they throw us into a P.O.W. camp, beat and torture us as they interrogate us into the early night. Two other guys and I hold out under torture and beating, refusing to answer any of their questions. They cracked one of those guy’s ribs, kicking him as he lay on the ground. The other 9 guys caved in and “squealed”.

After all that horror, they treat us with chopped up raw earthworms in hot sauce for a late supper, served out of a genuine (and dirty) turtle shell into rusty cans. Had I known what it was, I would not have eaten it. We each ate that from our individual rusty tin can with our fingers (no silverware was issued).

Personally, I don’t think such suffering during training would help me do any better upon encountering the real thing at the hands of the enemy. It did make us plenty mad at the officers and non-commissioned officers who meted out that pain to us. At the end of the course late Friday night, they haul us back to the main area of the base, quickly dismiss us (because we were boiling mad at them) and tell us to go home and come back the next morning for the classroom debriefing of that training.

As we each drive away that night in our private vehicles (mad as could be in our bruised, scraped and somewhat bloodied conditions), if one of those “instructors” had stepped off a sidewalk into the path of one of our cars, it is possible that the last thing he would remember on this earth would have been the roar of a car engine speeding up.

We have to go to work Saturday morning to be debriefed on our torture. By then, we are only slightly less mad at those tormentors who now debrief us. Last night, we ate that supper not knowing what its contents were. The earthworms covered with red sauce looked like noodles. We were not able to discern their taste because the hot sauce set our mouths on fire. As they now debrief us, our stomachs churn as they tell us it was earthworms. Last night, after each of us ate 1 rusty can of hot sauce worms, those tormentors asked who wanted seconds. Only one hungry guy (out of about 12) took seconds and ate them. Now when we learn what we ate, we rib that buddy to no end. “But I was hungry,” he replied. Good enough reason!

For years, that “torture training” had been conducted for all Marine aviators. But not long after I endured it without squealing, our nation’s government in Washington, D.C. outlawed it as being unnecessary cruelty. I heartily agree!

Soon after Sunday morning church the following day, I ride with fellow pilot Lt. Dan M. (in his car) down to MCAS Beaufort, South Carolina for a week of classes on the A-F Skyhawk, learning everything about that fast and deadly bird that is required knowledge for its pilot. I sit thru those classes convalescing from last week’s physical abuse, muddy water draining out my nose from my sinuses because they had held me down, pouring swamp water over my nose and mouth to induce me to talk. Thought I would drown! Still, I didn’t squeal.

It’s the policy for Marine officers to annually return to the rifle range and pistol range to practice target shooting and then shoot for score. (Must stay qualified in the use of those weapons.) I had no chance to do that the year I was on the AF base in Oklahoma. So I soon spend a week each on those two firing ranges here at Cherry Point. I liked firearms and always enjoyed this annual event. It was one of the easiest things I did in the Marines and I enjoyed the challenge of getting a “Sharp Shooter” score several years. (From top down, I told you the 3 divisions were, Sharp Shooter, Expert, and Marksman.)

Living in Will’s cheap room is reasonably suitable to me, so now I don’t rush to relocate. I visit realtors, searching for a somewhat old and small cheap house (giving my work and home phone numbers to each realtor.) After some weeks, a realtor located right outside the base gate tells me he had gotten a listing I might be interested in. I ride with him to the house and look at it and its 2 acres of property. The owner family is presently living in it, but wants to sell and relocate.

The small, white, wood frame house is simple and somewhat old. I think the total price was about $12,000, including the 2 acres of property. The realtor informed me that I could pay the owner the small amount of equity he had in the house and assume his present loan that had a low monthly payment of $75. The realtor said I could assume that loan thru the Veterans’ Administration because I’m on active duty in the military. I had practically no knowledge of such. So the friendly realtor (desirous to make the sell) was a great help. Prayerfully considering all aspects for just a few days, I made the decision to buy that house. In less than a year, I came to fully believe that was God’s Will for me, and I thank my Lord for that provision. (Much more on this story later.)

Upon deciding to purchase, I must give the owner family sufficient time to move out. Then I spend just a few days cleaning up the interior before moving in. It helps that I don’t have to spend much time in VMT 203. I paint interior walls and have carpet laid in the living room, borrowing money from the Cherry Point Credit Union, which I recently joined. During that time, the Tipton family stops by to visit me on their way from Ft. Myers, Florida to Fredericksburg, Virginia on a summer vacation trip to visit family. I show them my newly purchased house and ask for pointers on a few things regarding it. After 3 hours or so, they go on their way.

It was about July 1971 when I cleared my few belongings out of my bedroom in Will’s trailer, thanked him for his kindness to me, and moved into my own house for the 1^st time in my life (at age 25).

To drive to my newly purchased house from Will’s trailer on the back road in Newport, I get onto nearby U.S Hwy 70, drive west thru Havelock (passing near the base gate) and proceed on west on Hwy 70 toward New Bern to the Riverdale community about 10 miles from the Marine base’s main gate in Havelock. There, I turn left off U.S. 70 to cross the railroad tracks less than 100 yards from Hwy 70. Upon crossing the tracks, there is an immediate right turn onto a narrow, sandy road that parallels the tracks to the last of 3 or 4 houses along that “trail” and on the left side of it (with the RR on the right side).

My house is the next to last house on this short, dead end road. Gene and Evelyn live next to my property in the last house with their son (Brian, about 7) and daughter (Susan, about 4). They are members at Pleasant Acres church. So I quickly become friends with these next-door neighbors. Pleasant Acres church is only about 2 miles past my house going on toward New Bern. An elderly couple Mr. and Mrs. Tomlinson live in the large old house just before mine. It felt good to now be living between local people off base and to become somewhat a part of the community.

While living in Will’s trailer in Newport, I visited most every Free Will Baptist Church on down the coast from Newport, as I previously related. Upon moving to a New Bern address, I visit the other 2 Free Will Baptist churches in New Bern (Ruth’s Chapel and Sherwood Forest) while visiting Pleasant Acres also. I decide to make Pleasant Acres my home church while living here. It’s much closer to my house than the other 2 churches in New Bern. Also, the people, the pastor, the preaching and most everything about this church seem more suited to me than the other 2 churches. Likely by September (1971), I’m firmly gravitating toward Pleasant Acres.

During college days, I attended Auburn First Baptist Church most weeks I was in Auburn. Also I was active in the BSU. But I did not officially join that church and was somewhat considered a visitor (being a student). The entire time I was at Quantico and at Enid, I lived on base and was always a visitor in various surrounding churches I attended each week.

Now I choose one church, live off base amongst local folks only about 2 miles from that church and my next-door neighbors are members of the same church. I soon come to know without any doubt that this church was God’s Choosing for me.

So, for the 1^st time since moving out of Daddy’s house in early January 1965, I now feel like I am part of a community and a nearby church. Apart from my boyhood home, this is the only other place I become a part of the local neighborhood (before leaving the States for Japan). Thus, I am most grateful for this particular experience in North Carolina.

I do not start pilot training at Cherry Point till late November this year (1971). Until then I have much free time, often leaving work at noon. I continue to do minor repairs on the interior of this well-worn house. On the first of August, I now have two years “in grade” (since receiving my commission as an officer). That brings a welcomed pay raise.

I attend revival services, Saturday night youth meetings and such “special” services in churches in the area. Evangelist Bobby Jackson lives in nearby Greenville, N.C. One weekend when he was at home, he let me come spend Saturday night in his house and attend church with them on Sunday. This is a period of much rich Christian fellowship that gives me spiritual growth and fans my desire to serve the Lord full time.

On 23 August 1971 (exactly 2 years after graduating from Auburn) I fly in a pilot’s cockpit for the first time at Cherry Point. This is a backseat (rear cockpit) ride in my training squadron’s TA-4. When I did 2-plane formation training at Vance, each of the 2 planes had a student pilot in the front seat and each of the 2 students took turns “leading” and “following” as we went thru various formation maneuvers. Here at VMT 203, the Marines sent up 1 plane with student pilot and instructor pilot occupying the 2 cockpits.

But the 2^nd plane had no one in the rear cockpit, only an instructor pilot in the front seat. (A waste of much taxpayer money, that empty seat.) Anyway, any of us student pilots in the squadron could ask to fly along in that seat. I began to do so to familiarize myself with the A-4. And the instructor in the front cockpit would let me take the controls and pilot the plane a while when we were up at altitude. Again the next day, August 24^th, I take another free ride in an empty back seat.

“Pilot Richard, now that we have arrived at the beginning of the dates recorded in your Navy pilot’s log book, you are going to bore us with many exact dates and more details, aren’t you?”

‘I’m afraid so! But you had better get used to it, because in just over 2 more years I will start keeping a daily diary. Then I will have volumes more with which to bore you.’

We pilots are required to read military aircraft accident reports detailing accidents of military aircraft in all 4 branches of the military. Those reports come in to each squadron as accidents occur, and we are to read and learn from them to glean wisdom that will hopefully save us from causing a similar accident. Reading those reports regularly, I’m shocked to read of a Vance AFB T-38 crashing, killing both instructor and student pilot aboard it. Vance AF Base had one of the best safety records of all Air Force bases. Thus this crash with 2 fatalities was most rare. This may have been the first fatal crash of a Vance plane. The pilots’ names were not given in these reports (for privacy). I wondered if the instructor pilot was one I had come to know at Vance.

Likely it was along about now (late summer) that Captain Doug ⑨ arrived here in my squadron at Cherry Point from Vance AF Base, to train in the TA-4. Upon Doug arriving here from Vance, I asked him if he knew the name of the instructor who was killed in the crash.

“Yes, it was 1^st Lieutenant R.”

I told you of Lt. R. ⑩ coming to Vance as a new, green instructor pilot shortly before I left there and that I considered him to be lax and careless, not nearly as cautious and alert as an instructor pilot should be if he values his life and the life of his student. He and a student pilot flew from Vance to a base on the west coast on a cross-country flight. As they took off from that base to head back to Vance, their departure route took them out over the Pacific Ocean a ways. Departing in thick smog, their T-38 crashed into the ocean. Because both pilots died, not many more details were available.

Even as a student pilot, I knew that when flying in clouds, fog, smog, smoke (or any such thing that obscures vision) the pilot is subject to vertigo and that he must be most cautious and alert to fly using the instruments in his cockpit, believing those instruments even tho his vertigo-disoriented head is telling him differently. Very likely, this student pilot got disoriented from vertigo, causing him to roll the plane at a large angle (close to inverted), which sent it plunging into the ocean near below. In that smog, Instructor R. should have had his eyes most alertly glued to his instruments in his cockpit and should have taken control from the student when he saw the student starting to “err”.

Likely that crash could have easily been prevented had the instructor pilot been alert and on the ball. Thorough search by air and sea failed to turn up any piece of the airplane or the 2 pilots. All went to a watery Pacific grave to stay there. Captain Doug’s time to die in a careless crash is coming soon. (You can see that Captain Doug’s number is lower than Lt. R.’s number. That’s because I number these “KIA” buddies in the order I met them, not in the order they were killed.)

Coming here to VMT 203 at Cherry Point, I again meet up with Midshipman Kurt ⑤ whom I first met in OCS at Quantico in the summer of 1968. He is now a 1^st Lt., as I am. And he is 203 to train alongside me in the TA-4. He is still as big a jokester as he was in 1968. He doesn’t take piloting seriously enough. He is self confident, careless and lacks caution. The Grim Reaper is already waiting at a future crash site to terribly crush Kurt to death also.

I told of 2^nd Lt. Wayne ⑥ graduating from Auburn University the same day I did (23 August 1969) and being commissioned as a Marine 2^nd Lieutenant on that day, just as I was. I think Wayne went straight from Auburn to Navy pilot training at Pensacola, Florida. Now I meet up with Wayne here in VMT 203. He is ahead of me in the TA-4 training here, and is now a 1^st lieutenant, of course.

In late summer or early fall this year (1971) Wayne marries a young lady (that he met in this area, I think). They have a military wedding in Cherry Point’s base chapel. Wayne asks me to be one of the “Honor Guard” members at his wedding. I agree to do so. I wear my Summer Dress White uniform with my sword. We 8 or so Honor Guard members stand in 2 lines of four men each, facing each other across an “aisle” with our drawn swords raised outward and touching the raised sword of the Marine opposite each of us to form an arch with our raised drawn swords. The bride and groom walk out thru that arch at the end of the wedding. (That was the only time I wore my Marine officers’ sword the entire time I was on active duty.)

Here in Squadron 203, I meet 1^st Lieutenant Joey ⑪ for the first time. He is a good pilot, smart, alert, cautious, and he is outgoing and pleasant to be around. Joey and I become quite good friends. He and Lieutenant Wayne ⑥ will both be sent to MCAS Iwakuni, Japan (as I will be sent). From Iwakuni, they will be sent back here to Cherry Point while I head to a missionary language school after getting discharged from active duty at Iwakuni. They will die together in the same plane when it crashes here at Cherry Point in early 1975.

I also meet First Lieutenant Jerry B. ⑫ here in 203. Training together, we become quite good buddies. A few years later, both Jerry and his navigator will eject low level from his A-6 shortly after takeoff here at Cherry Point. Each hits the concrete runway hard shortly after each flyer’s parachute opens. The hard impact crushed 1 or more vertebrae in the navigator’s upper back. But he survived. One or more vertebrae in Jerry’s neck were crushed, killing him instantly.

I told you of meeting 1^st Lt. Dudley here in VMT 203. (He told me of Lt. Will and then I rented Will’s spare room till I bought my house.) Dudley hung around with several F-4 pilots. In November, Dudley tells me a flight of 2 Phantoms is flying cross-country on a weekend with 1 or both rear cockpits empty. I go over to the F-4 squadron and get permission to occupy one of the rear cockpits for the weekend. The best part is that they are to fly to Columbus (Mississippi) AF Base (near Daddy’s house) on Friday. So most happily, I finally get to fly to Columbus, in that rear cockpit.

My plans to go on this flight come up somewhat abruptly before it departs Cherry Point, so I don’t have time to call any family members to tell them I’m coming. The pilot of the bird I fly in is from a town north of Columbus. His Dad drove to the base to take him to their house. I ask them if I can ride with them to my brother’s (Joe) house in Smithville, Mississippi. It’s right on their way home, so they readily agree to take me there.

Joe and Mavis are somewhat surprised when I show up at their house unannounced, about bedtime. We 3 soon get into Joe’s car and talk much as we drive to Janiece’s house in Tupelo to visit with her just a few minutes. Then we drive on to Dad’s house. I think Daddy was already in bed, and had to get up when we come. Joe and Mavis soon head back to their house, so that was all I saw of them and Janiece on this trip. (Fast moving, jet set, pilot boy!)

The next day, Saturday, Daddy drives me the 12 miles or so to my other brother’s (Sidney) house to visit briefly before Sidney drives Daddy and me back to the Air Force base. Sidney works on that base as a civilian worker, so he has a permit to drive onto base (tho my military ID would have gotten us thru the gate). I take them with me into the flight operations building that I will exit to go out to my airplane.

While filling out my copy of our flight route, I hear a familiar voice call my name. I look up and see Sam B. with whom I had worked in the girls’ dining hall on campus at Auburn. He graduated about 2 years before I did. Sam went thru Air Force ROTC at Auburn, became a pilot, and now he is an instructor pilot in the T-38 here at Columbus. We tell each other what little we know of mutual friends (from dining hall days) and soon it’s time for me to climb into that cockpit.

Daddy and Sidney come out as close to our F-4s as they are allowed to do. We wave to each other as our 2 birds leave the chocks and taxi out to take off in close formation in full burner (afterburner). The next time Daddy wrote me, he said that he and Sidney watched our 2 Phantoms rise in the sky till we disappeared from their sight. I was glad I got to fly home and briefly see my family (after 2 failed attempts to fly to Columbus from Vance). All my family was happy also.

Taking off from Columbus AF Base on Saturday, we fly 2 legs (flights) and end up at Naval Air Station, Oceana, Virginia to spend the night. The next day (Sunday) we fly 2 more legs and end up back home at Cherry Point. Truly, those days of my youth were an adventurous life. On the spur of the moment, I rush to throw a few clothes and things into a small bag, store that bag into a tiny compartment of this fighter jet, and hop into the back cockpit of an F-4 Phantom to fly here and there in the southeastern U.S. We called these free rides “joy rides”.

In late November 1971, I start my official pilot training here in VMT 203, after having taken several “joy rides” in the TA-4’s back cockpit. Now I get into the front cockpit with my instructor in the back cockpit to yell at me. (Sometimes I wish I had my own ejection lever for his seat, so that when I get tired of his yelling, I could just pull that lever and shoot him out the roof of the plane.)

On 11 different days throughout December 1971, I fly one training flight each day. That’s a normal schedule for the present slow-paced pilot training here at Cherry Point, slowed down due to our nation ceasing its military action in Viet Nam. Several of my instructor pilots had recently returned from a year in Viet Nam, attacking enemy targets on the ground from the A-4 Skyhawk. They had interesting war stories to tell us.

I do not go home to Vernon for Christmas 1971. I stay put at my house in North Carolina and enjoy a few days off from work for Christmas and New Year’s. I enjoy much blessed fellowship with Christian friends at Pleasant Acres Church. The Hart family invites me to their house for their family’s Christmas Dinner (lunch). That was most kind of them and I ate to the full of the Hart ladies’ delicious cooking.

I rejoice that Pleasant Acres steadily becomes my home church. Those kind people accept me well and make me feel at home. The church has several Christmas functions. I enjoy them all. They hold a young people’s Christmas banquet. I ask a young lady in the church to be my date for that banquet, and was most happy that she agreed. We two start dating and continue to date till I leave that church to go to Japan.

God gave me blessed Christian fellowship when I was stationed at Quantico and at Vance. But from Quantico I drove over 20 miles for that fellowship. At Vance, I drove about 110 miles for the good Christian fellowship I found. Those long distances were inconvenient. Now I feel richly blessed to be in a good church only 2 miles from my house, with the family next door to me also members of the same church.

Capping the history of 1971, I may not have gotten a COLA pay raise in November this year. In a dumb attempt to halt runaway inflation, President Nixon froze all wages and prices in our nation (for a period of time). You might want to search that history briefly to study how greatly that act shocked our nation, and the unexpected immediate shocking results that popped right up.

For example, evening TV news showed a chicken farmer burying 10,000 or so baby chicks because if he fed them out and sold them at the current price a few months from now, he would lose big money. His profit margin was hinged on creeping inflation. If the price remains locked, his best financial option (upon our nation’s president’s stupid command) was to immediately cease feeding his chicks, kill them, and bury them all. Seeing that news, the nation cried out in shocked unbelief. That was a lot of chicks that didn’t make it onto anyone’s dinner table. And it wasn’t an isolated incident of such. If you care to search our nation’s history from 1970 thru 1974, likely you will be plenty shocked at similar upheavals never before known in our nation.

1972 arrives and I soon turn 26 years old. From the start of 1972 thru mid-April, I take from 10 to 17 TA-4 Skyhawk training flights each month, now going at this pilot training regularly. In January, I fly a cross-country to Pensacola, Florida, (with a major in the back cockpit instructing me) spend one night and fly back the next day. In February, I fly the Skyhawk solo for the first time. Oh, how I liked leaping into the air in a small fast jet with no other human soul aboard. I felt so free up in the high sky all alone.

I practice day and night formation flights. Practicing night formation maneuvers in small, fast military jets will keep you on your toes, elevating your heartbeat and blood pressure to about the same high altitude the plane is flying. Getting into my T-Bird after a night formation flight, it felt so easy to drive that car on 4-lane, divided U.S. Highway 70 as I drove home.

I practice dive bombing (dropping inert 26-pound practice bombs) onto Bombing Target (BT) 9 or BT 11. These bombing targets are stationary barges anchored in the waters of Pamlico Sound near Cherry Point. These small inert bombs have a smoke charge in the nose that detonates on impact and sends up white smoke, so the pilot can spot the impact point and keep trying to improve his aim.

I practice dropping napalm on a target range on land. I practice low level strafing with the plane’s 20 mm cannon at that same “land” target range. Every 5^th shell (or so) is a tracer. I roll in, line up on target, squeeze that cannon’s trigger on my control stick, listen to the muffled “burp-burp” sound and watch those flaming tracer shells fly out in front of the plane in automatic fire! That strafing was most fun, as was firing the inert 2.75-inch rockets! Roll in on target! Squeeze (trigger) off one rocket! Watch that flaming torch shoot toward its target on the ground! Fun! Fun!

“Pilot boy Richard, you sound like a big kid.”

‘Ditto!! Lots of males wish they could be such a big kid!’

I practice low-level fight at about 500 miles per hour, 100 feet above the ground, skimming the treetops in those pine forests, keenly watching the ground radar altimeter in the cockpit. Those pine trees just a few feet under me sure flash by fast!

One instructor pilot kept yelling at me to get down to 50 feet above the ground (to stay under enemy radar). I didn’t obey him well. I’ll take the chance of flying that close to death in actual war with actual enemy radar searching for me. But that is how Captain “Law” ⑦ gets killed along about this time. TBS Class Honor Graduate was skimming treetops at 500 MPH in a TA-4 when he got just a little too low. Those trees shredded his airplane, shredding his body and his genius’ brain.

Thank God I was dumb enough to fly just a few feet higher to allow God to keep my body (along with my 3 brain cells) intact, though the functioning ability of my 3 brain cells is presently deteriorating with old age, especially the one brain cell that writes my autobiography.

“That is most apparent to both of us readers, writer boy!”

We practice aircraft carrier arrested landings and catapult shot takeoffs at nearby Bogue Field, built like a carrier deck. I fly solo for most of this training, the pilot instructor standing on the ground beside my touchdown point. Captain Barksdale was “Paddles”, standing beside the touchdown point at Bogue Field, instructing us on the radio as we practice many touch and go landings.

After several practice flights of touch and go landings only, the time comes when his voice comes into my headset inside my helmet. “Drop your hook.” Student pilot’s blood turns to ice water in his veins, as he strives with minute power and altitude corrections to touch down at the exact optimum point for the hook to arrest that thick cable lying across the narrow metal runway. That abruptly stops the fast jet, just like a clothesline across your neck when you are running full speed across the backyard in the dark. Nighttime carrier landing practice is what really gives a pilot premature gray hair.

Catapult shot takeoffs are fun, like being shot from a slingshot! This kid enjoyed practicing those (day and night)! I taxi the TA-4 over the catapult installed into the metal housing beneath. The ground crew fastens the catapult to my bird. I release brakes because that strong fastening holds my plane firmly, even as I now go full throttle with the power. I must be careful to keep my feet off the two brake pedals because the catapult’s strong power will shoot the plane down the short runway (anyway) and it will blow both tires if my dumb feet are pressing the brake pedals.

With my left hand grasping the throttle at full power, I wrap those four fingers around the metal bar “holder” attached to the firewall just in front of the throttle grip. That is to prevent the strong inertia of this slingshot from inadvertently causing me to pull the throttle back, reducing engine power. I have the elevator trim set at “takeoff”. I take my right hand off the control stick and place it on my right thigh. If I grasp the “stick”, the inertia will cause me to pull the stick back, sending the plane into a steep climb (which would bring on a stall).

At full power, I give each of my engine instruments a quick glance (final check), nod my head to the ground crewman and then firmly push my head (helmet) back against the headrest. If I do not, the inertia will slam my head back against that headrest. Upon seeing my head nod, the ground crewman signals the catapult operator who releases the slingshot and this kid flies out of there and is immediately airborne. As soon as the catapult’s inertia fades, I grasp the stick to now maneuver the plane myself, release my left fingers from the grip bar, insert one hand into my mouth to push my heart from my throat back down into my chest, and fly on. Fun! Fun! Big boys’ toys!

I fly many carrier qualification flights in March, having 2 flights a day on 2 different days.

I practice day and nighttime aerial refueling, flying the Skyhawk up behind an airborne C-130 (just below that plane to avoid its prop wash), aim my plane’s fueling probe into the cone-shaped basket and on into the “socket” in the center of that basket at the end of a fuel hose (about 100 feet long, trailing behind, and a little below, the C-130). When my probe completely fastens into that socket, the C-130 pilot radios me that he has received that signal on his instrument panel. Then he throws a switch to send fuel into my plane’s tanks as we continue carefully flying (hooked together by a hose with jet fuel flowing thru it). This procedure is most difficult and dangerous in the dark.

“Pilot boy, do you say that to make us admire you or feel sorry for you?”

‘Take your pick. I’m not practicing mind control!’

(A different subject now.) One Friday I was duty officer. After doing all the evening duties and checking the guard posted on the flight line, I hop in my bunk there in the squadron building for sweet dreams. About 11 PM, my duty clerk awakens me. “Sir, base police (MP’s) just called. They have arrested Staff Sergeant B. for drunken driving.” I get up, get into uniform and drive to the MP hut next to the main gate. The police release our squadron’s drunken sergeant into my custody. (He will stand trial later.) His wife and daughter (about 14 years old) are here. I release him to his wife’s custody and order him to go home and sleep it off. So the wife gets into her driver’s seat to haul her 2 folks home.

I drive back to my squadron and again hop into my rack in search of those sweet dreams. But it was a vain search. Less than 2 hours later, my duty clerk awakens me again. “Sir, the police have Staff Sergeant B. in custody again.”

‘He got back into his car again and went driving?’

“No, Sir! This time the charge is assault and battery on his wife.”

I drive back to the same MP hut, they release him into my custody and I tell him I am taking him to the squadron building to sleep it off there, instead of taking him back home to beat up on his Honey. He doesn’t like that news and says he must go home and get a few articles he will need to spend the night on a bunk in the squadron building. So I drive him to his simple mobile home in a low class trailer park about 2 miles away. His wife greets me with pain, grief and anger ever so profound on her face, showing me light wounds on her face, arms and legs. Their precious daughter is quiet and despondent.

I go in, sit down, and make friends with them (about 2 AM). I speak of Jesus and invite them to come to church with me on Sunday. He shows me his commendation hanging on the wall that he received for valor in Viet Nam. Both he and wife are drunkards. I feel so sorry for them as he shows me that piece of paper in a frame, trying to focus on something great in his sin-ruined life.

‘Sir, please let me stay at home tonight. I’ll behave.”

‘No way! I can’t take the chance. Let’s go!’ I take him back to the squadron and hop into my rack for about 4 hours of sleep. He racks out in a different room. He comes back to me early Saturday morning, anxious to go home. I take him home, after a duty night of U.S. Marine Corps drunken, violent nightmares instead of sweet dreams.

On 21 March 1972 (as lovely spring arrives), I fly my last training flight in the Navy Skyhawk in squadron VMT 203. Soon the squadron has a small graduation ceremony. I take the Air Force silver pilot wings off my chest and pin on Navy pilot wings of gold (along with about 4 other fellow pilot graduates). Those wings are supposedly the most coveted pilot wings, worn by a pilot who can land fast jet aircraft on a moving aircraft carrier at sea.

“Well, cream-of-the-crop pilot boy, did receiving those U.S. Navy pilot wings of gold puff you up with vain pride?”

‘Much more than it should have!’

(Never again will I fly in a plane alone. From now on, I will be the only pilot in the A-6 I will fly many times. But another aviator is always in the Bombardier/Navigator’s seat beside me. I relish the many times at Vance and here in VMT 203, that I flew all alone high and lofty up in God’s second heaven.)

Upon graduating from 203, I immediately transfer to squadron VMT 202 to start pilot training in the Navy A-6 Intruder (attack jet). This squadron 202 is adjacent to squadron 203. I have already walked there several times on business (about a 5 minute walk). So this transfer is a most simple move next door.

I take about a week of leave and drive to Daddy’s house near Vernon to visit family. The main reason is because my sister is moving from that area to Arizona. Her husband’s job (that changes locations occasionally) is now in Arizona. Thus she is moving far away from us. I enjoy being with Janiece, the rest of my family, and some friends for those few days.

At this time, my stepmother (Lucille) is in poor health and is in a care facility recently built onto the Vernon Hospital (where my Mother died). While I am at Vernon, Janiece and I go together to visit Lucille (who is bedridden). On a different day or 2, I go with Daddy to visit Lucille. Her mind is slipping. She is sad, depressed, and cries a lot during our visits with her. That’s sad to see. I rejoice that she’s a Christian, journeying to God’s Perfect Heaven to ever live in perfection. Where are you journeying to abide forever?

Janiece leaves for Arizona a day or two before I drive back to North Carolina. Daddy’s heart felt plenty empty, seeing his only daughter move far away for the 1^st time and me departing for my residence far away. Lucille’s approaching death weighed heavily on his heart. It was a time of heavy sorrow for Dad. Thus, these matters lay heavily on my mind as I drive the long trip back to my house near New Bern, North Carolina. I report back into my new squadron (202) for duty the next day.

I receive much verbal instruction on flying the A-6 Intruder, because it has only one pilot seat with only one set of pilot controls. This will be my first time to fly such an aircraft (no instructor pilot with his own set of flying controls). Alone, I must be able to fly it safely from the very first flight. Often the verbal instruction is one-on-one, or 2 or 3 of us new pilots listening to an instructor pilot in an informal setting in the ready room.

There is a “simulator” trainer, somewhat more advanced than the airplane rides in a video game room. I “fly” that “simulator” several hours. Student pilots just a month or so ahead of me in training are assigned to take me out to a bird in the hanger and climb all over it with me, showing me the entire surfaces of the bird and lecturing me on things we look at on the outside of the plane and in its cockpit.

Then on 25 April 1972, I strap into the right side seat that belongs to the bombardier-navigator (B/N) and observe and listen to pilot instructor Captain Ward as he talks much from the time he starts the engines. He takes off, flies around doing a few basic maneuvers, flies back for a few “touch-and-go” landings, and then taxies back into our squadron’s flight line. Leaving the engines running, we two unhook, unbuckle, open the canopy, climb out and switch seats (sides).

Now I pilot the A-6, with Captain Ward sitting beside me in the B/N seat observing and talking. I really like this plane from the start. I thank my Lord for overriding my 1^st and 2^nd choices when I requested a plane to pilot, and in Perfect Wisdom gave me my 3^rd and last choice. The one cockpit with pilot and B/N sitting side by side is much roomer than the cramped cockpits of the T-38 and the TA-4 (that I have flown thus far). This “roominess” makes piloting easier. That is one thing I really like about the A-6. Also, I come to like its “mission” best (over the F-4 or A-4’s mission).

This day, I take off and have fun going thru a few basic maneuvers, doing several touch and go landings before my “full stop” and taxiing back into the chocks. It felt good! From now, I will fly a few more times with an instructor pilot sitting to my right in the B/N seat, instructing me verbally. Then soon, a navigator will sit in his seat beside me each flight and I will be the only pilot aboard, totally responsible for the safety of the navigator’s life and my own life.

May 1972 arrives and I make the last of 36 monthly payments on my new sharp-looking Thunderbird car I bought 3 years ago this month. I’m most happy and relieved to end that debt, finishing those high payments of $173 each month.

Some time ago, I ceased getting any loans from credit unions. I paid off all my Quantico credit union debt. Just a few more payments remain on my Vance credit union debt. Also I am steadily paying off my loans from the Cherry Point credit union. By God’s Grace I will soon be debt free. With that big car payment now finished, I purpose in my heart to give more unto God. By His Grace, I do so and am most blessed for it.

(Now, back to my life as a pilot.) I only get 7 training flights in May. Our nation’s Marine Corps is always plenty financially strapped. Because our nation is coming out of the Viet Nam war (ceasing to wage war for a while), training is cut back to save money. From June 1^st thru the 19^th, I have only 5 training flights.

During this time, 1^st Lieutenant Dudley graduates from squadron 203 and joins us here in this A-6 training squadron. One day I am assigned to take him out to a bird in the hanger to explain to him all the things visible in the cockpit and on the exterior of the plane. As we 2 are climbing all over the airplane, Dudley speaks up.

“You know about that TA-4 crash out west (Arizona, I think) killing one pilot and one pilot ejected and survived?”

‘Yeah, I’ve read all the messages and bulletins on it.’

“Well, the pilot that was killed was Captain Doug.”

I’m plenty shocked and saddened to hear that. Back in Chapter 22, I first told you of Captain Doug ⑨ training behind me at Vance. Then when he came here to squadron 203 (after me), he told me that it was Lieutenant R. at Vance that died in that T-38 crash off the west coast into the ocean.

Captain Doug and one other pilot (in one TA-4) were flying quite low-level (about 1500) feet over the desert. The surviving pilot testified that Captain Doug had control (was doing the flying) and rolled the plane inverted and pulled back stick. Pulling back stick inverted pulls the plane into an inverted dive. One does such at high altitudes only, because the plane will rapidly lose much altitude before the pilot can recover it from that inverted dive. To do so at low altitude will immediately dive the plane right into the ground.

The reports I read stated that 1 of the 2 pilots on board transmitted loud panicky profanity over the radio (all such radio transmissions are recorded) at the other pilot doing that deadly act of rolling the plane inverted at low-level flight. One pilot then quickly rolled the plane upright and pulled “back stick” in an attempt to pull out of the dive. The surviving pilot said that as he was pulling his ejection lever he heard the desert scrub growth below already scrapping the underside of the Skyhawk. Captain Doug was still in the plane when it touched the desert and plowed across it, breaking the plane all apart and killing Doug instantly.

I cannot fathom a pilot being dumb enough to roll that fast Skyhawk inverted at the low altitude of 1500 feet and pull “back stick”. I knew nothing about the surviving pilot, having never met him. But as I questioned every fellow pilot around me who knew anything about this fatal crash, some said the surviving pilot was dumber than Doug. Crash investigators thought it likely that the surviving pilot was the dummy that rolled the plane inverted and pulled back stick. But they had no proof because Dead Doug tells no tales.

“Pilot Richard, were there any smart pilots in the Marines?”

‘Yes, the autopilot!’

Around 22 or 23 June 1972, Daddy phones me at my house at night. He asks how I am. I reply and ask him how he is. He replies that he is OK, and then he falls silent. I sense that he has called me to tell me that Lucille died. I wish he would go ahead and tell me. But he doesn’t. So I ask how Lucille is. Dad replies that she died that day. I tell him that I should be able to arrive there day after tomorrow.

The next morning, I report for duty at 202 and tell them that my stepmother died. I ask for immediate emergency leave (of about 8 days). It was granted. The admin office hurriedly types up my leave papers. I tie up loose ends at work, drive home, tie up loose ends at home and at church, and pack a few things to take.

The following day, I drive all way to Vernon, having made this long trip just a few weeks ago. Arriving in Vernon 10 hours (or more) later (in the early night), I go right to the funeral home where Lucille’s body is lying in state. Daddy and Sidney are there (along with other relatives living in the area and neighbors and church people). I visit with all the living souls a while, view Lucille’s corpse, and drive on to Daddy’s house to sleep after this tiring trip.

Lucille’s funeral is the next day. At it, I see other relatives and friends that I haven’t seen in a long time. Both of my brothers and their family members come. It’s too far from Arizona for Janiece to come. But she calls Daddy’s house several times and I talk to her more than once. Over the next 3 or 4 days, Sid, Lucille’s son-in-law (Lynn) and I help Daddy put a (badly needed) new shingle roof onto his house. In all these activities, I visit with many family members and friends, before heading back to North Carolina on the 8^th day.

The 10-hour (or so) drive back to my house near New Bern is a time for deep thought about my family. Lucille was a diabetic and died 2 or 3 years short of her 60^th birthday. During her last few years on earth, she suffered much physically, was hospitalized from time to time, and finally had to enter a nursing home while still in her 50s (not old age at all). When she moved into our house in August 1958, she had a paying job at the garment plant in Vernon. (I told you of both Janiece and Lucille getting a large turkey at work that Christmas of 1958.)

But a month or 2 after that Christmas, Lucille was laid off from work. Likely it was because her poor eyesight resulted in her doing poor sewing. Likely (out of charity) her boss kept her on, while she was a widow. But once she marries Dad, he soon lays her off. After that, she babysat from time to time. She later got hired at a different garment plant further away, but soon had to quit due to failing health.

She struggled to take care of herself and her ailing aged mother. Daddy struggled physically and financially to take care of both of them while farming on as large a scale as possible to try to pay many bills.

“Go ahead and get it, and I’ll help pay for it.” I told you of Lucille saying that to Daddy in the fall of 1958, when the salesman sold Daddy the siding job for the outside walls of the house. But 4 months later, Lucille lost her job and was not able to help make those monthly payments. Daddy went to his younger brother (my Uncle Kilby) and asked for some money.

More than 10 years later, as Lucille’s medical bills are adding up, the man who owns the hospital pressures Daddy to give him a mortgage on our farm. Again, Daddy goes to Uncle Kilby. He knows a somewhat high-ranking state government official in Montgomery. Uncle Kilby pleads with that man for help. So (from an office in the state capital) the State of Alabama calls the pushy hospital owner and orders him to back off and wait, till they can set up for Medicare to pay those bills. Given a little time, that came to pass, Medicare paying (all the bills Lucille accrued, I think).

I told you everything in the previous 5 paragraphs to say I greatly admire my Christian Daddy. Upon marrying Lucille, he received two unhealthy women to take care of (wife and mother-in-law). That stoic man toiled hard and diligently, doing all he could possibly do (physically and financially) for those two women. He never complained or whined.

Now, as I drive to North Carolina, Daddy is worn out from his duty of caregiver. Medicare has not yet come thru, paying the big medical bills. That debt is a heavy burden on him. He is lonely, missing his deceased wife, and his daughter and son who are far away. Thank God that Daddy was a firm believer in the God Who is the God of all comfort. Thank God that the darkest hour is just before dawn.

So, in early July 1972, I check back in to 202 from my leave in Alabama. From July 7^th thru the 28^th, I fly 12 training flights in the A-6. This month Daddy celebrates his 55^th birthday, having recently lost his second wife in death.

Now in the A-6, I essentially practice the same maneuvers as I did in the TA-4. So there is no need to bore you again with the exciting, fun details. I want to now praise and glorify my Lord God, testifying of Him again making my way perfect.

From the time I bought my house, I often pondered. ‘Was I mistaken to do that? I don’t like a 12-mile commute to work. I detest spending the time fixing up the house’s interior, painting walls and such. I detest buying a lawn mower and cutting the grass. I detest fixing my breakfast (and sometimes supper) at home. I much prefer the simple life of living in the BOQ and eating the square meals well prepared in the chow hall. The BOQ and officer’s chow hall is in a peaceful, quiet, lovely natural setting, isolated in the forest near the Neuse River. Would I not have enjoyed living there much better??’

But likely I would have been plenty bored living in that isolated quiet setting. Also, it would have been a long commute from there to any church. Now, as Pleasant Acres church steadily becomes my church home, I come to believe that God put me into this house only 2 miles from church. And now comes the main event that assures me that God made me a house owner for a most definite purpose.

On a July day in 202’s ready room, the flight operations scheduling officer (a captain) approaches me with his well-planned sales pitch. “At this time, the Marine Corps Air Station on the west coast (California) needs one A-6 pilot to locate there to fly the EA-6. So, Headquarters Marine Corps is to transfer one A-6 pilot from here (Cherry Point) to California. You and 1^st Lieutenant Dan are at the stage of training that headquarters has set for the transferee. Would you like to move out to exciting California to be stationed there?”

‘No, I would not.’

I did not want to go live in that Sodom and Gomorrah 3,000 miles away, leaving these many fundamental Baptist churches in this area and being over 2,000 miles from my boyhood home, severely limiting my trips home. I soon get alone with buddy pilot Dan to discuss this with him. The scheduling officer had asked Dan the same question. Dan replied that he did not want to transfer. So Dan and I agree together to let the “powers to be” pick the unfortunate pilot that gets shipped to California.

Soon the operations officer (Major F.) calls Dan and me together into his office. He makes a sales pitch for the lovely California costal paradise and urges one of us to volunteer to transfer there. I politely tell this high-ranking officer that I recently bought a house here and that I could not quickly sell it. Dan stated that he was settled down here with his new wife (though they did not own a house) and did not want to move. Dan and I wait it out, sweating out the soon coming verdict.

Two or three days later, the scheduling officer announces to me: “We are sending Dan. Typically we would send the single guy as opposed to a married guy. But, because you own a house, it would work more hardship on you to be abruptly uprooted.”

I breathe a deep sigh of relief and thank God for causing me to buy this house. From this day on, I fully rejoice to be living in it, with no double-minded second thoughts about preferring to be in the BOQ. Before I confronted this choice in July, I had planted tomatoes in my garden area. I now cultivate them with more joy, enjoy my next-door (same church) neighbors more, and fully rejoice in God planting me in this house to prevent Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington, D. C. from abruptly uprooting me and sending me to California.

Also, I don’t like the EA-6’s mission at all (electronic countermeasures, jamming the enemy’s radars and other electronics). The strong radiation emitted from the EA-6 could easily do more harm to my body than the lesser emissions from the radar in the A-6.

Come 1 August 1972, I now have 3 years “in grade”. That brings another moderate pay raise. Thank Thee, Lord Jesus!

During the month of August, I fly only 7 training flights, one of them in the TC-4C airplane. I’m required to familiarize myself with what the A-6 Bombardier-Navigator (BN) does as he sits beside me in the same cockpit. I attend 2 or 3 one-hour classroom periods of such instruction by a BN instructor. I sit in the B/N’s seat in a “simulator” practicing his use of the radar to fix and track targets on the ground and drop bombs on them.

After that I take 2 rides (1 each in Aug. and Sept.) in the 2 engine prop TC-4C, sitting in the BN seat in the rear of that bird with a BN instructor sitting beside me and talking me thru various BN procedures that I performed. It was somewhat fascinating and I enjoyed it.

First Lieutenant Allen ⑬ is a BN instructor here in Squadron 202. He instructs me when I fly in the TC-4C. Wayne ⑥ and Joey ⑪ are just a few months ahead of me training in VMT 203 (in the TA-4) and then here in 202 (training in the A-6). Thus they each go from 202 into one of the two A-6 tactical squadrons based here at Cherry Point before I soon join the tactical squadron Wayne is in. Wayne and Joey go on to Asia before I go. After I go to Japan, I’m with both of them at Iwakuni and briefly at Cubic Point in the Philippines when we deploy there from Japan.

From Iwakuni, Japan, both Wayne and Joey are sent back here to Cherry Point to VMT 202 as instructor pilots. I get discharged from the Marines at Iwakuni, going on to missionary language school in central Japan.

Soon after those 2 buddies return to Cherry Point, on a fatal day in early 1975 Wayne and Joey are pilot and co-pilot in the TC-4C. Allen (now Captain Allen) is the BN instructor aboard their plane on that fateful day. Shortly after takeoff, somehow a fuel line “cavitated” (or some similar rare problem), causing all fuel to cease flowing to both engines at the same time. Both engines quit simultaneously at that critical time just after getting airborne. The ensuing silence (upon all engines quitting) is most morbid to all souls on board. The plane immediately crashed into the pine forest at the end of the runway killing all souls aboard (about 7 souls). I did not personally know any of the other Marines aboard! I was deeply saddened to hear of the deaths of these 3 flying buddies, together, in an instant.

During September 1972 (as I am eating the last of those delicious tomatoes I grew in my own garden), I fly a total of 12 times in training squadron VMT 202. Then at the end of the month, I am transferred a few doors away to the A-6 tactical squadron VMA 121 (to join Wayne and several other flying buddies there, available to our nation to fly over an enemy and rain down destruction upon him).

Let’s switch subjects now and go to church, where all is peace forevermore! For the first time since leaving Daddy’s house, I am now firmly settled into one church. Thank God! It is blessed to have a church home!

Ron and Kathy are a young couple at Pleasant Acres church with whom I quickly become friends. Ron (an enlisted Marine) gets discharged from active duty in the Marines soon after I arrive here. He drives the church bus, and soon asks me to work the bus route with him. I agree to do so.

The pastor’s wife teaches the young adult Sunday School class that I attend at Pleasant Acres. The time soon comes when she asks me to teach that class one Sunday. So I do. She soon asks that favor again. Next, she soon asks me to become co-teacher with her, she and I rotating to teach every other Sunday. I agree to all these requests. Whereupon she soon announces to me that I am to teach the class full time, but that she will substitute for me any Sunday I am not there in church (on duty at the base, deployed, or on leave, or such). I marveled at the creeping evolution of that teaching arrangement!

Freewill Baptist churches have Master’s Men and Ladies’ Auxiliary. Soon after I start attending Pleasant Acres, I attend the monthly (week night) Master’s Men’s meeting. In just a month or 2, they have their annual election of officers. “Nomination is now open for president.”

“I nominate Richard Yerby.” That brother was ever so quick on his toes with that nomination. There were no other nominations. I was the instant unanimous winner of that great, quick election.

Sunday night preaching service is preceded by the teaching session time called “League” or “Training Union”. I was soon elected leader of that adult class. It wasn’t long before I was elected to be the “head” of the League hour, opening it in the auditorium with a song, scripture, short speech and prayer (before we dismiss to go to our various classes).

About a year after I come to Pleasant Acres, I inherit the bus ministry completely when Ron and Kathy move back to their hometown. So you can see that I come to wear many hats at church (fill many positions).

From the very lowest government elected position in our nation, all way up to our nation’s president, greedy “money and power” seekers fight tooth-and-nail to get into an office and to stay in as long as possible.

At church, I saw (likely a majority of) elected officials most desirous to get out of office and stay out of office. I saw them very weary of and bored with running their religious machinery they had set up. I saw them weary of ministering to our Lord of Glory. I saw them most eager to pass the buck on to most anyone else they could get to take it, and eager to just sit on a pew in church. Upon first settling into church after leaving my boyhood home, that was one of the profound things I experienced about church life as an adult. Truly, it was an eye opener!

Pleasant Acres FWB Church is in the state’s FWB “Costal Association” (along with several surrounding FWB churches). Those churches occasionally hold a joint youth service on a Saturday night. Each church holds an annual revival. There are other “special services”. Thus, I often attend such services in several surrounding churches, being greatly blessed by good preach, singing and such. My Lord did me ever so much good by planting me BY THE SEA SIDE here in costal North Carolina. He worked a miracle to keep powerful Headquarters Marine Corps from uprooting me from here and jabbing me down in Sodom and Gomorrah California.

In the New Testament, the person spoken of as living by the seaside likely lived within a stone’s throw of the ocean. Here, I live a few miles away. But it is a short drive to the seaside. And when my A-6 Intruder lifts off the runway at Cherry Point, I can soon see the ocean a few miles away. I fly over the coastal area much, viewing the sea, the sounds and rivers going inland from the sea. When I call at my sweetheart’s house (her parents’ house) on the wide Neuse River (just a few miles inland from the ocean), sometimes she and I take walks along the river’s shore.

I thank God for a rich and blessed life in the sand hills and pine forests of coastal North Carolina by the seaside! Keep reading of it in the next chapter.

On to Chapter 25

Back to Table of Contents

Home