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
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 non-fictional character or a fictional character?”
‘Perhaps.’
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 positions mainly
entail being the squadron’s head janitor. Thus the ranking
officers, who assign them, shove them upon an officer they do not like so well.
Thus, Little Goodie Two Shoes Christian Boy Lieutenant Yerby is saddled with
being squadron head janitor.
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 the desert. The area
around Cherry Point is too heavily populated for us to go “Boom, Boom, Boom”
here! So the military has such bombing ranges out in the isolated desert where
no humans are on the ground 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 most of the squadron’s
A-6s (10 or so Intruders) out to Yuma. I am assigned to fly 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 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 8 or more Intruders on
this day. The desert is most lovely! I enjoy gazing down on it much
for 19 days as I fly one to three daily flights over this western scenery
through November 8th, dive bombing and blowing up desert.
Arriving
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. 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 dinner alone.
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 ops 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. So, he makes the best of this 30-minute meal he
is 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 the lackeys in line.
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 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 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 attach twenty-eight 500-pound bombs 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 weapon’s load a 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 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 and stare down at desert
sand just
a few feet below. Both navigator and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Safely airborne.”
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 blast of Fun!
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 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 came into my helmet earphones from the 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.’
Mark
thought 5 seconds or so and pushed his key to the radio. “Yes, I’ll take the
bet.” Mark showed confidence in this ace bomber pilot. Spotter pilot was glad
for the excitement in the air, and hoped to get a case of 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” ⑭,
today 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, you should do likewise. Your journey across time and across this
earth to eternal Hell fire just might end today.
“Ace Pilot Farm Boy, 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’d better repent and trust in the Lord Jesus.’
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
plane rapidly starts falling 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.
“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 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.
(The AV-10 pilot was not in our squadron.)
I
think Captain “Spotter” ⑭,
was based here at Yuma. (I am simply deployed here a 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?”
‘Yep.’
“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.” Thus
he ended his short life of flying, drinking and gambling. Thank
Thee, Lord Jesus, for saving my soul to keep me from ever drinking and
gambling. Thank Thee for safely guarding over me for all my dangerous piloting
days.
Reader
friend, your Creator God is going to suddenly snuff out your sinful life
much sooner than you think. Repent today, 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 rockets, awe struck as that large torch launches from under my wing
to its target below. I drop 1000-pound bombs. I drop 2000-pound bombs, only 3
of these heavy 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. Lastly, I release the
bomb 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 a bomber
pilot. Which are you?”
‘Take
your pick. It’s a free country, or so simpletons say.’
As
parachute flares float down (dropped from a transport plane higher up) to light
the Chocolate Mountains at night, I drop 500-pound bombs and fire rockets onto
targets among those hills. As the flares float down lower, I have to weave
around them in my dive. Never a dull moment! Night dive-bombing under
parachute flares is a 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 look at remaining fuel 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.
“Let’s
go!”
Oh,
such breathtaking scenery of those rock buttes jutting up from barren rocky
landscape on the way to the Grand Canyon! 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 were a sight to behold! I made
sure not to get transfixed on them, but rather soon pull up in plenty of time
so as not to kill my B/N and myself (in the fashion that Captain Spotter will
soon kill himself in the Philippines).
Popping
up above those canyon walls, I climb and head direct for Yuma. 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.’
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 is commanding me to stay in this holding pattern, I
am the “pilot in command” of this bird, responsible for the safety of the
aircraft and its crew.
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 them 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 to 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. In 3 seconds, I do likewise
and 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 about 6 rockets. It is a sight to behold
all those flaming torches (12 or so) launch 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
adventure for a poor farm boy. My livid Ops Officer never found out that
I visited the Grand Canyon this morning. Good!
“Boy
Pilot, 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 taxpayers for happily financing my
fun!’
While
at Yuma, all squadron personnel daily work long hours day and night (weekends
included) to take full advantage of the opportunity to drop live bombs. But
each Marine is given a little time off to enjoy the “area” (most 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 and fly to Tucson. My sister and 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 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 fly an A-6 back to Cherry Point.
It’s another pilot’s turn. 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). Our
CO gives the 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.
I think on that aboard the noisy C-130 on Friday.
‘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. This
Friday afternoon when I arrive (from Yuma) in my squadron’s ready room at
Cherry Point, the captain at the desk has 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). I’ll keep it till 8 AM tomorrow. You come in
then for Saturday duty.” I did so, 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 hanger 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 comes in and sits in his
office filling out “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, trying to meet the CO’s stern demands.
Realizing that, I 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 road, 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.
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 mad and oppresses us all
with his strict inspection. (I prefer the 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 and speak to my SS class, 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 and I turn 27
years old. That 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 as I am pulling out of it, this
high-ranking officer sitting beside me gives me an unexpected 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 while flying. “Oxygen (thick, just having evaporated from liquid
state) seeps out 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. 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 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 more unburdened than
he has ever been since he bought our farm and started making regular
payments on the money he borrowed to buy it. Thank
Thee, Lord, for doing my godly Daddy 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 an early February 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.
All New Bern residents are home today.
No church. No going anywhere. I’m greatly relieved to arrive in the warmth of
my sweetheart’s house. 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 am
scheduled to report back to work at my squadron (from leave). So I call the ready
room and tell Captain Shell that 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! With Major Ops death, the CO wants all us officers
present!”
‘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 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 in their own car, 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 the deep snow covered him. ‘Sir, you sure
needed the Lord Jesus Christ to uphold you in the high pressure Marine Corps,
just as the Lord upheld me under pressure from 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)!
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 oppress underlings, I refused. Now that they
are reaping what their oppression sowed, let them handle it.
So, on this snow-white Monday morning
when I learn of his death on the phone, I get into uniform and make it down
“impassible” 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. (Base flight operations are shut down due to the snow.)
Because it was a suicide, no memorial
service was held in the base chapel (I think). I well recall that our CO
boarded an airliner and flew to the funeral in a northern state where they put
Major “Ops” into the frozen earth on a most cold day. As the bugler played 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 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. 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 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, shoot a few instrument approaches for practice
(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 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 for the next 2 and half hours.
So, I go into a high holding pattern and jettison 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 the 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 head, and land safely (wings
level).
Maintenance crew 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. 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).
Recently, maintenance crew removed the seat to give
it a periodic inspection. In handling the seat, they bent the flange
(accidently) but didn’t notice it. Thus the flange would not hold the rod down.
Thus, upon taking off, as soon as I climb high enough for ground radar to paint
me, they get a constant emergency signal broadcast from my bird, and I had no
means of shutting it off.
“So there we have it, folks! Another nail-biting day
of danger-filled adventure in the skies 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!’
“I wonder which is more dangerous; the villains you
work with, or the foggy, cloudy skies you fly thru when rusty?”
‘Read on and see!’
Hop on a time machine with me and let’s go back in
time 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 assigns me to investigate four M-14 rifles that were missing
from Group’s armory. So I put on my Sherlock Holmes’ hat and begin searching.
All 4 rifles had been assigned to enlisted Marines
in our Group that 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. 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 wrote out my detailed report and submitted it
to Group Legal Officer. THIEVES!
In VMT 203, I am soon put in charge of
the officers’ coffee mess (a most petty job) (and 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 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 frig and chose his cola
(honor system). I’m now stocking the colas.
Squadron enlisted 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 Marine 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 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 in his room to briefly visit the head (rest room). He left his TV
On. When he returned in 3 minutes, his TV had been stolen. We made a vain show
of searching in vain for it.
(Theft was a big
problem. I could fill pages with accounts of the Marine thieves I encountered.
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). 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.)
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 squadrons’ 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 you used (instead of toilet paper) in the
back corner of a barn stable!”
‘Good idea!’
Each 6 months, a written evaluation is
made on each Marine (by his immediate superior officer) and 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 lousy
marks. In various performance areas, I rate him from 1 to 5, and write out a description of how
well or poorly he performed. I turn in his lousy numbers to a corporal in S-1
(admin) and 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 asked
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 numbers into higher ones (easily changing a 1 into a 4,
etc.). LIARS! DECEIVERS!
That lousy 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). 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) looking 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 smoker in my airplane). This
corporal also comes secretly to me 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 him 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 in
our squadron were at a clandestine “pot” party off base on a weekend. He gives
me their names. 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 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 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 with Ops Officer in the ready room (and with
Tower) to decide whether I would try to make an arrested landing on a foamed
runway, or if the B/N and I should 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 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 was duly reported up the chain of command but nothing ever
came of it.
I thought 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 vexing situation. Moreover, officers just
above me in rank continue to give me more than my 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 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 is likely to explode at work
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 education
about the sinfully unfair, oppressive, atrocious, vicious, destructive, and even deadly 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 do your
job well. And look forward with great joy to the day when it completely
shall come to pass that you are set free from this trap 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 70, 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 aircraft. Of all the red-bloodied young males
that dream of such, so very few see
that dream become reality. You
(a little poor farm boy) 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. 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 Susan (about 4) joyfully running
from their 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 these 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 hanger building. 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 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 reason,
thank God.
Just a (very long) stone’s throw from my
“haven of rest” (my abode), Major Ops (oppressor of men and oppressed by men) lay down in the edge of the forest near the
road, put the shotgun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Thank
Thee, my Precious Lord Jesus, for Divinely upholding me amidst all that ungodly
oppression!
So, I soak myself in church and attend
every service and event I possibly can in several surrounding churches.
Fellowshipping with a host of Christian friends greatly fortified 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 base Information and Bingo!
Fred was listed. Praise God, the Viet Cong didn’t kill this 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 and asked if I would be in his wedding (somewhere on
the east coast). I wrote and told him that was a long ways from me and that my
flight training schedule was tight. ‘It just isn’t feasible for me to take off
and attend your wedding.’ Thus I begged out of being in his wedding, 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 his upper right row of teeth and soon put it back in.
‘What happened to your teeth?’
“One night we got overrun by the VC and
a grenade fragment hit me there on the side of the mouth, taking out 2 teeth.”
Fred said that ever so calmly.
Thank God that grenade didn’t take off
the side of his face and kill him, as happened to our buddy John from Auburn!
“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, Precious Lord Jesus, for being my Stay, my Comfort, my Deliverer, and My
ALL.