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” , 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” , 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.   

 

 

On to Chapter 26

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