This is what happens when you don’t have a firm mission statement. I hate mission statements. Too bureaucratic. Too often the darn things are written to mislead and deceive anyway. Or even worse, as an effort to feel really good about something without doing the hard work that ultimately causes those good feelings. Thus endeth the mini-rant.
Anyway, no mission statement here, just an effort to share some thoughts and ideas through the context of my experience as a sailor and rancher.
The absence of a mission statement gives me quite a lot of freedom and autonomy, but there’s always the danger that I’ll abuse those things and end up abusing you kind readers with a lot of self-absorbed, egocentric (not to mention redundant) drivel. I’ll try really hard to avoid that. No guarantees, but I’ll try.
Over the last few days, prompted by various conversations and blog posts, I've been rooting around in the ol’ memory locker. Yesterday I accidentally activated the Wayback Machine (wie von Sarge beschrieben) and got stuck in 1980.
I’ve tried to quietly file away the result for another day, but it looks like I’m gonna have to get it out of my system before I can move on. Maybe I’ll post it, maybe not.
We’d been underway for eight months, having left Norfolk back in September. Four months in to a planned six-month Mediterranean cruise we were ordered to Gonzo (Gulf of Oman Naval Zone of Operations.) Station for contingency operations regarding the U.S. Hostages in Teheran. Ultimately we executed a hostage rescue mission. It didn’t go well.
By the time May 3 rolled around we’d been continually at sea for more than 120 days.
We’d been operating hard since early January. The failed rescue mission had occurred on April 24, nine days earlier. The deployment had been long and hard and, to some extent, heartbreaking. But the end was in sight. Ike was due to arrive in three days time, and after a two-day turnover, we’d head for home. But Ike wasn’t here yet, and May 3 was just another day at sea.
I was working nights on the roof. One of the day check guys was sick and on bed rest, so the Senior Chief asked me to fill in until he could find a temporary replacement. We both knew the temp guy was a fiction, only the four of us (two on days, two on nights) had our roof quals signed off. He was really asking me to pull a 36 hour shift. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds and I’d done it before. I could catch a few winks in the Battle Dressing Station (BDS) from time to time, and there was a fairly light flight sked in the afternoon, so it wouldn’t be all bad.
As with most parts of the carrier experience, working on the roof was a paradox. I loved it and I hated it. It was fun and exciting and one of the most unique aviation jobs in the world. It was a terribly dangerous place to work, and that was why corpsmen manned the BDS. Four-and-a-half acres sounds like a lot of real estate, but throw 45 tactical jets, turboprops and helicopters up there, start ‘em all up, move ‘em around, shoot some of ‘em off with steam catapults while catching others with tailhooks and arresting gear, and do all this while pulling maintenance, uploading and downloading ordnance, fueling the thirsty aircraft, while the carrier is charging along through the sea at 30 knots…
And oh yeah, day and night, fine weather or foul. It can be sporty.
Exciting, busy, intensely interesting, risky, loud, kinetic, fun. Hot, swelteringly hot. Or cold. Bone chillingly cold. Sheer misery. Windy, both from the weather and from the ship’s velocity as she charges through the sea. Jet exhaust that stings your eyes and scorches your nose, producing tears and snot in profusion. Jet blast that can pick you up and fling you across the flight deck like a ragdoll. Always bad. Often fatal.
Long, long hours of this stuff. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month. On a long deployment unbroken by port calls, excitement and danger eventually morph into boredom and complacency. Everyone walks a vanishingly thin line between safety and eternity. Not just on the flight deck, either. Complacency stalks everyone and is no respecter of rank, station or experience.
I got my head down for about four hours before flight quarters sounded. The narrow, thin-padded treatment table in BDS is actually comfortable if you’re tired enough. I woke to one of the sweetest soliloquies I know, the Air Boss giving the “start ‘em up” over the 5-MC announcing system.
“On the flight deck, time to get ready for the first go. Check helmets on and chinstraps fastened, goggles down, sleeves rolled down and flotation vests secure. Check for loose gear about the deck. Stand clear of intakes, exhausts, propeller and rotor arcs. Time to start the go jets, start ‘em up.”
As the huffers began to howl I pulled on my helmet and float coat, did a quick radio check, grabbed my unit one (aid bag), and stepped out onto the roof.
There’s a rhythm to the flight deck. If you’re on your game, completely in tune with the dance, it’s an awesome experience. It’s a bit like being omniscient. Somehow you can sense the totality of activity across the entire deck. It’s a state of acute observation and hyper-vigilance. It’s hard work, but on a certain level it’s subconscious and can’t be forced. You’ve either got it or you don’t. When you don’t have it it pays to be exceedingly cautious. On May 3 I didn’t have it, so I positioned myself inboard and forward of the island, aft of El Two, in the area called the Six Pack. From there I had a reasonably good view of all four catapults and could watch for problems.
|Nimitz flight deck layout. Click to enlarge.|
The launch began and the sound became a living, breathing thing. As jets roared down the catapult tracks the rumble could be felt in every compartment, and as each catapult piston reached the end of it’s stroke it slammed into a water brake with a pounding thud that shook all 90,000 tons of the ship, Kinetic indeed.
Midway through the launch a VF-84 Tomcat taxied onto Cat 3.
|Victory 222 in tension and zone 3 afterburner on Cat 3. In the foreground is a final checker about to give a thumbs up. The catapult bubble is in the port catwalk just above the canopy of the F-14.|
From my nearby vantage point I had a perfect view and watched as the launch ritual progressed. Flight controls deflected as the pilot exercised his control stick and rudder pedals. Wings spread, slats and flaps came out, and the hookup man attached the holdback, then the shuttle inched forward into tension. The Shooter signaled for full power, then afterburner. The exhaust nozzles programmed wide open and twin blue flames roared to life, driving back in howling cones of fire and deflecting skyward off the raised jet blast deflector. Final checkers looked hard, then gave thumbs up. The pilot saluted the Shooter, who quickly polled the checkers and made his own final assessment of the jet’s readiness for flight. He turned and lunged forward, outstretched hand touching the deck then pointing down the cat track.
The Tomcat roared in zone three burner, straining against the holdback fitting with 40,000 pounds of thrust. In the ICS bubble the cat officer flipped up a switch guard and mashed his thumb down of the firing key. Steam flooded into the catapult and drove the cat piston forward, breaking the precision machined holdback fitting and dragging the roaring jet down the deck.
|Victory 200 in burner launches from cat 3.|
|A Tomcat launches in burner from cat 3. This is a twilight or "pinky" launch.|
|A Tomcat launches in dry thrust or MRT. Note constricted engine nozzles.|
At 2.5 seconds the jet left the deck and with both stabilators programmed nose up, pitched steeply into the air.
Under the asymmetric thrust of the port engine in afterburner and no thrust from the starboard motor, the nose of the jet pushed to the right. It also kept pitching up.
Along with every other man who was watching, I willed the nose to come down. Off the cat, full of gas, single engine. If the nose didn’t come down the jet would stall and crash.
|An F-14 launches in burner from cat 3. The jet is slightly over-rotated. The stabilator positions show that the pilot is correcting.|
At six seconds the stabilators fluttered, the yaw increased, and the jet began a slow roll to the right. As it passed through 90 degrees the canopy came off as the ejection sequence was initiated. Four tenths of a second later, with the bank angle at 150 degrees, the RIO’s seat fired. The jet continued to roll and the pilot’s seat fired after another four-tenths of a second. Both seats slammed into the water ahead of the ship as the dying Tomcat crossed the bow from left to right.
At 11.5 seconds the Tomcat plunged into the North Arabian Sea about 300 yards ahead of the ship and 300 yards to starboard.
And so there we are finally. The seven seconds in 1980 that my Wayback Machine was stuck on. Maybe now it'll be unstuck.
What's the lesson here, the profound conclusion?
I'm not sure.
A couple of thoughts. LT Jack Watson was 27, ENS John Graham 24. They did not grow old. Not counting the eight men who died at Desert One (who weren't part of the Nimitz crew), the ship lost nine men on that deployment. CDR Dave Formo and LCDR Nick Delello of VF-41. LTJG Mark Gontkovic and LTJG Tony Bilotti of VA-35. LT Bobby Dark of VAQ-134. AZ2 K. Tucker of VA-82 and MS3 W. Saxton of S-2 division.
Formo was the CO of VF-41. He was replaced by Art Cebrowski, who later became CAG. Admiral Cebrowski died in 2005. My Skipper, CDR Ed "Hunyak" Andrews, died a few months ago. My fellow flight deck corpsman Frank VanNoske died two years ago. Sooner or later, it comes to all of us.
Which is probably reason enough to make the most of what we've got. I was pretty sure at one point that I'd never see 40. I had some very close calls. But I haven't yet lived those final seven seconds.
And that's about it. One final thing and I can put May 3, 1980 back on the shelf for a while. This was the number one song when we got home.