A Veteran's Journey

Note: This is a repost from an earlier blog. I’m traveling these days (actually, up in Cleveland with family, then to the Kitty Hawk reunion in Pensacola).

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“What the hell took you so long, Chet?” Borne was being his usual self—always smiling, cracking a joke, and making light of the moment. He knew the chow lines were often long enough to finish a complete James Michener novel.

I gave him my Crash one-fingered salute.

“I took an extra couple of minutes to savor tonight’s delectable dinner. Roast beef, mashed potatoes & gravy, some greenish-looking stringy canned vegetable crap, and a couple of rolls slathered with butter. You know how it is, Gary. Gotta love that Kitty Hawk steak!”

It was 2000 (8:00 p.m.) and we were about to begin the next flight ops cycle.

ABH3 Gary Borne (R.I.P.) and I are both third-class petty officers, and assigned to Crash, part of V-1 Division aboard USS Kitty Hawk, CV-63. We were in the South China Sea, on our Westpac ’75 cruise, somewhere between the Philippine Islands (PI) and Southeast Asia.

I reported aboard in March 1975, after spending 15 months at NAS Agana, Guam, my first duty station. That’s where I first met Gary, who’d already been there a few months before I arrived. He was one of my best Navy buddies.

Gary was six-four, as tall as me, broad-shouldered and always alert. You could always count on Borne… he knew what he was doing and where to be and, more importantly, where not to be. I learned a lot from him, both while in Guam and aboard Kitty Hawk.

The Vietnam War had “officially” ended a few months earlier on April 30, 1975. And, as far as we or any of the other 200+ sailors on the flight deck were concerned, we were just in normal flight operations mode.

They say on a good day, you can see about 7 miles to the horizon at sea level. From the flight deck of an aircraft carrier—60 feet above water—it’s about 12 miles.

At night, we rigged the ship to “dog zebra,” using red lights in the compartments that opened to the outside of the ship, including those in the island, because they put out the lowest amount of ambient light.

That made for some interesting times, though, especially when you played poker at night and used colored chips. It was difficult to tell the red chips from the blue chips. Another reason I never took up playing poker for money.

Walking out onto the flight deck from the Crash compartment, located on the aft starboard side of the island superstructure, the sun had just settled down and the skies were in that deep blue hue with just a few scattered clouds. The moon was already up, almost full.

I took a deep breath of clear, cool, fresh night air. I love this time of day.

Coming out onto the deck from a red-lit compartment, it still takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to night vision. Some guys can see better at night than others, and fortunately, I’m one of them.

But, like everyone else who works on the flight deck, I am not unscathed. I still have my share of problems, especially with those blasted tie-down chains. I tripped over one last night, leaving a nasty bruise on my shin. You can bet your sweet ass that I gave that tie-down chain a good tongue-lashing, calling it all different names.

We call them “battle scars.”

I know my mom would’ve blushed. My dad? Not so much; he fought the Germans in World War II.

I glanced over the port side of the ship, and the moon seemed to beckon us to walk on its reflection across the calm waters.

Nothing like being on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier at sunset… or sunrise.

Gary had already set the Crash crews for flight ops. Two each on the Crash MD-3 tractors—one driver and one suited up—and the Oshkosh MB-5 truck had its usual crew of three. The two of us would roam the flight deck as needed and try like hell not to get blown down or get in the way.

We always wore our flight deck gear—tonight was no exception. GI trousers, red Crash jerseys, buckskin gloves, steel-toed high-top flight deck boots, red cranial helmet with a radio headset, and a red Crash float coat. While no one had been blown overboard on this cruise, it was always a possibility. I certainly didn’t want to be the first.

I swear the Yellow Shirts have it out for us Crash guys. More than once, I’ve witnessed a Yellow Shirt turn a jet so that its exhaust would point directly toward us in Crash. Am I the only one who sees that?

“Hey Chet. How’s it hangin’?” ABH1 Mike Alford, the Fly 2 Yellow Shirt Leading Petty Officer, saddled up alongside us. I knew what was coming next. Alford was into trivia, both baseball and rock & roll.

“Hey Chet. Who pitched a no-hitter in the 1956 World Series game? Five bucks if you can guess which game in the series.”

Alford was shorter than me and broad-shouldered. He was in charge of all Yellow Shirts in Fly 2. His reputation was solid—an experienced director and always took care of his guys in Fly 2.

Still, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about who pitched a no-hitter in 1956. The thing is, Mike didn’t care either. He just loved flaunting facts. “Don Larsen, when he was with the New York Yankees. And… game 5.”

“Nice to know, Mike. Thanks for tonight’s meaningless trivia.”

“No problem, Chet. I’ve got more if you get bored. Keep on truckin’!”

We always joked around between flight ops. However, when the birds began to launch and recover, we all had our game faces on.

Most of the aircraft had already been re-spotted after the last recovery while I was below deck hanging the feed bag. That respot began precisely about 60 seconds after the last bird landed. Tonight, this cycle, we’d be launching off Cats 3 & 4, the “waist cats.” That meant that the Yellow Shirts in Fly 2 (waist) and Fly 3 (fantail) would direct them from their parked spots to the cats. Most of the other aircraft were parked on the bow in Fly 1 and along the starboard side of the ship, both fore and aft of the island.

The big difference with nighttime flight operations is that there are no bright floodlights around the flight deck. When you’re at sea and in “previously unfriendly waters,” you don’t want to illuminate your presence, so to speak. So, the flight deck was pretty much dark, with the exception of the moonlight and a few other red lights sprinkled around the island.

It always amazes me how the Yellow Shirts and squadron Plane Captains guide these multi-million-dollar aircraft from a tight parking spot—often wedged in with only a few inches on either side next to another multi-million dollar aircraft. Yet, they did it every night, time and time again.

Like on cue, the Yellow Shirts pulled out their standard Navy-issue gray flashlight wands, fitted with cone-shaped 5-inch Lucite tubes, and directed the aircraft out of their parked spots toward the two catapults for launch. All without being able to see the pilots’ eyes. There’s a lot of unspoken trust between pilot and director.

Gary and I usually hang out alongside the foul line during launches. That way, we’re smack dab in the middle of the action. That could be good or … it could be bad, depending on how you look at it. But that’s where we are supposed to be. You know … in case something bad happens, like an aircraft crash.

The plane guard helo is still out there flying nearby, ready in case someone goes into the drink. The E-2 Hawkeye is still up there, too, giving the ship and the carrier group long-range radar warning should any bad guys dare to approach us.

First up is an A-7 Corsair from the VA-195 squadron, the “Dambusters.” A single-seat aircraft, but can carry a heap of hurt to drop somewhere on someone if the need arises. Mike Alford already has him on Cat #3, and the squadron guys are prepping him for launch. The Jet Blast Deflector (JBD) is up, protecting the aircraft and flight deck crew directly behind it. All “thumbs up” all around, so the Shooter goes into his motion, gives a once-around look, checking to make sure the deck is clear and… whoosh. The Corsair is off.

Next up on Cat #4, closest to the port side of the flight deck, is another Corsair; this one is from VA-195, the “Golden Dragons.” About 30 seconds after the first Corsair launches, this one will go. I know in the past, at least during the day, we’ve launched about 20 aircraft in less than 15 minutes. We slow down a bit at night because, well … you obviously need to be more careful.

I see my good friend, ABH2 Charlie Brown, directing this one. When we had liberty in Hong Kong, Charlie & I went in together to get tattoos. Actually, I only went in to keep him company, but I came back with an American Eagle tattoo on my right upper arm.

Charlie is standing about 20 feet in front of the aircraft, feet straddling the catapult track, so the returning catapult shuttle won’t knock him on his butt. Another few minutes … another smooth, uneventful launch. That’s how we like to do it. 

Here comes one of my favorites up onto Cat #3: an F-4 Phantom from VF-114 “Aardvarks.” These guys are just badass; there’s no other way to describe them. Like a Don Garlits top-fuel dragster on steroids. They’ve put a lot of time in and a big hurtin’ during the war. With a pilot and a Radar Intercept Officer behind him, these guys are no match for anyone foolish enough to go up against the Navy’s best.

I heard after we get return to San Diego from this Westpac in December, we’re scheduled for a year in the Bremerton Shipyards. Kitty Hawk will retrofit a few things, and one is to accommodate the newer F-14 Tomcat fighter aircraft. That’ll replace the F-4, but it will still be the same squadron and many of the same pilots.

Regardless, that’s another time and another place.

For now, I watch the director slowly guide the Phantom onto Cat #3. About a half dozen squadron guys are all over, checking, double-checking, and helping the director guide the aircraft ever so slowly until the nose bar drops into the shuttle. A waist cat crew member from the V-2 Division places the holdback bar in place.

The idea is that the holdback bar, along with the correct “dog bone” that slips into the rear of the nose gear, has enough tensile strength to hold the aircraft in place, even at full power. That is, until the steam catapult releases, applying enough forward pressure to break the dog bone, sending the Phantom on its journey into the darkness.

It’s really quite ingenious.

Now comes my all-time favorite part. The Yellow Shirt director moves to the inward side of the catapult, still in control. He’s ready and signals the pilot to go to full military power. For an F-4, that means a heap more noise. Even though I’ve got foam plugs inserted in my ears plus the insulated headset, I still feel a need to clasp my hands to hold them tighter—it’s really loud, standing about 20 feet away from an F-4 Phantom.

The director hands the aircraft off to the “Shooter,” the guy in charge of launching aircraft safely.

The Shooter checks all squadron crews’ show “lights up” (since he can’t obviously see thumbs at night), checks the status of the V-2 Division launch operator, and checks the bows’ position on the horizon. He salutes the pilot with his flashlight wand, and the pilot responds all is okay by flashing his navigation lights off, then back on.

Next, the Shooter signals the pilot to go to full afterburners—a sight that you never forget, with magnificent flames shooting out from both jet exhausts. Holy cow is all I can think. Then, a few seconds later, the F-4 Phantom is off, still in afterburners.

What a sight!

After another dozen cat shots, the launch cycle is over, and now we get to respot the flight deck in order to recover the prior flight ops cycle aircraft. They’re due in about twenty minutes.

I look at my watch. It’s 2100 (9:00 p.m.). Another couple of cycles, then I get the rest of the night off and hopefully hit my rack for some sack time.

Thank God we haven’t gone to water hours yet, so I’ll still get a shower. I’ve only been awake since 0530—I have a radio morning show at 0600: the “Country Chet Adkins Show” on KRAL, one of Kitty Hawk’s three radio stations.

Only 18+ hours today. Oh well…

Some people back home think that’s a long day. But I get to do things that most will only see snippets of in the movies. And you know what? I’d do it all over again.

Gary heads back to the Crash compartment; he’s a smoker and a poker player. He’ll win some and he’ll lose some between flight ops.

Me, I’m just gonna hang out over by the starboard catwalk. It’s darker and quieter over there, away from the hubbub on the flight deck. It’s a clear night; the sky is full of stars. The ship’s wake stirs up a long, wide trail of phosphorescence. Quite an amazing site… all around.

Somehow, this young 20-year-old sailor senses there’s something great out there. Greater than me; greater than my shipmates; greater than I could ever imagine.

Until we meet again,
Andy Adkins

Andy Adkins is a US Navy veteran (’73-77) and the author of several books (www.azadkinsiii.com), many of which are free downloads (PDF, eBook format). He is currently retired and lives in Gainesville, Florida with his wife and life-long soulmate, Becky.