Coming Home

In his remarkable memoir of the Second World War: Quartered Safe Out Here, George MacDonald Fraser shares his experiences in the Burma Campaign as a 19-year-old private in the Border Regiment fighting the Japanese during 1944-45. In this work, he deals with many of the universal experiences of men in combat; he notes:

Nobody in his right mind longs for battle or sudden death. 

But once you’ve trod the wild ways, you can never get them out of your system.

Fifty years ago, this week, I returned home from Thailand, having spent the first four months of my year there flying combat missions over Cambodia.

The day I left the war zone lingers in my mind. On 19 April 1974, I boarded a “Freedom Bird” heading home.  That day, my friends turned out to see me off as I returned to “The World,” as we called it.  G.I.s had performed this ritual many times since the war began.

“Sawadee, the Thais said, meaning goodbye and hello,” as if we were always together. 

We popped champagne and passed it around. Friends placed  Thai Sawadee necklaces around my neck, and my friends said more quick goodbyes.  It was all so fast, almost a blur, and then over. I boarded the “Freedom Bird” aircraft taking us home, stowed my carry-on gear, and strapped in for takeoff. The C-141 aircraft, full of men and women of all ranks and specialties, taxied into position and began the takeoff roll: Udorn, where I had lived, rushed by the windows. 

Goodbye to Thailand.

The bird broke ground. Like a volcano erupting, a huge cheer roared through the airframe. “SAWADEE,” we were on our way home. Sawadee didn’t mean goodbye; it meant we would always be together. I did not fully understand what always being together meant at the time.

Today, I know it is PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Many men and women from Korea, Vietnam, and the Afghanistan-Iraq war eras have experienced PTSD.  While my family probably doesn’t think I have PTSD, I do. To be clear on this, anyone who was in combat experiences some form of PTSD.   This condition was called “shell shock” during World War I and “combat fatigue” in World War II. PTSD can involve thoughts,  memories, distressing dreams, or flashbacks of events. Flashbacks may be so vivid that people relive traumatic experiences. PTSD is a spectrum of reactions ranging from a bit of difficulty adjusting to non-combat or civilian life to severe depression that may lead to suicide.

There are many resources for those still trying to deal with this experience, and it is essential to seek help. One of the most valuable resources is the American Institute of Stress. The institute has a connection to Geneva: Dr. Kathy Platoni. A practicing clinical psychologist, Dr. Platoni retired from the U.S. Army with the rank of Colonel in October of 2013 and is a graduate of William Smith College (B.S., 1974). As an Army Reserve clinical psychologist, she deployed on four times in war and is a survivor of the tragic Ft. Hood Massacre in November 2009. Dr. Platoni works with the military, first responders, and others who served in combat or have experienced other trauma. She is considered one of the leading experts in treating PTSD in the country. Anyone having issues with combat or other trauma should check out the American Institute for Stress, found online at https://www.stress.org/.

Time in combat changes one.

For me, it included many things:  honing my flying skills in the F-4, learning to deal with the world of combat, and being away from my wife, which was a difficult thing to do. It also meant dealing with coming home.

It was hard to leave these men I had gotten to know so well. We ate together, flew together, celebrated together, and shared some amazing experiences in the air. When we had finished flying, we shared a few brews—well, maybe more than a few. I never again experienced a bond like the one we forged in combat. I will never forget that time so long ago. 

It is true: “… once you’ve trod the wild ways, you can never get them out of your system.”

The Road to the Future

In 1966 I was commissioned a 2nd Lt. through my college ROTC program, and then went to graduate school. While there my vision changed and I could no longer pass a flight physical. By 1968, I went on active duty at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C. , I found myself in the base plans office, working in a command post, most certainly not as exciting as the future I had hoped for flying.

1968 became 1969, and then 1970. It was boring, and unless something happened, it was clear that I had no future in the air force. None, and I knew it. Yet, the idea of flying never went away. I knew I had to get into flying training if I wanted a career.   I read the Air Force Times weekly, went to the personnel office, and checked about entering the navigator training school. My vision was still too bad to pass the pilot flight physical, but almost close enough for a navigator. This seemed to be a lost cause for a while, but I never gave up. I desperately wanted to fly. I learned that the vision requirements for navigator training had changed. I applied for navigator school. Once again, I took another flight physical; this time, I passed. I was finally going to fly. Before me lay a time to prove to myself and others that I could do many things I never imagined. And I honestly had no idea of what lay ahead. I knew navigators guided aircraft on missions from old war movies, but that was all I knew. I did not realize that I was on the first rung of a very tall ladder.  But I knew I could do the job now that I had the opportunity. 

I left D.C. in late October 1971 and began the long cross-country drive to Sacramento. I had never taken so long a drive. Looking back now, after more than 50 years, I am amazed that it went so well. I had a brand-new car – a 1971 Mustang and road maps. That is how I navigated.

My route took me from D.C. down to Texas and then across New Mexico and Arizona to California. I had planned to visit my aunt and uncle and then drive up the interstate to Sacramento. Later, I would learn that this was the Big Valley of California, and this drive would stay with me. 

I remember driving up the valley that last day before I entered UNT. My Aunt and Uncle lived in near Los Angeles. As I headed north up I-5, I passed many of the bigger towns of the Valley, by Bakersfield, near Fresno, Modesto, Stockton, and finally over and up to Sacramento. I have to admit I was not impressed with what I saw. California was brown and the towns had a lived in look to them. At the time, it did not seem so consequential, but it was clearly the road to the future. And it was a foreshadowing of a nav training route Overland South that I would get to know well flying that route in the T-29 many, many times while I was training (I later flew it as an IN on the T-43 aircraft, as well).

I arrived at Mather for Undergraduate Navigator Training (UNT) in early November.  I had never seen so many “brown bars.” I had not attended officer training school (OTS), and at Bolling, we had only one or two second lieutenants at any time. At Mather, there were tall ones, short ones, some with glasses and some without them. Some had been in pilot training and washed out. Still, others had no prior experience, but all wanted to fly. One thing was clear: they were everywhere. 

Assigned to the 3538th Navigator Training Squadron (NTS) in casual status (C.S)., I had nothing to do. The only thing that could move this along was the regs (regulations) that governed the training. I pointed out that I would turn 27 ½ in about two weeks, the cut-off to enter training, and suddenly, they found a slot for me. Another student joined C.S., and I moved to the top of the list, which meant I would graduate in the summer of 1972. I entered the UNT program on 11 December 1971, a week short of my 27 ½ birthday. However, first I had to take one more flight physical, my third that year. I will never forget the advice one brown bar gave me as we stood in line: “Never tell the flight surgeon anything that might disqualify you.”  Not necessarily lie, but don’t volunteer information. Words I remembered my entire flying career. 

Mather, like other flying training bases, was bursting at the seams. The Air Force felt increasing pressure to produce aircrews for the needs of the Vietnam War. I later learned we had ten captains, five first lieutenants, and 77 second lieutenants in my class. They divided the class into four flights, and the captains, the older men of the group, became flight commanders, a mostly ceremonial post. But being a military organization, rank determined the pecking order—interestingly, some of the captain students were senior to the captain instructor navs (INs).

In 1982, I returned to Mather and was assigned to the 451st Flying Training Squadron (FTS). It was still the Mather I remembered in many ways, and there were still second lieutenants everywhere. Some of the base support folks tended to dismiss them as not important. I noticed this more the second time than when I was a captain. They treated them like they didn’t know anything, a.k.a. the brown bar treatment. 

One day, now a Lt. Colonel, I found myself receiving this treatment. I had to go to the base hospital. I looked young and was wearing a flight suit. I was standing behind a high counter, waiting for the airman to get off the phone; it became apparent that it was a personal call. She was not moving quickly. It struck me: she is giving me a brown bar treatment. She apparently could not see the two silver oak leaves on my shoulders. Finally, she decided to acknowledge my presence. I had been there for nearly five minutes, and she stood up to see what I needed. I had never seen the color drain from a person’s face. She went pale and suddenly became very officious and eager to help me.

I did not chew her out; that was not my style, but I did tell her that it was her job to take good care of the men and women who served our nation. Mather existed because of the brown bars there and the mission to train them for our country. That was all it was there for. Therefore it was important to treat all the students there with respect.

Today’s Topic: Flight Surgeons

Flight Surgeon (FS) – the term elicited two responses from many jocks: Don’t see him unless you have to do it, and do not volunteer any information on your health.

My first experience with a FS surgeon occurred in graduate school. In 1967, I received notice that I was to report to Griffiss AFB in Rome, New York, for a physical to determine if I could enter flight training. Sadly, my vision changed while I was in grad school, and I couldn’t pass the vision portion of the exam.

I always had issues with the color blindness portion that required one to look at a circle filled with colored dots and read the number. But this was not what did me in, I simply no longer had 20/20 vision and could not even qualify for navigator training. The FS terminated my flight career then. It probably didn’t help that I told him about some past health issues I had experienced in college. No, I didn’t say I had been unconscious, but I did volunteer more than he needed to know. All these things ended my career flying in the bud.

Still, I never gave up on flying, and luckily, by 1971, the Air Force needed more and more men to enter flight training, and I could qualify for navigator training.

At Mather AFB in November 1971, I had yet another flight physical. I admit I was still somewhat naive about my relationship with the FS. I was a captain who had been non-rated for four years. My experience with Air Force medical care was minimal. I had been to the base clinic for a cold or two, but that was about it. While standing in line, a knowledgeable “brown bar” (2nd lt) told me not to volunteer anything to the FS, not to lie about my health, and not to say anything that wasn’t pertinent to the present exam. Thus began my relationship with the FS: a sort of love-hate co-dependency.

Every year, I had to take a flight physical while on flight status. I viewed this event with some trepidation. First, I was built like a fireplug and always had to watch my weight. Even more so — the Air Force kept changing how it determined if one was too heavy. First, they used a sliding scale that increased as one got older, so it was OK to be a bit heavier. Then they instituted a new program that said you had to be the same weight your whole career – what you weighed at 18. Not realistic for us folks with a low metabolism. 

So, I had to ensure I was below the maximum weight before my annual physical or be assigned to the dreaded “Fat Boy” program, which was the kiss of death for promotion. Interestingly, this applied mainly to lower-ranking folks, as there were often photos of full colonels and generals who looked very big. But I digress.

For the years, I was on flying status; I had no problems and was always within the standards set for my height. It was when I broke my leg in 1987, my time on flight status ended. The FS grounded me permanently. I could no longer pass the annual PT tests; I retired in 1989.

While it might seem that I had a negative view of the FS, this was not the case. I always got excellent medical treatment from them, and they went out of their way to experience what we flyers did in the air.

One of the best examples was Dr. John Pendergrass flying in the F-4 Phantom II in combat during the Vietnam War. Pendergrass’ time in the backseat, or “Pit,” as we called it, occurred in 1971. Then, he flew 54 combat missions out of Da Nang in the Pit over Vietnam. This was something he did not have to do. He states in his well-written account of that time, Racing Back to Vietnam: A Journey in War and Peace, he could have added his name to a C-130 crew manifest and had a much safer way to fulfill flying time requirements. ( See his obituary below, he passed away in November 2023.)

He did it in The Phantom out of a sense of duty and a personal and professional need to experience some of the most high-adrenaline, demanding types of flight of the Vietnam War. Most GIBs went to Nav School and underwent an eight-month upgrade to the Phantom’s back seat; Pendergrass gained his skills flying on the job. He learned that the back seat of the F-4  was a place of G-suits, Martin Baker ejection seats, INS, radar, RHAW gear, memorized emergency procedures, and many circuit breakers. It was where one needed to be a contortionist while tightly strapped to a rocket, hoping it would never fire. It was a place where the man in the rear cockpit was valued, and every flight in combat was never routine. Pendergrass noted that this influenced him, which became the great adventure of his life, as it was with those of us who were lucky enough to experience it. Pendergrass was typical of the FS who served and tried to find out what made us jocks tick.

He was typical of FS I often saw who were not the enemy determined to ground us but allies to keep us in the air.

I will forever be grateful for their excellent care and help.

---

Dr. John L. Pendergrass, 78, who died on Wednesday, November 08, 2023.

Interment will be held at a later date in Arlington National Cemetery.

John was born and raised in Clarksdale, MS. He received his Bachelor of Science degree from Delta State College, where he was a charter member of Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity. In 1969, John received the Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of Mississippi and went on to complete an internship at Baylor University Medical Center.

John served as a United States Air Force flight surgeon during the Vietnam War caring for sick and wounded servicemen. He flew 54 combat missions in an F-4 Phantom while stationed at DaNang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam and was a life member of the Red River Valley Fighter Pilots Association.

After completing a residency in ophthalmology at Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas, TX, John practiced ophthalmology at the Green Eye Institute for 44 years.

He was active in community and medical affairs, serving as vice-president of the Mississippi State Board of Medical Liscensure, president of the South Mississippi Medical Society, president of the Louisiana – Mississippi Ophthalmological Society, president of the Mississippi Eye Ear Nose and Throat Association, and president of the board of directors of the Hattiesburg Family Y. He also funded and endowment that provides free textbooks for military veterans who attend the University of Southern Mississippi.

An active endurance athlete for most of his life, John competed in numerous road races, marathons, and triathlons. He founded the Hattiesburg Track Club in the late 1970s. John was the first person to compete in six Ironman triathlons on six continents in his sixties, a journey he described in his book, “Against the Odds.” This book, along with his award winning memoir, “Racing Back to Vietnam,” was published by Random House.

John is survived by his wife and family.

Three Special Gifts for Christmas

The following piece appeared in the Finger Lakes Times in Geneva, NY Dec 23, 2023

The holiday season is a time of great expectations, which often are not fulfilled. When one experiences a special Christmas, it is a gift of great value. I have had three such Christmases.

Christmas near Oswego, N.Y., 65 years ago: In 1958, I lived in a very rural area and decided to go out into the woods to cut down a Christmas tree. I was 14 and very confident. As the afternoon drew on, I kept walking to find the right tree, not realizing how long I had been out in the cold. After awhile, it began to get dark, but I couldn’t go back empty-handed. I wandered around but still hadn’t found that “perfect” tree. It got darker and darker, and I was clearly lost and still had no tree. As things got bleaker, I saw my grandfather coming through the woods. He had tracked my route. He helped me find a tree, but more importantly, he got me home safely.

Christmas in Thailand, 50 years ago: For nearly half of 1973, I had flown combat missions over Cambodia during the Vietnam Air War. On Christmas day, I felt disconnected. I was rootless and did not understand why. There is no such thing as a good Christmas in a war zone. To celebrate in my small way, I had a tree, presents, and homemade cookies from my wife. My uncle had sent an audiotape that the family had made earlier in the year at a gathering. I sat in my room — listening to the tape, eating those special cookies, looking at that tree sent lovingly to me by my wife, and for a few moments was almost home.

Christmas in Canandaigua, 20 years ago: Like most years, the holiday season 2003 began with much activity. Our younger daughter was working at a daycare in Rochester at the time. The week before Thanksgiving, a mosquito bit her, an odd thing so late in the year. She began to feel ill over Thanksgiving weekend. By the following Monday, my wife took her to the emergency room, and they determined that the brain and its covering — the Menges — had become inflamed or infected (Meningoencephalitis). She rapidly regressed mentally to an infant the following week. My wife and I were under great stress; all the everyday joy of the season evaporated. Yet, slowly but steadily, she began to improve through the skills of the medical team that helped her.

She regained her mental capacity, and by the week before Christmas, she was moved to a rehab center. On Christmas Eve, she came home. My wife remained with her, and my older daughter and I attended our church’s Christmas Eve service. As we sang the old, well-loved carols, my daughter sat there softly weeping, and I admit to not having a dry eye. The heavy weight of the month’s events lifted from our shoulders.

If there is a lesson from these three events, it is that getting caught up in everything the secular world says is necessary during the holidays is easy, but these things are temporary. It takes a unique, unexpected gift to make you understand what is really important. One needs to recognize and accept that gift for a really special Christmas.

Once again we revisit the Christmas from Hades

A Norvell Family Christmas Vacation – or the holidays from h…

A day in November and Beyond

In 1963, I was a sophomore at Hobart.  Thanksgiving was around the corner,  with a well-appreciated break from the usual round of studying, tests, and college life.  On Friday, November 22, 1963, I was crossing the Hobart Quad going to a biology laboratory when someone grabbed my arm and said, “The President’s been shot.” Lee Harvey Oswald had shot Kennedy from a sixth-floor window of the Texas School Book Depository as Kennedy traveled by motorcade through Dealey Plaza in Dallas.

I was in shock but went to the lab, where we learned that the president had died. What Dr. T.T. Odell tried to teach us is forever lost to me. As I sat in the lab with my shocked fellows from Hobart and William Smith, all I knew was that I wanted to be somewhere else. Later that afternoon, the Rev. R. Channing Johnson held a service of mourning for the dead president. And, like any other day, I went to work at SAGA serving the evening meal.

The next few days were a blur: the college leadership responded,  my still-shocked parents retrieved me from Hobart, and I remember going to a memorial service for the dead president on Sunday, November 24. Once home, on went the TV to follow the ongoing saga.

The news media was everywhere. As we tuned in, detectives were escorting Oswald through the basement of Dallas Police Headquarters toward an armored car that was to take him from the city jail (located on the fourth floor of police headquarters) to the nearby county jail. At 11:21 a.m. CST, Dallas nightclub operator Jack Ruby approached Oswald from the side of the crowd and shot him once in the abdomen at close range.

Photo from BBC special

This event was televised live. It was another stunning moment. We had a Thanksgiving dinner in 1963, but I do not remember it. Like many Americans, I was in shock for many days. It was the first of the shocks to come to my generation in the 1960s.

I first visited the Kennedy grave in 1966 on a trip back from Florida during spring break. It was crude then, with no stone plaza, and the “eternal flame” was simply a pipe out of the ground with a small blue flame burning above JFK’s resting place. It would not be my last visit to the grave.

1968, I was stationed in Washington, D.C., as an Air Force second lieutenant. Like many Americans in 1968, the most newsworthy events played out daily on my television. Whether it was the Vietnam War, the protests, or the presidential election, my TV linked me to the broader world each night.

On March 31, 1968, as I viewed a speech by President Lyndon B. Johnson, he suddenly said: “With America’s sons in the fields far away, with America’s future under challenge right here at home, with our hopes and the world’s hopes for peace in the balance every day, I do not believe that I should devote an hour or a day of my time to any personal partisan causes or to any duties other than the awesome duties of this office — the presidency of this country.” My reaction was what did he say? Then he added, “Accordingly, I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president.” The thought that LBJ, probably the most political president in memory, would not run again was stunning.

With Johnson’s withdrawal from the 1968 race, Senator Robert F. Kennedy became the leading democratic candidate. Then, on June 6, 1968, Senator Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles. Within five years, the nation had reeled from the deaths of President John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and now another assassination filled our TV screens. As the story unfolded on the nightly news, RFK’s body would be flown back to New York for a funeral on June 8. Then, it would be taken to Washington by train for burial in Arlington, near his brother’s grave.

I went down to Union Station to be there when the train arrived. It was dark and late on a Saturday night, and I climbed up on a wall near the station to see the limousines, hearse, and ever-present media move through the darkened city on the way to Arlington. I still remember the long line of dark cars moving away on Constitution Avenue toward Virginia on that warm June night. It was an unfortunate event and markedly different than the reaction to the earlier death of Dr. King in April of that year. Then the city exploded, and now the mood was almost defeated sadness. Sadness that once again a life had been taken, sadness for our country, and sadness for a year that seemed to be out of control.

On Sunday, June 9, 1968, I decided to go to Arlington to visit the Kennedy graves. Despite all the recent events of the previous days, the area around the graves was deserted. I climbed the hill to JFK’s grave and saw the freshly dug grave of Robert Kennedy nearby on the left of the main plaza area. After a few moments, I turned to leave. To my surprise, Jacqueline Kennedy, John Jr., and Caroline were there. I didn’t know what to think: the Kennedy family was coming up the hill to JFK’s grave. When they reached their father’s grave, the children knelt down and prayed.

My photo

At Robert’s grave, Jackie placed a single white rose. She turned and passed very close to me; I stood there transfixed by something so unexpected that had happened. And then, as quickly as they came, they were gone. I will never forget and cherish this special moment of that troubled year.

My photo

October 1973

From the end of May to 15 August 1973, I flew 42 combat missions totaling nearly 112 hours. That was the focus of everyday—combat: brief, refuel, bomb, and RTB.

Now the war was over and we flew only training missions

F’ing New Guys continued to arrive, and we, the old, grizzled war vets, welcomed them as much as we were welcomed earlier. I flew with a green lieutenant or captain who had just upgraded to the F-4. Now, I was the expert on how we did things. Yes—I was the expert, but even that was changing for me due to the uncertainties ahead. Training became the name of the game. I thought how odd it was to be in combat one day and then training as if it had never happened. Training didn’t last long; flying had a quota system by September, and we had used all our time up. In September, I flew only ten missions, about half of what I had flown in combat. The gas crisis that hit the U.S. long ago also affected us.

Be that as it may, we did have a big Oktoberfest; it was another opportunity to let off steam. That said, I have no memory of Halloween 1973. One more thing, if Halloween disappointed me, I went to Taiwan.

On 10 October 1973, we ferried an F-4 to the Tainan, Taiwan, China depot. The Air Force used a central depot system to perform upgrades. Several F-4s needed to be modified to drop laser-guided bombs. We stayed overnight at Clark and on route to Taiwan; we refueled several times and continuously monitored any air activity from mainland China. After delivering our birds to the depot at Tainan, we took a helicopter north to the capital, Taipei, where we had a boondoggle good deal: a Chinese national celebration, “Double 10 Day,” would keep us there three days. Then, we would catch transport back to Clark Air Base in the Philippines, stay over, and return to Thailand.

My pilot was a real fighter pilot, if there ever were one. He didn’t come to Taipei to visit the museums, and shortly after our arrival, he went off to Peitou City, the infamous red-light district, to pursue the “special pleasures” the Orient had to offer. The special pleasures were available on almost any street in Taipei, as we discovered the first night as we went to dinner, and several women called out to us, “Hey G.I., you want a good time.” My pilot knew about Peitou, which I had never heard about until we arrived, but he was a hardened major who had spent much time in the Orient. As some called it, he knew where he could get a bit of “I&I”-intoxication and intercourse. The red light districts where my pilot chose to go were not a problem. If he contracted something, he never let on. The trip was wonderful to get away from Udorn briefly, but not without complications on the return.

If everything went well on the way there, the return to Udorn was a comedy of errors. It all began at 1 a.m. at Clark’s Military Airlift Command (MAC) terminal. I had my passport with me but had forgotten to bring my shot records (I am not sure anyone told me to). When I checked in, they told me I couldn’t get on the plane without it. It was off to the base hospital, where they gave me a “duplicate”—wink, wink—shot record, and I returned to the terminal.

Then they weighed our baggage and said we could not transport that much. No one considered that we would wear about 40 pounds of flight gear, which we now had stored in our travel flight bags. I told the clerk that it was either let us ship it in our baggage or we could wear it on the C-141 transport to take us back to Thailand. I think his better judgment prevailed, and he allowed us to send it rather than have two fighter jocks board the transport C-141 wearing helmets, G-suits, survival vests, and parachute harnesses.

And just as I was about to board, another MAC minion told me my mustache was out of limits and that I had to trim it. At this point, I had been up for nearly 22 hours and gave up and cut it. I could fly over 100 combat hours over Cambodia with my mustache but couldn’t board a flight to Udorn. This air force rule had yet to be entirely re-established at Udorn.

And so I returned to the Pearl of PACAF with about six months to go before I returned to “The World,” as we called the U.S. And it seemed no Halloween celebration.

My Navy – An interesting look at another service

As an Air Force F-4 fighter backseater, I knew little about the Navy. I had gleaned a bit from movies such as “Officer and a Gentleman” and the two “Top Guns,” but that was it. Even though I taught military history at the Air Force Academy, it focused almost entirely on land battles and air power. I knew about the classic naval battles: Trafalgar in 1805,  Jutland in 1916 during World War I, and  Midway in 1942 in World War II.   I had studied the leadership, tactics, and some of the strategies of these battles, but otherwise, I found the US Navy to be an undiscovered country.

I knew little of those who served. So, I enjoyed Lt. Hans “Boba” Fett’s discussion of his Navy career. Fett first introduced me to this world as he wrote about his time as an enlisted man. Later, he would receive a direct commission as an ensign. I know what an ensign is, but placing the various enlisted ranks into an army or air force structure was challenging.   I had no clue what being a petty officer meant. I had little experience with the Navy when I  served at Bolling AFB in DC adjacent to Anacostia Naval Station (now a joint base). Often, I would encounter Navy personnel heading toward me from the BX. Since I had no clue what the stripes on the sleeve meant, I always initiated the salute as I figured either I had to salute them or they had to salute me. That is how foreign Fett’s world was to me.

Fett spent part of his enlisted career in Belgium at NATO. As I served in the Air Force, I would never have gone to this area of the world due to my career field. Likewise, I knew little about the carrier Kitty Hawk and naval aviation.  Carrier operations are a world most folks will never encounter. It also confirmed in my mind why I was in the Air Force and not eager to practice the skills I learned in water survival, which, from his description, some folks had to use when a takeoff or landing failed.

However, Fett’s time with the Blue Angels and his role was most engaging. Although not an aviator, he performed a vital administrative job and discussed it matter-of-factly, not boasting but as an account of his life and what it entailed.   While it might seem glamorous and exciting (and it was), it was also a job. Something that he and, to be honest, I took for granted. I know from experience that while one is doing it, flying in a fighter squadron does not seem unique; years later, it becomes apparent how special it was. Now granted, being with the Blue Angels is very special, but it was his job.

In the end, I enjoyed his book immensely. At one level, the book relates the challenges of being in the Navy and all that entailed: training, missions, homecoming, and subsequent assignments. He gives excellent accounts of naval squadron life and its occasional hijinks along the way.   At a deeper level, it relates to the demands of this life choice and his success due to his careful, precise, systematic, and well-organized abilities. Fett writes in a fluid and accessible style, to the point, and brings the reader along well. His book sheds light on a sister service that most AF types need to learn about. Cadets at the AF Academy should read this book to understand what a different type of service to our nation means. 

______________________

A version of this story appeared Sept 5, 2023 in the Geneva Finger Lakes Times as a book review.

50 years ago – the end of air combat over Cambodia – some thoughts

This year is a significant anniversary for me. 

First, 55 years ago-1968, I entered active duty as a new Air Force 2nd lieutenant stationed in Washington, DC. I had planned to go to flight training, but my vision changed, and the Air Force assigned me to the Bolling Air Force Base plans’ office there.  By 1971, as the Air Force needed more aircrews for the Vietnam War, I found I could qualify to fly. I went to Navigator Flight School, earned my wings, and in 1972, I began to upgrade to the backseat of the F-4 Phantom II. That started my journey, which ended in Thailand in the spring of 1973. 

And second, fifty years ago, I flew on the last F-4 “unofficial”bombing mission of the Vietnam Air War on August 15, 1973. The Air War was mandated by Congress to end on that day as part of the American draw down for the war.

All, this was vastly different from Washington, DC.

So as a  WSO assigned to the 13th Tactical Fighter Squadron, I flew on the last “unofficial” F4 fighter bombing mission of the Vietnam War out of Udorn RTAFB.   It had not been planned that way.   As the end of combat approached, a lottery was held among the senior officers in Thailand to see who would fly the official last mission of the war.   Our crew was on alert that morning and after the “official last fight” had taken off, we scrambled and dropped our bombs just before noon , so we in effect became the last bombing mission of the Vietnam War.

At noon, combat missions ceased and the war ended.  Then, we heard a message broadcast over Guard: “Little Orphan Annie has crossed the Blue Ridge Bridge, I repeat, Little Orphan Annie has crossed the Blue Ridge Bridge.”  We thought, what does that mean, wondering if it was a coded message announcing the end of the war.  Then we heard the sound of a toilet flushing.   That was how eight years of air combat ended.

Reconnaissance missions would continue to be flown out of Udorn by the 14 TRS and non-bombing-related sorties would continue well into 1975 when Saigon fell. But no more bombing would be conducted by F4s or other American aircraft, the air war and my time in combat was over..

I have thought about combat for more than 50 years. The moments in combat over Cambodia had been the center of my life for four months. I had flown forty-two combat missions, and now that was passing. In the past, Americans often welcomed service men and women home with great thanks, but not from the Vietnam War. The earlier vets served because it was their duty as citizens to give back a part of their lives and abilities to this country that had given them so much. This idea is old-fashioned:  if one receives much, one should give back in return-it is one’s duty.

Before I entered flying, I had yet to learn what duty meant. To me, duty meant showing up for work daily. When I began flying training, I realized that duty meant something more subtle: dedication. Flying training opened my eyes to the demands of being a military member.   Duty equaled demanding work. There is no coasting in combat. No taking the easy path and no giving up. Every time I went up in the F-4 over Cambodia, there was the chance I would not come back. In the brief time I flew combat, my life changed. 

When the war ended, I missed the combat’s daily routine. My life centered on this routine. It defined who I was. I was doing the job I chose to do. No one forced me to go to the F-4. I shared this commitment with all those who went off in WWII to serve our nation.

Moreover, I knew that my actions were part of the overall effort. In combat, you cannot put yourself first; you weaken the team if you think your actions are more important than others. That is the key-the sense of obligation. Duty now defined me, followed by trust. You must be able to trust the men you serve with, and they must be able to trust you. Lastly, I learned about loyalty to something bigger than oneself. That was The Constitution, which all military members swear to uphold..

At that time, I took it all for granted.

Some folks have called combat veterans heroes today, but we felt we were doing our jobs. Recently, I understood our nation’s tremendous trust in me by allowing me to fly in the back seat of the F-4. It was more than doing my job. This trust demanded that I do it without reservation if I had to place my life in danger.  When folks ask me what it was like to fly in combat, I tell them:  It was the highest honor a man could ever receive. The oath to The Constitution is a sacred promise that should not be taken lightly.

And that, in the end, was what it was all about.

Buying the Farm

22 July 1973 started like any other bombing mission.

We were fragged to go down and meet with a FAC near Phnom Pehn, Cambodia and deliver our bombs in an effort to stop the Khmer Rouge from taking power.

We did our preflight routine, strapped in, and taxied to the arming area. For this mission, we carried 18 Mark 82–500-pound bombs, a standard drop. That was 9000 pounds of bombs hanging from the F-4 (almost twice the amount that one B-17 bomber carried on a long distance mission in World War II). The munitions folks checked the bombs and pulled the safing pins. Then we were cleared onto the runway.

We were the lead for the mission that day, which meant I was flying with an old head. Our bird, F-4E 237, got clearance, and we began our takeoff roll; I called out 70 knots to the AC, and after liftoff, confirmed that the gear was up. We climbed, passed over the klong, and turned. Still routine, passing 1,000 feet and climbing.

Then we were over the Thai countryside; off in the distance, I saw a monsoon dumping its afternoon load into the many pools of water across the landscape. Then, there was a violent lurch to the right. We were about 7,000 feet and dropped, losing at least 1,000 instantly. Our wingman, on the rejoin, held back to wait and see what was happening. A routine takeoff and rejoin had morphed into a boldface emergency.

The AC was struggling to control the Phantom. The bird seemed to have a mind of its own. Almost simultaneously, we both got out our checklists and began to run them. I checked all the circuit breakers. It was hard to turn to see them strapped in tight. The AC continued his efforts to regain control, now the rate of descent had stopped, but the bird was not happy.

We were flying in a squirrelly bird with a max load of 9,000 pounds of bombs and still thousands of pounds of JP4 in the tanks. Not a winning combination.

We got on the radio and contacted the SOF in the tower. He said we had two options: One, get the bird out over an uninhabited area and eject. Two, if the bird settled down, a big if, we could fly it around the area for about an hour to burn off the fuel in the tanks and then jettison the bombs.

There was an area off the end of one of the active runways where we could unload them. Although the bombs were hot, they were not armed yet. A small propeller on each bomb started spinning when it was released and finished the arming sequence. The propeller had to turn for a specific time to arm the bomb as it fell. Dropping it off the runway in the jettison area did not provide enough time for the bomb to fall, the propeller to spin and arm the bomb.

At this point, we had only been airborne for about 15 minutes, although it seemed a lot longer. We talked out about our options. Neither of us relished ejection. So many things could go wrong. In a typical ejection scenario, the backseat went first and then the front to avoid frying the backseater with the front seat rocket. They designed the seat to have a zero-zero launch, which is zero speed and zero altitude.

We were high enough, so that was not the problem. It all boiled down to any fighter crew’s fundamental dislike to leave the airplane while we could fly it. We elected for the present to work the problem. In any case, I turned the command selector valve to blow both seats if that became an issue. When I ejected with the valve turned, it would cause the front seat to eject after I was gone. This action was done only in extreme emergencies and only in coordination with my pilot.

Now, 20 minutes had passed, and the bird flew better, but she still was not happy. The AC talked to the SOF and told him we would be staying with the bird for the present. We could climb back to about 7,000 feet to give us more altitude and headed away from the populated areas to wait it out.

The remaining 40 minutes were some of my most protracted in the air. Nothing more serious happened. We dumped and burned off the fuel, jettisoned the bombs, and landed safely. That was the first time I came very close to buying the farm, although it was always possible on any flight—any time. I want to say I know what caused the flight control issues but never heard. Like many things, once a mission was over, we moved on; the only important thing was the current mission. The past was past.

I seriously edited what had happened in my letter home:

22 July 1973: We had to make an emergency landing. We took off and were getting erroneous inputs into the flight controls. So we had to dump gas and try a controllability check to make sure we could land. So after about 60 minutes or so, the pilot put it safely on the ground.

This was not the first, nor was it the last time I found myself contemplating an ejection. Later, in Alaska, we would have a reverse fuel transfer problem. But that is a story for another day.

________________________

Postscript later it was speculated that the Stab Aug system was fighting the AC for control of the bird…