Tennessee Patriot

by Lawrence, William P. , Rausa, Rosario

  We participated in a major NATO exercise in 1960, primarily with the British and the French and simulated nuclear weapons strikes against the Norwegians, who played the part of our opponents. During that exercise, he and I had a two-day sojourn on the submarine, the USS Triton, commanded by Cdr. (later Capt.) Ned Beach (USNA 1939). Moorer soaked up every morsel of knowledge he could about the radar picket capability of the sub. He had a mind like a sponge, accumulating information and retaining it.

  Moorer was always on an even keel; I never saw him lose his temper He despised stuffy behavior. He believed it important that an officer be approachable, not standoffish. He wanted his subordinates to be able to think for themselves, to take action as necessary without fear of reprimand. This attitude imbued them with confidence in themselves and their superiors and made them work all that much harder to succeed.

  My family arrived in Jacksonville in May, and I deployed three months later aboard the USS Saratoga, our flagship. We got off to a bad start, however, because of a flooding casualty that caused the Saratoga to turn around for repairs. This forced us to transfer the staff to the already-crowded USS Essex, the other aircraft carrier in the division, where we lived in rather cramped quarters for a couple of weeks until the Saratoga caught up with us in the Mediterranean. The Essex had a great skipper, by the way, Capt. Tom South (USNA 1934), who, following his tour on the Essex, became Moorer’s chief of staff. I developed a very close relationship with this good-humored officer. In fact, the whole staff got along well, a tribute, I think, to Admiral Moorer’s demeanor and the respect he commanded.

  In those days most naval aviators did not learn the intricacies of communications. Moorer, for example, had mastered single-side-band operations and knew the advantages of low frequency versus medium frequency and ultra high-frequency radios.

  Captain Hyland, skipper of the Sara (the USS Saratoga) was another highly respected officer. He had privileges to play at tennis clubs on the French Riviera but had trouble finding someone to play with him. He learned that I liked the sport and invited me along when we were in port in Cannes to play at these clubs. We got to know each other well that way.

  Like Moorer, Hyland was a cool customer. Entering port for a visit to Istanbul is rather tricky because of the five-knot flow of the narrow Bosporus straits. I was on the bridge as we approached the city, and Captain Hyland was carefully executing commands, when an officer on the bridge announced, “Captain, there’s a freighter in our assigned anchorage.”

  Ordinarily, this would infuriate the skipper of a huge ship like an aircraft carrier. Taking someone else’s anchorage just isn’t done. But John Hyland was not given to outbursts and calmly guided the Saratoga into a spot as close to the freighter as safety would permit.

  Hyland, who rose to four-star rank, was a three-star and commanded the Seventh Fleet when I was shot down as commanding officer of a fighter squadron.

  Naval aviation was feeling its oats in those days. The Cold War was upon us, and our carriers were roaming the seas with nuclear weapons in their arsenal ready to take on the Reds. Although a somber undertone of distrust of the Communists and lament over the possibility of unutterable destruction flavored our thoughts, naval air was a formidable power with which the enemy would have to contend.

  After returning from the Mediterranean in the spring of 1961, the Saratoga was ordered to the Navy yard in Brooklyn, New York, for maintenance upkeep. Customarily, in such situations, the admiral’s staff would remain at its Mayport headquarters while the carrier underwent overhaul or repair work. But despite protestations from Admiral Moorer, Vice Adm. Joe Rees (USNA 1926), commander Naval Air Force Atlantic, directed him and our staff to remain on the ship, an order that created a morale problem, because it meant more time away from the families of staff members, not to mention the admiral himself. The air wing flyers had dispersed to their home bases, and ship’s company personnel knew well in advance they would have to stay with the ship no matter wherever it went.

  When the Saratoga finally departed New York, it was slated to collect a load of ammunition at the weapons station near Portsmouth, Virginia. That done, we left at night for the journey to Mayport. In the middle of the night, we were awakened by the loud and frightening sound of metal tearing metal. We had collided with a German merchant ship. The overhang of the carrier scraped through the entire superstructure of the freighter. Although there were no fatalities, there were numerous injuries to crews on both ships.

  Collisions at sea are never less than critical events. Admiral Moorer decided he would brief Rees directly, an action I know he dreaded. He and I flew in a helicopter to Norfolk, where Rees’s headquarters was. We arrived OK, got in the official car awaiting us, and motored directly toward the headquarters building. Unbeknownst to us, Rees was heading in the opposite direction to board a helicopter for a flight to the Saratoga to see the damage himself. We spotted his car at an intersection, and I hurriedly got out and drew the attention of the occupants. I asked if Rear Admiral Moorer could ride with him so they could talk. But I was waved away. So Moorer and I returned to base operations for a return trip to the Saratoga.

  It was an obvious embarrassment for Admiral Moorer to not be on board to greet Rees. But there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Nevertheless, Moorer didn’t get excited about the miscue. He just didn’t allow such unfortunate incidents like the collision to phase him, knowing that time suppresses, if not heals, up-tight emotions. The collision made the headlines, and the blame was placed on the Saratoga for a mix-up in signaling while trying to avoid the German vessel. Interestingly, Capt. Al Fleming (USNA 1936), the Saratoga’s CO, was found at fault even though he wasn’t on the bridge at the time. The event didn’t preclude his subsequent selection to flag rank, a promotion that doesn’t often happen to carrier skippers who have collisions or run aground during their watch.

  The accident was not without humorous overtones. We learned later that at the instant of impact the German freighter was signaling “Bon Voyage!” to our ship.

  We spent a long week at the Portsmouth Navy Yard while the Saratoga was repaired.

  At the end of our Mediterranean deployment in 1960, we were coming into Mayport, and I was scheduled as the staff tactical watch officer for the 0400 to 0800 watch, during which we were to arrive in Mayport. I talked over the plan for the next day with fellow officers, absorbed their thoughts and came up with a plan. We had to launch the air group at a point corresponding to the Saratoga’s passing a designated sea buoy marker in order to reach Mayport at high tide. Mayport has only a minimum depth of water, so if we couldn’t make it at high tide, we would have to wait hours for another try. Knowing the pier would be packed with anxiously waiting dependents and loved ones, it wouldn’t set well if we missed our time at the sea buoy.

  We examined the predicted winds, plotted the various possible points for the launch, depending on the existing winds, considered other contingencies, and, satisfied with the plan, I went to bed.

  I arrived on the bridge at 0300 just to make sure everything was under control. I noted that the officer who I would shortly relieve had not reset the dead-reckoning tracer bug on the plotting chart. This bug reacted to signals from a pitot tube in the water that detects the ship’s velocity and from a gyrocompass. But the bug seemed to be indicating accurately.

  A while after I relieved the flag bridge watch officer, I asked the navigator on the captain’s bridge to verify the ship’s position. He gave it to me, and a quick check of the chart revealed, to my alarm, that the carrier was thirty-five miles out of position. My predecessor on the flag bridge had failed to detect this error. It was nearly 0500, and the launch was to commence at 0630. We were way behind our Point of Intended Movement, or PIM. So I ordered the ship to speed up from twenty to thirty knots to close that ten-mile gap.

  In his bunk, Capt. Jerry King, the staff operations officer, felt the vibrations from the increased ship’s speed. He called me on the phone.

  “What
the hell’s going on up there?” he demanded.

  As I tried to explain the situation, I sensed that Jerry was half asleep, but that didn’t prevent him from chewing me out. “God dammit,” he said. “I thought you had all this worked out last night, and now you’re out of position.”

  I said nothing for a moment, and then he added, “Boy, if you screw this thing up, it’s really going to be bad. You know, we have all those families waiting to see the carrier.”

  “Yes sir!” I said, “I understand that. I’m trying to fix it.”

  Then Admiral Moorer called and calmly asked, “Why are we going so fast?”

  I explained the situation to him. We were behind schedule, but I was doing what I considered necessary to catch up.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll handle it.” Clearly, Tom Moorer’s cool reaction was distinctly different than Jerry King’s angry one.

  We made up for the extra distance and started the launch at 0630. A few minutes later, the entire air group was in the sky, and the Saratoga, believe it or not, was within sixty seconds of reaching the sea buoy.

  Jerry King was on the bridge by now, and we looked at each other, very slight smiles on our faces. I had the utmost respect for Jerry and had learned a great deal from him. He was a real pro. I certainly didn’t blame him for being upset. But I’m sure glad we got the birds off on time and got the Saratoga to the pier with all those families and friends waiting.

  In summary, there are going to be times in a Navy career when you find yourself in extremis. You need sound thinking under pressure to get through such occasions, but good luck and the grace of the man upstairs really help.

  Being away from Anne and the kids for great chunks of time was extremely difficult during this eighteen-month tour of duty. I acquired an immense body of knowledge on shipboard operations and the multitude of formations required when two carriers and their accompanying ships function as a unit. Underway replenishment, setting screens for the carriers, and tactical dispersal of various elements in the group are challenging maneuvers. More important, I was exposed to leadership techniques displayed by the likes of Admirals Moorer and Anderson and their very talented senior subordinates. Aviators normally don’t get such valuable exposure.

  This experience bolstered my career but at notable sacrifice on the part of my family.

  Chapter Seven

  PHANTOMS AND FAMILY

  There’s a saying in the world of fighter pilots: “Speed is life.”

  I HAD LOGGED A FEW HOURS in the new F-4 Phantom fighter during test flights at Patuxent River, so I wasn’t totally surprised when I got word that my services were required in Fighter Squadron 101, the replacement air group, colloquially referred to as “the Rag,” at Naval Air Station Oceana. This unit was responsible for the initial introduction of the Phantom to the fleet. Oceana was a master jet base a few stone throws from what would become one of America’s most popular resort areas—Virginia Beach. At the time, the skyline of the beach was barren, unlike today, with its motels, hotels, and condos towering shoulder to shoulder, one right after the other, all the way up and down the scenic stretch of sand on the Atlantic. Great potential orders, right? Back to the cockpit in the powerful and supersonic Phantom and right next to a beautiful beach. Anne and the kids would love it. But not so fast.

  We had owned our home in Jacksonville for over a year and would now have to unload it and hike north to the Tidewater region for my next tour. The area itself had considerable appeal, not to mention that it was wonderfully steeped in naval aviation history. Plus, the air station was state of the art. Eugene Ely made the first takeoff from a ship just off the Norfolk coastline west of Virginia Beach, landing successfully on Willoughby Spit. Aircraft carriers were home based at Naval Air Station Norfolk and were the bulwarks of a vast naval complex. Surely, the complex was on the Russian’s nuclear strike list, so important was it to fleet operations, particularly in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. But I faced serious personal complications beyond that.

  The trouble was that it took several months to sell the house. There was the frustrating fact I’d been at sea virtually the whole period of my current assignment as Admiral Moorer’s aide, a long seventeen months. Then here comes another move in less than two years. There’s only so much a family can take, despite the appeal of the next duty station. I was caught up in the painful turmoil of continuing my career at the expense of my young and growing family. Anne was a trooper, but she was frayed around the edges, just like any other spouse committed to the peripatetic life of a military man. More important, in the recesses of her mind, I knew she was apprehensive about my flying. Duty as an admiral’s aide had a minimal risk factor.

  The Phantom was a new bird, and I avidly wanted to fly it. But being new, even though we had thoroughly tested it, it was bound to involve complications and, inevitably, accidents, during the course of its introduction to the fleet. The three crashes I’d experienced, not to mention the fair number of close calls, did nothing to alleviate Anne’s fears, although we didn’t talk about it. She was very stoic and did not talk much about her fears, although it was obvious to me she was still troubled by my flying. And having to leave her and the family in Jacksonville didn’t help matters.

  The real estate market in Jacksonville was down at the time, we had trouble finding a buyer, and I had to respond to my orders to VF-101’s Oceana Detachment in November. The main squadron was headquartered at Naval Air Station Key West, Florida, so I’d be spending time there as well. Consequently, I left the family behind and reported to the VF-101 detachment as a geographic bachelor. Not a good situation, but certainly one that’s been encountered before and since by countless Navy families. Fortunately, Cdr. Jerry O’Rourke was the skipper of 101, a first-rate officer, a wonderful friend, and a liberally inclined aviator in that he allowed me to fly an F9F-8T Cougar to Jacksonville on weekends so that I could spend time with Anne and the kids.

  In January 1961 the detachment was ordered to Fighter Squadron 121 at Naval Air Station Miramar, just north of the city of San Diego, for the West Coast introduction of the Phantom in Fighter Squadron 121, the replacement air squadron. Flyers derived from both 121 and 101 made up the fleet introduction team. The squadrons were flying the F3H Demon as well as the Phantom and were therefore conducting split or double operations.

  Happily, we finally sold the house, and I was able to move the family to San Diego with me.

  At Miramar, I worked closely with Lt. Ted Gordon, a shipmate from Patuxent who had more time in the Phantom than I did. We developed a familiarization syllabus for the aircraft. My focus was on stability and control and flying qualities. Other pilots more knowledgeable than I in air-to-air tactics with respect to missile operations handled that part of the training.

  I had the advantage of detailed knowledge of the F-4’s capabilities, how it handled, and importantly, how much fuel it would use. For example, I knew that at Mach 1.5, so many pounds of fuel would be burned up. I figured the Phantom would be flown more in the subsonic regime than the supersonic for the simple reason that, when you went supersonic in the F-4, you increased fuel consumption by 50 percent. For prolonged operations, the crew would probably fly at an average speed of .85 Mach number, a figure driven by fuel considerations.

  During this period the Phantom was considered primarily as a fighter plane. A few years hence, in the skies over Vietnam, it would carry and deliver external stores, becoming, in effect, a fighter bomber.

  The Phantom was a two-place fighter, with the pilot up front and radar intercept officer (RIO) in the rear seat. Transitioning to new aircraft is difficult enough, but the aircrew arrangement in the F-4—it was originally designated the F4H—was rather novel for the Navy. That is, having two flyers in a tactical aircraft represented a departure from the heretofore commonality of single-piloted fighter planes.

  There had been the F3D Skyknight, with its side-by-side seating of pilot on the left and radar operator on the right. Th
e plane performed well in the Korean War, although it was no speed merchant. Operational use of the F3D-2 version of the Skyknight in the Korean War was by Marine squadrons. Skyknights were responsible for the destruction of more enemy planes than any other type flown by the Navy or Marines in that conflict. The initial Skyknight aerial success occurred on November 2, 1952, when for the first time in history, one jet aircraft, the F3D, destroyed another jet, a MiG-15, during a night air-to-air fight. For training purposes, the side-by-side arrangement was excellent. The pilot could scan to his right and see the radar presentation the RIO was using and advise him accordingly. Also, being a subsonic and very stable aircraft, it provided a steady platform for teaching basic air-to-air intercepts and tactics.

  Despite its great combat record, the Skyknight was aging, and although it had a maximum speed of six hundred knots, it was slow compared to the F-4. The F-4, incidentally, had been selected for production instead of my favorite aircraft, the F8U-3 Crusader.

  There’s a saying in the world of fighter pilots: “Speed is life.” The twin-engine Phantom had speed, over fourteen hundred miles per hour of it—twice the speed of sound—to execute its interceptor/air superiority mission.

  The F3D was, however, an excellent training platform as we tried to teach pilots and RIOs the intricacies of aircrew coordination in order to maximize the Phantom’s performance. Electronic systems—black boxes—that operated the complex missile systems were continuously improving and multiplying the capabilities of warplanes. The RIO alleviated the pilot’s burden, and this made the Phantom one of the most lethal weapons in anyone’s inventory. I should mention that the Air Force had had considerable experience in two-place tactical planes, like the F-101 Voodoo, so we adopted some of its procedures for our pilot/RIO training syllabus.