Tennessee Patriot
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Transitioning to the Phantom called for adjustment by pilots whose heretofore macho, lone-wolf disposition as a single-seat warrior entered the culture of two-man operations. Even so, I was not surprised to note that, with rare exceptions, pilots welcomed the arrangement, knowing that a two-man team was really needed to get the most from the Phantom. Being single-piloted may have been a key factor in the F8U-3 losing out to the F-4. Flight scheduling was often convoluted, because not only were we flying the Phantom and the Skyknight, but also the squadron still had F3H Demons on board, because some squadrons were still flying this aircraft and needed replacement pilots. It would take five years before the conversion to the Phantom was complete, at which point twenty-nine Navy and Marine Corps squadrons were flying it.
At one point, after two months at Miramar, even with Anne and the kids with me, I was stretched to the emotional limit with respect to my personal situation. My military career up to now had been successful by any measure. There was no doubt I was on the fast track to bigger things in the Navy, but the price on my family had become achingly high.
I talked with a number of people and asked Jerry O’Rourke to allow me to return to Oceana, where I would make a decision about my future course. I didn’t want to leave the Navy, and Anne didn’t want that either. So, I came up with a compromise. I would stay in the Navy but give up flying and go to the surface Navy. This didn’t resolve the problem of being away from home for prolonged periods, but it did signal my intention to diminish Anne’s fears about my flying.
My request for transfer to the “black shoe” Navy was approved, and my numerical designator, which was 1310, a number that indicated I was an aviator and a regular—compared to reserve—officer, was changed to the surface navy designator, 1100. It was with a very heavy heart that I made this decision, but I was determined to make the best of it.
I was assigned as navigator on the heavy cruiser, the USS Newport News, home-ported in Norfolk, and reported for duty in June 1961. Unquestionably, I went through ambivalent swings in the back of my mind as to whether I had done the right thing. I abhorred the thought of leaving aviation. Still, I owed it to Anne and the kids, especially in light of the unavoidable fact that aviation was a risky business in those days. The awful accident rate showed few signs of improving. An accident rate is the ratio of Class A mishaps compared to flight hours flown. Class A accidents in today’s Navy imply costs of $1M or more; back then it was a lot less. Also, any accident involving a fatality is a Class A mishap. In 1961 the accident rate was 17.17, meaning there were 17.17 Class A accidents for 3,387,560 hours flown; we lost 603 aircraft in 1961, and 279 flyers were killed. By 1995 the rate was 2.17 accidents for 1,569,329 hours flown and seventeen fatalities.
I moved the family to Norfolk, removed the coveted gold wings from the breast of my uniform shirt, and took another major fork in the road.
Chapter Eight
BLACK SHOE DUTY
“What type of sound system does the president have in his quarters?” My mind raced for a moment then I answered, “Well, sir,” I said uncertainly, “there’s no phonograph available, if that’s what you mean.” “Well, get one then!” ordered the admiral.
I ENTERED THE “BLACK SHOE” (surface ship) Navy determined to make the best of it, all the while sustaining an unspoken longing to be in the air with my “brown shoe” counterparts in naval aviation. This is not to say my new brethren of the fleet were any less accomplished or dedicated. The problem was very simple, as I knew it would be from the outset: I had gone from the swift to the slow. Cruising along in a jet at three hundred and fifty or more knots compared to maneuvering a ship at less than one tenth that speed constituted a major yet anticipated transition for me. Still, I was determined to make the adjustment.
The USS Newport News (CA-148) was the last of the “all-gun” cruisers and homeported in Norfolk. It was seven hundred feet long and seventy-six feet wide, displaced seventeen hundred tons, had a thirteen hundred man crew, and was powered by a 120,000 shaft horsepower steam power plant that enabled the ship to drive through the water at a speed in excess of thirty-two knots. It was a formidable warship with, eight eight-inch guns plus a dozen five-inch guns and other armaments. It was a Salem class vessel, the largest and most potent class of cruisers ever built. If I was going to serve on a ship, the Newport News, which was commissioned too late for World War II but was exceptionally capable, was as good an assignment as I could expect. It was a notable vessel beyond the norm of most ships like it, because it was employed as a flagship for the Sixth Fleet. Still, it was a far cry from the supercarriers then being built, which were crewed by five thousand personnel, displaced nearly one hundred thousand tons, were powered by 280,000 shaft horsepower engines and featured four and a half-acre flight decks measuring over one thousand by two hundred and fifty feet to accommodate eighty aircraft.
I was warmly received on board and assigned as navigator, which meant most of my days and nights would be spent on the starboard side of the bridge at opposite ends from and adjacent to the captain. I would be working over charts and maintaining a constant track of our position while guiding the ship toward assigned tactical positions or other destinations. We were not assigned as the Sixth Fleet flagship at the outset of my tour, but, rather, operated independently of the carrier group.
I plunged into my duties with enthusiasm, anxious to learn all I could. As it turned out, I loved the job. I cherished the time on the bridge and was absorbed by the actions involved in maneuvering the ship. I began to understand the attraction of driving a ship on the ocean, particularly from the vantage point of the bridge, with its open vista of sea and sky.
When I checked in, we were preparing to depart Norfolk for the Mediterranean. This meant another separation from the family now living in Virginia Beach. But, thankfully, Anne had come to terms with that, and my being on a ship instead of in a cockpit immeasurably relieved the strain she had been under when I was flying. There were far fewer funerals in the surface Navy than in aviation. Ironically, great strides were being made to improve aviation safety, and much of these were manifested in the introduction of the angled deck and the Fresnel landing system, which eliminated the need for a paddle-waving LSO on the port side of the carriers’ stern. The LSO was still there, but now he did his thing via radio telephone. Moreover, the Naval Air Training and Operating Procedures (NATOPs) program was being introduced and would serve to standardize procedures throughout the aviation world, rather than having them defined by individual squadron policy. The accident rate was to take a significant downward tumble.
Like all aviators, I had a lot of experience with relative motion, and this paid dividends on the Newport News, especially during underway replenishment exercises, when I was conning the ship as officer of the day (OD). The bridge watch, normally four hours long, was a major responsibility in addition to navigation duties. We would approach an oiler (replenishment ship) on the designated bearing from aft on its port side, usually running at twenty-five knots. Directly upon passing a flag-bearing sailor standing on the forecastle of the oilier, I ordered “All back full,” and the coxswain would signal the engine room to respond accordingly. As we settled into position abeam the oilier, I directed “All ahead standard.” Smaller adjustments in speed and bearing followed until the vessels were mated and the fueling lines could be strung from oilier to cruiser. Rendezvousing in an aircraft was much the same, just faster. Sounds simple but a lot could go wrong during these exercises—and in the air, as well—so it took concentration and knowing your keys.
For much of my time aboard the Newport News, my CO was Capt. Thomas Kimmel, son of Adm. Husband Kimmel, who commanded U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and took the brunt of the blame and criticism for the disaster. Training for our deployment involved working with other ships of the division. We conducted a variety of operations, ranging from gunnery exercises, firing at ship-towed sleds and target sleeves towed by aircraft, to amphibious landing supp
ort.
One day during a competitive gunnery exercise using a sled towed by the ship as a target, I was unusually busy, when Vice Adm. John McNay Taylor, the Second Fleet commander, came onto the bridge and asked, “How are things going?” I didn’t respond right away, somewhat surprised by the question, and before I could answer him, he got angry and said rather loudly to Captain Kimmel, and within ear shot of the others on the bridge, “It appears your navigator is not aware of what’s going on up here.”
Taylor’s reputation as a stern taskmaster was well known, and I got a first-hand taste of it. I was embarrassed, to be sure, but I also knew this incident wouldn’t alter Captain Kimmel’s confidence in me. Junior officers and our young sailors, especially, avoided Admiral Taylor whenever they could. It occurred to me that if I ever did reach the higher echelons of Navy leadership, I wouldn’t want that said of me.
We departed for the Med in August, made the crossing in six days, and “chopped” to the Sixth Fleet once we passed Gibraltar eastbound. We operated with British and French units, made some enjoyable port calls in Italy and the South of France, and for the most part, conducted training exercises. The Cold War was on, and the Soviet threat was ever present, yet we saw little of the Soviet navy and only occasionally were overflown by a Russian Bear.
I learned my trade as navigator with the wonderful support of the quartermasters headed by Chf. Johnny Johnson, an old-school type, who supervised his three enlisted quartermasters with an iron hand. They maintained the log, the “Quartermaster’s Notebook,” a key document that recorded all of the actions of the ship, including the ship’s position, taken on the hour and half hour; course; and speed, changes that provided a permanent history of the ships actions.
After four months in the Med, the Newport News was unexpectedly ordered to return to Norfolk. The cruiser was to be converted to become the flagship of the Second Fleet, based in Norfolk, because the cruiser USS Northampton, which had been the flagship, was being reassigned. We were instructed to make our best time in recrossing the Atlantic, so we proceeded via “rum-line,” which is the shortest traveling distance. This forced us to travel in the North Atlantic at very high north latitude, where the seas tended to be turbulent. It was imperative we achieve a seventeen knot speed of advance (SOA), which made matters worse, because the Newport News was unable to “sit down” in the high seas and plow steadily through them at a slower SOA. Instead, Captain Kimmel, on the bridge virtually all day and night, labored to avoid taking a wave that might damage the superstructure, not to mention other portions of the ship. We took a good pounding but made it home and tied up at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, where the modification process to become the Second Fleet flagship commenced. I had a welcome reunion with Anne and the kids.
The upgrade to the ship entailed designing and restructuring areas in the superstructure for the cognizant admiral’s staff. The modifications took six months at the Portsmouth Navy Yard.
We got under way in June 1962 for a shakedown cruise off the Atlantic coast, which was successful and was a prelude to Second Fleet operations. As a navigator on the flagship, I was also responsible to the embarked admiral’s staff for any navigation concerns. I was reporting to two seniors, so to speak, keeping both informed of the ship’s position. I liked this because I got to know the members of the staff and this sort of camaraderie allowed me to serve them better. Another advantage of having the flag staff on board was the fact we were at the heart of the action. All the key orders to the fleet emanated from the Newport News.
In the spring of 1962, we were involved in a huge demonstration of fleet power for Pres. John F. Kennedy. The Norfolk-based carriers, the Forrestal and the Enterprise, and their accompanying ships practiced extensively for what the upper echelons of the Navy hoped would be the perfect extravaganza. It took place off the North Carolina coast and included an amphibious landing by the Marines at Camp Lejeune’s Onslow Beach and a major air show. The air wings of the respective carriers were charged with conducting the airpower demo, which featured flybys and “attacks” on smoke lights in the water, using live guns, bombs, and rockets—the whole works. As a dramatic exclamation point to the show, an F-8 Crusader would whip by the carriers in pursuit of a remotely controlled drone and shoot it down with rockets in front of the president of the United States, viewing from the Enterprise.
I must admit I was doing well on the Newport News, having grasped the dos-and-don’ts of running a ship from the bridge. Consequently, Captain Kimmel had confidence in me, relied on my judgment, and slept soundly at night. Still, I was surprised when he asked me to accompany him via helicopter to the Enterprise for a critique of the “dress rehearsal” that preceded the all-important Kennedy visit. For a lieutenant commander, I was in high cotton, sitting in among the two-, three-, and four-star flag officers in charge, including the DEPUTY CINCLANTFLEET.
At the postrehearsal briefing, there was some discussion of the problems regarding the air show, but I was caught completely off guard by a question directed at me. The bewildering question was, “What type of sound system does the president have in his quarters?”
My mind raced for a moment; then I answered, “Well, sir,” I said uncertainly, “there’s no phonograph available, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, get one then!” ordered the admiral.
Is this what flag officers worry about? I could not believe all this fuss over a sound system while larger problems loomed. Especially when President Kennedy was reputed to have no interest in music. But we dutifully went out and purchased one.
The air show portion of the rehearsal had not gone well. Timing was off and there were other hiccups. It was important that each event, such as a flyby or a bomb drop, occur on the assigned time. There were a multitude of events, so the margin of error was minimal. Planners wanted one event to follow smartly on the heels of the one before it. The glitches were discussed at the meeting and tempers rose, coloring the gathering with a noticeable degree of apprehension as to how the final show would go. The powers that be wanted everything to function like a precision watch. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.
The air demonstration was fraught with embarrassing errors. It wasn’t a disaster, but it was far from what everyone wanted: a polished exhibit of naval aviation at its best. The winds were strong that day and played havoc with timing. For example, in one case a shower of rockets from a diving Skyraider narrowly missed a fighter making a flyby. Fortunately, no one was hurt.
The most flagrant miscue involved the F-8 Crusader assigned to bag the drone. The drone whipped by the line of reference adjacent to the carriers, the Crusader in pursuit. The voice of the narrator on the ship declared the shoot down was about to take place. The Crusader pilot fired his high-velocity rockets. The rockets released from the fighter with an impressive whoosh! But they missed the drone! The drone continued undisturbed as the volley of rockets fell into the sea. On the internal radio circuit, the drone operator wisely asked the controllers of the show, “Do you want me to crash the drone?” This query brought an immediate, “Affirmative.” And the drone was destroyed.
I never did learn the president’s reaction to this, but I don’t think anybody got fired. Yelled at, maybe, but not fired.
At night, during the visit, we formed a column of twelve ships for a pass in review for the president. The column of ships formation dates from before World War II. It is a difficult procedure, particularly in turbulent seas, because maintaining “nose-to-tail” clearance is a challenge when you’re directly behind of one ship and in front of another. Captain Kimmel admitted it was a “tricky” maneuver. We got through it OK, and I believe the president was impressed, though he made no comment.
Routine operations followed through early summer of 1962, when we were assigned to conduct a NATO exercise in Northern European waters. Although I didn’t participate in the actual operations, I prepared the necessary charts and navigational procedures. The Newport News journeyed to Halifax, Nova Scot
ia, en route to Europe, and I left the ship there in July. I simply had to get back into aviation and, luckily, my request was approved.
In retrospect, this black shoe tour was invaluable to me. I certainly learned a lot more about the Navy at large than the average naval aviator would. It’s a shame that career progression requirements for the flyers don’t allow time for a black shoe duty tour when they are junior officers. At the same time, with respect to career patterns, carefully selected aviators command aircraft carriers after attending a sequence of pertinent schools.
I believed my Newport News experience would enhance my prospects of gaining a carrier command were I to return to aviation duty, assuming I didn’t screw up in the next ten years or so. Of course, I didn’t anticipate my career would be disrupted by a period of detention in North Vietnam. This imprisonment precluded my shot at command of a deep-draft ship, a necessary prelude to carrier command, and carrier command itself.
I have particularly warm memories of the quartermasters, those sharp enlisted personnel who assisted me on the bridge, and the boatswain’s mates, that seemingly roughshod cadre of sailors who compose the very heart of the Navy. In my day, the boatswain mates tended to have less education than those of other ratings did, but they were no less dedicated. The quartermasters, however, had to master celestial navigation and some other rather complicated procedures such as Loran (long-range navigation). They tended to be more academically astute than the boatswain mates, but the two worked together very competently. I loved being around both, because they made the shipboard tour of duty both worthwhile, for the new knowledge I acquired, and reassuring, having witnessed close up the wonderful mix of sailors who keep the ships afloat and ready.
In aviation I had gotten used to be out there “on the edge.” That is, we were reaching out to new frontiers in the blooming jet age, and the excitement of going higher and faster was fulfilling. At the same time, I loved being on the bridge of a ship and working as a black shoe, even though simmering inside me was a degree of frustration at the slow pace of surface operations compared to air. Most of my fellow black shoes, however, had no similar feelings. They didn’t miss flying, because they hadn’t experienced it in the first place. They were no less committed and dedicated to fulfilling an important part of the Navy’s mission.