by RADM Paul T. Gillcrist, USN(Ret)
Like most other landing signal officers of the era, Richard Moon Vance was a legend unto himself. A big, burly man with the unerring eye of the skilled LSO, he commanded respect wherever he was assigned to guide Navy pilots back to a safe carrier arrested landing.
A few years ago when Moon died of cancer, I flew from San Diego to Washington, D.C., to attend his funeral in Arlington National Cemetery. The Chief of Naval Operations himself insisted on rendering the eulogy in which he extolled the many unusual characteristics of the legend we all knew as Moon Vance. In attendance were hundreds of people, many of them old friends and shipmates whom I hadn’t seen in ages. The small chapel at Ft. Myers was filled to overflowing. The side aisles were full and all space against the walls was occupied with those standing. There was even a small crowd of Moon Vance admirers not able to find space inside gathered on the front steps of the chapel. I recall thinking that I’ll be lucky to draw a fraction of this crowd when I check out.
Moon was an informal man who readily disavowed most of the pomp and circumstance associated with the military. His whole approach to living was laid back. But when it came to his profession, he was intensely passionate and colorful. For example, Moon loved the rumpled, casual look of the Navy fore-and-aft uniform cap, officially called the garrison cap, which was available only in the color of the summer service khaki uniform.
In those days, Naval Aviators referred to the garrison cap as a “pisscutter.” It could be folded and slipped into the pocket of a flight suit when flying and donned on the ground at the end of a flight while still sitting in the cockpit.
With equal passion, Moon hated the standard Navy bridge cap specified for all Navy uniforms, whether blue, white, khaki or green. Changing the cap cover to fit the uniform was a pain in the neck because the frame required tedious disassembling whenever the cover needed cleaning or changing.
So, when Moon was relieved of command of NAS Point Mugu-based VX-4 in 1987, he did it with the typical Moon Vance flourish and panache. It was a combined change-of-command and retirement ceremony. The legendary Moon Vance was leaving the service as a Navy captain after spending 26 years on the wind-swept LSO platforms of nearly every aircraft carrier in the U.S. Navy.
The specified uniform at that time of year for official ceremonies was summer dress whites, the fancy uniform with the stiff “choker” collar. On a steaming-hot summer day at Point Mugu, one might prefer keel-hauling to being choked by that damnable collar. So Moon, ever the maverick, decided to ignore the rules and conduct his change-of-command ceremony in the more comfortable summer service white uniform with the short-sleeved, open-collar white shirt with epaulets. After all, he reasoned, it was his change of command, and he was also retiring after a distinguished career!
But it was not enough that he flaunted the uniform regulations in this manner. To add insult to injury, Moon created his own special alteration to uniform regulations. He had a local tailor create a pisscutter from the same white polyester material as the summer service blouse. This really took chutzpah!
I accepted his invitation to be the guest speaker for the event with apprehension. Knowing Moon for the maverick he was, he was certain to pull some stunt … but what would it be?
The day for the ceremony soon arrived. I knew from the invitation that the ceremony would be conducted in the nonregulation summer service white uniform and had chosen not to have my aide call and challenge Moon on the issue. After all, I rationalized, who would be there to put me on report in that tiny, out-of-the-way air station? Despite warnings from my aide that these things have a way of getting back to higher authority, I flew to Point Mugu in the illicit uniform hoping that it would not get back to my boss. I didn’t, however, wear one of the illegal caps. I didn’t own one, nor would I be caught dead wearing one. After all, I had to put my foot down somewhere in this whole process.
A sedan met me at the airplane and whisked me to the ceremony behind the VX-4 hangar. The spectator seating had been arranged in a fan shape with a huge American flag draped on the hangar doors behind the podium. I walked the dozen or so paces to where the sideboys had been arranged flanking a length of red carpet. As I received arrival honors I observed in utter astonishment the entire squadron drawn up in ranks — with the officers in the front row all resplendent in snow-white pisscutters. They didn’t look half bad. The show was vintage Moon Vance … and the expression on his face, a peculiar combination of impishness, chutzpah, pride and rebellion, told the whole story. What a guy! I walked through the sideboys and accepted Moon’s extended hand. The moment was golden!
I don’t recall much more about the ceremony or his comments. But I do remember watching him as he spoke and recalled the scene for which Moon Vance will always remain vivid in my memory.
The setting was the landing signal officer’s platform on an east coast carrier, several years earlier, during night fleet refresher training carrier landing qualifications off the coast of Jacksonville, Fla. Moon was “waving” an A3J-1 Vigilante whose pilot had just reported an engine problem that required an immediate landing.
The Vigie was a huge, sleek supersonic attack airplane originally designed to deliver nuclear weapons at high altitude (70,000 feet) and high speed (Mach 3.0). It grossed out at more than 70,000 pounds and was the largest carrier airplane in existence. Since the Vigie had its history of carrier landing problems under the best of circumstances, Moon did the prudent thing and cleared the platform, leaving only he and his writer/assistant LSO.
The Vigie came around the pattern and, as he approached the ramp, the pilot reported power fluctuations in the port engine. Moon elected to be judicious in his calls for power adjustments and glide slope changes. At the last moment, just before the airplane crossed the ramp, Moon heard the engine unwinding and at the same time noted the airplane beginning to settle. He instantly called for power, power, power! When he heard no change in engine sound and saw the settling continue, he screamed for the aircrew to eject, eject, eject! At the same time, Moon squeezed the “dead man’s” trigger on the optical landing system control “pickle” in his right hand, dropped it and dived for the safety net.
The dead man’s circuit began sending a continual flashing signal to the optical landing system red lights as it lay on the now-empty landing signal officer’s platform. The other man on the platform, quick as a flash, beat Moon’s considerable bulk into the safety net. The net guided the assistant downward onto the deck beneath the LSO’s platform. It was not a gentle means of escape, but it was designed, however roughly, to save the LSOs lives from burning fuel and flying debris. Bruises, skinned elbows, knees, shins and other contusions were accepted by those who take that means of escape. Moon’s young assistant rolled onto the steel deck and, scrambling to his feet, ducked through the hatch located just inboard of the catwalk, burning fuel being still primary in his list of personal threats.
Once inside the dark compartment, there was nothing else to do but make his way to the ready room. The flight deck was bedlam — fire trucks, medics and fog-foam jets were everywhere amid a roaring maelstrom of still-burning fuel. It was definitely not a place for a gawking bystander.
The plane-guard helicopter, which had moved in from its station on the carrier’s starboard quarter, saw the ramp strike as well as the trajectories of the two rocket-propelled ejection seats and moved into the ship’s wake to pick up the aircrewmen. Turning on its searchlight, it searched the ship’s wake for signs of the aircrew. It quickly found them, lowered its rescue sling and hauled the survivors on board.
The helicopter pilot soon broke the silence on Land-Launch, the tower frequency, with the report for which everyone waited with bated breath. But it was couched in the form of an amazing question.
“Tower, this is Angel Two Four. I got ’em and they’re OK. But, how many crewmen are there in a Vigie?”
The air boss’ response virtually dripped with sarcasm. After all, how could the helicopter pilot not know that the Vigilante carried a two-man crew? “Two, Angel, just two.”
“That’s what I thought, Tower. But, I just picked up three people!” The air boss was dumbfounded.
It is worth noting that the elapsed time between Moon’s last transmission to the Vigie and the helicopter pilot’s stunning announcement was probably no more than five minutes. The assistant LSO had not yet made it back to the ready room and had not looked back over his shoulder in the dark to see how far behind him was his mentor, Moon Vance. It was a frenetic few minutes full of the sound and fury of sirens, explosions, the air boss’ bull horn, flying debris and the shouts of fire fighters. Only one person knew what had really happened, and he was lying on his back on the floor of the helicopter in stunned silence.
What had really happened when Moon dived for the net directly behind his assistant was that he missed! His body cleared the top of the net and, unbeknownst to the world, Moon tumbled end over end the equivalent of a seven story fall into the dark sea below. To this day I do not understand how Moon survived the impact … but survive he did to be picked up by the Angel. He must also have been extremely concerned that the rescue helicopter would only be looking for two survivors … not three. Unless he caught their attention early on, the Angel might just leave him alone in the wake of the ship.
At the Arlington National Cemetery interment, the funeral detail, including the horse-drawn caisson and the Army riflemen, clopped along the macadam road to the gravesite with Moon’s friends following in close trail. Through it all I kept seeing the image in my mind of Moon’s impish expression topped by the snow white pisscutter!
Author’s Note: I was unable to document this event from any official Navy source. Moon’s wife, Ellie, believes that so many versions of the story have been told that it has made an effortless transition into an apocryphal category. Nevertheless, it was “verified” through several former shipmates of his and I believe it all happened exactly as I have related.