by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
Three salty Reservist aviators had been carrier-qualifying on USS Independence (CVA-62) off the Virginia coast, striking fear in the hearts of LSOs, ship's company and squadronmates. Killer, Puresome and Miss Crusader had done their thing, mysteriously surviving with their F-8s more or less intact and placing the magic "X" in the CarQual box once again.
Since the deployment was about over and their continued presence offered the probability of embarrassment to the skipper, it was agreed that the three should get the hell out, RON someplace and end up back at their NAS Dallas home plate eventually.
Since Killer and Puresome had been attack pukes at NAS Cecil in a previous life, and since they still spoke some attack and had maintained friendly relations in that community, the plan was made for the three to launch for an over-water flight to NAS Cecil.
And so they were catapulted, joined and flew off into the blue with Killer in the lead. The three motored south, and since gas was not a factor, they flew at extremely low level over the waves, thus avoiding the deadly ATC radar.
Approaching the coast off Jacksonville, Killer brought his two wingies into tight parade formation -- only the slot man was missing from the simulated Blue Angel formation.
"Sierra Hotel!" thought Puresome.
He was still thinking "Sierra Hotel!" as the beach slud briefly through his peripheral vision while he concentrated on maintaining his sight picture on the proper parts of Killer's Crusader.
Moments later, the same peripheral vision noted the curious passage of a small runway below and a light airplane above the flight of three. "Maybe I'm still invisible and bullet-proof," Puresome mused uneasily as the flight whoostled toward the break at Cecil at 500 knots.
After landing and parking at the transient line, the intrepid three hastily scattered, agreeing to meet at 1500 the next day for the flight to home plate.
Puresome called up his pal Worm, who was temporarily a shore-duty puke at the instrument training squadron, and invited himself over to Worm's place for drinks, supper and a place to sleep. Worm readily agreed, since Dallas was a convenient cross-country stop, and, who knows? Worm was not called "(Tape)Worm" for nothing, and he knew he could inflict major damage upon Puresome's supply of burned dead cow on future weekend boondoggles.
The next morning Puresome rode into Cecil with Worm and sniveled a ride in a TA-4 with him. It was like old times -- bouncing Florida Air National Guard F-102s, low-leveling down the St. Johns River to Pinecastle, doing FMLPs and amazing Worm by stomping on the rudders at every opportunity.
It was Naval Aviator's heaven -- sniveling a hop on a beautiful day. But deep within Puresome's aviator gut queased the quease of he who has frabbed up and possibly been caught.
Puresome's paranoia increased after he landed from the flight. On any naval air station or carrier, strange electric vibes zap at the speed of light around the activity, communicating to all righteous, unfrabbed Naval Aviators that the frabbee has frabbed up. NAS Cecil was no different.
"Damn!" thought Puresome, as he hung around the instrument training squadron. "These guys are looking at me funny."
"Damn!" thought Puresome, as he killed time at the Navy Exchange, buying a jacket he didn't need from a sales clerk who regarded him suspiciously.
At the cafeteria, nobody would look at him.
"Damn!" thought Puresome.
Finally it was 1500, time to meet the others -- he could avoid it no longer. Puresome walked the hundred steps to base operations, gazing wistfully at aircraft in the pattern overhead and wondering what life without wings and canuglies would be like. As Puresome skulked into the building, he noted Miss Crusader slumped on a worn couch, his normally tanned, square-jawed face drained white.
"Yo!" affected Puresome, waving his hand.
"Siddown," whispered Miss Crusader. "Have I got a tale for you."
"Damn!" thought Puresome.
"You know that airport whose traffic pattern we flew through yesterday? Well, there was an off-duty Army helicopter jock there who got highly incensed at the fly-by, recognized the airplanes as Navy and called Cecil operations.
"When Killer had showed up earlier, three flight violations were already typed up, complete with bureau numbers. All that needed to be filled in was the names. That's the bad news," said Miss Crusader as Puresome gazed fixedly at the flies hitting turbulence from the slow-moving overhead fan.
"But there's good news," he continued. "Of course, Killer denied even being in the air the same day. He called up the helo guy who made the complaint and convinced him that anybody that would fly through a traffic pattern at low altitude and high speed had to be A-7s. And when Killer handed the phone to the Operations Officer, the helo guy swore and be damned that it couldn't have been us cause it was A-7s and he damned well knew A-7s when he saw them."
"Well, sure," said Puresome. "It couldn't have been us, cause everybody knows A-7s are all frabbed up."
Later, when Killer showed up, fresh from waxing everybody on base during several hours of handball, Puresome and Miss Crusader were very happy to get the hell out of there before anybody changed their mind.
They were all very careful about rules and regulations for a very long time. Puresome didn't do anything really stupid for almost two months...