by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow

Times were jolly, jolly good for the VMF(AW)-333 “Trip Treys.” There they were in the tropical paradise of Puerto Rico’s NAS Rosenfelt Roads, whoostling about in their Crusaders, doing gunneries, rat racing and corking off the occasional Sidewinder missile at hapless targets. Come 1600, they would repair to their tents beneath the tall palm trees and have Happiness Hours before they munched C rations and the occasional snake, just for drill. Tender songs about “Nelly, Darlin’” were sung while time-honored Marine rituals involving Brasso and Kiwi polish spiffed things up.

But, far off in Commie Russia, sinister plots were hatching. It was devised to ship ballistic missiles off to Commie Cuba so that the Beardy Revolutionary Government could better defend their cigarro factories and rum goody distilleries from the Evil Yankees. Ships snuck SAM batteries and ballistic missiles across the sea, and technicians started digging launch pads. The Premier and his Commissars grinned evil grins that showed stainless steel dental work.

All this did not go unnoticed by Brave American Boys. Sneaky Air Force U-2s took pictures of the goings-on, which turned into eight-by-ten glossies of great clarity that Pentagonians passed on to the Best and the Brightest manning the White House. Doing without cigars and daiquiris was bad enough, but ballistic missiles 90 miles offshore just wouldn’t do! But before the Balloon went up, it was decided to send in photo Crusaders for some really good close up shots of Beards and SAMs and missiles, oh my!

So the Crusaders of the Trip Treys down at Rosey were tasked with flying combat air patrol (CAP) for the photo birds in case the Rat Eating Commies decided to send out the MiGs. Naturally, the Trip Treys were thrilled. In their off time under the palms, they sharpened their steely knives.

But the Trip Treys weren’t going to get to have all the fun. All around ConUS, airplanes, ships and troops positioned and got ready. At MCAS Beaufort, it was decided to send a Skyhawk outfit down to join the Trip Treys, just in case the odd bomb needed to be dropped. The Skyhawk outfit picked for the job was VMA-331, whose skipper was none other than The Great Santini, who was expected to provide a great disturbance in the Force.

Santini had not yet been immortalized in book and film, but he had been colorful enough in a career that spanned World War II and Korea to get himself passed over for colonel a couple of times. VMA-331 was a good deal designed to boost Santini past colorful into colonelcy. Though he didn’t give up omnipresent black cigars and a flight suit unzipped to below his navel, the word to his squadron was, “You people will not frabb up none!”

Santini’s Skyhawk squadron humped down to Gitmo without frabbing up none, and they parked their planes on a seldom-used taxiway below the Trip Treys tent city in the palms, due to other units crowding the main ramp. But while the Trip Treys were living in tents and eating snakes and C rats, Santini and his boys had scored the air-conditioned BOQ, their meals served by white-coated waiters. And they were getting per diem payments! This did not go unnoticed by the Trip Treys junior officers.

It must have been Demon Rum that pushed them into Payback Mode. Lit only by that fluid and the tropical stars, they snuck down to the Scooter flight line, selected the plane on the end, pushed it back into the jungley palms and up a slight rise, and covered it with cammo canvas!

Morning found some burbling down around the Skyhawk line, with lots of high-and-tight scratching and shoulder shrugging and forehead slapping. But nobody was saying squat, because it might mean Frabb Up! Which, of course, would never do. So the Trip Treys watched while Scooter troops looked everywhere. Divers swam and searched off the pier; the tower was questioned about possible stealth takeoffs; and the troops were assembled and semi strip-searched for bruising from an unreported ejection! Santini was kicking arses and taking names, but he wasn’t gonna report losing an airplane!

It was one of them days for Santini. Completely frustrated, he wandered up to the Trip Treys Happiness Hour, which started early without the constraints of having to fly at night. He gnashed his teeth and chawed his cigar. As the tropical sun set, Santini noticed a peculiarly shaped canvas silhouette just downhill. Closer scrutiny revealed that it was … the missing Skyhawk! Yaaaaaaa! Santini turned red from his unzipped navel to the top of his crew cut — he had done been frabbed! He stormed down the hill to get his troops to return the baby to the fold. Even though the frabbing was unofficial and would not bugger his chances at promotion, The Great Santini noted names and blames in his daybook, and stashed it in a secure place.

The Balloon did not go up. The Commies blinked, then took out their missiles and went on to figger out how to cause more trouble for a bunch of years. Santini did make colonel and became celebrated in novel and film. Some 20 years later, both Santini and the alleged ringleader of the Skyhawk-napping met at a reunion of Marine Aviators. Dressed in a white suit with a full white beard and cane, Santini looked like a skinnier Colonel Harlan Chicken. But not having frabbed up, making Full Bird, and being a certified character must have mellowed him. No sword got pulled from the cane, and Santini even autographed a copy of the novel bearing his name.

And the autograph did not mention a missing Skyhawk.