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

Crusader Days at Yuma

The sound came from far off in the distance. Desert dogs stopped their snaffling and cocked their ears. Human denizens of the Marine Corps Air Station at Yuma paused in their wrench-turning or stomping and saluting to rub the hairs on the back of their necks.

Northeast of the field, tiny black specks appeared in the clear morning air. The specks quickly turned into three F-8 Crusaders rushing toward the field in perfect right-echelon formation. The growing whoostling sound was more than just a roar — it spoke of the speed of heat and the specific, fierce heart of the Crusader. Even the oldest, most grizzled gunnery sergeant shifted his eyes from the snuffies he was wailing on and watched as the three fighters approached the middle of the field in a crescendo of noise.

The formation suddenly rolled in perfect unison and separated like a Fourth of July fireworks rocket into three speeding parts that gradually grew wheels and raised wings, slowing to evenly spaced intervals for landing. And all over the air station, people went back to making the world safe for democracy.

Out on the runway, a very sweaty Youthly Puresome, grinning behind the green rubber of his oxygen mask, had just touched down and was rolling out. Happiness was indeed a warm gun, and he had four hot 20 mike-mike cannon that had been hosing into the magical flying carpet banner that Virgil Viper and his escort had just dropped in the desert to be scored. Puresome was sure there were lots of holes in it that were tinged with the blue paint that the ordnancemen had smeared on the tips of his bullets.

He pulled off the runway and joined the other two Crusaders that were pointed out into the desert while the ordnancemen disarmed their guns. Puresome popped open and secured the canopy. He turned off his oxygen and unlatched the sierra fittings on his mask and dropped it into his lap and relaxed, smelling the burned JP-5 exhaust and listening to the big jet engines whine.

A red-shirted ordnanceman soon appeared and signaled him to put his hands on top of his head, safely away from any switch that might make his guns go bang. As two more redshirts furiously spun speed handles to unbutton the panels over his guns, Puresome happily began thinking of jelly donuts, hot coffee and doing the same thing all over again in a couple of hours. Like many other moments in his Naval career, he marveled that they actually paid him to do this.

More Fun Than the Law Allows

In the great tradition of Dawn Patrols, Youthly had launched on his gunnery hop as the sun was peeking over eastern cactus. Instead of going off for an early crack at the horrid Hun, Crusader pilots needed to utilize the cooler hours before the pitiless desert sun fried the enlisted troops whose work made all the splitarsing about possible.

Thunder Lizard, with wads of experience in the Crusader, was flight leader, and he conducted the briefing with care. Gross Tank, who had the bad luck to be squadron duty officer, passed out aircraft assignments. Puresome signed the maintenance yellow sheets for his aircraft, noting it had a good gunsight and that the guns usually fired. Fueled by black coffee and happy possibilities, he hustled out to his aircraft, the ejection seat leg restraint buckles cinched below his knees chinging like Spanish spurs.

The aircraft started and completed their checks. Virgil Viper, who was to be the tow aircraft, taxied out first, followed by the four shooters. While they stopped in the run-up area and had their guns armed, the Viper was directed onto the runway by an ordnanceman, who positioned his aircraft’s tail over a heavy chain. The chain was attached to a fitting under the Crusader’s tail, and a length of it led back to a coil of cable that ended at the gunnery banner. Viper then taxied slowly down the runway until the cable was stretched out, at which time the watching ordnanceman made a “stop” signal. Dork, the banner escort, had turned toward the runway and called “Stop!” on the radio.

The tower cleared Viper for takeoff, and when he released the brakes, the whole dangle slithered after him down the runway. He selected afterburner and accelerated rapidly, finally rotating the Crusader to a nose-high attitude and retracting the landing gear. The trailing chain resisted the cone of fire from the afterburner, and the slithering cable cleared the ground as the aircraft stood on its tail and climbed for space.

“Good banner!” called Dork, who had been cleared onto the runway after the banner had cleared the takeoff area.

“Roger, escort cleared for takeoff!”

Setting Up the Squirrel Cage

Dork’s job was to rendezvous close aboard the banner and escort it into the gunnery range so that some Delta Sierra might get the hint not to fly through the cable or banner and ruin his whole day. He burnered down the runway, cleaned up and accelerated, and neatly joined close aboard the rippling banner with the orange bull’s eye without hitting it or soiling himself. Thunder Lizard called for takeoff clearance for the shooters, and the three aircraft took off and joined in formation, climbing fast into the rising sun.

Lizard soon spotted the banner and escort and continued climbing, spacing the shooters high and behind the slow climbing banner aircraft.

“Viper, Lizard Flight has you in sight, seven o’clock high.”

Viper had leveled at 20,000 feet, pooting along at 220 knots. He checked his Tacan radial and distance and verified that he was entering the gunnery range. “Lizard Four, do you have the shooters in sight?”

“Roger, Four has the shooters at seven o’clock high.”

“You’re cleared to detach.” Dork rolled away from the banner and lit his afterburner, accelerated and rocketed up to join the other three shooters.

Dork called “Four’s aboard!” and Viper checked for dumbass FLAPs and airliners that might be blundering about in the restricted area. All was clear, and Viper called, “Lizard Flight, you’re cleared in for a spacer.”

“Roger, Viper, Lizard Flight in on spacer.” The four shooters had loosened up into trail formation, and when Lizard dropped his nose and accelerated toward the banner aircraft, the other members of the flight did the same. Puresome pushed the throttle up and followed the other two aircraft down to the banner aircraft’s altitude. He turned on his master armament switch and charged his guns, which made four satisfying “thunks!” as their breach blocks slammed home. Puresome turned on his gunsight, and the lines of the fixed reticule and gyro pipper circle glowed brightly. At 450 knots, he checked the ball of his turn-and-bank indicator and made small adjustments to ensure he wasn’t flying in a skid. The piece of parachute cord he had looped over the mirror at the top of the canopy and left to flop outside was doing its yaw string thing, streaming straight back down the canopy.

Lizard was passing alongside the banner at twice its speed. He quickly passed close aboard the tow aircraft, rotated his Crusader nose high, and called “Lizard Lead, off!”

Puresome concentrated on keeping Lizard Two and the banner and tow in sight until Two made his “off” call and rotated up and away. When Two was clear, Puresome closed the banner at the speed of heat. As he passed close alongside Viper, he pulled the nose up 30 degrees and called, “Lizard Three, off!”

When his nose was well up, he rolled to the right and picked up the tow plane behind and below him. Puresome climbed and turned away from the tow aircraft, watching it drift forward and spacing himself so he could reverse back to the tow plane’s heading and be correctly positioned about 4,000 feet above and slightly aft of Viper. Above him, Small Tank had just arrived at the perch position, ready to start his gunnery run. Lizard Lead was at the low-reversal point, curving in on the banner. Behind him, Dork had just called “off.” Everybody was properly spaced in the squirrel-cage gunnery pattern, and Viper carefully watched them all. Puresome turned on his two gun selector switches and uncaged his gunsight’s gyro pipper. He was ready to shoot.

Puresome’s in Hot

Puresome arrived at the perch position as Little Tank called “low reversal!” below him. The spacing between them looked good, so Puresome dropped his nose toward the banner and accelerated. When the relative motion had drifted it sufficiently forward, Puresome’s hemorrhoids told him it was time to reverse, and he turned to bring the bottom ring of his fixed gun sight in front of the banner. He called “low reversal!” and squeezed the trigger to the first detent to open the gun purge doors. The aircraft bobbled a bit and then steadied. All Puresome’s concentration was in flying a pursuit curve that would bring his round gyro gunsight pipper to the banner, which by now was rapidly filling his windscreen. The glowing circle reached the front of the banner. He was within range.

Puresome started firing — the thunder of the four cannons shook the aircraft. He pressed the banner to the last second, then jammed top rudder to miss the flapping rag. It was a secret to getting good hits that he had learned from a famous F-8 pilot who maintained that “you aren’t sucked unless the bullet hole is three feet long!” and had only shot down two tow aircraft.

Puresome passed over the banner with a “wump!” and reversed hard right to parallel the tow plane. He made his “off” call and zoomed back into the squirrel-cage pattern. Round and round they went in an aerial ballet that depended on the timing and skill of all the shooters. Puresome remembered Chinee Cluster Frabb horror shows during gunnery flights in the Advanced Training Command that had prompted many wide-eyes among students and anguished screams from instructors.

Finally, his guns quit firing and Puresome disappointedly called “Lizard Three’s winchester!” Fortunately, the other three shooters soon ran out of bullets as well.

The End of a Great Day — The Adventure Begins

Thunder Lizard checked fuel states for the flight and detached Dork to escort the banner back to the drop zone. Since they were pointed at the Air Patch, Lizard checked the flight out of the area, stuck his nose down and accelerated toward the traffic pattern. Small Tank and Puresome tucked in tight, working hard to fly good formation. The flight was whoostling long before they reached the field.

And so passed just another crappy day in paradise. Puresome flew another gunnery hop, did the chow thing and then just hung around the ready room. When secured for the day, the squadron split into the hard-core juniper berry juice drinkers, who disappeared into the smoky confines of the officers’ club bar, and the jocks, most of whom were caught up in a racquetball craze.

Puresome, however, didn’t need no stinkin’ courts or rackets. He put on shorts and Adidas and headed out to the parade ground just inside the main gate, where he zoned out and ran around the perimeter for a couple of hours.

Eventually, all that swilling and jocking gave way to hunger. Pilots cleaned up some, and it was decided to commandeer the two squadron rental cars for an Alfa strike on New Creetin’s Mexican Restauranté for cold beers and ethnic cleansing of the nacho population. Puresome was selected to be a designated driver by one of the senior swillers, largely because he had snaked the keys to one of the cars to ensure the rowdier squadron elements wouldn’t roar off to the naughty bars in San Luis and leave them stranded.

It was a night of great scarfing and quaffing. The wily waiters at New Creetins had seen lots of gringo pilots before, and they seated them in a far corner of a far room that was decorated with commemorative plaques and dints from flying bottles and whizzing nachos. Puresome ate his road-kill pozole with gusto and found it necessary to rehydrate himself with lots of cold cerveza. When it came time to return to base, he was a jolly designated driver indeed.

Chance Meeting with the MPs

Puresome successfully navigated his way back to base despite the distraction of having his hair parted in the back due to the volume of 84 repetitions of a song about being in the desert on a horse with no name that was being enthusiastically rendered by the occupants of the back seat. When he reached the main gate, the Marine sentry noted the pass card in the window and rendered a salute of great precision.

The road to the BOQ followed the perimeter of the parade ground. Miss Crusader was riding shotgun in the front seat by Puresome and idly asked, “Hey, Puresome. How far around is the parade ground?”

Perhaps it was the jalapeño juice. Possibly it was the cold beer. But, in milliseconds, Puresome realized that, not being into quantification except in the most general way, he didn’t know. And electric impulses zapped across synapses. The next thing he knew, he had broken hard left, up over the curb and was driving along the path he had worn in the grass from all his running.

“Hell, I don’t know. Let’s find out!” he heard his voice saying.

Puresome had driven around about half the perimeter when he saw the twirling red light closing fast from his six o’clock. His brain electricity stopped zapping around, and he realized that, while it may have seemed like a good idea at the time, measuring the parade ground in this manner was not one of his more considered decisions.

“Dumb, frabbing dumb!” was about all Pursome could say. Miss Crusader managed an “Aw, shit!” but the rest of the pilots just snickered at low volume.

Two Marine enlisted cops, complete with armbands and sidearms, appeared and shone flashlights in Puresome’s face. Puresome somehow managed to converse with them without breathing out any. They were singularly unimpressed by “LCDR” on Puresome’s ID card, and they wrote him a very impressive ticket for Parade Ground, Lack of Respect for, Vehicle with.

As he sheepishly drove back over the curb and onto the road to the BOQ, all Puresome could say was, “Dumb, frabbing dumb!” Of course, the other passengers in the car were very supportive and helpful.

No Blindfold, Please

Puresome woke the next morning knowing he was well and truly busted. Ay! Yi! Yi! Yi! Skipper Razor would have to break his sword and spit on his shoes. When he examined the ticket, his vital information seemed to be written in crayon, and his rank looked a lot like lance corporal. The date and place of execution were clear enough.

The few days left to him droned along. Puresome decided that “no news is good news,” and didn’t say squat to any of the squadron heavies. He figgered that, if they stood him up against a wall and shot him for parade ground violation, they would still have to give him a military funeral. Miss Crusader and a couple of the other witnesses finally got tired of axing him if he was going to ask for a blindfold, but Puresome’s feigned indifference hid true quease.

The day and appointed hour of the Marine inquisition approached, and Puresome snuck off and dressed up. He shined up his corfam shoes and buffed up his “I-been-there” Olongopo belt buckle. He put on his hoo-raw ribbons. He stiffed up his back and upper lip and marched off to meet his fate. Strangely, the waiting space was filled with similarly spiffed-up enlisted Marines, who were called into another room, one by one. Puresome took it as a good omen that he could hear no gunfire. Finally, a clerk called “Lance Corporal Puresome!” and he marched through the door of doom. Doom turned out to be an extremely grizzled Marine Corps major with rows and rows of ribbons, who was contemplating a pile of papers on a huge desk flanked by the American and Marine Corps flags.

Time counted through about four potatoes before the major looked up and contemplated Puresome in his lieutenant commander outfit. Time counted through a couple of more potatoes when the major snorted and started laughing. “Get out of here!” he snickered, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.

Puresome tossed a salute and got the hell out. The firing squad saved some shells. Skipper Razor did not get to terminate Puresome with extreme prejudice. Puresome vowed that, if he ever needed to rehydrate himself, he would avoid being elected duty driver.

And as far as he was concerned, the distance around the parade ground at Yuma would remain a mystery as unknowable as the measure of the spheres that hold the stars.