by Dee Newman
During the mid and late
1960s I was in the United States Navy – from October 1964 to September
1968. After boot camp in San Diego, California, I was sent to
Millington, Tennessee, just north of Memphis, for nine-months to study,
train and become an aviation electronics technician.
On August 2, 1964, two months before I joined the Navy, the USS Maddox,
while gathering intelligence along the North Vietnam coast in the Gulf
of Tonkin, was allegedly fired upon by several North Vietnamese torpedo
boats.
Two days later a second attack on the Maddox and the USS Turner was
reported to President Johnson. Though the circumstances of the attacks
were ambiguous, they prompted Congress to approve the Gulf of Tonkin
Resolution on August 7, 1964, giving the President power to conduct
military operations in Southeast Asia without declaring war. Shortly
thereafter, U.S. retaliatory air strikes were initiated.
When I arrived in Millington in late January 1965 conditions in Vietnam
had deteriorate substantially. South Vietnamese Generals had instigate
yet another coup. On February 7 the Viet Cong attack the U.S. Air Force
base at Pleiku, killing 8 Americans. After several subsequent attacks
on U.S. instillations, the brass decided the South Vietnamese military
was unable to provide adequate security. A month later 3,500 U.S.
Marines were sent to South Vietnam, marking the beginning of the U.S.
ground war. Until then, the 20,000 U.S. troops stationed there were
called advisors and/or support personnel.
The strikes by the Viet Cong also initiated operation “Rolling Thunder”.
The three-month bombing campaign ultimately lasted three years. It was
intended to destroy North Vietnam's air defenses and industrial
infrastructure, forcing them to cease their support for the National
Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam (NLF).
By November 1968, "Rolling Thunder" had bombarded North Vietnam with
over a million tons of ordnance. Despite the onslaught, its ambitious
goal was never accomplished.
Sometime during February 1965 an official notice was posted on the
bulletin board of my barrack, asking for volunteers to serve in Vietnam.
I immediately set-up an interview. Fortunately, the Lieutenant who
conducted the interview was a great deal wiser than I. He advised me to
reconsider my enthusiasm to go to war. “Complete your schooling first,”
he counseled. “It will be advantageous to both you and the Navy.”
Nine months later, by the time I had finished my training to become an
aviation electronics technician, I was married. My priorities had
change. Unfortunately, an assignment to Southeast Asia and the
continually escalating war seemed inevitable.
When I received my orders to report to the Naval Air Station (NAS) in
Sanford, Florida, and Reconnaissance Attack Squadron THREE (RVAH-3), I
had no idea at the time how fortunate I was to receive the assignment.
Eight of the ten RVAH Vigilante squadrons stationed at NAS Sanford saw
extensive action during carrier air wing operations in the South China
Sea throughout the Vietnam War. RVAH-3, however, was strictly a
stateside-based training squadron. Its mission was to prepare pilots to
fly the Mach-2+ RA-5C Vigilante reconnaissance aircraft.
Once a pilot and navigator had qualified to fly the RA-5C Vigilante at
the Naval Air Station, they were required to qualify to takeoff from and
land the supersonic jet on an aircraft carrier. Not an easy task given
the Vigilante’s size and speed.
Carrier Quals as they were called required a full crew of support
personnel, including Aviation Electronic Technicians (AETs). In June of
1967 I flew as part of a Quals crew 2300 miles from NAS Sanford, Florida
to the Alameda Naval Complex across the bay from San Francisco,
California. There, we boarded the USS Ranger, the first angled-deck
supercarrier (the Top Gun of the Pacific Fleet) and proceeded to sail
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. My two weeks onboard the Ranger was my
first and only service aboard an aircraft carrier.
If you have never been onboard a carrier, the description of them being a
floating city at sea is accurate. The Ranger’s displacement when fully
loaded was over 80,000 tons. The flight deck was over 3 football fields
long and nearly a football field wide.
Accommodating over 5000 personnel the Ranger had everything its
residents needed to live. There were multiple galleys and mess halls,
continually serving meals 24 hours a day. The ship also had a sizable
laundry facility, dentist and doctor's offices, and various stores.
Conditions, however, aboard the Ranger were much more cramped than in a
normal city. In order to get from one place to another, I had to scale
steep ladderwells that were nearly vertical and squeeze past other
personnel in narrow passageways.
Our sleeping quarters were extremely tight. We slept in single bunks,
crammed together in stacks of twos and threes. Each of us got a small
storage bin and an upright locker for clothes and personal belongings.
Our compartment of 30 plus support personnel shared a bathroom with cold
saltwater showers. The facilities for officers (I was told) were a bit
more accommodating, but limited, as well. Everyone onboard had to get
used to tight quarters.
Most of the onboard crew had little opportunity to see the ocean or the
sky. The flight deck, hangar and fantail all offered magnificent views
of the outside world, but those areas were so demanding and dangerous
that only a handful of people were allowed access during normal
operating conditions. Personnel who worked below deck might go for weeks
without ever seeing daylight.
Being on any carrier’s flight deck during takeoffs and landings is
extremely hazardous. Landing crews are especially vulnerable. The large
cable that traps landing aircraft has been known to snap and fly across
the deck taking off the legs of any one in its path. Catapult crews may
be less vulnerable but their responsibilities, as well, place them at
great risk.
On one occasion Johnny Johnson and I, while we were replacing the radio
gear located beneath the fiberglass bathtub in the nose-wheel-well, were
nearly blown off the flight deck.
The aircraft was chained down to the deck directly behind the port bow
catapult. There was already nearly 40 knots of wind blowing across the
deck from bow to stern. We had to lean into the wind in order to remain
upright. Another Vigilante was being readied for take off on the
catapult.
For some reason the blast-deflector shield between the catapult and us
had not been activated. Therefore, as we approached the radio-downed
aircraft we could readily see the yellow-shirted catapult director
simultaneously giving hand signals to both the pilot and the catapult
crew – above shoulder signals to the pilot and below the waist signals
to the crew.
After lowering the hinged bathtub I climbed up and into the
nose-wheel-well and began unscrewing the gray two-foot long rectangular
radio box. While I was doing this I could hear through my ear protection
the J79 engines of the RA-5C on the catapult began to spool-up to full
military power.
Suddenly, as I began to lower the radio box down to Johnny the
afterburners of the Vigilante on the catapult were activated and 36,000
pounds of boiling thrust blew Johnny’s legs out from under him.
Fortunately, his left hand was already gripping the deck chain to steady
himself. Otherwise, he would have surely been blown overboard. As it
were he remained prone and suspended in the air for a good 10 to 15
seconds. We later found the radio gear a number of yards aft of the
aircraft.
Several weeks after returning to NAS Sanford I found myself experiencing
yet another life-threatening event. Although I did not know it at the
time, the event was directly related to an incident that had occurred
onboard the Ranger.
Late one evening our shop received a call from the maintenance crew that
the radio of an aircraft doing touch and goes was not functioning
properly. I was sent out alone to replace the gear. After checking with
the pilot and inspecting the controls in the cockpit, I climbed down and
hit the switch that opened the door to the nose-wheel-well. After
waiting several moments for the maintenance crew to place a lock-block
on the door’s hydraulics, I motion with my hands for the block. They
indicated that they had left it in their shop and encourage me to
replace the gear anyway.
Reluctantly, I released and pull down the fiberglass bathtub and climbed
up into the nose-wheel-well. There was a small foothold on the door
that we stood on in order to gain access to the radio gear. Suddenly,
the hydraulics activated, slamming the door shut, crushing the bathtub
and shoving me into the small cavity that the nosewheel normally would
occupy when the aircraft was aloft.
Moments later the door open and I fell to the tarmac. I was extremely
fortunate. I could have easily ended up being crushed like the
fiberglass bathtub. Needless to say the flight was aborted. The plane
had been damaged and the radio was still not functioning.
Several weeks later, once again, I found myself alone in a similar
circumstance. This time I refused to replace the radio gear until the
door’s hydraulics had been secured. Suddenly, a member of the
maintenance crew was in my face demanding that I replace the gear. This
time, with his face only inches from mine, I recognized him. We had been
crewmates onboard the Ranger. I had caught him cheating one evening at
cards and confronted him in front of his cohorts.
Outranking me he pointed to the stripes on his left shoulder and once
again demanded that I replace the radio gear. I refused. Grabbing me by
the neck and arm he shoved me toward his maintenance vehicle. Minutes
later, we were standing in front of the duty officer. After hearing from
both of us, the chief on duty told me to return to my shop. The next
day I heard that my adversary had been written up and was going to lose
a stripe over the incident.
Originally, the North American A3J-1 Vigilante (later re-designated the
A-5A) was designed as the first all-weather, carrier-launched,
nuclear-capable attack bomber. The updated A3J-2 became the A-5B.
However, by 1963 the U.S. Navy's strategic role shifted from manned
bombers to submarine launched ballistic missiles. As a result
procurement of the A-5A and A-5B ended and the attack bomber was
converted into an extremely high speed tactical reconnaissance aircraft,
equipped with two General Electric J79 turbojet engines with
afterburners.
The new RA-5C had a slightly greater wing area. It needed it for lift.
The reconnaissance Vigilante weighed almost five tons more than the
A-5A. It was the largest and fastest airplane to ever operate from an
aircraft carrier. Though it had almost the same thrust as the A-5A,
replacing the bomb bay with a long external under the fuselage
reconnaissance fairing called the “canoe”, reduced its acceleration and
climb-rate.
Nevertheless, in 1969, on a practice run preparing for the London/New
York Mail Race, a new 156 series Vigilante without the reconnaissance
canoe installed exceeded Mach 2.5. The pilot later said he felt he could
have gone faster. I once witness the return of a RA-5C with half of its
tail gone. The pilot would only admit that he had exceeded Mach 2.
Located in the “canoe” were a series of multi-sensor, state of the art
reconnaissance. There were vertical, oblique and split-image cameras, as
well as, 3-inch and 18-inch horizon-to-horizon panoramic scanning
cameras with a Digital Data System (DDS), which encoded all the
statistical data (altitude, latitude, date, etc.) on the five-inch-wide
negative film, identifying exactly where the photos were taken.
In addition, an Inertial Navigation System (INS) in conjunction with an
Automatic Flight Control System (AFCS) enabled the RA-5C to fly precise
missions ranging from treetop to high altitude. The information obtained
was later interpreted by the shipboard Integrated Operational
Intelligence Center (IOIC) and used for mission planning.
The aircraft was also equipped with a television camera capable of
functioning in very low light, mounted under the nose in a bubble-eye
just behind the radome, Side Looking Airborne Radar (SLAR), an infrared
line scanner, and Passive Electronic Counter Measures (PECM) – a sensor
for gathering electromagnetic intelligence located in the linear weapons
bay.
The Vigilante had twin cockpits. The 2-man crew flew in tandem, the
pilot in front and the Reconnaissance Attack Navigator (RAN), in the
rear. Compared to other aircraft, the cockpit was large and comfortable.
The hot air rain removal system blown over the curved one-piece
windscreen provided the pilot with excellent visibility even during
severe weather conditions.
The supersonic aircraft could operate at altitudes from sea level to
above 50,000 feet. In fact, on December 13, 1960, Navy Commander Leroy
Heath with his Bombardier/Navigator Lieutenant Larry Monroe established a
new world altitude record of 91,450.8 feet (17.320 miles) in an A3J
Vigilante. It surpassed the previous record by over four miles and was
held for over 13 years.
Due to its primary mission (pre- and post-strike photography) the RA-5C
Vigilante had the highest loss rate of any Naval aircraft during the
Vietnam War. Eighteen Vigilantes were lost in combat. A number of
Sanford-based pilots and navigators became prisoners of war in Vietnam.
The combat attrition rate of the RA-5C was also intensified by other
incidents and accidents. On June 14, 1967, during touch-and-go landings
(Field Carrier Landing Practice), a RA-5C assigned to my Squadron
RVAH-3, crashed at NAS Sanford. At the time it was reported that the
aircraft sustained in-flight Foreign Object Damage (FOD), ingesting a
loose clamp into the starboard engine. Though both crewmen ejected, the
pilot was killed.
When the crash occurred I was walking to my car. Hearing an unusual
sound I turn to see the starboard engine blow as the aircraft began to
climb out of its touch-and-go landing. I saw the navigator eject just
before the plane rolled to its left. By the time the pilot ejected the
aircraft’s cockpit was pointing toward the tarmac.
On October 3, 1967, another multi-million dollar RA-5C assigned to my
squadron crashed due to FOD. The pilot ejected safely. Fortunately,
there was no navigator aboard.
In 1968 Congress directed the closure of NAS Sanford, transferring the
entire wing and squadrons to the former Turner Air Force Base in Albany,
Georgia. NAS Sanford became NAS Albany. In early September, two weeks
before I was discharged, another aircraft sustain Foreign Object Damage
and crashed. Fortunately, there were no fatalities.
For sometime the scuttlebutt had been that someone was actually
sabotaging the aircraft, taping tools and other objects to the intake of
the J79 turbojet engines. So, it was no surprise when the Base
Commander the day after the last crash assembled every shift, the entire
command in one large hanger.
Climbing to the top of a tall maintenance scaffold, he began to address
us. The delivery of his words was deliberate – slow, careful and
precise. Noticeably strapped to his right side was a Colt .45. For
several minutes he carefully explained what he and Naval Intelligence
believed had been occurring for well over a year both in Sanford and
Albany – Sabotage!
As he ended his address, with his right hand he pulled the Forty-five
from its holster. Holding it at shoulder height for all to see, he said
these words, which will remain etched within my mind forever: “Someone
below me is a murderer. When we find out who you are and we’ll find out,
believe me, I’m personally going to put a bullet through your brain!”
Turning to a friend I said, “ I don’t know who is crazier, the saboteur
or our Base Commander? I’m sure glad I’m being discharged in two weeks.”
