An Interview with Paul Cassiman.

WAHF: Tell us about your childhood and then focus on when and how you first became interested in aviation.

CASSIMAN: My early childhood recollections took place in Inglewood, California, during World War II. While I was born in Neillsville, Wisconsin, in August 1939, my father took his family out to California where he focused his interest in aviation. He had studied aviation mechanics at Curtis-Wright Institute, and wanted to pursue his interests in the Los Angeles area.

We lived initially off the end of the runway of Douglas Airfield at El Segundo, California, which was a launch point for trans-Pacific ferry flights to Hawaii and the western Pacific, as well as test flights for aircraft built by Douglas Aircraft Corporation. Douglas Airfield would later become the core of the current Los Angeles International Airport (LAX).

There was a dairy farm close to where we lived that was located off the approach end of the runway at El Segundo. One night a twin-engined bomber crashed short of the runway. My parents and I [maybe my sister] went out to observe the spectacle in the dark. No cows were hurt (a “Dairy State” concern). But can you imagine a dairy farm off the end of LAX today?

My Dad bought a house on 121st Street, not far from where we first lived. Two things were notable about that house. It was on the last street of houses in Inglewood, and my father could walk to work two blocks away. The latter was great because gasoline was rationed severely during the war. The former bothers me to this day because there were open fields between our house and the Palos Verde Hills down by Long Beach, with the exception of my elementary school and wide spots in the road, one of which was Manhattan Beach.

This is a long-winded approach to your question. My Dad—directly or not—provided a measure of aviation orientation. How much of that bore on a later career in Naval Aviation, I cannot say. But, some things were burned into my mind. The first was the sound of anti-aircraft artillery (AAA). During the war, AAA was installed on top of the Douglas plant, or close to it. I remember the sounds of AAA when they had their practice. I would recognize it instantly many years later in Vietnam. Second, there were many manufacturers of combat aircraft in Southern California, and I used to relish the sight of them as they launched on their test flights—one being the Northrop P-61 Black Widow night fighter built at their plant to the east of where my family lived.

In 1945, my father moved the family back to Chicago, closer to relatives, in anticipation of induction into the Marine Corps. As it turned out, we arrived in Chicago just before VJ Day, which I remember vividly. As the Nation made its transition to a post-war lifestyle, military aviation was far less evident. My interest in aviation during the years that followed tended to be in the phenomenon of flight represented in model aircraft—such as those I could afford—without regard to any specific military or civilian orientation.

WAHF: How did you decide on the Navy? When did you decide to make it a career?

CASSIMAN: Following my college years, I went to work for a company that fabricated steel and aluminum windows for residences and large construction projects. When you see a large high-rise with glass and curtain wall, or large churches with glass facades, there is some probability that it was done by the company for which I worked. I worked in the Engineering Department, although I thought the foundry and fabrication floor were fascinating.

In 1961, there were indications that I would be inducted into the Army, which at the time seemed not too appealing. Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, in the fall and winter did not sound appealing.

At that time, one of my friends told me that he had qualified for the U.S. Air Force Navigator program. He said it was challenging and very difficult. So, I went down to Chanute Air Force to see what it was all about. The upshot was that I could qualify for the Navigator program, but the Air Force had no place for me in their pilot training programs. So, I went to the Navy to see what they offered and subsequently qualified for its pilot training program. This was sort of a “backward” rather than a positive approach to what I would do. I wanted to be a pilot, and that cinched the decision for me. I entered Navy pilot training in July 1961.

The “career” decision was far more difficult. At the end of a Naval Reserve officer’s—I was commissioned in the Naval Reserve—initial obligation to the Service, one has a decision to make: to leave Active Duty or remain. A person can apply to the Service for continued active duty, but the Navy can—and could—decline your application because law limits the number of officers and enlisted that can serve. So, there is a selection process that pertains to a “career.” In my case, I was accepted for continued Active Duty and augmentation into the United States Navy and subsequently assigned duty as an Instructor Pilot in the squadron that trained pilots for combat A-4 squadrons deploying to Southeast Asia/Vietnam, among other places.

The decision process was complicated by the attraction of increased income offered by the airlines. Thus, the issue seemed to become one of the divisive issues of increased income with the airlines or continued service to the Navy. Actually, the decision cleaved the two camps rather cleanly, although I will say that Naval Aviators that went to the airlines affiliated with the Naval Air Reserve had no problem with activating for National emergencies.

Personally, I have remained happy with my decision because it resulted in a 32-year adventure that few—or no—people could enjoy. I must say that my decision was made without any foresight of what the future would bring, but it took me around the world twice and north of the Arctic Circle once. The Navy took me to Europe and Russia. It took me to World War II battlegrounds in the Pacific and Mediterranean Sea. The Navy gave me an exceptional sense of military history. I gained considerable experience in combat and exciting insights into how our Federal Government works.

WAHF: Can you tell us a story (or two, or more) about flight school and any “adventures” with the Navy?

CASSIMAN: This is an interesting question. If flight training was the epitome of my aviation experience, then I guess there would be plenty of stories. But flight training pales in comparison to combat and other flight operations. So I don’t focus much on training. But I will provide an overview that distinguished what it was that “young pups” of my generation experienced. I want to make clear at the outset that I suffered from my own assumptions that were clearly wrong and contributed to certain personal surprises.

The most important assumption was that a flight instructor would “demonstrate” one particular flight evolution or another, beginning with the first flight. That was wrong.

After a thorough briefing, the student was expected to perform the evolution. Preflight Training. Preflight training lasted about four months. It consisted of equal portions of military, academic and physical training. Military training for Naval and Marine Corps Aviation Cadets (NAVCADs/MARCADs) was provided by Marine Corps drill instructors. Commissioned officers entering into the flight training program did not have to deal with military training because it was, for the most part, behind them.

Academic training addressed a variety of subject areas beginning with the very important and core subject of mathematics, aviation physics, aircraft structures and power plants, basic meteorology, and other related topics.

Sundays involved mandatory attendance at chapel in the denomination of your choice. Sunday mornings were rather spectacular because formations of cadets in white uniforms were preceded by a military band. Preflight was also the first time at sea in a warship. We embarked in USS Antietam for a day trip out into the Gulf of Mexico to tour the ship and observe day carrier qualifications.

Physical training had two interest areas in addition to the basics of cross-country runs, obstacle courses and the like that one sees in the movies. The two interest areas were swimming and basic gymnastics. 

Given the aquatic/oceanic environment associated with Naval Aviation, it was mandatory that one possess prescribed swimming skills before leaving preflight training. The Navy had little intention of further investment in pilot training if the investment could be lost in a preventable drowning. The culmination of the swimming part of the program was the “Dilbert Dunker” cockpit trainer in which the trainee rode a simulated cockpit into the training pool where it inverted, and then the trainee released himself from the harnesses and exited the cockpit. [Divers were in attendance in the case of problems, but a diver assist meant you repeated the experience until you could exit without assistance.]

The basic gymnastics was fairly broad-based but was interested in the ability of the trainee to maintain spatial orientation on the trampoline. This was deemed to be an important indication of how one might perform in aerial combat maneuvering—as in the “Top Gun” movie fame. [Personally, I think spatial orientation training is not stressed enough in civilian flight training programs, probably because the means to conduct such training are not available.]

Primary Flight Training.
Primary flight training was marked by a transfer from the transfer from “Mainside” Naval Air Station, Pensacola, to Saufley Field, some miles north of Pensacola. This transition occurred about four months into the “pipeline.”

There we would begin actual flight training in the Beechcraft T-34 “Mentor.” This was a variant of the v-tailed Beechcraft ”Bonanza.” The T-34 still flies today, but powered by a turboprop power plant.

Flight training offset the even balance placed on military, academic and physical training that took place in Preflight, although such training still took place. Academic training took a more focused look at the T-34. Meteorology and mathematics were taught as well.

Interestingly, the trainee was expected to control the aircraft from the very first flight to the last in this phase, with very few demonstrations by the instructor. This was somewhat nerve-wracking considering that my total time in the air at that point consisted of a flight to Denver from Chicago and back in the passenger compartment of a DC-8. The trainee made the first take-off and landing, although the hand of the instructor could sometimes be felt on the stick, as well as pressures on the rudder.

Throughout this phase, take-offs and landings were emphasized, moving rapidly into “precision landings” within specified “boxes.” This was a precursor of the carrier landings that would be learned about six months later.

Aerobatics and unusual-attitude training began early in the syllabus. These included the normal classic acrobatic maneuvers and departures from normal flight, such as stalls and spins. One maneuver required that the trainee stall and spin the aircraft for four revolutions and recover the aircraft on its original heading. This means that you maintain an instrument scan throughout the maneuver. Solo flight took place toward the end of the syllabus. You and the instructor flew out to an outlying grass field in Alabama where he deplaned, and the trainee did several “touch and go” landings, plus a “full stop” to allow the instructor to get back into the back seat for a return to Saufley Field. The event was commemorated with a ceremony in which your uniform tie was cut by your instructor and you presented him with a bottle of his favorite whiskey— Johnnie Walker in my case. Strutting about with a cut-off tie was cause for great pride and celebration. Your instructor also pinned a “solo bar” insignia on your uniform shirt. The total syllabus consisted of 26 flights and 33.9 hours of flight time.

Primary Jet Training, Aerial Gunnery and Initial Carrier Qualifications.
Performance grades gave the top trainees their choice of pipelines for follow-on training. Those with lower grades had to accept training slots left over after the top performers made their choices. My grades allowed me to choose the jet pipeline, although my instructor encouraged me to follow the path that would take me to four-engine, long-range maritime patrol aviation.

My choice took me to the newly-opened training station at Meridian, Mississippi. There I began training in the single-engine, North American T-2J “Buckeye.” The significant aspects of this training involved the transition to ejection seats, fully integrated torso harnesses, anti-G suits around the lower abdomen and legs, and the oxygen mask, all of which would be your companions into subsequent Fleet aviation. This was the juncture at which we would have to learn to live in a very confining environment; e.g., the head enclosed in a helmet and oxygen mask, the body in a torso harness and G-suit, vision obscured by a gun sight, and the body wedged between a complex instrument panel and complex consoles on either side.

Flight training at Meridian would repeat in greater depth the syllabus taught at Saufley Field, with the addition of instrument flying, cross-country navigation and night flying. These were done at greater speeds and higher altitudes. Night flying added a major dimension to the syllabus.

Throughout this phase, precision landings were always stressed. The T-2 was stressed for carrier landings—it had a tailhook—and you no longer “flared” your landing. Its landing gear was stiff, designed for impact at a 600-800 feet-per-minute rate of descent with no round-out at the last moment.

The final phase of Primary Jet Training took us back to Pensacola for aerial gunnery and initial carrier qualifications in the T-2 at about a year into the total syllabus. Training was becoming absolute fun at this point. Flying comprised 90 percent of your obligation and one began to imagine himself as a future Fleet aviator. You could do things that Fleet aviators could do. Responsibilities were virtually non-existent. The syllabus began with aerial gunnery over the Gulf of Mexico, followed shortly with the beginning of field carrier landing practice (FCLP) in anticipation of flying out to the carrier for carrier qualifications. The best part of this phase was that one never had an instructor in the back seat. All flights were solo. When there was an instructor present, he led the flight through the evolution.

When the FCLP portion of the syllabus was complete and the Landing Signal Officer (LSO) said you were ready, the big day came for a flight out to the carrier, led by an instructor. You executed the special procedures taught for the occasion and entered the pattern. But I must say that the first landing was an act of faith because the ship did not look big enough to land upon. The trainee did some preliminary “touch and go” landings and was then told to “drop the hook” for his first arrested landing.

That event defies description. You roll out under considerable “G” forces as flight deck directors signal you frantically and bring you up onto the catapult for your first cat shot. My first four arrested carrier landings occurred on 4 August 1962, which marked the end of primary flight training. I then wore the “carrier qualification” insignia on my uniform.

Advanced Jet Training and Carrier Qualifications.
Completion of initial carrier qualifications in the T-2 resulted in orders to Beeville, Texas, for advanced jet training in the Grumman F-9 “Cougar” and F-11 “Tiger” aircraft. Both aircraft had seen service in the Fleet.

The “FAM 1” flight in the “Cougar” included a demonstration of supersonic flight. The Cougar was designed with supersonic flight in mind, although many of its technologies have been superceded. The flight was commemorated with “wow!” and then back to the essentials of basics in a heavyweight, Fleet jet aircraft. We used to refer to the Cougar as the “lead sled” built by the “Grumman Iron Works” in recognition of its toughness.

In the 1960s, the Navy had single- and two-seat Cougars that it used for training. The Cougar was interesting because it probably had the last centrifugal-flow engine. The single-seat variant was great because it could not accommodate an instructor in the same aircraft.

The high point with the Cougar, in my mind, was going back to the ship for carrier qualifications. We trained at a place called Alice-Orange, Texas, and then pronounced “ready to go.” We flew out to the ship, did some “touch-and-go” landings, and were then instructed to “drop the hook.” Once again, the effect of the landing was violent. And once again, you are faced with flight deck directors giving you signals to taxi out of the landing area quickly so that you don’t “foul” the deck for the next aircraft on final approach. The objective for landing intervals varies between 30 and 60 seconds.

After one landing, I was being positioned for a catapult shot on the left catapult when I noticed that my director suddenly lost interest in me and began to run off to the right. I looked in my left mirror and saw a bit of commotion in the landing area. Then I saw a Cougar struggle off the flight deck with a bunch of debris underneath (his landing gear) and into the air. One of my Marine Corps buddies just had a “ramp strike” in which your impact on the ship is far too low. The result was the loss of his landing gear. Immediately thereafter, the flight director came up to position me on the catapult for my launch. Such is the nature of the beast…no time for reflection or interruption of the mission.

My Marine Corps buddy was able to recover in Corpus Christi, Texas, although landing “hot” and over-running the foamed runway and depositing himself in the bay. Our Aviation Safety Officer, a Marine Colonel, went on to pronounce at the next All Pilots Meeting (APM), that, “I don’t care how hard you hit the ship, you’re not going to make it go one knot faster!”

Transition to the Grumman F-11F “Tiger” was a dream. It had only one seat and a J-65 with afterburner. The time spent in that aircraft was too short and consisted of aerial combat maneuvering and gunnery. It was designed for supersonic flight, but was short on fuel to make it a good Fleet aircraft. You could zoom to 41,000 feet as you rolled in on your adversary and slide through Mach 1 during the run. The only problem was that you had to be home inside the hour or you would probably be out of gas.

The next stop was the Fleet after getting my “Wings of Gold.” I was sent to Naval Air Station Lemoore, California, in early 1963 to undergo transition training to the Douglas A-4 Skyhawk. This was a six-month syllabus in Attack Squadron 125, one of the two Replacement Training Squadrons (RTS). The other RTS supported transition training for the Douglas A-1 Skyraider. This syllabus included basic familiarization and instrument training, followed by concentrated training in tactics, aerial refueling and weapon systems. This included a two-week weapons training deployment to Fallon, Nevada, where the Navy maintains an extensive training range complex.

As the weapons portion approached conclusion, the final phase of the syllabus began. This was day and night carrier qualification in the A-4. I qualified on USS Ticonderoga (CVA-14) in August 1963. I will state that night carrier qualification is one of the most demanding and unnerving flight evolution. There is no horizon, the flight deck at that time was illuminated by red floodlights, and cockpit instrumentation was not as good as today’s. Two years of instrument training came into play while struggling with the effects of vertigo around the ship.

Adventures with the Navy.
I reported for duty with Attack Squadron 93 (VA-93) in late August 1963 with a total of 409.9 flight hours. VA-93 was assigned to Carrier Air Wing NINE (CVW-9), which, in turn, was assigned to USS Ranger (CVA-61). This suggests an organizational structure and responsibilities. The commanding officer of VA-93 was responsible for integrating 21 officers and 225 enlisted into a coherent whole and ready for integration into the carrier air wing. The carrier air wing commander was responsible for integrating two jet light attack squadrons (A-4Cs), one propeller light attack squadron (A-1s), one heavy attack squadron (twin engine A-3D Sky Warriors), two fighter squadrons (F-4s), one airborne early warning squadron (E-1Bs), a photo reconnaissance detachment (RF-8 Crusaders), and a helicopter search and rescue detachment (SH-3s), into a coherent whole capable of functioning with the carrier battle group (CVBG).

The mission of VA-93 was air-to-ground weapons delivery (strike) of both nuclear and conventional weapons, as well as anti-ship attack responsibilities (war at sea). Our primary focus was on nuclear weapons delivery, with conventional weapons delivery a distant second.

Nuclear weapons delivery tactics were exciting. They comprised a low-level, radar-evading penetration at 360 knots and 100- to 200-foot altitude, accelerating to 500 knots for the final delivery maneuver. That maneuver consisted of either a half-Cuban-eight maneuver that lofted the weapon into the air, giving the aircraft time to escape weapons effects. Alternatively, the weapon could be laid down on the target with a delay fusing option to permit escape. Needless to say, the sensation of high-speed, low level navigation was an unparalleled thrill, although not without hazards such as rising terrain and 20-pound turkey buzzards, one of which I collided with one day.

Ranger deployed to the Western Pacific from Naval Air Station Alameda, California, on 4 August 1964. Coincidently, that was the day of the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, a harbinger of things to come. The preparations for deployment were exciting as the air wing arrived from various points around the United States to be hoisted aboard the ship prior to departure from San Francisco Bay. The gathering of aircrews in the Alameda Officers Club was enthusiastic as prior acquaintances were renewed and jocular critiques made of landings as squadrons flew into Alameda. The duty runway that day was short—7,000 feet—for tactical jet aircraft, plus there was an attention-getting crane parked in the estuary directly on the runway centerline. The rendezvous that day was the precursor to an adventure that would last nearly a year.

As circumstances evolved in Viet Nam, we found ourselves in a growing conventional conflict for which we were not fully prepared. This was due to our earlier focus on nuclear strike tactics and associated equipment. Our bomb racks for conventional weapons were not well suited, and we faced an electronic warfare environment for which we were poorly prepared. This situation required that we evaluate our tactics and look for systems that would improve our survivability in the current tactical environment.

Some of our tactical experiments proved to be dangerous, while the systems (primarily avionics) were difficult to install in a small airframe (10,000 pounds basic weight). We were able to identify and modify hardware in the form of ejector bomb racks that would give the aircraft separation from the weapons, but the avionics solutions proved more difficult. There was little excess room for black boxes and associated antennae that countered North Vietnamese/Russian air defense systems. Thus, the Navy embarked on a program called “Shoehorn” to cram avionics into small spaces left in the airframe, and subsequently resulted in a “hump” on the back of the fuselage designed to carry more avionics.

Initial combat operations during the Ranger deployment produced surprising observations from the aviation perspective. First, low-level tactics often meant that you were in direct visual contact with your adversary on the ground. Second, you could often hear anti-aircraft artillery before you could see the results, despite the strong background noise produced by aircraft environmental systems. Airspace above targets became cluttered with dense black puffs of smoke, not to mention particulate matter in the air that could not be seen.

The first deployment to the Gulf of Tonkin in Ranger was followed shortly thereafter by a deployment in USS Enterprise (CVAN-65). We returned to Southeast Asia in December 1965 for combat operations in an intensifying war.

In August 1966, following return from deployment, I was transferred to shore duty as an instructor pilot in the Replacement Training Squadron (RTS) that prepared me for my first operational tour in the Fleet. Needless to say, the syllabus taught in 1966-69 differed greatly from that of 1963. The emphasis had shifted from nuclear weapons delivery to conventional weapons and tactics. Moreover, there was a strong emphasis on electronic warfare and weapons designed to deal with surface-to-air missile (SAM) systems. The positive effect of the war in Southeast Asia was to stimulate accelerated weapon and systems development in a warfare area that had been relatively stagnant.

The tour of duty in the RTS was very busy with the heavy workload of training pilots for subsequent tours of duty in Fleet Light Attack squadrons. This meant deployments for carrier qualifications and weapons training on the average of two weeks every three months. Carrier qualifications often provided instructor pilots the opportunity to accumulate additional carrier landings. Weapons training deployments provided opportunities to maintain proficiency in tactics and delivery at the same time that student pilots were being instructed.

In late 1966, the first two-seat TA-4F was delivered to the RTS. It was fully equipped with current weapon systems. That event produced a new personal sensation, which I called the “Man Mountain Dean/Dynamic Tension” phenomenon. This arose from the idea that the instructor sat in the back seat while the student flew the aircraft through the evolutions associated with the tactic being taught. Now, if the tactic is a 45-degree dive delivery, you are confronted with 360 degrees of rapidly rising terrain. I wanted to resist the overwhelming temptation to grab the aircraft controls when the instructee was not performing the maneuver to my satisfaction. In order to do that, I gripped the canopy rails in a white-knuckled grip that I thought would develop my arm muscles greatly.

In 1969, I received orders to a squadron whose mission was to provide air defense aircraft for Anti-Submarine Aircraft Carriers (CVS). CVSs were World War II Essex-class carriers that were re-configured to conduct anti-submarine operations during the 1960s and early 1970s. The squadron designation was Air Anti-Submarine Fighter Squadron ONE (VSF-1). I deployed with a detachment of VSF-1 in USS Yorktown (CVS-10) to the North Atlantic in September 1969, returning just before Christmas. Our mission was to provide air defense against long-range Russian aircraft capable of carrying and launching anti-carrier missiles. The Russian aircraft of concern was the TU-95 “Bear,” a very successful four-engine, contra-rotating turboprop design that had several variants optimized for a variety of missions. We were launched when the carrier had indications that the “Bears” were headed in our direction.

In accordance with the rules of engagement (ROE) at the time, we were required to intercept the Russians in a non-threatening manner. That meant that the intercept had to be executed in a fashion that did not bring weapons to bear on the intercepted aircraft. Moreover, if the Russian aircraft over flew any ships of the carrier group, our job was to position ourselves in such a fashion that if the Russians took a photograph, that our aircraft would be in the field of view showing that they had already been intercepted.

Our first intercept occurred west of the Azores in September. Interestingly, during that intercept, which I conducted, a Russian air crew member positioned in an observation blister near the tail held up the centerfold of a two-month-old Playboy playmate for my viewing pleasure. I was impressed by the distribution system that could take that magazine to the Arctic reaches of Russia. On that same flight, when I received the call from the carrier to return to the ship as the Russian was headed outbound, the Russian in the blister held up a chart and pointed to the position of the carrier and waved goodbye. Clearly, they were monitoring and interpreting our communications.

That deployment took us to the Norwegian Sea in November and December of 1969. The sun rose at 10:30 and set at 2:30 in the afternoon. Dense fog, heavy seas and ice were our primary enemies. The pitch and roll of the carrier under those conditions stressed the limits of our ability to recover successfully. Approaching the ship in a dense fog one day produced a call from the Landing Signal Officer (LSO) that I will never forget: “You sound good-keep it coming!” If one was forced to eject in an emergency, the probability of survival approached zero because the surface of the sea would obscure one’s helmet assuming that a helo could arrive on top within one’s useful survival time.

One day, I was the first member of the carrier group to cross the Arctic Circle in my little hot rod. I was launched from the ship and sent north for an intercept. As an aside, polar navigation requires special training to deal with the fact that magnetic north and true north are hundreds of miles apart and that lines of longitude are crossed rapidly as one travels from east to west or vice versa. Remember, at the North Pole, all destinations are south. There is no “east,” “west” or “north.”

I retuned to NAS Lemoore in early 1970 to begin transition training in the Vought A-7B “Corsair II” light attack aircraft, after which I was assigned, once again, to Attack Squadron 93 (VA-93). This was followed by two combat deployments to Southeast Asia in USS Midway (CV-41), as part of Carrier Air Wing FIFTEEN (CVW-15). The first deployment was rather routine, in which port calls were made as scheduled. Missions were flown to South Viet Nam and Laos without much opposition.

However, in 1972, we were ordered to an early deployment in April, before we had our weapons training requirements and carrier qualifications completed. We were responding to the heavy pressure being applied by North Viet Nam in their spring offensive. After crossing the Pacific, we completed our day carrier qualifications off the Philippines and then proceeded to a station off South Viet Nam. It was there that we gave our newly-reported pilots their first indoctrination in combat tactics and the senior pilots refreshed in night carrier landings. From there, we moved north to a position off North Viet Nam (“Yankee Station”) and began strikes into the North.

This phase was the most active of the phases I have been involved with. For the first time, much of the tactical planning and execution was delegated to the theater commanders. Plus, new weapons were available that provided greater accuracy against high-interest targets and precision against surface-to-air missile sites.

Additionally, we were able to mine the approaches to vital North Vietnamese ports, thus denying previously unimpeded shipments of war materials to Hanoi. Our air wing had great successes against North Vietnamese fighters and air defenses at the same time that our squadron lost its second-senior officer to a MiG. So, it was a time of great pluses and minuses! I believe it was a time that brought North Viet Nam to the bargaining table, although that which we did is still being appreciated.

Subsequent tours of duty included assignment to the Plans and Policy Division of the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, the United SIXTH Fleet Staff in the Mediterranean Sea, and then a return to NAS Lemoore for transition training in the A-7E “Corsair II.” This was in preparation for assignment as Executive and Commanding Officer of Attack Squadron 94 (VA-94), a unit of Carrier Air Wing FIFTEEN (CVW-15), assigned to USS Kitty Hawk (CV-63).

Kitty Hawk deployed to the Western Pacific in May 1979. The schedule called for Kitty Hawk to return to the United States just prior to Christmas of 1979. The battle group was involved in the crisis associated with the assassination of President Park of South Korea, and then prepared for return to the United States just prior to Thanksgiving.

However, the Iran Hostage Crisis interfered with that plan and the Kitty Hawk battle group departed the Philippines for operations in the Indian Ocean. Enroute, the battle group closed on Diego Garcia in order to embark the RH-53D airborne mine countermeasure helicopters that were destined for the “Desert ONE” hostage rescue attempt effort. The “Execute Order” for Desert ONE was not transmitted while Kitty Hawk was on station. USS Nimitz arrived to relieve Kitty Hawk, the RH-53s were transferred to Nimitz, and we departed for the United States, arriving on the 24th of February 1980. Steaming time from the North Arabian Sea to the West Coast of the United States is approximately four weeks.

Subsequent tours included the United States Pacific Fleet Headquarters in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii; the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island; Commanding Officer, U.S. Naval Air Station, Agana, Guam; and the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. Assignments to the Pacific Fleet Headquarters in Hawaii, the Naval War College and the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations did not involve flying. That said, assignments to non-flying billets required a solid basis in aviation. However, assignment as Commanding Officer, Naval Air Station, Agana, did involving the twin turboprop Beechcraft C-12.

To begin, I was disappointed to learn that I was being sent to Guam when my preference was to command a naval air station in the Continental United States. I really wanted to command U.S. Naval Air Station Alameda, California, which supported naval air operations as well as providing waterfront services to aircraft carriers homeported in San Francisco Bay. My parents, a sister and brother lived across the Bay on the peninsula. As was often the case, my personal preferences ran counter to a far grander experience. There is indeed a benevolent God in the Heavens.

I reported for duty at U.S. Naval Air Station Agana, Guam, in April 1986. Importantly, in this case, the air station began its life as an airfield supporting Japanese Zero fighter operations in World War II, called Tijan in those days. Following the defeat of Japanese forces on Guam, it was developed to support U.S. operations, along with a runway at Apra Harbor and construction of a large, four-runway airfield at the north end of the island to support B-29 strikes against Japan. The design of the B-29 airfield, called Northwest Field, was ingenious because it consisted of four parallel coral runways oriented into the prevailing trade winds so that four B-29s could be launched simultaneously.

The point here is that I was thrust into an important historical environment from an aviation perspective, not to mention the overall perspective of World War II. The other aspect is that our “local operating area” extended from Singapore, north to Korea and Japan, down through Iwo Jima and the Mariana Islands. It included the Philippines, Caroline and Marshall Islands all the way east to Kwajalein and Majuro. 

Occasional tasks took us from Guam to Wake Island, then to Midway, up to Adak, Alaska in the Aleutian Islands and Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage, then down to Whidbey Island, Washington, California and then back to Alabama to ferry a C-12 back to Alabama for overhaul.

The operating area just described covered many of the battle sites of World War II. My Japanese hosts escorted me to the top of Mount Suribachi during a fueling stop at Iwo Jima. I was able to snorkel [compression/decompression schedules do not permit SCUBA diving without adequate time intervals between flying and diving] around the wrecks of Japanese combatants lying at the bottom of Truk Lagoon in the Marshalls. I was able to inspect the remains of Japanese Zeros on Palau and reconnoiter the island of Pelelieu at the southern end of the Palau Archipelago, for example. None of this would have been possible had I been granted my wish to command an air station in the Continental United States.

The mission of the Naval Air Station was to support Fleet Air Reconnaissance Squadron ONE (VQ-1) and Helicopter Combat Support Squadron FIVE (HC-5), as well as trans- Pacific flight operations in general. A unique aspect of the air station was that it was also a “joint-use” airfield. That meant that it also supported commercial air carriers and general aviation. This was both a unique, fulfilling responsibility as well as one that challenged aviation safety. It highlighted the different approaches to safety taken by the Navy and civilians on Guam [There is a significant difference between Naval Aviation and Air Force policies driven by the fact that the Navy operates from carriers. Naval Aviation probably violates most Air Force safety standards.]

VQ-1 operated the EP-3 reconnaissance aircraft. VQ-1 is probably best remembered by the collision in which a Chinese fighter flew though an EP-3 propeller during an intercept. That aircraft landed on the Chinese island of Hainan. HC-5 flew the CH-46 tandem-rotor helicopter that provides “vertical replenishment” for Navy surface combatants deployed to the Western Pacific. Both of these are very unique missions that support the U.S. Pacific Fleet. And then—in general—if you were flying across the Pacific, you would drop in to refuel because the nearest stop—outside of the Mariana Islands—was 1,500 miles away.

I mention different safety standards between Naval/military aviation and civilian aviation for the following reasons. The first had to do with what is referred to generically as Foreign Object Damage (FOD). FOD comprised many components. First, there was the general matter of trash blowing across from places not controlled by the Navy.

FOD, is viewed very seriously both afloat and ashore because of the damage to engines and other parts of aircraft. Afloat and ashore, there are “FOD walkdowns” consisting of tens of people to look for objects on the ground that could cause damage to aircraft. These efforts were complemented by vacuum sweepers that would sweep ramp spaces and runways. One source of blowing trash was the civilian part of the air field.

Another difference involved aircraft handling. Military aviation requires “wing walkers” and “brake riders.” After I left my command position, a Boeing 747 was being moved by an individual operating a tug. The tug dropped the tow, and the aircraft having neither brake riders nor wing walkers, inexorably, progressed backward across a slight incline over the ramp, through the fence, across the perimeter road and into housing where the tail came to rest upon a house. I was not there, but I presume some aircraft damage was incurred.

The third difference involved runway assignments. My military training stressed takeoffs and landings that took advantage of the prevailing wind to minimize runway required and ground speed necessary for both. Carriers steam into the wind and there is very little crosswind, if any. Land-based runway assignments are made based on prevailing wind. Surprisingly, my control tower and controllers had to deal with arguments from commercial air crews about take-off and landing runway assignments.

Their preferences were determined by the placement of the air terminal vis-à-vis the runway configuration rather than prevailing winds. To be sure, commercial aviation is strongly motivated by the cost of fuel consumption, but I believe that motivation should be balanced with due consideration for overall safety.

In this regard, a meeting took place with representatives of one of the carriers in which I had lost confidence about the matter of runway assignment. They asserted that they were “professionals” and I [and my air traffic controllers] was not. In their view, I had no appreciation of flying characteristics of their aircraft and that they should be allowed to determine runway assignment. These people had frightened me a couple of times before, and as the responsible party (airport operator and tower controller), I concluded that they would abide by runway assignment and any future argument with the tower would result in filing of a flight violation. If they would have prevailed in their argument and there would have been an ensuing accident, my tower would have been held responsible, as it should have been. A clear delineation of responsibilities needs to be understood and exercised. Moreover, when it comes to tower operators (air traffic controllers), they need to be protected by their superiors.

Reflecting upon these last remarks, it seems to me that a major evolution occurred in the attitudes of a young pup entering Naval Aviation in 1961 and a relatively crusty Captain in 1988.

I was transferred to the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations in the Pentagon in the summer of 1988. My initial responsibilities dealt with supervision of an office that was responsible for preparations for mobilization in the case of war. Subsequently, I was moved up to a small office that consisted of three Navy Captains that were responsible for preparing the Navy leadership for meetings of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to deliberate matters of interest to the Defense Establishment of the United States. This assignment meant that I was deeply involved with coordinating the Navy’s support of the national response to the Exxon Valdez grounding in Alaska, the National response to the Panama crisis, termed Operation JUST CAUSE; and the Gulf War responses called

Operations DESERT SHIELD and DESERT STORM. In terms of aviation responsibilities, I served as the aviation representative of the United States Delegation to the United States/Russian Federation discussions on the Treaty for the Prevention of Incidents at Sea (INCSEA). Qualification for my representation rested in small part on my experiences gained during intercepts of Russian long-range aircraft while deployed in USS Yorktown in the fall and early winter of 1969. These meetings occur annually.

The first INCSEA meeting I participated in took place in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, Russia, when I was 52. The second was a year later in Washington and San Diego when I was 53. These were astounding experiences for a couple of reasons. First, I was sitting across the green-covered table from people that I had regarded as adversaries for more than 20 years. Second, we were witness to the evolving situation in Russia occurring at that time. Third, we were treated to a heavy dose of Russian culture that would forever shape my attitudes about that country. There is and never will be a good comparison of the two nations. Finally, I was able to participate in a process where we could see them and they us, which I am sure shaped in no small part the relations we have today.

The point here is that early aviation training and experience were not ends unto themselves, but means that took me to a great adventure lasting 32 years and took me around the globe twice.

February 2003