Frankly Speaking- The Midnight Ride of Lt. Clyde

In 1976 I was teaching the avionics and antisubmarine warfare systems on the SH2-F LAMPS helicopter. One of the classes I taught was a pilot’s familiarization for pilots coming to the LAMPS (Light Airborne Multi Purpose System) community. I was surprised when Clyde arrived for the familiarization class. Everyone with experience in the H2 helicopter or combat search and rescue knew who Clyde was and what he had done. Personally, I was awed by the fact that I was teaching a class that was being attended by an individual who I knew needed no introduction to the aircraft or its capabilities.

Clyde was actually Lieutenant Commander Clyde Lassen. He was rather easily recognized if you knew what you were looking for. The keys to recognizing him were that first he was a naval aviator. He wore a set of navy aviator wings. Now that did not distinguish him. After all how many pilots did the Navy have? But as you looked at him the top left ribbon adorning his chest was a baby blue service ribbon that had 5 white stars on it. Clyde Lassen was the only person in the U.S. Navy that had both those features on his uniform.

In my own mind it was hard to realize that I had Clyde Lassen in my classroom, teaching him the capabilities and systems of the H-2 helicopter; when eight years earlier he had flown an H-2 helicopter on a successful rescue mission earning the Congressional Medal of Honor. His Medal of Honor was the only such medal awarded to a Naval Aviator in the Vietnam War.

Rather than risk embellishing this tale I am simply going to attach the text of the citation that accompanied the Medal of Honor.

The President of the United Statesin the name of The Congresstakes pleasure in presenting theMedal of Honorto
LASSEN, CLYDE EVERETT
Rank and organization: Lieutenant, U.S. Navy, Helicopter Support Squadron 7, Detachment 104, embarked in U.S.S. Preble (DLG-15). Place and date: Republic of Vietnam, 19 June 1968. Entered service at: Jacksonville, Fla. Born: 14 March 1942, Fort Myers, Fla. Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as pilot and aircraft commander of a search and rescue helicopter, attached to Helicopter Support Squadron 7, during operations against enemy forces in North Vietnam. Launched shortly after midnight to attempt the rescue of 2 downed aviators, Lt. (then Lt. (j.g.)) Lassen skillfully piloted his aircraft over unknown and hostile terrain to a steep, tree-covered hill on which the survivors had been located. Although enemy fire was being directed at the helicopter, he initially landed in a clear area near the base of the hill, but, due to the dense undergrowth, the survivors could not reach the helicopter. With the aid of flare illumination, Lt. Lassen successfully accomplished a hover between 2 trees at the survivors' position Illumination was abruptly lost as the last of the flares were expended, and the helicopter collided with a tree, commencing a sharp descent. Expertly righting his aircraft and maneuvering clear, Lt. Lassen remained in the area, determined to make another rescue attempt, and encouraged the downed aviators while awaiting resumption of flare illumination. After another unsuccessful, illuminated rescue attempt, and with his fuel dangerously low and his aircraft significantly damaged, he launched again and commenced another approach in the face of the continuing enemy opposition. When flare illumination was again lost, Lt. Lassen, fully aware of the dangers in clearly revealing his position to the enemy, turned on his landing lights and completed the landing. On this attempt, the survivors were able to make their way to the helicopter. En route to the coast he encountered and successfully evaded additional hostile antiaircraft fire and, with fuel for only 5 minutes of flight remaining, landed safely aboard U.S.S. Jouett (DLG-29) .

Frankly Speaking-The Trolls go Home

It was late in the summer of 1971. We (Helicopter Antisubmarine Squadron 7) were deployed to the North Atlantic onboard the World War II vintage aircraft carrier USS Wasp. It was to be the Wasp’s last deployment prior to her decommissioning. Our mission that summer was to locate Russian submarines and make the world a safer place live. Exactly how that was to take place still evades me.

We had tracked a Russian nuke boat all the way across the Atlantic and when it neared the east coast of the United States we were certain our journey would be cut short because we were so close to our homeport of Quonset Point, Rhode Island. But no, the order was given to launch every available antisubmarine aircraft. Then at a set time all the helicopters which had been tracking the sub using passive sonar, were to begin active sonar tracking. Passive sonar is merely the act of listening to the sounds that are present in the sea. Active sonar is done by emitting a loud ping into the water and waiting for a return to be bounced off a metallic hull. Well, on hearing the sound of the sonar pings reverberate through his ship the Russian captain took evasive action and within minutes was gone. We then returned to our search area between Greenland and Norway, we still had a world to make safe.

World War II aircraft carriers were not equipped with an abundance of creature comforts. All the space was put to use to accomplish the ships primary mission. The goodies that the crew had purchased while on liberty in the foreign ports were stowed throughout the living and working spaces as best the owners could. Among those items was an assortment of Trolls purchased in Oslo, Norway by one Bernie Bauer.

Bernie had an air about him that would best be described as condescending and pompous. He had joined the Navy simply because the draft had chosen his number. He figured 4 years in the Navy was better than 2 years in the Army with one spent in the jungles of South Vietnam. He was nearing the end of his enlistment and was mad that the draft had ended after he began serving in the USN. Bernie felt that his military service had interrupted his progress toward becoming an architect.

As we neared the end of the deployment the division chief decided that we should hold a field day on the shop. The night shift which Bernie supervised had no idea of this decision. During the general clean-up someone inadvertently heaved Bernie’s Trolls into the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

The absence of the Trolls was noticed by those of us in the shop and we waited for Bernie to make his appearance that evening. Sure enough at about 7:00 pm Bernie entered the shop. At first he noticed the cleanliness of the place but then his eyes wandered to the place the Trolls had been stored. “Where are my Trolls?” He asked.

Without hesitation someone spoke up, “They’re swimming back to Norway!”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Frankly Speaking-Hillcrest Country Club

It was a typical Southern California Thursday. The sun was scheduled to shine (surprise) and I had rented two automatic photo booths to a father who wanted the units for his daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. You know, a young Jewish girl turns thirteen, reaches adulthood and …. Well, that’s about the extent of my knowledge of jewish tradition, pomp and rites of passage. Anyway, Chris Tebow and I had put 2 photo studios on our 10 foot stake bed truck and we were going to deliver and operate the units during the evening’s festivities. So, off we went. Chris in the driver’s seat and I rode shotgun as we navigated the early afternoon traffic in Los Angeles. Our destination was a country club on the west side of the city.

The Hillcrest Country Club was born out of ethnic necessity. In the first half of the 20th century Jewish patrons were not allowed to frequent the area’s Country Clubs and golf courses. Let’s face it there was a significant influx of Jewish talent into the Los Angeles/Hollywood areas at that time. (Does any part of Metro Goldwyn Mayer sound Jewish?) Well the Jewish elite of the film industry did the only logical thing. They built their own country club. Does it surprise you to know that they built it directly across the street from the 20th Century Fox studios?

Early that afternoon we arrived at the clubhouse and drove up the circular drive way. We needed to locate the entry we would use to take 2 1000 pound photo machines into the facility. Now I hadn’t risen to the position of Regional Manager because I was totally stupid. I somehow deducted that the management of the facility would not welcome our taking those two units in the front door of a posh, plush trendy clubhouse. Therefore I instructed Chris to park the truck on the outer reaches of the circular drive way and I would go find out how to proceed. I walked across the center part of the circle to reach the front door of the clubhouse.

I was trying to get the valet captain to tell me where we needed to go, but I was having some difficulty. I don’t know whether it was my Spanish or the valet captain’s English that was to blame but we were having problems communicating. Making the matter worse was the fact that another person had launched a conversation with another of the valet people and I could not help but overhear the conversation. It wasn’t that the conversation was that interesting, quite the contrary. It was a simple yet direct request that his car be brought to the valet station. But that voice! I was occupied by trying to get the needed information from the valet captain and at the same time intrigued by that voice. Was it really……….? The valet captain finished his explanation to me; I thanked him and turned to walk back to the truck. As I turned I recognized the man that had made the request for his car. I was right and yes the voice had been that recognizable.

As I got back in the truck Chris immediately asked what he was to do. My response was simply to tell him to set still a minute. “Come on Frank, we need to unload this truck!” “Wait a minute!” I said. A black Buick was pulling up in front of the valet station. “Chris watch that Buick! In just a minute God is going to get in that car!” “Come on Frank, we need to g….” George Burns stood to enter the back seat of his car. Chris was stunned. He was left completely speechless. He sat there mouth agape in total shock.

Frankly Speaking-Bucky Diltz

It was the late summer or early fall of 1972. The USS Saratoga was making regular visits to the Subic Bay Naval Station for rest, relaxation and much needed repairs. These visits were the highlight of our activities. Maybe highlight isn’t the correct term. See, it was either Subic or we were involved in flight operations on Yankee Station, some choice!

Yankee Station was simply the area of the Tonkin Gulf north of the DMZ (demilitarized zone for younger readers). Viewed another way, it was off the coast of North Vietnam and Yankees were from the north so ……. Yes, there was a Dixie station off the South Vietnam coast but aircraft carriers didn’t spend a great deal of time there. There is some twisted logic that one could make about those locales and their relationship to the United States’ own civil war. Oh, if you are less than 30 years old you may not know that a long time ago in a place far away there was both a North and a South Vietnam and we managed to involve ourselves in their civil war. Anyway….

As I said we were at Subic Bay Naval Station. The use of drugs had become an issue on the ship and for that matter throughout the armed forces. Cigarettes were laced with pure uncut heroin and being smoked by addicted sailors and marines. Therefore Captain J R Sanderson made a command decision. Anyone boarding his ship would be frisked prior to walking up the gangplank. Sounds simple right? Put another way, 5000 drunken sailors would congregate at the bottom of the gangplank every night at 12:30am when Marshall Law mandated that everyone be off the streets of Olongapo City, Philippines. Those failing to heed that edict faced imprisonment.

At the appointed time Bucky Diltz, Bill Seehorn and I congregated in the mass of humanity to return to our bunks for the night. After about an hour we reached the front of the line. Diltz went first. He stepped in front of a folding table with a Marine noncom standing behind it and another Marine positioned behind Diltz. The Marine Noncom then said, “Empte ur pokits.” In a slightly inebriated state Diltz just stood there baffled. Again the Marine across from Diltz said, “Empte ur pokits.” Again Diltz stood there motionless and totally unaware of the instruction. The Marine behind Diltz slapped the back of his head and said rather emphatically, “Empty your pockets!” That Diltz understood and he promptly complied. Wallet, keys and miscellaneous change were placed on the table.

The Marine at the table then said, “Takurmoneyoutaurwallet.” Once again Diltz had no idea what was said. “Takurmoneyoutaurwallet”, was repeated. After Diltz failed to respond the second Marine once again slapped the back of Diltz’s head saying, “Take your money out of your wallet.” Once again Diltz got it. He picked up his wallet and emptied its contents onto the table.

The Marine at the table said “Piupurpaprmoney.” Again Diltz was clueless.
“Piupurpaprmoney!” Once again Diltz mimics a deer in a car’s headlights.
“Pick up your paper money”, announces the second marine! Diltz immediately complies.
The Marine at the table says, “Puurandsontopourhed.” Diltz just stands there.
“Puurandsontopourhed.” No response.
“Put your hands on top of your head!”
Being the astute follower that Diltz was he immediately put down the paper money and placed his hands on top of his head.

Both Marines lost it at that point. The Marine behind Diltz picked up the paper money, placed it in Diltz’s hand and held both hands on top of Diltz’s head with one hand while unceremoniously frisking Bucky with his other hand. The shakedown found squat, zero, zilch nothing. For that Diltze should probably be grateful.

Diltz was finished with the evening and waited patiently while Bill and I endured the same shakedown. Watching Bucky had given us some fantastic on-the-job training. We breezed through the process.

Together the three of us headed up the Saratoga’s gangplank. Diltz led the pack followed by Seehorn and I. But wait; there were actually two gangplanks between the ship and the pier. One was for people leaving while the other was for those arriving. As we were going up the arrival gangplank the Shore Patrol was escorting a very drunk Hispanic sailor up the down gangplank.

Bucky made a rather negative comment about the Marines who had shaken him down at the bottom of the gangplank. Hearing that, the Shore Patrol’s captive leaned over the rail separating the gangplanks and struck Bucky with his fist. The Shore Patrol grabbed their customer and continued up the gangplank. Bucky found it advisable to remain behind them, well behind them.

When the drunk reached the top of the gangplank he simply passed out and fell face first onto the ship. Diltz stopped dead in his tracks! The gangplank was beginning to backup with guys going aboard, but Diltz was not going to pass that guy again. Bill and I had to physically force Bucky to pass that guy.

The following evening Rick Ivy thought that a film canister filled with sugar would be an interesting diversion for the Marines. Believe it or not those Marines didn’t inspect that film canister. Rick was upset that we had to endure that wait and they did not find evidence that would evoke some sort of response. We did finally convince him that provoking them was not wise. Those nights were the only times we had to endure that process. I wonder why?

Frankly Speaking- Isaac Campbell Kidd

I first became aware of Isaac Campbell Kidd in 1971. Isaac Campbell Kidd was one tough S.O.B. To be honest, my knowledge of him was rather limited but his impact on my activities during the summer of that year was unmatched. You see, Isaac Campbell Kidd was more accurately described as Vice Admiral Isaac Campbell Kidd, Jr., Commander U.S. Sixth Fleet.

Admiral Kidd visited the USS Saratoga on numerous occasions that summer. Unfortunately these visits were necessitated by rather unfortunate events that had occurred. First, a sea water intake manifold in one of the ship’s four engine rooms ruptured. That would have been OK were it not for the fact that the valve that shuts off the manifold was stuck in the open position. In the end that engine room flooded. The good news was that the ship was at that time making a port call to the city of Athens Greece. Hence we got to spend some extra time there. But, imagine the Admiral’s displeasure with having one of his two attack carriers on the disabled list.

Of course, there were war games going on that needed the support of a number of the ship’s aircraft and there we sat. Well the obvious answer was hey this is an aircraft carrier, launch the aircraft that were needed and get on with it. Remember where we were. Athens, Greece; home of the Acropolis, temple of Zeus, lots of antiquities…

The decision was made to launch the aircraft while sitting at anchor and dead in the water. The bow of the ship was pointed directly at the Acropolis and the pilots were instructed NOT to engage their afterburners at takeoff. The first aircraft to launch was an E2 Hawkeye needed for forward air control. The instructions were to initiate a 180 degree turn to the right immediately after launch. I observed that launch from a position in a helicopter parked on the flight deck. When the catapult fired the E2 down the flight deck the aircraft disappeared below the flight deck after takeoff. I swear it did not climb back up to flight deck level (60 feet) until it had executed the 180 degree turn. The next aircraft was an F4J Phantom. Somehow, someway he managed to keep that aircraft airborne. Finally another Phantom was readied for launch. As the catapult officer prepared to give the command to fire the catapult the pilot activated the afterburner. After the catapult launched the aircraft it immediately began to climb; the pilot executed a left turn and began to initiate a victory roll. Not the politically correct thing to do. The pilot was grounded and Admiral Kidd re-visited us in Athens.

After about 2 weeks the ship was repaired well enough to get it underway using 3 of the 4 engines. The other carrier in the Mediterranean needed a break (one of the ships had to be at sea at all times). So they hoisted the anchor and we sailed into the sunset. Well, at least that was the plan.

Down in the bowels of that 80,000 ton floating airport something caused another boiler room to stop generating the needed propulsion. The result was simple. We were no longer the USS Saratoga, CV-60. We were now a floating mass of steel and humanity driven by the ocean currents and the wind. But luck had left us adrift in an area with conditions best described as the doldrums. There was no wind and there were no currents. We didn’t drift; we simply sat there.

Now 5000 men generate quite a bit of trash. We lacked a landfill to dispose of our refuse but the sea is vast and dumping our garbage over the fantail was the prescribed manner of waste disposal. Picture all the trash generated in a city of 5000; put it all in 30 gallon trash bags and heave it out your front door. There sat the mighty USS Saratoga floating in the midst of a sea of filled 30 gallon trash bags.

Guess who flew out to inspect the damage? Yes, it was Vice Admiral Isaac Kidd. How happy do you think he was to find HIS aircraft carrier in that condition? I was told that while flying aboard the Admiral was rather upset by the scene of his U.S. Navy aircraft carrier drifting amidst all that trash.

Ok, so we had an eventful deployment to the Mediterranean, but we limped back in to Athens. Eventually our deployment came to an end. That was the end of my knowledge and interest in Vice Admiral Isaac Kidd, Jr. for eighteen years.

In 1989 I was standing in front of a war memorial. I was not looking at the names written on the memorial expecting to recognize any of them. I was just looking at a piece of history. Suddenly one name on the memorial literally jumped into my conscious recognition. The name that grabbed my attention was, “RADM ISAAC KIDD, SR.” Suddenly the name and the place had a bit more of my interest.

In 1971 the limited knowledge I had of Vice Admiral Isaac Kidd, Jr. did not include the fact that his father Rear Admiral Isaac Kidd, Sr. was present aboard the USS Arizona on the morning of December 7, 1941.

I was unaware that:
1. The senior Isaac Kidd was among the first casualties of WWII.
2. The senior Isaac Kidd was the first general/admiral the United States lost in WWII.
3. The senior Isaac Kidd was posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions that fateful morning.

Interestingly enough I have learned a few other facts about the junior Isaac Kidd. These include:

1. He was enrolled at the U.S. Naval Academy by appointment of President Franklin Roosevelt.
2. He achieved virtually a perfect score on his Naval Academy entrance examinations.
3. He was commissioned as a U.S. Naval officer on December 19, 1941. Twelve days after the attack on Pearl Harbor and his father’s death.
4. He eventually achieved the rank of Admiral (4 stars).
5. He retired from active service in 1978.
6. Admiral Kidd, Jr. died June 27, 1999.

There is another chapter to the Isaac Kidd, Jr. saga that I am yet to embark on. That chapter involves the Israeli attack on the U.S.S. Liberty. I think there may be an interesting story there. My initial research of that fiasco includes another significant name, Admiral John McCain, Jr.

Frankly Speaking- April 10, 1972 part 2

As mentioned in the previous installment of Frankly Speaking Admiral Zumwalt (the CNO, Uncle Elmo, the Z) had come aboard the Saratoga without warning and had announced that he would address the ship’s company and the air wing in hanger bay 3.

Three of us began to make our way to hanger bay 3; Ken Casson (aka Killer Ken), Bill Seehorn (aka Chilly Willie) and myself (aka Fearless Frank). We made good time getting there and positioned ourselves next to an aircraft mule (tow tractor to those not familiar with the term). The tow tractor would not block our view, gave us something to lean on and the top was flat and covered with non-skid material. Altogether rather insignificant until Admiral Zumwalt decided that standing on the top of that tractor made him more visible to the assembled mass of humanity. I remember that he never said where we were going. He gave us a pep talk and nothing else. He thanked us for our patriotism and dedication. Then he climbed down off the tractor and came face to face with our little band of brothers. Killer Ken was the senior member of our group and he spoke up saying, “Admiral Zumwalt, I only have one question.” Zumi recognized Ken and took the question from him. “Admiral, when will we come home?” The Admiral’s response was, “I don’t know, but I promise you that when you come home it will be over. This is the last big push, theirs and ours.”

At this point I’ve got to mention an event that occurred 9 months later. We were coming home our mission was complete. It was January 23, 1973 and the U.S.S. Saratoga was rounding Cape Hope, the Southern tip of Africa. A number of us were sunning ourselves on the flight deck and it was quiet. Suddenly the Captain spoke on the ship’s public address systems. “I have two announcements of make. First, we have left operational command of the seventh fleet (the pacific) being transferred back to the second fleet (the atlantic). Second, a peace treaty was initialed last night in Paris that will end the Vietnam conflict.” Not a sound was made by anyone on the flight deck. Funny though, my first thought was of the comment made by Admiral Zumwalt nine months earlier. He called it to the day!

Back to April 10, Admiral Zumwalt departed our presence. As was and probably still is the case, the Navy did not confirm our destination; but we knew.

Well there was nothing left for us to do. We were their, our equipment, clothes and personal effects were loaded and stowed. As they say about military life, “Hurry up and wait”. So it was time to relax and unwind a bit before the Saratoga sailed. You know, Anchors Aweigh, Drink to the Foam, Until we Meet Again… The Miller Brewing Company on hearing of our imminent departure had dispatched a semi loaded with Miller Hi Life to the Carrier Pier at the Mayport Naval Station. I don’t recall that there was any charge for consumption of their product. In short, I think it was free beer for everyone.

I do remember going back aboard the Saratoga that evening. The Junior Officer of the Deck wanted to check my ID. I know I advised him that only an absolute idiot (or something similar) would try to sneak aboard the ship that night. I called it a night.

The next morning the Saratoga set sail. When the coast line disappeared over the horizon the Captain addressed the crew. Surprise, surprise, we had won an all expense paid trip to the Tonkin Gulf. But the next declaration he made changed the mood of everyone on board. “We will be crossing the Equator.” With that declaration everyone was immediately placed in one of two camps, Pollywog or Shellback.

For the next seven days the war that existed was between the pollywogs (4600 strong) and the shellbacks (only 400 of them). Nothing else mattered. The outcome was preordained (the Shellbacks would win) but the pollywogs resisted anyway.

There was a Pollywog Press published daily that detailed the skirmishes that took place between the two camps. Many of those incidents happened in Hang Gar Bay, Sik Bay and Chow Hall.

King Neptune was going to board the ship and test the crew’s sea fairing worthiness. But some among of us wanted to witness how water went down the drain at the equator. Priorities you know. So began our cruise.

Frankly Speaking-Bet I'll always remember

Frankly Speaking
The bet I will always remember

It was a typical Saturday fall afternoon at my grandparent’s home. Typical in that every Saturday afternoon in the fall gave cause to turn on, tune in and watch THE football game. Basically you had two choices. Either watch THE football game or turn the TV off. While I can’t remember who was playing I am rather certain we were watching WKY in Oklahoma City (as I recall that was my grandfather’s station of choice; or was it the only television station he could receive and therefore it was the station of choice by default).

For those that don’t recall television in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s consider these facts. First, there were three primary colors that existed in the television industry. These colors were black, white and an infinite number of shades of grey. TV was highlighted by static, ghosted images and regular loss of audio and video signals. Back then we had to adjust the antenna about as often as today’s viewer uses the clicker to change channels. But hey, it beat listening to the game on the radio. TV was state of the art and the state of the art was a live broadcast. I mean no instant replay, no slow motion, no illustrators; no breaking away to focus on what was going on in another stadium and believe it or not NO TV timeouts. What you saw was what you got, and you got it once and only once so you’d better pay attention.

Under those circumstances we parked ourselves to watch the game. I was in my normal place on the floor, as close to the TV as I could get without damaging my eyesight. My grandfather was in his recliner with his ashtray and coffee cup holder next to the recliners left arm. In those positions we watched the game progress almost spellbound by the fact that any inattention on our part might result in our missing THE PLAY.

I am not sure who was playing, but I‘m sure I had a favorite team in the game. At some point in the game the opposing team got the football on their 5 yard line. Without hesitating Grandfather Walker boldly predicted, “I bet they go for a touchdown on the next play.” Well, they were playing MY team and they had to go 95 yards to score a touchdown. In my mind it was not going to happen. I took my Grandfather up on the bet. I don’t recall what the stakes were and at the time it didn’t matter. Hey, they had to go 95 yards on the next play. What were the odds?

The opposing team broke the huddle and came to the line of scrimmage. The ball was snapped then handed off to either the fullback or a halfback. He gained some yardage but he did not go for a touchdown. Well I was excited! I had just won a bet with my grandfather and I let him know it. Calmly he asked, “What do you mean?” My reply, “They didn’t go for a touchdown!” His reply to me still resounds in my mind, “Well Frank, what do you think they were going for?” At the time I was sure I had been tricked but the lesson wasn’t over yet. He then wanted me to make good on THE BET. The stakes didn’t matter; I didn’t have a cent to my name. Here came the next and probably most valuable part of the lesson. His comment to me was, “Frank, when you bet make sure you know what you’re betting on and even then think about what happens if you lose.”

Well, it has been 40+ years since that afternoon. I don’t remember anything else about it; who played, who won, who lost, what the final score was or whose star shined brightest. But I have always and will always remember the bet and the lessons it taught.

April 10, 1972 part 1

Frankly Speaking
April 10, 1972 part 1

My son, Brad, chastised me about the contents of my, “Frankly Speaking April 8, 1972”. His complaints were; Where did you go? Where is Mayport, FL? What did the secret message say? What about the rest of the story? Is this a cliff-hanger?

In answer to those questions I submit the following. On April 8 we did not know anything more than a total stranger knew about where we were going, why we were going or how long we were going to be gone. Yes, it was a cliff-hanger and I was among the 5000 guys hanging over the edge of that cliff.

Mayport FL, located on the Atlantic coast just east of Jacksonville, was the homeport of the USS Saratoga CV-60.

Regarding the secret message; I did not read it. It was not addressed to me. Not only did you need the appropriate security clearance to gain access to classified information you also had to have the, “need to know” the contents.

Anyway, early Monday morning April 10, 1972 we loaded or equipment and materials aboard the Saratoga. Believe it or not, we were done loading our gear aboard the Sara by mid-morning. At that point we moved to the squadron’s avionics shop and began the process of making the area, “ship-shape”. As we worked the conversation revolved around where we were going even though we had not been told our fate. For those fortunate enough to have not been born yet and for those young enough to not know the North Vietnamese army had launched a major offensive on March 30. They had crossed the demilitarized zone and were moving toward several key villages and hamlets including Quang Tri and An Loc. There was NO doubt in our minds as to where we were going. As we discussed the matter and went about the business of securing the shop the Commanding Officer of our squadron entered the shop. After the obligatory military courtesies were exchanged the skipper told us to sit down he had some news for us.

The C.O.s first statement was simply to ask if there was any doubt as to where we were going. Of course there wasn’t. His next comment involved whether or not we felt our antisubmarine warfare skills and equipment were really needed in the operating theatre we thought we were headed for. Well, there hadn’t been any submarine activity to that point. The North Vietnamese navy had no subs. So, if we were right about our destination we didn’t need to be there. But, the Saratoga still needed the Search and Rescue component of our mission. Rather bluntly the Skipper said, “half of you are going back to Quonset”. He then told the shop chief to begin dividing the personnel appropriately. He went on to tell us that he had just had a meeting with the ships Intermediate Maintenance Activity Officer and he had requested 15 people be assigned to that department for the cruise. The skipper went on to say that he told the IMA Officer, “You get Seehorn and Austin, that’s it.” You see Bill Seehorn maintained all the TACAN (Tactical Air Navigation) equipment and Frank Austin maintained the UHF radios on the ships fighter and helicopter aircraft; so much for getting to go back to Quonset. Bill and I immediately made our way to the ship’s CommNav shop. Fortunately we didn’t have to endure the petty jealousies that immediately overtook the squadron’s shop; half go home and half go to ….(we had still not been officially told where we were going)

Bill and I had been in the CommNav shop only a few minutes when the ship’s public address system sounded, “Navy Arriving”. This was an error, but it certainly got everyone’s attention. That announcement is reserved for the Secretary of the Navy. The correct announcement should have been, “Naval Operations Arriving”. That announcement is reserved for the Chief of Naval Operations (the Navy’s top Admiral, the Chief of Staff, the Navy’s member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff). Admiral Elmo Zumwalt had shown up unannounced to address the crew prior to our departure. We were asked to make our way to hanger bay 3 for the Admiral’s talk.

(to be continued)

Frankly Speaking, April 8 1972

Frankly Speaking
April 8, 1972

It was a Saturday. It should have been a rather uneventful day, but a lot of circumstances came together to create a major event in my life. First, the squadron to which I was assigned had just returned from a six week Operational Readiness Inspection (ORI) also known as a shakedown cruise. The plan was for us to spend a month or so at home then deploy (for 6 months) to the Mediterranean Sea aboard the USS Saratoga. As added background, having just returned to our homeport of Quonset Point, Rhode Island, we were in maximum stand down. Extended weekends or leave had been granted to everyone who had requested the time off. As it turned out that meant that the single guys escaped Quonset Point and the married guys staffed the squadron’s needs and duty roster. On that weekend guess who was the duty section leader? Oh yeah, Frank was the guy designated to supervise the squadron’s personnel tasked with manning the various watches.

As I recall three times daily I had to muster the duty section and report its status to the Officer of the Day. At 4:00pm I had driven to the hanger, mustered the troops and reported the results to the OOD (Officer of the Day). Once completed, I got back in my car and drove home.

I got home and within minutes the telephone rang. When I answered it was the Division Chief and his communication was simple. “Austin, pack your sea bag and report to the shop for muster and deployment tomorrow at 0800 hours.” Well, I’m no fool! I had just left the base and there was nothing going on. Simple solution, call the duty office and find out what was up. Maybe the Chief had just had a bit too much to drink and was having a little fun. I dialed and the phone was busy. I tried again with the same result. After a few minutes I decided that a trip into the base was warranted. I should have taken the Chief’s statement to heart but no, I had to find out what was going on.

When I arrived at the duty office there didn’t seem to be anything unusual going on in the hanger. I opened the door to find the OOD and the Junior OOD on the telephone with all the lines on the phones busy. I am not sure what my initial reaction was, but I imagine I just dropped my jaw in surprise. The OOD finished, hang up the phone, looked straight at me and asked, “What’s your clearance?” I responded with the facts and that was all he needed. “Austin, you’re now the JOOD; we’re going to Base Communications to pick up a priority message from DC. Get a 45.” What! I’m standing there in civilian clothes and a young, junior officer just told me to get a 45! He was adamant so being the good sailor I was I complied. We jumped in the duty truck and off we went.

There I was dressed in civilian clothes with a 45 strapped to my hip, driving a military vehicle to Base Communications. At least I had the OOD with me. When the Shore Patrol stops us and starts to ask questions at least I’ve got that on my side. We made it to communications without incident. Realizing that I might not be welcome adorned as I was, the OOD went in and retrieved the message himself. When the OOD got back in the truck he laid the message on the seat between us. I had seen lots of messages marked Confidential and read lots of Secret technical manuals. But that was the first Secret message I ever saw. Yep, something was up!

I don’t remember much of the next day. The only thing that is clear in my memory is calling my parents to tell them we were leaving. We hadn’t been told where we were going, it was Secret you know! But when mom got on the phone I made the decision that talking to dad was probably the right thing to do. Rather matter of factly I told dad that we were going to sea! His question was obvious, “Where you going”? “Turn on the news and you’ll figure it out”, I said.

In the next twenty four hours we managed to get all 135 members of our squadron, our 8 aircraft, all our supporting paraphernalia, and our personal effects transported from Quonset Point, Rhode Island to Mayport, Florida.
I do not remember the flight down (it was on either a DC-3 or a DC-6)! By the time we left Quonset I was a walking zombie. I slept from Quonset to Mayport.

The First Frankly Speaking

Frankly Speaking

Okay, I was a bit bored this morning and decided to write a regular communiqué that highlights some of the interesting events, encounters and people I have had the pleasure of crossing paths with. First you have got to accept the fact that I am not a writer. Some of the events will be humorous and some will be serious. I hope to make light of life in general. I do have an opinion on everything. Forty percent of the readers will agree with me, forty percent will disagree with me and the other twenty percent have not yet decided (and I doubt my influence will sway them).
Enjoy…….

I begin with a little biography of Frank Austin. I grew up in Oklahoma and Kansas in the 1950s and 60s. I would like to say that I knew what I wanted to do with my life at a young age, but the only thing I can truly say is that I knew what I didn’t want to do. Existing on the plains of Kansas simply did not appeal to me. I heard the wheat fields and oil fields calling and they were screaming, “Run like hell!” So I pondered my options (at least as much as I was capable of pondering at the age of 17) and managed to convince my mother that military service was the way to proceed. Now remember the Vietnam War was the news at the time, we still had a draft and the concept of people shooting at me wasn’t at all appealing. Dad was a WWII Navy veteran so he escorted me to the Navy recruiting office. The recruiter tested my aptitude and said that I was qualified to go into any field the Navy had (Dad did not even attempt to set me straight on the fact that once enlisted my butt was theirs nor did he remind me that I was not in the top 10, 20, 30 or 40% of my high school graduating class). Being an electronics technician with nuclear power specialty was MY chosen field of endeavor and the Navy was at the time selecting 60 men (kids) to go through boot camp as an all Kansas recruit company. Sounded good to me and the members of that company were being honored at a celebration that was held in my home town. The hook was set.

On Sunday May 12 I boarded a bus bound for Kansas City, Missouri. The following day I found myself on the pitcher’s mound of the Kansas City Municipal Stadium prior to a Kansas City Royals home game. At that time the rookie congressman from Kansas’s first congressional district (Bob Dole) administered the oath to all 60 of us.

The following day we traveled back to my home town to ride the float during the parade and then we went via bus to the Denver airport. Even though the flight from Denver to San Diego was my first, I don’t remember a thing about it. My first recollection of that trip was that of the Navy recruits hanging their wash behind the barracks; on seeing our bus go by they motioned us to go back. Funny, I had just taken my first trip in an aircraft and all I remember are the signals being sent by those sailors. At that point we were publicly humiliated by having to eat dinner in our civilian clothes; all the while being taunted by the old salts that had 5 or 6 weeks of boot camp experience.

At 4 o’clock the following morning the drill instructor, MMC Juan Cube (I will always remember him) turned a 55 gallon trash can into a drum and roused us to begin the morning. As we were marching along the waters edge to the chow hall the adjutant that was sheparding us along either saw, imagined he saw or thought it would be fun to say he saw a large fish jump in the inlet. He immediately halted our progress, advised us what he had seen and told us we were going to stand there until it jumped again. There stood 60 young men from Kansas dressed in short sleeves on a typically foggy and cold May morning in San Diego. With that the journey begins.

Frankly Speaking Sometime in 1983 or early 1984

Frankly Speaking
Sometime in 1983 or early 1984

I left home early that Thursday morning. I took a limo from our home in San Jose to the San Francisco airport. You see, I’m sure about the day of the week because my business trips to this part of the world purposely always began on Thursday. Because of the 11-12 hour time difference and the 20+ hours of travel involved I would be ready to begin business on Saturday morning.

I boarded a non-stop flight from San Francisco to New York’s JFK. At JFK I had a 5 hour lay over that allowed me the opportunity to stretch the legs and get a decent meal. After this pause I boarded another flight bound for Dubai, United Arab Emirates with intermediate stops in Frankfurt, Germany and Doha, Qatar. It was one long trip on the same aircraft and I think you would agree the opportunity to stretch the legs in New York was warranted.

All in all, the trip was uneventful. The only notable incident on the flight involved an Arab man who was intent on fulfilling his obligation to pray as mandated by the rules of Islam. He unfurled his prayer rug in the middle of the aisle of business class and proceeded to do his duty. He was prepared. His rug included a compass so it could be properly positioned facing east. As the aircraft flew over central Europe the man went about offering up his prayers. As he prayed the aircraft made an adjustment in its heading, the Arab man adjusted his prayer rug and continued his ritual. Once again he knelt on the rug and returned to his prayers. The aircraft adjusted its heading again! Once again the man adjusted his prayer rug and returned to his obligatory prayers. He accepted these adjustments as a matter of fact and finished his prayers unflustered by the circumstances.

Finally the flight landed in Dubai! It was late afternoon on Friday and I had been traveling non stop for 22 of so hours. As I de-planed I noticed that the military/police at the bottom of the boarding stairs had the wickedest looking machine guns I had ever seen. After clearing customs and immigration I sat out to catch a taxicab to the Intercontinental Hotel. Well, cab drivers in the UAE aren’t much different than cab drivers here. You could see the hotel from the front of the airport and those taxi drivers weren’t interested in a small fare. But, like here, money talks and I was able to make my way to the hotel.

It was about 6:30pm when I got to the reception desk. I was anxious to get checked in, get to my room, take a needed shower, go get some food and get back for the night. As I completed the check-in process with the desk agent a black man began a discussion with another of the desk clerks. Simultaneously we both completed our business at the desk and began walking down the hall leading to the ground floor rooms. My bags would be delivered to the room by a bell hop so I had only my briefcase to carry. The black man and I moved on down the aisle, side by side, without acknowledging one another. Another black man emerged from a room down the hall and moved toward us. As he neared us this guy got my attention. He was looking as though he knew the other man I was sharing the hall with. As he approached he simply said, “Hey champ, how ya doin?”

That got my attention! I was so tired that I didn’t realize the man standing next to me and joining me in my traverse down the hall was none other than Mohammed Ali! And the second black man was Jimmy Ellis. They were in Dubai putting on a boxing exhibition to support underprivileged Muslim youth. We did not speak. I was in absolute shock. I had traveled half way around the world to stand next to “The Champ.” Wow!

And like a fool I didn’t take advantage of the meeting! At least I spoke to Jimmy Ellis at lunch the next day. Just like here, Ali was being hounded by the press if he left his room.