Once We Were Aces

CONTENTS

They Let Me Fly

Buzzing In Beaufort

I’m Going to War Dad

The Loss of a Friend

Triple Six Shooters

It’s Freezing Up Here!

Welcome Back

Fire In The Mountain

Mach Two Plus

He’s Alive!

Back in the Saddle

Cubi Point

Same Old Thing but Different

A Pair Of Aces

They Took It Away

- 1 -

They Let Me Fly

Roger tower, Red 7 is rolling. Ok man let’s go. Tut moved us forward to line us up on the centerline of the runway, buried the throttles to full military power setting for about five seconds then lit the afterburners. One just can’t appreciate the power of the F 4 engines until those afterburners are engaged! Man it’s hot! Think this 10,000 feet is enough to get us in the air? No problem cause it’s all in the hands, echoed Tut. He referred to his ability to fly as all in the hands.

The summers in Vietnam were especially hot and humid. It was just past noon and it was already 102 degrees outside. The runway was most likely hitting 120 or so, which means not as much lift on the wings. We rotated (lifted off) at one hundred sixty five knots as our bomb laden F 4 overcame the earth’s gravity. Tut pulled up the landing gear and flaps as I switched frequencies to contact Departure and then Monkey Puzzle. I switched frequencies again to locate our tanker. We were carrying a load! Attached to the underside of our bird were twenty-four MK 82 Snake Eyes, about twice the bomb load of a World War II B-17 Bomber. The MK 82 Snake Eye was a high drag fairly accurate 500 pound bomb, usually designed for lower level deployment. When the Snake Eye was released from the aircraft, the fins opened with a look similar to an umbrella opening which actually decreased the speed of the bomb falling to earth. The result of the design created better accuracy and helped prevent damage to the aircraft after the bomb exploded when released at a lower level. We just had enough fuel for about thirty minutes of flying after takeoff, at best, so we had to find that C-130 and gas up. Young Marine Aviators, full of fire, as my dad would say, flying multi million dollar fighter aircraft over the skies of Vietnam and other places in Southeast Asia.

A RIO (Radar Intercept Officer), normally referred to as a backseater, wasn’t a bad deal. The pilot was in the front seat and I was in the back. It was a relatively new position for the Navy and Marine Corps, who only had the F 4’s for about five years or so. Until recently, the back seat in was occupied by enlisted personnel who were designated as Naval Aviation Observers. It was hard for me to believe that someone in their early twenties could fly in the world’s most awesome fighter. Many of the pilots and RIO’s were my age or only a few years older. The RIO, who was designated as a Naval Flight Officer (NFO), was now a full time Weapons Officer who operated the fire control weapons systems and handled the navigation and the communication. In addition, the RIO was another set of eyes in the cockpit and usually directed the support missions; taking those burdens from the pilot, but didn’t fly the plane. No flight controls in the back seat. Always reminded me of my college days when my roommate would take me for a ride on the back of his Bonneville Triumph motorcycle. I was the G.I.B., guy in the back, just going along for the ride; not really. In the F 4, the RIO’s role was equally as important as the role of the pilot. The Air Force F 4’s had flight controls for their backseaters, but not the Marines Corps or Navy. There were just different philosophies on the mission of the weapons officer. Heck, most of the Air Force backseaters rarely had a chance to use the flight controls anyway.

About three years ago I was in college majoring in football and girls. Actually that was what it seemed. I was a starting wide receiver as a sophomore and my head was a big as a Mississippi watermelon. I also was one of the top four sprinters on the track team, ran the hundred, two twenty, the sprint relays, and even did the broad jump, the triple jump and threw the javelin. I thought I was somebody. The Administration of a school in which academics were more important that athletics, didn’t tolerate poor academic performance nor did it tolerate skipping class, regardless of athletic prowess. Setting the school receiving record in the football or being scouted by professional scouts during my early years of college football, was irrelevant in the eyes of the school fathers when compared to academics. The administration asked me to sit out for a while. I was out on my own. I guess they were telling me that I needed to grow up and accept some responsibility.

My dad was disappointed in me, at best, even though college wasn’t costing him anything. He told me, If I was paying for your college, you’d be out on your ear! Well, I guess I was out on my ear. Vietnam was blazing with the call for guys who wanted to go or didn’t want to go. Really didn’t matter. The draft was in force and young men went to war.

Joe G. Youngblood was a decorated Marine during World War II. He was a member of the First Marine Division and fought in the campaigns on Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Peleliu and Okinawa. When I was growing up, he would always tell me stories about the Corps. He was a heck of a marksman with a rifle. Even in his later years he could out shoot anyone I had known or seen. I saw him out shoot a guy, a quick draw specialist, who trained the bad guy in the opening of the TV series, Gunsmoke, when Martial Matt Dillon out drew a bad guy out on the street to open every episode. That was the movies. One thing I didn’t like about my dad was those Pall Mall cigarettes. My mother finally made him go outside to smoke those things.

Dad never had much to say about the specifics of the battles but more on dedication and service to God, Corps and Country. When I would ask him about fighting on the islands, he would say, boy, you don’t want to know. He must have been a formidable foe for anyone. He went though all those campaigns and never even got a scratch. He still had an M-1 Garand and could shoot the eyeballs out of a fly at three hundred yards, as he would say. One of my cousins on my mother’s side was also a Marine and had earned two purple hearts in Vietnam. I think it was just expected in my family that I was to be a Marine. My dad would have had a fit if I had joined any other branch of the military except the Marine Corps.

Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California, commonly referred to as Boot Camp, was a shock, to say the least. Never ending physical training and mind games; lots of mind games. Those nine weeks were a new experience for me but the philosophy of this type training made the unit, as well as and the Marine Corps, very cohesive. I think the Marine Corps used some of the techniques and philosophies of the ancient Spartans when designing their training. During the end of the sixth week, the senior Drill Instructor told me that the Marine Corps needed officers made of stern stuff. That was my goal. I wanted to go to officers’ school then to flight school.

Admission to officers’ school included, among other things, a four year college degree. Another path was through the enlisted ranks while undergoing recruit training. Recruits were required to submit to Academic Achievement and Proficiency tests during the first weeks of training to help determine suitability for MOS (Military Occupational Specialties) assignments. Combined scores in the upper five percent range were minimum qualification for OCS. My dad achieved the rank of Sergeant during his tenure. He always told me to strive for something higher. I wanted not only to be an officer, but a Marine fighter pilot. A special breed, I thought. I was puzzled that the senior drill instructor came up to me to tell me that the Marine Corps needed good officers. Maybe he was referring to the results from the tests the members of my platoon had taken. They were akin to intelligence and performance ability tests. I thought I had performed pretty well.

Later that evening another drill instructor called me in to his hooch. Drill Instructor Ramos had a glazed look in his eyes and appeared to have used a six pack of Budweiser for mouthwash. Sir, Private Youngblood reporting as ordered. I shouted. Private Jason A. Youngblood, you think you’re so smart. Sir, I respectfully responded. Youngblood, you’ve scored higher on the Primary Intelligence Test (PIT) than anyone we’ve had in a couple of years. What do you have to say for your self? No excuse sir! I was trying to be funny using a quote from one of my favorite movies, No Time For Sergeants. Ramos was three sheets to the wind and really didn’t like my response. He stood up and asked me if I wanted to be an officer. I asked him when could I start. He walked over to me and punched me in the gut and said now! I didn’t flinch or moan, I just said yes sir What kind of officer do you want to be, private, he asked. Sir, a fighter pilot I responded. Oh yeah. We… . ll, I hope you save my butt one day. Get out of here. Sir. Yes sir, I announced, did a 180 and left.

The next week I completed the paper work for OCS and was interviewed by one of the Division Officers. I suppose I did ok during the interview and my PIT scores were high enough to qualify for the flight program. I would receive my orders to OCS with the next two or three weeks.

After boot camp I was off to something called ITR (Infantry Training Regiment) at Camp Pendleton, California. My orders to OCS arrived the end of the first week, but the effective date was a month later. ITR was somewhat easier than boot camp except for what the Marine Corps referred to as Force Marches. Did we ever walk for miles! We learned to play war on the ground. I learned a lot and experienced something I never would had known if I went directly to officers’ school out of college.

At the end of those four weeks, I received my discharge from the enlisted ranks and orders to Marine Corps Base Quantico. I had a few days before my class started, so I went back home. My dad lectured me on the privilege I was about to undertake in becoming a Marine Officer. He told me to never forget that the enlisted corps was the backbone of the Marine Corps. This went on for a while. I stayed respectful to my dad and told him that I would make him proud. Of course I would. It was expected, according to him. He wasn’t being a wise guy, that was just my dad. His dissertation paralleled the most memorable quote from one of my Drill Instructors from boot camp, There are two kinds of people in the world, Marines and those who want to be Marines. That really summed up my dad’s view on life. The days passed and I was off to Quantico.

The timing was just perfect. My OCS class started a week after I left California. I was in Officers Candidate School class number 45at MCB (Marine Corps Base), Quantico, Virginia. It was like another boot camp but with a different tone, individualism. At OCS we had Sergeant Instructors instead of Drill Instructors. The Drill Instructors made the recruits fear them, while the Sergeant Instructors focused more on encouraging the candidates. Oh, initially the Sergeant Instructors got in our face and screamed and yelled at us, made us do push ups at the drop of a hat, but just different from Boot Camp. Drill Instructors assured that everyone did each task, while at OCS, we had assigned task to perform and it was up to each candidate to complete the tasks. Boot camp was a mental challenge to which OCS could never compare. OCS classes had a much higher academic theme which spanned a range of topics from historical events of our country and of the Marine Corps, tactics and leadership, field work and land navigation, with more of an emphasis on esprit de corps through individualism, and the ever famous, Yellow Brick Road. Wow, was that a challenge! I was going to be an Officer in the United States Marine Corps. I just thought that was such an honor and something I believed most men would want to achieve.

The ten weeks of OCS and my stint in boot camp, made me realize what those college officials were trying to tell me to do, grow up a bit! My scores remained high enough to enter the flight program. My eyes were a bit less than 20/20, so I couldn’t become a pilot but there were other options. The Marine Corps needed aviators and the aviation candidates went directly into the flight program at Pensacola. The other candidates went to The Basic School. The Basic School was six months of more learning to be an officer, leadership, protocol, being a grunt and playing war.

During the last phase of OCS, Captain Daniel Lawrence decided that I needed to be an infantry officer. Captain Lawrence was a mustang officer who not only was a real jerk, but just didn’t seem happy with what he was doing. He taught a history class and was a terrible instructor. He didn’t think much of college boys, as he called us. Mustang Officers were those who had been career enlisted guys and received a direct commission without attending OCS. Didn’t know why he was at OCS with that kind of attitude. He tried to circumvent some procedure to send me and the other aviation candidates to The Basic School, but we had already made the scores which qualified us to go directly into aviation. I think he had some kind of grudge against guys from the South and those he referred to as airdales (aviators). When I was in his classes, he always made a point to criticize my southern accent, that of another candidate from Louisiana, and one from Oklahoma, who was really a smart guy. He especially berated those of us headed to the flight program as not being real Marines.

Seven days after I was anointed An Officer and a Gentleman, by the President of the United States, I reported to Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, as a young strapping Second Lieutenant. My Commission was signed by President Johnson himself. I really never though that I was highly intelligent, but I believed that the Lord was with me and helped set things in motion. My mother, a real saintly woman, always told me to trust in the Lord.

The first part of training was a six week basic aviation course at Pensacola. All aviation candidates, prospective pilots and flight officers, attended basic aviation together. During basic aviation, there were several guys in the class who washed out. Some of them couldn’t make it academically and some just couldn’t handle the stress and physical aspects of flying. I think the class was structured to weed out those who weren’t really into aviation.

After completion of basic aviation I was off to Basic Naval Aviation Officers School for about four months or so at the Naval Air Technical Training Center, Glynco, Georgia. If successful, I would finish and receive my gold wings as a Naval Flight Officer. Glynco was a sleepy little place outside of Brunswick, kinda in the middle of nowhere but close to the beach. There were huge hangars still there from when the Navy had lighter than air ships or what I called them Blimps. In addition there were a variety of other aircraft including the old Lockheed Constellation, referred to as a C-121.

About twenty young Marine and Navy Officers were in my class, ready to learn the intricacies of being an aircraft weapons officer, navigator, etc. A couple of the guys had washed out of pilot training and opted to enter NFO training. The Marine Corps was a part of the Department of the Navy, so Marine and Navy flight personnel trained together. I had heard that NFO’s (Naval Flight Officers) were somewhat looked down upon by some pilots. Flight Officers weren’t qualified to be pilots, so some thought they were less than pilots. Initially we weren’t considered as Line Officers. Didn’t appear that I would have much chance of a command career as a Flight Officer. I wasn’t yet career oriented, so I was satisfied to ride in the back of an F 4, A 5 or on the right side in an A 6 and do the real work while the drivers took us out and brought us back.

Tommy Miller and I met at Pensacola and roomed together at Glynco. He had loads of flight hours and had earned a multi engine and an instrument rating in the civilian world before he joined the Marine Corps. We were class mates in the basic aviation school at Pensacola but never really became friends until just prior to finishing the course.

Tommy had enrolled in a PLC (Platoon Leadership Class) in college offered by the Marine Corps. He had to go to the equivalent of a summer camp for two summers while he was in college and was commissioned after he graduated from Ole Miss. He was a natural at flying and I couldn’t understand why he wanted to be a RIO. One night during one of our weekend junkets when we were both beered up, he looked at me with his eyes all glazed up and said, Heck, anyone can fly. I want to catch those dudes in my sights when they ain’t looking or trying to get away, and blow em out of the sky. I had to get him through Intercept Operations and Electronic Warfare classes. In return, he taught me to fly. Tommy was able to finish the hours necessary to earn his certified flight instructor rating while we were at Glynco. Didn’t know how he did it, but he was able to find the time. Tommy was just a natural at flying and probably was the best pilot I had ever known next to Tut.

If Tommy couldn’t blow em out of the sky he would kill them with his hands and feet. He had earned a third degree black belt in that karate stuff and was quick as a cat and even more deadly. I would hate to have been on his bad side and make him mad. Heck, I never saw Tommy get mad. When someone would tee him off, he’d just grin and say to the offending boob, don’t let your luck run out pal.

The few times that we were off on the weekends at Glynco, Tommy and I would rent a Cessna 172 from the airport in Brunswick. We’d share the expenses and go some place where we were famous, usually back home to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Yeah, right! We were both from the Gulf Coast but never had met prior to flight school. Tommy’s home was in Pascagoula and mine was Long Beach. Both were small southern towns on the Coast, about 40 miles apart.

Each time we flew into the Pascagoula air field for a weekend, Tommy would have some of Mississippi’s finest meet us at the airport. I was referring to those fine looking ladies for which Mississippi was known. They would give us a ride from the airport to Tommy’s home, actually his parents’ home. Tommy didn’t seem to be a real womanizer but man! I never saw anything like it. Of course, the girls always liked me better than they liked Tommy. I guess because I was better looking. Yeah right! I had to break away from time to time to go see my folks in Long Beach and spend some time with them. We’d have to leave on Sunday morning to get back to Glynco before dark. Sometimes Tommy would be a bit under the weather because of his late night activities, so I’d have to fire up the aircraft and get us back to Glynco. I was a heck of a pilot but still never soloed. I had accumulated a lot more flight hours than many of those who had commercial ratings in the civilian world. On the way back, I’d usually have to make Tommy open his window and the fresh cool air made him feel better after the three and a half hour flight.

My test scores and performance allowed me to choose the type aircraft I wanted during the final phase of the NFO program. I thought about the Bombardier/Navigator position in the A-6 but grabbed on to the Radar Intercept Office position in the F 4. Those were the bomb, as a friend of mine would say. I learned all about Radar Intercept Operation, Basic Jet Navigation, and Airborne Electronic Warfare. We put lots of hours in the T-34 trainer where we learned to make flight plans, perform takeoffs, landings, basic flying, navigation and instrument flying, but never soloed. At Pensacola we flew in the older T-28 but also never soloed. A lot of our flying at Glynco was spent in a T-39, a Navy version of the North American Sabreliner.

In the T-39 we learned radar navigation as well as the operation of air to air fire control radar. The T-39D had work stations in the passenger area of the aircraft where we learned to conduct air intercepts somewhat similar to the equipment we would be using in the back seat of an F 4, except we had the AN/APQ-94 radar system that was used in the F-8 Crusader. The systems could be programmed to emulate tracking aircraft and locking air to air missiles on to hostile aircraft. Actually sometimes there would be another T-39 we would track. They had students also and it was kinda like taking turns, with one student in the hot seat at a time. This allowed the instructors to carefully evaluate one of us at a time. We really learned how to run the flight or the mission.

After graduation from Glynco, Tommy and I were assigned to the newly formed VMFAT 201, an F 4 training squadron at Marine Corps Air Station, Cherry Point, North Carolina. There was a similar squadron on the West Coast designated as VMFAT 101. We were full fledged Marine Flight Officers, or Naval Flight Officers (NFO’s) serving the United States Marine Corps Air Wing. We spent air and class time learning about the F 4B and the AN/APQ-72 air intercept radar with the AAA-4 infrared sensor beneath the nose radome.

The F 4 was just a great aircraft, fast and awesome looking, but it took two flight personnel to master this fine aircraft. Without a pilot, the Phantom is a big beast that takes up a lot of space on the flight line. Without the flight officer, the F-4 is just another piece of very fast aerial transportation. In addition to handling the navigation, the communications, and the in flight coordination, the NFO provided a great deal of assistance in the weapons delivery phase, that is, dropping bombs, Napalm and shooting Zunis. In the fighter or interceptor role, the Flight Officer was the guy who worked the weapons radar, made the system acquisition of enemy targets and handled the ECM (Electronic Counter Measures). The RIO’s were full time radar trained weapons system specialists, which made up a new breed in naval aviation.

In developing the talent for this new position, the Navy and Marine Corps, as well as the Air Force, had proceeded along slightly different paths. For the most part the Navy used college graduates who met all the basic officer requirements, plus displayed special aeronautic qualifications. After extensive training, they became designated Naval Flight Officers or in my case, we liked to be called Marine Flight Officers.

The F 4 had two monster J79 engines that would send the aircraft faster than Mach 2 (twice the speed of sound). The engines made a unique howling sound at certain speed, usually slower speeds. This sound was believed to be from airflow in the exhaust section of the engine being disturbed by the engine bypass flaps. The howling sound made by the F 4 engines certainly must have contributed to naming the aircraft the Phantom. Once one has been around a Phantom and heard the sound, when the sound is heard again, one knows an F 4 is overhead.

The air to air weapons’ system was really state of the art and designed to be pretty much automated. Even with that, there were alternate measures incorporated into about every phase of its system operations. This allowed the RIO to manually control most of the normally automatic functions. To put it simple, the RIO could use his own judgment and experience whenever he felt that the automatic features were either not up to snuff or being decoyed by enemy counter-measures. To be a proficient RIO many flight hours of on the job training were needed. The advantage of this procedure was utilized only by an intelligent, capable, motivated and well trained young Marines, like me! It was really like shooting fish in a barrel!

Although the weapons system was pretty basic it was more sophisticated than the system we trained on in Glynco. It was designed to shoot an enemy target at almost 20 miles on a good day. Most Marine F 4 squadrons were not in the air combat mode, but delivered bombs, rockets and napalm to support the grunts (infantry) and could carry the most awesome gun pod known to man! In Vietnam, only a few Marine F 4’s flew sorties called going downtown, bombing Hanoi or other