thedrifter
05-31-03, 06:55 AM
05-29-2003
Guest Column: A Carrier Pilot’s Remembrance
Editor’s Note: A mutual acquaintance forwarded this Memorial Day 2003 letter from retired Navy aviator Dick Schaffert to his late roommate on the USS Oriskany.
Brown Bear sends:
To: Lt. Cmdr. Norm Levy
‘Morning, Norm. It's Memorial Day, 07:29 Tonkin Gulf time. Haven’t talked with you in a while. Seems like a good day to make contact. It’s 36 years and 5 months to the day since I last saw you, sitting on the edge of your bunk in our room on the Oriskany.
You remember, it was the 26th of October 1966. We were on the midnight schedule. There was a solid wall of thunderstorms over the beach – with tops to 50K – but McNamara’s Pentagon planners kept sending us on “critical” missions all night. At 0400, they finally ran out of trucks to bomb – in that downpour – and we got a little sleep.
The phone rang at seven, you were scheduled for the Alert Five. I had bagged a little more rack time than you, so I said I'd take it. I went to shave in the head around the elevator pit, the one near the flare locker. The Ordies were busy putting away the flares. They'd been taking them out and putting them back all night.
I finished shaving and started back to our room when the guy on the 1MC said: “This is not a drill, this is not a drill, fire, fire, fire!” I smelled smoke and looked back at the door that separated the pilot’s quarters from the flare locker. Smoke was coming from underneath.
I ran the last few steps to our room and turned on the light. You sat up on the edge of your bunk. I shouted at you: “Norm, this is no drill. Let’s get the hell out of here!” I went down the passageway around the elevator pit, banging on the metal wall and shouting: “It's no drill. We’re on fire! We’re on fire!”
I had rounded the corner of that U-shaped passage when the flare locker exploded. There was a tremendous concussion effect that blew me out of the passageway and into the hangar deck. A huge ball of fire was rolling along the top of the hangar bay.
You and forty-five other guys, most of them Air Wing pilots, didn't make it, Norm. I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m sorry!
But we went home together – Norm Levy, a Jewish boy from Miami, and Dick Schaffert, a Lutheran cornhusker from Nebraska.
I rode in the economy class of that Flying Tigers 707, along with the other surviving pilots. You were in a flag-draped box in the cargo compartment. The San Diego media had found out about the return of us “baby killers.” Lindberg Field was packed with scum enjoying the right to protest. The “right” you died for!
There was a bus, with our wives, waiting for us VF-111 Sundowners; there was a black hearse for you. The protestors threw things at the bus and your hearse,
not a policeman in sight. When we finally got off the airport, they chased us to Fort Rosecrans. They kept interrupting your graveside service, until your honor
guard of three brave young Marines with M-16s convinced them to stay back.
I watched the TV news with my children that night, Norm. Sorry, the only clips of our homecoming were the “baby killer” banners and the one of the burned girl, which they played nightly for eight years. It was tough to explain that to four pre-teenaged kids.
ou know how it went, Norm. The scum were the heroes – they went on to be CEOs, who stole from our companies – lawyers, who preyed off our misery – doctors, who we can't afford – and elected politicians, who broke the faith and the promises.
The only military recognized as “heroes” were the POWs. They finally came home, not because of some politician’s expertise; but because there were those of us who kept going back over Hanoi, again and again, dodging the SAMs and the flak, attacking day and night, keeping the pressure on – all by ourselves! Absolutely no support from anyone else!
Many of us didn't come home, Norm. You know, the guys who are up there with you now. But it was our “unmentioned” efforts that brought the POWs home. We kept the faith with them, and with you, Norm.
It never really ended. We seemed to go directly from combat into disabled retirement and poverty, ignored by those whose freedoms we insured by paying the very high premium. The only thing many of us have left is our memories, Norm. We hold those dear! We band together in groups like the Crusader Association.
Some might say that has to do with flying a peculiar aircraft, I say it has to do with a peculiar bunch of guys. We’ll all be joining you shortly, Norm. Put in a good word for us with the Man. Ask him to think of us as His peacemakers, as His children. Have a restful Memorial Day, Norm. You earned it.
Your Roomie, Brown Bear
Sempers,
Roger
Guest Column: A Carrier Pilot’s Remembrance
Editor’s Note: A mutual acquaintance forwarded this Memorial Day 2003 letter from retired Navy aviator Dick Schaffert to his late roommate on the USS Oriskany.
Brown Bear sends:
To: Lt. Cmdr. Norm Levy
‘Morning, Norm. It's Memorial Day, 07:29 Tonkin Gulf time. Haven’t talked with you in a while. Seems like a good day to make contact. It’s 36 years and 5 months to the day since I last saw you, sitting on the edge of your bunk in our room on the Oriskany.
You remember, it was the 26th of October 1966. We were on the midnight schedule. There was a solid wall of thunderstorms over the beach – with tops to 50K – but McNamara’s Pentagon planners kept sending us on “critical” missions all night. At 0400, they finally ran out of trucks to bomb – in that downpour – and we got a little sleep.
The phone rang at seven, you were scheduled for the Alert Five. I had bagged a little more rack time than you, so I said I'd take it. I went to shave in the head around the elevator pit, the one near the flare locker. The Ordies were busy putting away the flares. They'd been taking them out and putting them back all night.
I finished shaving and started back to our room when the guy on the 1MC said: “This is not a drill, this is not a drill, fire, fire, fire!” I smelled smoke and looked back at the door that separated the pilot’s quarters from the flare locker. Smoke was coming from underneath.
I ran the last few steps to our room and turned on the light. You sat up on the edge of your bunk. I shouted at you: “Norm, this is no drill. Let’s get the hell out of here!” I went down the passageway around the elevator pit, banging on the metal wall and shouting: “It's no drill. We’re on fire! We’re on fire!”
I had rounded the corner of that U-shaped passage when the flare locker exploded. There was a tremendous concussion effect that blew me out of the passageway and into the hangar deck. A huge ball of fire was rolling along the top of the hangar bay.
You and forty-five other guys, most of them Air Wing pilots, didn't make it, Norm. I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m sorry!
But we went home together – Norm Levy, a Jewish boy from Miami, and Dick Schaffert, a Lutheran cornhusker from Nebraska.
I rode in the economy class of that Flying Tigers 707, along with the other surviving pilots. You were in a flag-draped box in the cargo compartment. The San Diego media had found out about the return of us “baby killers.” Lindberg Field was packed with scum enjoying the right to protest. The “right” you died for!
There was a bus, with our wives, waiting for us VF-111 Sundowners; there was a black hearse for you. The protestors threw things at the bus and your hearse,
not a policeman in sight. When we finally got off the airport, they chased us to Fort Rosecrans. They kept interrupting your graveside service, until your honor
guard of three brave young Marines with M-16s convinced them to stay back.
I watched the TV news with my children that night, Norm. Sorry, the only clips of our homecoming were the “baby killer” banners and the one of the burned girl, which they played nightly for eight years. It was tough to explain that to four pre-teenaged kids.
ou know how it went, Norm. The scum were the heroes – they went on to be CEOs, who stole from our companies – lawyers, who preyed off our misery – doctors, who we can't afford – and elected politicians, who broke the faith and the promises.
The only military recognized as “heroes” were the POWs. They finally came home, not because of some politician’s expertise; but because there were those of us who kept going back over Hanoi, again and again, dodging the SAMs and the flak, attacking day and night, keeping the pressure on – all by ourselves! Absolutely no support from anyone else!
Many of us didn't come home, Norm. You know, the guys who are up there with you now. But it was our “unmentioned” efforts that brought the POWs home. We kept the faith with them, and with you, Norm.
It never really ended. We seemed to go directly from combat into disabled retirement and poverty, ignored by those whose freedoms we insured by paying the very high premium. The only thing many of us have left is our memories, Norm. We hold those dear! We band together in groups like the Crusader Association.
Some might say that has to do with flying a peculiar aircraft, I say it has to do with a peculiar bunch of guys. We’ll all be joining you shortly, Norm. Put in a good word for us with the Man. Ask him to think of us as His peacemakers, as His children. Have a restful Memorial Day, Norm. You earned it.
Your Roomie, Brown Bear
Sempers,
Roger