Al Carpenter

Allan R. "Al" Carpenter, call sign "Soapy," enlisted in the Navy in 1955, right out of high school. He rose rapidly through the enlisted ranks to Petty Officer First Class, was commissioned through the old Integration Program, and received his wings in 1963. He joined the Blue Hawks in 1964, made the '65 Vietnam cruise on Independence and part of the '66 cruise on FDR. He was shot down twice on that cruise, the second time resulting in a 6 year, 4 month stay in North Vietnam as a POW. Returning home in 1973, Al did a tour in the instrument training squadron, VA-43, again flying the A-4, spent two years in the College Degree Program at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, and retired as a Commander in 1978.

Below is an excerpt from "Soapy's" memoir of his life as a Blue Hawk in the mid 1960s. Al flew the A-4E during Westpac/Vietnam deployments in 1965 and 1966. His story was written in preparation for an October 2002 reunion of VA-72 in Fort Worth, Texas. A collection of stories, including Al's, was printed and distributed at the reunion.
John Lamers, Skyhawk Association VA-72 Blue Hawks SDO.

Copywrited text below reproduced here with the permission of Al Carpenter.
The Full Story is available to Association Members in the "Private Pages" via the Ready Room.

Shootdown - November 1, 1966:

.......... Getting back on the line, the FDR, somewhat true to form, threw a screw, which really "screwed up" our schedule and combat mindset! It was back to Yoko for a week, to fix things up, and 19 October before we got back to Yankee Station to go to work. One day into it, the air wing had its first casualty, VA-172’s LTJG Fred Purrington, downed and captured near Than Hoa. Figured that would be the last I would see of him, for a while – wrong! The Oriskany fire, on the 26th, brought the reality and danger of combat flight operations into sharp focus. Many of us knew pilots who had been killed in the tragedy, and physical similarities between "O Boat" and FDR were quick to surface in our minds. The same thing could happen right where most of our staterooms were! I think many of us quickly reevaluated our escape routes and procedures from "Bow Rat" country. The Martha Raye USO show that evening helped to take our minds off it – a little – but the fire was a horrific event, not soon to be forgotten.

So far, the weather on this line period had been lousy. Because of it, very few productive missions had been launched and, as I suited up on 1 November 1966, the outlook for that flight seemed no better. I was to lead Bob "Whoosh" Wilson and Terry on a combo Iron Hand/coastal recce, starting near Haiphong. The Iron Hand portion of the mission was in support of a flight of photo F-8’s, tasked to get pictures of shipping in the harbor. My flight would provide SAM protection until the F-8’s exited, then we would move up the coast toward the China border looking for targets of opportunity. In my view, it promised to be an interesting and lucrative mission, and I was eager to get on with it! Before launch, weather recce reported the only possible area for operations in North Vietnam would be right where we were to go. All other missions were scrubbed – it would be a lonely world out there!

My flight rendezvoused off the cat and headed for Haiphong. On the radio, we could hear Norm Green and Ed Andrews in the F-8’s getting together to position for their high-speed, low-level photo run while we proceeded leisurely to our pre-arranged 5000 ft. perch just off shore. Once there, we remained spread while I s-turned to keep my APR-23 and Shrike receiver head pointed toward the expected threat and started a gradual climb. The "Saders" turned in, lit the burners, and started their run. Immediately, the Fansong I was monitoring switched to high PRF, and I went to 100% to finish my climb to 9000 ft., my pre-determined minimum altitude for a "down-the-throat" Shrike shot at the range I estimated to the Fansong. A few short seconds later, "Andy" (With The Red-Hot Candy!) started screaming his personal vulgar code word for SAM warning, and I noticed something different in the cloud-shaded dark landscape below. Although we rarely saw lights on the ground in NVN, there was one down there this gloomy day, and I marveled that someone could be that careless!

It wasn’t moving, so that was comforting but, wait a minute, it was getting bigger and brighter!!! Oh shit! "Missile in the air – missile in the air!" I squeaked through nearly paralyzed vocal chords. (I have the recording made of that transmission – I’m not proud of it, and no, I won’t let you listen to it!) Over the top at 9000, put the pipper on the light, check the "Abba Jabba" (attitude indicator), and carefully pull the nose up fifteen degrees. Check station selector on Shrike, Master Arm "ON" and hit the pickle. Away that beauty went, like Cupid’s arrow and, at motor burnout, I could see it start to track. I watched in fascination, my scan split between that wiggly smoke trail, the SAM snaking toward my flight, and the dust cloud on the surface, marking its point of departure. Having topped out with only about 200 knots airspeed, I felt an urgent need to concentrate on getting some back! Keeping the target in sight, I dropped the nose, switched the station selector to my Zuni pod, ran the mil setting up on the gunsight, and called my wingies in for the kill, with a confident, "Let’s get it!" Damn, Norm, you’re annoying me with all these calls expressing an interest in the location of the SAM and what it’s doing! "You’re clear – it’s after us!" I yelled . About then, my Shrike impacted the site and the inbound SAM "went stupid." It was a relief to have that problem eliminated!

The SAM site grew rapidly in my gun sight, and I could start to make out individual trailers, missiles, etc. in what appeared to be a grove or orchard. There was a lot of dust from my Shrike hit, blowing clear of the area, and I was unable to quickly evaluate what damage my missile might have done. No time for that, anyway, as I had more important things on my mind! Flak was everywhere – no little white "cotton balls," either! This stuff was big, black, and ominous, each centered on an ugly orange fireball that faded to black as the round spewed its shrapnel in all directions. It was really getting intense, but I concluded, perhaps wrongly, that it would be just as bad in any direction, so we continued to press the attack.

I had my pipper steady, in the middle of the site, when I reached 5000 ft., my firing altitude for this 45-degree run. With the rocket selector set on "Single," I "stirred the stick" vigorously as I snapped off four quick Zuni’s. In my mind’s eye, I could imagine the impact of those four rockets on this relatively "soft" site. Our Zuni’s were VT (proximity) fused, which meant that they would explode at a pre-set distance from the target, sending shrapnel forward and out, like a blast from a sawed-off shotgun worthy of Paul Bunyan. Gotta love those Zuni’s!

I watched the rockets "do their thing," then pulled hard to escape the impact area and set up for a run to drop my remaining four MK-81’s. It was not to be! At something slightly above 3000 ft. and 450 knots, just as the pullout G-forces took hold, the aircraft rocked and I heard a muffled explosion, which was followed immediately by a huge red light under the glare shield that silently but forcefully proclaimed, "FIRE!"

"This is Soapy Lead. I’ve been hit – got a good one here – let’s turn around and put some bombs on ‘em on the way out," I called to Whoosh and Terry. About then, wingman Terry started a play-by-play over the air on the terrible condition of my Skyhawk. I caught phrases like, "… a lotta smoke…" "…burning bad…" "…better get out!" etc., to the point where it influenced my decision to make a bombing run on my way back to sea! I got the bird turned around and level at about 3000 before pulling off bombs, racks, empty LAU-10 pod, everything. Shortly thereafter, all the lights went out, as I lost primary electrical power. Might be a good time to pull the RAT (ram-air turbine - electrical generator), I thought – so I did, and the lights came back on, temporarily. The radio came back up on the tail end of a transmission – someone was trying to talk to me. I had better things to do, so I started a climb, with the intention of climbing to 9000, whereupon I would shut the engine down, wait a reasonable time for the fire to burn out (oh, I don’t know – maybe 10 milliseconds!), and then try a re-light and escape to sea. I removed my kneeboard and flashlight, and stowed them on the side consoles. I figured that if my scheme didn’t work, I would be forced to eject at low altitude, slow speed, so I purposely hooked up my zero-delay lanyard. That would give me minimum time in the seat and a better shot at success under my anticipated ejection conditions. Well, as they say, "It was New Year’s Eve – seemed like a good idea, at the time!"

Suddenly the flow of oxygen cut off to my mask! If it had been fueling the fire back there, that might have been a good thing. As it was, and without knowing, I didn’t see it that way! I thrust my jaw forward, to break the mask seal, so I could breathe, and just then, the lights went out, again! In another short moment, at approximately 5500 ft., the aircraft lurched sickeningly sideways, cockpit noise changed in tone and increased in volume, and both stick and right rudder pedal slammed full forward. My trusty A-4 commenced an uncommanded rudder roll to the right, and my mind raced to keep up with this rapidly developing scene of which I was such an integral part. From twenty degrees nose high and upright, the aircraft rolled to inverted at the horizon – it was increasingly obvious that this was one dying bird, from which it might behoove me to part company – soon! I considered, but quickly rejected the idea of pulling the throttle back to idle – what was the point? My airspeed certainly wouldn’t change significantly, but I almost certainly would end up hanging forward in the straps – not the ideal position for a high-speed ejection.

Speaking of which, just how fast was I going, anyway? A final instrument check confirmed most to be dead, as expected, but the pitot-static system still worked, and it indicated 550 knots and climbing rapidly, as the roll continued to upright, again, at about forty degrees nose down. I had waited purposely, not wanting to eject inverted (why?!), and had also decided that I would follow training directives, and use the face-curtain, for this decidedly high-speed, out-of-the-envelope attempt. I thought, "Man, I’ll bet this is gonna hurt!" ‘Nuff said! Sit erect, knees together; grasp the handle, elbows in, and PULL! JEEZ, LOUISE! Every millisecond breezed by in sharp focus! There was a loud "PFMPH," as the canopy fired and left the aircraft. My arms continued the downward pull, and I heard, and felt, the seat fire. It happened fast but in searing detail I was aware of each step in the sequence. The now-familiar kick in the butt led to awareness of every inch of the ride up the rails. I could feel the wind pressure scrape down across my body like a blade, as I sliced up and into the wind stream. The noise was incredible! Don’t believe me? Stick your head out the window of your car, the next time you’re doing in excess of 600 MPH! I felt the rocket stop firing, and immediately felt the seat pull away from my body. Compared to me, it was very light, and the separation was quick and violent. With the zero-delay lanyard attached, seat separation occurred prior to the curtain cutter firing, hence the seat, acting almost like a drag chute, yanked my arms up and into the air stream. My right elbow caught the air, tearing my grip from the curtain handle and forcing my arm out even farther. The arm ripped from its shoulder socket with a crunch of broken bone, torn ligaments and intense pain. With my left hand, I felt the drag from the seat suddenly release, as the curtain cutter fired. Released from its protective strain, my left arm, fully extended, shot behind me at an odd angle as that shoulder, too, violently dislocated and sheared pieces of bone from the humeral head. The pain was unbelievable – but it was just beginning! Slowing from over 550 kts., my body writhed in agony, with all extremities in a maximum flail condition, flopping, twisting and snapping in the wind. In a somewhat detached fashion, feeling much like a rag doll in the mouth of a playful dog, I marveled that such pain could be experienced and endured, short of death!

Training and focus returned in a rush, as I realized my chute had not yet opened. I wasn’t low enough to be truly concerned, but I would be getting there in a heartbeat if something didn’t happen, soon! Shortly thereafter, in exquisite detail, I felt the pack release and open, felt the risers whip out, felt a tug as they reached full extension, and, "WHAM" – opening shock!

They used to tell us that the RAPEC seat would deliver about 19 G’s to a 170 lb. person, when it fired. Assuming that information to be correct, and that I had experienced a typical shot, this chute opening had to be at least 40 G’s! At least, it brought the violence to an end – temporarily. I opened my eyes, only to find that I had bigger problems than I could have imagined – I saw nothing! My overwrought brain suggested that perhaps the optic nerves had been severed or, worse yet, my face was gone! Reaching up with my right hand, to remove my oxygen mask and prepare for landing, a tentative touch indicated that that, indeed, might be the case. Through the flying glove still hanging on the fingers of my right hand, I found only a smooth, wet surface where my face should have been! Full of dread for what might lie ahead, I moved my hand to the top of my shoulder, searching for the fittings, so that I could release my oxygen mask. Strangely enough, I found them, but they were the fittings for the opposite side of the mask – my helmet had turned 90 degrees to the right, leaving my mask over my right shoulder! I quickly snapped the fittings loose on both sides, dropped the mask, and jerked my helmet back to the left.

Voila – I could see! My eyes, released from the black confines of my helmet’s left ear cup, had vision, once more! That was the greatest feeling of relief I had ever experienced, and just in time, too, as I saw a huge plume of water and smoke, directly in front of me, where my little bird had made its final landing . Glancing up, I saw a chute in tatters. Two and a half gores were completely blown out, the ripped fabric wafting gently in the breeze of my descent. At first, I thought they had been shot out, as the din of war was no longer on the other side of a cockpit canopy, but then I realized that it was that tremendous opening shock that was responsible for the damage. "Lucky me!" I thought – but then I took stock of my own physical situation, and re-evaluated that judgment! I hurt, terribly, all over, but my right arm and hand were still somewhat functional. The left side, however, was another matter. That arm had not seemed to respond to my calls upon it, so I looked down and to the left to try to determine why. What I saw sickened me. Where once there had been a shoulder, now there was nothing – it seemed my neck started down in my chest, somewhere! Instead, I saw a large bump on my chest, from which protruded an arm, upright, but extended to the rear. When I watched the arm and tried to bring the hand to my face, it came up from behind me, rather than from the front! It was very bizarre, and it hurt like hell, so I mentally tuned that appendage out of normal movement modes, and focused upon that which I could do. With difficulty, I extracted my PRC, pulled the antenna up with my teeth, turned it on and tried to talk to my wingies. The noise from all the triple-A going off, engine noise from my wingmen’s aircraft, and still having a helmet on, combined to make it very difficult for me to hear the radio. I announced that I was conscious and OK (a little white lie!), and I thought I could hear a reply, but I couldn’t be sure, and certainly couldn’t communicate well, under the circumstances.

My next concern was the upcoming landing. I could see that I was getting much closer to the surface, that I would land in the muddy waters of Haiphong Harbor, and that there appeared to be about fifteen knots of wind blowing. I was descending fast, due to the missing sections of my chute, so I anticipated going deep and subsequently being dragged by the wind. I worked to stow my PRC, but found it impossible to get it back in position, or to refasten my Mk-3C flotation device, which I had had to unfasten to get the radio out in the first place. With the water coming up quickly, and not wanting to lose the radio, I made a snap decision – jam it down in my harness, and hold it in place with the antenna in my mouth. So what, if it hit the roof of my mouth on landing – at least I would still have what I knew to be the single most important piece of survival equipment with me! I struggled to pull the inflation toggles with my barely functioning right arm, and got one, but could not activate the other.

I hit the water hard, like a sack of … sand! Even with one chamber of the Mk-3C inflated, I went deep, and immediately felt a hard pull on the risers, as the wind laid my chute over, transforming it from parachute to power sail. Several feet under water, with no bailout oxygen (remember, I had tossed my mask earlier), I became a wind-propelled torpedo. With my useless arms, there would be no rolling to my back and releasing my Koch fittings. Helpless, and in great pain, with my breath nearly gone, I wondered how long it would take for me to die, and how aware I might remain throughout the process. Just then, the wind’s terrible tug on my body ceased, and I popped to the surface, sputtering. It would be much later before I would deduce how my life had been spared. A recent modification to our chutes was a narrow band of fabric, sewn along the entire canopy rim, on the top side, thus forming, "deflation pockets." They were designed to scoop into the water, as the canopy bounced along under high wind conditions, and effectively "trip" the canopy and cause its deflation. I’d like to thank the genius who came up with that brilliant idea – he saved my life!

My problems were still far from over. I had been pulled into the middle of the canopy and risers, which then started to slowly sink. Lines wrapped around my legs, and I couldn’t reach them with my injured arms to free myself. The one flotation chamber I had managed to inflate offered little help. I was slowly sinking in my watery version of quicksand.

As I bobbed to the top of a wave, I could see two or three wooden sailing vessels headed in my direction. Nowhere did I see or hear a helicopter or, except for my wingies who were making constant low passes by my position, any other efforts to rescue me. I was floating very low in the water, having to tip my head backwards to breathe, and still taking frequent snorts of water from the tossing sea, for my efforts. Realistically, I knew I had only a few minutes remaining before I would drown. I started babbling, just to the boats in general, telling them they had better hurry, or they would be retrieving a dead man, when I heard a shout behind me. Straining to see the source, I found myself looking up the barrel of a machine gun on a boat perhaps 75 feet away. Its operator seemed pretty agitated, as he screamed and gestured in my direction. Ejection – water landing – pickup; "Third time’s a charm," I thought – "This sonofabitch is gonna kill me, for sure!"

He yelled some more and lifted both arms up to show me that’s what he wanted me to do. Now I was mad! "F--- you, you slimy little bastard. My arms don’t work and, if they did, I’d blow you away with my trusty 9mm. I’ve got it right here! (somewhere?) Just shoot me, and get it over with!" There – that oughta show him who’s boss! I wondered if I would feel the smack of the round that would end my life – not that it mattered – anything would be better than being captured and becoming a POW in this theater. Damn – I’ve got the LSO duty tomorrow, and it doesn’t look like I’ll make it – how will they manage without me? Hmmm, I’ve gotten way too fat on this cruise – bet I’ll lose some weight, now!

Such were the thoughts racing through my brain, as my life as a Bluehawk ended, and a long, new chapter began.