The True Adventures
Of
Youthly Puresome
THE NIGHT I GOT MY NAVY CROSS, (ALMOST)
by
Jack Woodul
Way up in a useless, obscure corner of the flight schedule was a piece of routine trivia served up daily by Norman-the-Fink, the beloved Schedules Officer. This was the assignment of the "PT-Boat CAP," a pilot from each of the attack squadrons charged with the heavy responsibility of manning an aircraft to fight off the rat-eating commies in case they decided to O.D. on rice wine and charge out to Yankee Station to do a PT-109 number on the U.S.S. Independence.
That no Gomer JFK had seen fit to come and get us had been noticed by flight crews, and, since the assignment of the PT-CAP seemed mostly ceremonial, this information tended to dusty abandon in comparison with real-life concerns, like which brown-nosers were getting two day hops.
It must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but the boys had been into the rum-and-Hawaiian-punch jug that night in their palatial CVA-62 stateroom. Weed had rolled inverted and crashed into his rack sometime earlier, because about midnight thirty, Puresome realized he had been holding conversation with no answers for some time. His last thought before his eyes rolled back in his head and he spun into his upper rack was that he had a nordo roomie..
The sounds of the telephone ringing and Weed trying to (1) find it, and (2) answer the right end would have been hilarious to a milk-fed quarterback, but Puresome was not of that persuasion and was mystified by the whole proceedings, especially by Weed screaming in his face that the caller was the squadron duty officer, and he wanted to talk to Puresome!
Eventually, Youthly understood and rolled out of his upper rack to land, cat-like, on his left hip and shoulder. Finally addressing the phone through the correct end, the SDO made Puresome understand that he was the PT-boat CAP and it was a launch! Launch'em!
It was zero-dark-thirty; Puresome was Hawaiian-punched; and he didn’t like this at all. Stumbling into flight suit and boots and every knee-knocker on the way to ready-room four-starboard, things didn’t get any better when a wide-eyed SDO verified that he was to suit-up and man-up: the Commies were coming!
Puresome fumbled through putting on his g-suit and torso harness in abject fear. he fumbled up the escalator through the red lights and into the darkness of the flight deck. After tripping over most of the tie-down chains on the flight deck, he finally found Sidewinder 412, which seemed to have two wings.
Since he was too befuzzled to think of any sophisticated downing gripe and was too busy figuring out how to convince the Big Guy that if he saved him this one last time, he really was going to straighten out and join the boy's soprano chorus, Puresome zombied up the boarding ladder and into the cockpit.
The longest five minutes of his life were those spent strapping into the cockpit, getting external electrical power plugged in, fiddling knobs and praying. Reprieve came with a plane captain scrambling up the ladder and yelling that the launch had been scrubbed...thanks again, Big Guy!
After a reverse procedure of tripping over tie-down chains, Puresome found his way back to the ready room, too weak with bit of a near thing to do more than throw his flight gear in a chair, give the SDO the finger, and hump back to the old stateroom, where Weed was obviously snoring on. Puresome was sleeping the sleep of the boozy righteous in thirty seconds.
Shortly thereafter, he was treated to deja'vu most foul: the phone rang, and Weed eventually answered. It was the SDO for Puresome, the duty PT-boat CAP guy, and there was a launch! Again. Puresome was still in the domain of punch, but this was too much--he was pissed! He donned his flight suit and boots; stomped to the ready room; told the SDO to perform illegal and immoral and painful acts upon his own person; donned flight gear, strode to the flight deck, found and mounted Sidewinder 412; got external power and air, started the aircraft; taxied to the number one catapult, turned up, and.....launched!
Up came the gear! Up came the flaps! On came the radar! And on came the armament switches! Yahoo! Wagner was playing, and fat ladies in horn hats were singing as Puresome switched to Strike Common frequency and received a vector for the encroaching rat-eaters. On came the gunsight, cranked-in went the mil-lead, and, there on the scope were, yes! Blips! Yahoo! Puresome's eyes went all squinty in the dim light of the cockpit as he closed with the radar contacts.
Behind him, newly awake and stone-cold-sober, the CAP aircraft from the other squadron was launched into the inky black. It was not a good thing.. “Uh, Sidewinder 412 from Blue Hawk 310, say posit," managed its driver. Youthly actually didn’t say anything like “missionary,” but spat out his radial and DME from Guntrain tacan.
Merge plot! Puresome giggled maniacally as he pickled off three Mk-24 paraflares, jammed on full throttle and climbed and turned to reach a roll-in position to bomb the Commies when the flares illuminated. As the flares lit, he could see..."there's something down there! Clear me to shoot, Guntrain, clear me to shoot!"
“Ah, negative cleared to fire, 412," Strike Control came back, "we're receiving radio transmissions that these are friendly Czech freighters bound for Haiphong, rest, and relaxation..." In mid-dive with pipper on target and bomb pickle under thumb, Puresome could only exclaim "ratsfannies!" to himself over the lost opportunity to save his ship, his mates, and to cover himself with well-deserved glory. "Uh, Sidewinder 412 from Blue Hawk 310...say posit" crackled over the UHF.
The rest of the launch was a piece of pastry. Puresome droned about, pickled off the rest of his flares in a clear area, looked at the pretty stars, and awaited his approach time back to the ship. Blue Hawk 310 contracted the vertigos and diverted to Danang. There was enough punch still flowing in his veins that Puresome didn’t even mind the night trap.
By the time he had dumped his sodden flight gear in the ready-room, fired off a further insult or two at the sleepily indifferent Squadron Duty officer, the Wagner aria playing in Puresome's head had turned into an anthem played by the little man with the ice pick. As he switched on the light back at his cozy stateroom, a hung-over Weed pulled the sheets over his head and whimpered.
"It's OK, dirtbag," said Puresome, "I been out saving your ass."
THE NIGHT I GOT MY NAVY CROSS, (ALMOST) is copyright 1997 by Jack Woodul
|