My First Time on the Flight deck

Flight Deck, Take One
U.S.S. America somewhere in the Mediterranian Sea 1974

For my first six years in the U.S. Navy I worked in Naval Aviation as an aviation electronics technician aboard aircraft carriers and other various assignments ashore.

In the beginning…there is your first cruise, your “cherry cruise”. Commonly referred to as a NUG (New Useless Guy), you don’t know shit about life at sea and even less about warships. “How do I find my way around this floating behemoth?” “What do these numbers on the bulkheads mean?” “Where can I eat?” “How do I get to sickbay?” “Why is everyone so unfriendly?” You are either too proud to ask or too scared of looking like a dumb ass rookie. People are not friendly, partly because you are a rookie, something to be disdained and partly because NUGs are most likely to get seriously hurt on a carrier so no one wants to go through the pain of befriending a NUG only to have your buddy hurt or die.

On my first cruise my squadron assigned me, for the entire cruise, to the Aircraft Intermediate Maintenance Department (AIMD), a bench job in a shop forward of the hangar bay. My job was to troubleshoot and repair deceptive electronic counter-measure systems that the guys working on the flight deck removed from the aircraft and replaced with a “good spare”. Each squadron had an obligation to send someone to the AIMD shops in order to benefit from the central pool of repaired equipment.

This was a coveted job by most standards – air conditioning, coffee at the ready, smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. There was a hatch in the deck near my workbench that led to a storage area for the Chief’s mess. During underway replenishment of supplies (UNREP) a crew would lay roller lines through the shop and slide various food items down the line to the storage unit below decks. For helping out, the crew lead would “comp” you a 5 pound canned ham or some other food treasure. Life in this shop was good.

Somehow though, I couldn’t shake this feeling that this wasn’t where I belonged. I talked to my supervisor about going back to my squadron and working on the flight deck. This was met with great jokes at my expense and the general perception in the shop that I didn’t know a good thing when I saw it. Besides, he explained, I had been specially trained to a higher level and was handpicked to do this important job that was beyond the skill level of most techs that worked on the flight deck. I had an obligation to pay back for the extra training and the Navy’s confidence in my ability.

During a meal on the mess decks one day I ran into the Command Master Chief from my squadron who asked how I was doing. I told him I was doing fine but was thinking I would like working on the flight deck better. I went on to explain how I loved aircraft and it seemed silly for me to be working in the bowels of the ship while the aircraft I loved were up on the deck where the action is. He took me to the squadron’s avionics shop, introduced me to the shop Chief, and asked the Chief to have someone take me up on deck during flight ops. I was told I could come to the shop in my off time and learn the ropes. My first time on the deck during flight ops was one of the most memorable events of my life.

We were in the eastern Mediterranean off the coast of Cyprus. It was daytime but you could barely see past the stern of the ship due to the heavy morning fog. We were up there to participate in aircraft recovery ops, also known as “traps” (landings). The guy I was tagging with pointed to a spot and told me to “stand there…don’t move…unless I tell you or unless all hell breaks loose, then get your ass off the deck by any means possible.” Then over the flight deck loud speakers came the announcement “Dakota 202 in-bound”. This meant an F4-J Phantom from our squadron (call sign Dakota) was about to make an arrested landing. Peering aft into the fog I couldn’t make out anything but I could hear the unmistakable shriek of the McDonnell-Douglas F-4 Phantom jet that had so terrorized the enemy on the Ho Chi Min trail in Vietnam just months earlier that year. It got louder and louder as I strained to see something... anything. All of a sudden a 56,000 pound fire-breathing metal dragon appeared like an evil apparition, and slammed down on the deck amidst a shower of sparks. As the pilot pushed the throttle to full (incase he missed the arresting wire) the aircraft came to an abrupt halt while the plane continued its roar, as if protesting the fact that it was once again earth bound. As the cable was retracted and the tailhook was raised, the pilot quickly goosed the engines and spun his beast off the angle deck with a final roar. I remember one thought going through my mind: This is the most violent and awesome thing I have ever experienced in my life! It was pure power, something to behold and my blood raced through my body like mad. I couldn’t wait to work there permanently!

I learned over my years at sea that those who have spent cruises on the flight deck amidst the violence, chaos, and danger, develop an unspoken bond, whether they knew each other when they "did their time" or not. The flight deck is a very unique environment, comfortable to very few of America's warriors and even less of the country's general population. I have seen alleged VIPs quiver with fear when stepping down from a helo or opening that last hatch and stepping out into the danger zone, yet the danger zone is mastered largely by everyday guys, some who were told by teachers and judges that they would never amount to anything. But...there they were, engaged in this amazing technical ballet with the responsibility of pilots' lives, hundreds of millions of dollars worth of aircraft, and the safety of their shipmates in their hands. Not only that...they looked good doing it! It's hard NOT to when you're shooting Tomcats, Vigilantes, and Intruders off the steam catapults at the speed of cool! Hats off to the men of the deck, those warriors that endangered their lives daily to act as America's most awesome projection of power and strength around the world.