Letter from the USS Forrestal, CV-59

Jul. 29, 1967 - Fire broke out on the flight deck of USS Forrestal (CV 59) as aircraft were being readied for launch over Vietnam. Flames engulfed the fantail and spread below decks touching off bombs and ammunition. The fires burned for eight hours until heroic efforts of crew members brought them under control. Damage to aircraft and the ship was severe. The final casualty count was 132 dead, two missing and presumed dead, and 62 injured.

By Sgt Wookie

Just for fun, I thought I'd post a letter I'd written to my folks while within the bowels of the USS Forrestal back on 21MAR76, just over 26 years ago. At the time, I was attached to VMFA-451, "The Warlords", who were flying F-4J/S Phantom II's. The birds were painted up for the Bicentennial. Three and a half months later, VMFA-451 and the Forrestal would participate in the Tall Ships Bicentennial Celebration in New York Harbor. Being young and dedicated to my MOS at the time, I "opted out" of that duty, in favor of returning to MCAS Beaufort, and getting back to working on airborne radar sets rather than putting on a show. That was probably the biggest mistake I made during my tour of active duty. As my great-Uncle, Henry Kruke, used to say, "Ve ist too soon old, undt too late smardt!" ------------------LETTER BEGINS--------------------
Sailing, Sailing, Over the Bounding Sea.......
Dear Mom + Dad 3/21/'76
Hi from the U.S.S Forrestal!
Tonight we're somewhere off the coast of Georgia, going in circles. We're doing "carquals" (KairQwals) which means the pilots are qualifying for landings both day + night on the carrier. Lots of noise when planes land + take off. Long work hours, we sleep when we can. We are having trouble getting birds to work on because of the heavy flight schedule. Our flight line shop was short of manpower, so they pulled some men (me included) out of other shops. During flight quarters, the birds are tied down with six chains, and a man from the squadron is with each plane in case it has to be moved. After flight quarters are secured, all aircraft are secured with a minimum of 14 chains (3 on nose wheel gear, 3 on each main landing gear, three on teh tailhook, and two on each wing.) My "bed" on the "boat" is 2/3 as wide and 6" shorter than my "bed" at home. There is a 2' clearance between my bunk and the one above. My storage space is 6" deep and the same size as my bunk (it's underneath) and I share a hanging locker (3'x2'x1') with another man. There are six men to a cubicle (approximately 6'x8') and 92 men in the squad bay. To make matters worse, the air conditioning broke down, and the showers decided to quit working. Please send a giant economy-size spray can of Lysol.... (I'm almost kidding!) I can't wait to pull into Mayport FL this Friday, and get rid of this "Essence' Du Lockeroome" Ya know, no matter where you go in this "Green Machine", your location seems to go from bad to worse. Just when you think you're in the worst location possible... yeah, they've got an even worse place just *WAITING* for you! If they don't get the broken equipment fixed on the ship, we'll be heading back to Portsmouth and leaving the ship in drydock. It's past due for a major overhaul. I don't know anything for sure yet, though. Dad, if we have an extra "Man Overboard" strobe beacon around, please send it ASAP. I may be working up on the flight deck, and it isn't too hard at all to get blown overboard, but if I do, I want something to make me visible. Thanks, I'll write later Love
(CplWookie) SeeBee's Motto: "Can Do" Marine's Motto: "Make Do"
Close, but No Seagar
------------------LETTER ENDS-------------------- I still have all three Flight Deck Jerseys from that trip, in Avionics Green, with name, rank, SSAN and unit stenciled on the back. The letters are fading, as are the memories. But it's opportunities like these, as provided by this forum, to reach back in time and yank the memories back to the forefront. Yeah, they wanted me to turn in the jerseys when I was leaving the ship. They were conveniently lost for the last 25 years. I'd turn 'em back in, but the Forrestal has been decommissioned. Oh well, guess I'll keep them on temporary loan until the Corps wants 'em back. There's a catch: they gotta take my keister too. I still have a set of Dress Blues that fit just fine. They just have to get over that "age thang." I'd omitted quite a number of things from that letter, as I didn't wish to alarm my folks. Working on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier is somewhat akin to being subjected to daily "friendly fire", particularly during flight operations. Not to mention, Marine Fighter Squadrons get the worst billets possible aboard Navy carriers. We got to sleep under "Number Three" wire. For the benefit of those that don't know, the "goal" of landing aboard a carrier is to "catch" the Number Three wire. During night carquals or flight ops, it's like trying to sleep with a Howitzer going off next to you every 30 seconds. I learned to sleep through it. I learned so well, that I slept for 22 1/2 hours in a row one day. That earned me the nickname of "RipVanWookie". Go ahead, laugh. One evening, I was ordered up to the flight deck to check out a "gripe" (a report of a systems malfunction as entered on a MAF, or Maintenance Action Form) on one of our Phantoms parked on the flight deck, during flight ops. The flight deck is a horrifically noisy place, so one always has to wear "mickey mouse ears", or sound surpressors in flight deck headgear, when venturing there. This makes one virtually deaf. I got up to the port side catwalk, and nearly stood up (quarters below decks were quite cramped.) Had I stood up, my head and chest would've been subjected to the jet blast of an aircraft that was in full afterburner immediately above me, and I would've been flung far overboard. Yes, I had an emergency beacon on my flight deck vest, but it wouldn't have been very visible at that time of day. Another time, I was nearly sucked into the intake of an A-7 Corsair II that was turning up. Folks, these planes were scary as hell to work near. Huge intake at chest height, very quiet from the front when turning up. I'm certain that many more personnel were eaten by these birds than the Navy will ever admit to. Another night, I was sent up to fix yet another bird that I was assured would be a simple fuse replacement. The catch: lights-out flight ops @ 2300 HRS. This meant that if you used a flashlight, it had to have a red filter in it, and no other light would be provided. I put on my Mae West with my beacon light, my headgear, grabbed an assortment of fuses, a yellow toolbox and a "rail" (a 5' long chunk of stainless steel and aluminum, which was used to extend the radar package of the F-4J's for servicing.) The rail went over my right shoulder for balancing, the toolbox in my left hand. I went up on the flight deck. I was told that the Phantom was secured somewhere near the starboard forward cat ("cat"="catapult". There are generally four "catapults" on a Navy carrier, two "waist" which launch aircraft off to the port side, and two "forward" which launch directly off the bow. The starboard forward cat was therefore the right-most forward catapult.) Unfortunately, that's also quite close to where the E-2C "Hawkeye" airborne control tower was typically tied down. Our avionics shop was aft of the waist cats on the port side. I popped my head up for a look-see around. All seemed pretty quiet - but then again, I was recently deafened from putting on my "mickey mouse ears." I was pretty blind too, since my eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the total blackness of the flight deck. But I was ordered to fix the plane quickly, as flight ops would resume shortly. I headed on a vector which I believed would be the shortest course to the target Phantom. I failed to compensate for windage. The Forrestal was heading into the wind in preparation for flight ops. For every few steps I took forward, I was blown a half-step to the right. This became most significant after crossing the 350-foot-width-or-so flight deck. I suddenly began to feel vibrations, and stopped dead in my tracks. I set down my toolbox and rail, and grabbed my flashlight. I turned it on. There, just a few more feet in front of me was the prop arc of the E-2C "Hawkeye", which was "turning up" in preparation for the next series of flight operations. Had I proceeded a step further, the prop would've impacted the rail I had perched on my shoulder, and would've very raggedly parted my head from my body. Yes, my blood ran very cold. But now I had a "fix" on my position. I turned off the flashlight, grabbed the toolbox and rail, and headed directly for the Phantom. Popped the radome, yanked the radar package, replaced the fuse, ran it up, and it checked OK. Closed it up, signed it off. Mission accomplished. Another night, I was "riding brakes" on the hangar deck. (It takes a minimum of two men to move any Navy/Marine aircraft not under it's own power: one man to drive the "tug", or aircraft tractor, and one man to sit in the cockpit of the aircraft to apply brakes if necessary) The aircraft I was "riding brakes" in had just been moved off the flight deck, lowered on the right forward elevator, and was proceeding towards it's nightly roost when it happened. A horrendous ripping crash sounded from the rear of the carrier, followed a second later by another loud crash further forward, followed by a third loud crash amidships. Man Overboard was sounded. I feared the worst. It turned out that a sister Navy squadron (VF-11) was trying to qualify a retread blackshoe Naval Aviator (blackshoe meaning formerly served in an MOS strictly Navy shipboard, or as a sailor, "retread" meaning retrained) and he came in too low, and hit the "round-down" (end of the ship) with his main landing gear, shearing them off, leaving a big gash in the round down. His F-4J, badly wounded, began cartwheeling across the deck. His RIO (Radar Intercept Officer) initiated ejection immediately before impact. It was too late. The RIO was lost overboard, and even though we circled around for a couple of hours, was never found. The pilot ejected shortly after the RIO's initiated ejection, but didn't fare much better. The aircraft had rotated 90 degrees starboard by the time his seat fired. His 'chute inflated just as he impacted the side of an A7 Corsair, his feet made a 2" deep dent in the side of the plane. He was taken downstairs on a stretcher, leaving a trail of blood, every bone in his body was broken. Despite the heroic efforts of the surgeons on board, he died three days later. He screwed up: he died. So did his crewman. An aircraft was lost. The LSO (Landing Safety Officer) went overboard, and was never found either. Fortunately, the losses were not worse. But still, the losses were significant. There was no good reason for this loss, other than inexperience or inattention to duty. I've never forgotten that the first mission of Marine Corps Aviation is to support the Marine 0311's on the ground. In retrospect, I wonder why we didn't have more joint operations with MEU's. I don't recall (or know of) a single joint exercise during my six years active service. Doesn't mean it didn't happen: I don't profess to remember everything. Some observations about my tour, which might help Those Still Serving:
1) Keep a low profile. It doesn't matter if your a Grunt or a Wingie. A lowered head gathers no metal.
2) Don't panic. Panicking is for after you've handled the situation, and accomplished the mission. You've been trained, and know what to do. Do it. Learn from it. Recover later, and go on from there.
3) Accomplish your mission. This is most important: perform the task you've been assigned to do, in the most expeditious and cost-effective manner. Keep your head down, don't panic, and do it. Get it done. Go on to the next mission. Semper Fi,
SgtWookie

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