Publisher's note: As we celebrate our military fallen this weekend, I found the following letter published and it moved me so much, I wanted to help its writer perpetuate it forward forever, in as much as I can. The way the men and women who served during that contentious time were treated was deplorable. Though we have learned much as a nation since the end of the conflict, groups such as Code Pink and the crazies at Westboro remind us that ill-intentioned people or groups still fail to get it. Please read, reread and forward this letter to everyone you know. Let good-intentioned folk push back against the politically correct and welcome all our military vets as three heroes they have been and continue to be.
During President Johnson’s 1965-68 Operation Rolling Thunder, Carrier Air Wing 16 suffered the highest loss rates of any naval aviation unit in the Vietnam conflict. Flying from the USS Oriskany, we lost 86 aircraft with 59 aviators killed and 13 captured or missing. Oriskany normally operated with 64 combat aircraft and 74 pilots, so a pilot’s statistical probability of surviving those deployments was less than 30 percent. Serving with the VF-111 Sundowners, I lost two roommates and a wingman. Norm Levy, Ed Van Orden, and Bill McWilliams sacrificed their lives for America. I was honored to be a part of their lives for those years. Since Norm’s career as a Navy Fighter Pilot paralleled mine, I resolved to continue his name and memory here on earth until I also depart. To that end, I write him a letter every Memorial Day. The combat loss of a pilot is described as being “smoked.” Before the internet, I simply burned the letters in tribute. Now, I publish them. My 2011 (45th) letter follows:
“Good morning, Norm. It’s Memorial Day, 07:29 Tonkin Gulf time. Haven’t talked with you in a while. That magnificent lady on which we went through hell together, the USS Oriskany, has slipped away into the deep and now rests forever in silent waters off the Florida coast. Seems like a good day to make contact. This is the 45th year since I last saw you, sitting on the edge of your bunk in our room on the “O” boat. 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 50,000 feet; but McNamara’s Pentagon planners kept sending us on “critical” missions all night. At 04:00, 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 restroom around the elevator pit, the one near the flare locker. The ordnance men were busy putting away the flares. They’d been taking them out and putting them back all night. I had finished shaving and started back to our room when the guy on the ship’s loudspeaker screamed: “This is a drill, this is 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 passage way 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 passage way and onto the hangar deck. A huge ball of fire was rolling along the top of the hangar bay.
You and forty-five other guys, mostly Air Wing pilots, didn’t make it, Norm. I’m sorry. Oh, dear God, I am 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 few 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 unruly demonstrators enjoying the right to protest. The “right” you died for!
There was a bus with our wives waiting for us – there was a black hearse for you. The protestors threw things at our 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 rifles convinced them to stay back.
I watched the TV news with my kids that night, Norm. Sorry, the only clips of our homecoming were the Baby Killer banners and bombs exploding in the South Vietnam jungle (recall our operations were up North, against heavily defended targets, where we were frequently shot down and captured or killed). It was tough to explain to my four pre-teens.
You know the rest of the story. The profane demonstrators were the media’s heroes – they became CEO’s, who steal from our companies – lawyers, who prey off our misery – doctors, who we can’t afford – and elected politicians, who break the faith and the promises.
The only military recognized as “heroes” were the POW’s. 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 SAM’s and the flak, attacking day and night, keeping the pressure on – all by ourselves! Absolutely no support from anyone! Many of us didn’t come home, Norm. You know – the guys that are up there with you now. But it was our “un-mentioned” efforts that brought the POW’s home. We kept the faith with them, and with you.
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 current administration’s politically adjusted report, issued for the 100th Anniversary of U.S. Naval Aviation, confirmed that we have been written out of American history! The only thing many of us have left is our memories, and we hold those dear. 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, you earned it Norm!
Your Roommate,
Dick (Brown Bear) Schaffert”
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