Expect the Unexpected Part 2: Flight Suits

The green Marine flight suit with its multiple pockets, zippers and velcro served many practical purposes. Velcro allowed for squadron patches and nametags to be changed out as needed when changing squadrons or when the guys wanted to "look good at the field" of an O' Club away from home. Some favorite nametags: "Dick Gazinia" "Hugh Jardon" and "Roger Ball".

The Marine Corps, frugal to the core, issued one or two new flight suits a year. Lenny "Toad" Bucko, a Marine fighter pilot who flew the MIGs out of Tonopah for Red Flag, attached to the Air Force for the tour. He remains awestruck with the number of gadgets and flightsuits he found in his locker when he checked in. "Five!" he said. "And they told me to just let them know if I needed more," confirming rumors the Air Force got the good stuff.

Flight suits had front zippers that zipped both ways, allowing aviators to "take a leak" while strapped in the seat. A few intrepid souls used them to continue on their quest to "look good at the field" by ball-walking at the O'Club--unzipping from the bottom, pulling out the family jewels, rezipping down, and then talking to women as if nothing was unusual.

My guy's multiple pockets carried a variety of items, all accessible with the g-suit on. The outside sleeve had narrow pockets for US Government black pens, and a zipper to a compartment underneath for a pad of paper. The baggy side pockets on the legs held the most important items for survival.

He kept flint and steel; firestarter--a rectangle, the size of Double Bubble pink chewing gum, of a waxy substance that pulled apart into cotton ball shreds; a signaling mirror--an ingenious 3 by 4 inch mirror with a hole in the center to allow sighting on an oncoming ship, plane or helo; Charms--yes, the candy; bottled water, a survival knife, a shroud cutter switchblade capable of cutting through fifteen shroudlines at a time, a survival radio, a pen gun flare, a green flashlight with an optional red plastic lens to keep the light from affecting night vision, and a foil space blanket (thank you, race to the moon!).

And he always had a John Wayne key, also known as a P-38 can opener, in his flight suit for ready access to the C-rats in the raft. Everything had a lanyard attached. Even if he dropped some lifesaving item, he still had it attached to his suit.

He never expected to eject. He never had to. But he was prepared if it should happen.

There are times when my purse resembles the pockets of his flight suit. I always carry a small flashlight--in the old days I had a mini Maglite, now I've converted to an LED with my iPhone (the flashlight app) for backup. I carry gum and breath mints, a Kind bar, aspirin and migraine meds, my Kindle with 1500 books on it, extra pens (though the black US Government pens have disappeared into the junk drawers of time), reading glasses, sunglasses, a glasses repair kit, money (sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes just plastic), a glass nail file, nail polish, Jelly Bellies for my grandkids, hand lotion, my moleskin notebook, Tide-to-Go, and sometimes a bottle of water.

There are always unexpected events in our lives with our children, our spouses, our friends: a car accident, an illness, an estrangement. My purse and his flight suit won't protect us. We have to keep our mind and hearts just as prepared.

I am expecting the unexpected and I'll be ready.

Also published as a column in the Military Writers Society of America's monthly magazine, Dispatches. MWSA Column

Fighter Pilot Rule for Life: Lowkey Information

The first plane my guy flew was a T-34 propeller trainer, the T-2 was his first jet, then the T-2B, a twin engine T-2 jet, the TF-9 jet trainer, and finally in VMFA-333, he flew the Phantom F-4. All of the planes were double-seaters with an instructor or a Radar Intercept Officer (RIO) in the backseat ready to tell him when he was doing it wrong. It served a dual purpose to have dual seats. The backseaters kept the valuable plane from terminal damage and also kept the young, brash, and maybe-not-yet-up-to-snuff pilot from terminal damage. A lot of time and money had been invested in both aircraft and aviator.

If a pilot had figured out a way to auger into the ground or lost his S/A or departed from controlled flight, a RIO or instructor would verbally help him get his act together. The best RIOs and instructors kept cool in the lightning storm. The idea wasn't to destroy the young pilot's confidence but to train him up to be a calm, steely-eyed gunslinger with wings and sidewinder missiles. Even after leaving the training command there were many times an extra set of eyes or another brain proved valuable. When worse went to worst, the RIO also had a command-eject capability.

And then in 1983, the new latest fighter arrived at El Toro Marine Corps Air Station: the F/A-18 Hornet, a single-seat, high-tech aircraft that featured computerized instrument panels, nine on-board computers (more now!), and television screens to aid in bombing run accuracy. The training squadrons had two-seat planes, but once finished with the flight simulator training and the instructors, no RIO flew as a backseat driver or failsafe guy.

McDonnell Douglas had a solution. They asked a secretary to record some standard warning messages in a calm, female voice. (Millions of dollars went into research to determine that a female voice was easier to hear in a stressful situation) The F/A-18 Hornet voice warning system was called by the aviators Bitchin’ Betty. In the worst of circumstances, her voice is composed and measured: “Left engine fire. Left engine fire” or “Bingo Fuel. Bingo Fuel.”

Here's what I've been wondering: why does my beloved other ignore my voice in disasters? Could it be that jumping up and down screaming and using tons of !!!! does not make my point better?

So I've been practicing. I keep my voice low and slow. "Honey, you are about to turn left on a red light and I do not think that tractor-trailer sees you," and "You might want to bring your wallet that is on the bedside table before we leave with our luggage to catch a plane to Timbuktu," and "Darling, the ladder you are climbing to put lights on the second story of our house has not been latched properly and is about to collapse."

Not my fault if he does not hear my reasonable warnings. Not my fault, but in a marriage we both suffer the consequences.

Military Writer's Society of America's Book Discussion Forum March 23-25

Please join us for the Military Writer's Society of America's first book discussion forum running March 23-25 on the MWSA site. I am honored that the topic will be my memoir, WING WIFE: HOW TO BE MARRIED TO A MARINE FIGHTER PILOT. Joyce Faulkner, President of MWSA will be the moderator.

I encourage everyone to participate, even if you haven't read WING WIFE, especially if you have written, are in the process of writing, or are thinking about writing a memoir. We'd love the perspective of military types--Marines and other services--aviators and/or their spouses. Everyone's comments will be useful.

The idea is to talk about craft and to talk about the military experience.

Writing Techniques for Memoirs Link: http://www.mwsadispatches.com/node/840

WING WIFE Content and Message Link: http://www.mwsadispatches.com/node/841 


If you are not a member and want to comment on a thread, write Joyce at MWSAPresident@gmail.com and ask to be added to the site.

Lost Friends

Captain Carroll LeFon USN (retired) RIP

It's not a penny found on the street

Scuffed, darkened and pocketed.

It requires penny after penny after penny

Of time and thought and laughter

Accumulated in a Mason jar in the kitchen sunshine.

I carried the jar

Toward the maple table to count moments,

To plan a shared splurge when the phone rang.

I answered

And the jar fell to the tile shattering

Into pennies rolling, clattering, circling,

Glass shards everywhere.

I scooped them into piles.

Blood dripped from my hands

To stone squares, on clear glass running red,

On piled and scattered pennies.

There's not a good way found

To lose a friend.
 

I never met him in person, yet we were friends. The first blog I followed when I started blogging, the blogger I stayed loyal to through the years. Wise words are like pennies collected on the street, as change, in drawers. In the end, we are richer for them.

Smart, a poet, a fighter pilot who loved his wife and family. I will miss him but there's joy in the words and photos and thoughts and friendships he nurtured on his blog Neptunus Lex. In the end I am richer for knowing him. We are all richer. 

Find a Veteran Grave: Guest Post

There are over 6 million veterans and family members of veterans buried across the United States.  And when you want to pay your respects, it can be very hard to locate a veteran’s burial place.  The department of Veterans Affairs keeps a massive database of burial sites of veterans and their beneficiaries, such as spouses and children.  But this database is jumbled, messy and confusing.  But a new online tool has cleaned up this data and made it searchable and easy to navigate.  Now, anyone can easily find a veteran grave for free on LocateGrave.org.

Users can search for a veteran by name, cemetery, date of birth, military rank and military branch.  Once you have narrowed down your search, you can click on a veteran to see the detailed information regarding their burial.  A map will help you locate the cemetery and the cemetery’s phone number will be displayed.  If you are logged in to facebook, you can also leave a prayer or note to remember the veteran. 

A similar online tool also powered by FindTheData.org is the Medal of Honor Recipients database.  Like the veteran grave locator, the Medal of Honor tool allows you to search for recipients based on war, rank and name.

This is a guest post written by Evan Thomas, a student at UCSB that has partnered with FindTheData to help create these tools.  FindtheData is an unbiased search engine that allows you to compare everything from Section-8 Housing to Non-Profit Organizations.  If you have any questions or comments about the grave locator, feel free to contact Evan at evan_thomas (@) umail.ucsb.edu

Homecoming

     My last post was not in the finest tradition of military wives. Anniversaries of death are private. Remembering the one who’s gone by crazy stories of times past is supported and lauded. So here's one story:    

     My brother Don, a first lieutenant in the Marine Corps, was coming to MCAS El Toro on his first cross-country from VMFA 333 Beaufort SC in 1969. We knew he was on his way home; he’d told us he’d let us know when he was close. 
   

     About the time he was supposed to arrive, we heard a jet. Not unusual, except this one got closer and closer, louder and louder, way too close and way too loud--so close we were sure it was going to hit the house so we ran outside. We stood on our front lawn in Claremont, California and watched a Phantom F-4 divebomb to within a hundred yards of the ground, then turn up into the sky, great gouts of flame spouting from its twin engines and as it arrowed into the sky, afterburners lit.   
   

     A neighbor with experience in the Korean War threw himself on his wife, knocking them both to the ground, certain the plate glass sliding door was going to shatter. Not one person had the presence of mind to get the tail number or remember the trefoil design on the tail. When MCAS El Toro was contacted, they responded with, “None of our jets are in the air.”  

     My brother had let us know he was close. He was almost home.   
 

     The picture at the beginning of the post of Don with his wings in his Marine green uniform isn't my favorite. He's smiling, but not his smile of appreciation for crazy antics in the air and on the ground. Here's a picture of him at the training command before he got his wings.

Wouldn't it be fun to hang out with him? Yep.

January 2nd

Thirty-two years ago today I called my sister-in-law in Beaufort. We’d talked to her and my brother on Christmas Day but it was the New Year and we’d not touched base on the first. Six o-clock at night, but he was flying. Three hops that day. Kath said he’d call when he landed from the last. I remember Kath and I laughing about married life. I remember her talking about what a wonderful holiday season they’d had and Don fishing for crabs off the pier with Tim, their eight year old. She mentioned his new boat, a Boston Whaler. Andy immediately wanted to talk to him about it. I had to tell my other half to stop trying to grab the phone because Don wasn’t there to talk to.

Don would never be there to talk to again--except in my head.

Some days I feel his loss as a little ache, a tiny “oh I wish he were here” or a “things would be different if...” This week, a student at Santa Barbara contacted me. He’s working to digitize all the information to locate veterans’ graves. He wants to write a blogpost for my blog. I wrote back yes.

Then I put in my brother’s name and San Diego, California. And found his grave marker.

http://www.locategrave.org/l/358315/Jones

www.locategrave.org

A wave of grief and what ifs and loneliness and loss overwhelmed me.

He’s not there, in body or in spirit. Midair collisions at night over the water are not so kind to return an aviator for burial.

There is no timeline for grief. No right or wrong way to grieve. Hold your loved ones close when you can.

Today I am sad.

Collateral Damage

This last week I spent a lot of time eating, visiting with friends and family and thinking about my blessings. Last night, one of my blessings breathed deeply next to me: my husband. Twenty-two years a Marine aviator, as many landings as takeoffs, no POW experiences, no visions of war keeping him awake. I fell asleep thinking about some of my friends and family whose lives had changed because of the military service of others close to them. They were collateral damage.

Some of you know part of my story. My brother was killed in a mid-air as a Marine fighter pilot. His son, then eight, has just turned forty and had a party. His brother and sister came to celebrate with him. Bittersweet. My brother would have loved the people they grew into. They would have loved to know my brother as adults know their parents. They all show wounds from an explosion they never saw coming thirty some years ago.

Five years ago, my husband and I attended the marriage of my niece to her twenty-two year old Marine corporal at the County Clerk’s office. He’d already had two tours to Iraq and was about to leave for the third. Their daughter is now four years old. Their marriage has ended in the rages of PTSD and TBI. I asked him if the military makes it easy to get help. He said he didn’t want help, he just wanted to go back to what he knew how to do--fight a war and protect his buddies. He doesn’t want to know how to get the oil changed on the car, talk to his wife, or shop for groceries. Those everyday activities are difficult and full of tension. My niece wanted a husband who talks softly, with respect, sleeps at night, never raises his hand against her. She doesn’t want her daughter to grow up seeing her daddy yelling at mom. His explosions here reflect the explosions he can’t talk about over there.

A fighter pilot’s wife from Korean War vintage has become a friend. She’s shared how her husband never really knew what to do with himself as a civilian, so he drank. He was not a good drunk or an easy husband to have and to hold. She stayed with him. The shadows in her eyes remain even though he died a few years back.

The receptionist at my hairdresser’s is married to a Marine in Afghanistan. He’s only been gone a month, she has five more months to get through. Her struggle? Getting used to not talking to him everyday. He’s in a remote area, no Skype, no realtime emails. She can send him letters that get to him pretty quickly through some sort of email to print option. She asked, “What am I going to do with myself? I’ve already redecorated the whole house!” I hope she learns how to be herself and then find joy in his return. I hope he returns without leaving who he used to be in the Afghan hills.

“Close is only good in horseshoes, hand grenades and pattern bombing,” is a gallows humor saying in the aviator world. Being close to those in military service results in collateral damage often coming as a sneak attack.

In this holiday season, I continue to count my blessings and look for ways to reach out and help out those who strayed into the bombing pattern inadvertently.

TADs and Deployments #4

It used to be, during peacetime, overseas deployments happened once every three years or so. My aviator knew he’d be going to Japan for a year. I planned to learn Japanese and accompany him--to live out in town with my little one. Then he informed me what “unaccompanied tour” really meant. He’d be deployed to Okinawa, Japan and I wasn’t allowed to come. A year! A year apart! We’d only been married three years. I had an 18 month old.

He left right after New Years’. Three weeks later I discovered I was pregnant with our second child. I called the overseas operator to tell him.

Operator: “Sergeant Major who? There is no rank Major Sergeant.”

“His last name is Sargent.”

“Sergeant Major who?”

Once the operator and I got the rank/name thing cleared up and he got on the phone, I told him the news.

“Whose is it?” he asked.

Really--three weeks gone and he thought I’d found a sperm donor? I’m not that kind of girl.

The year went slowly. I tried distracting myself. I crewed for friends of ours on their Prindle racing catamaran until I couldn't fit in my wetsuit anymore. I modified our house with plants and makeovers as much as our budget allowed--which wasn't much since we had costs in the US and Japan.

And I was still pregnant running around after a very active firstborn.

It made me mad. Mad at Andy.

Logically I knew he did not choose to go overseas, it was part of his job. I knew it wasn't much fun for him since it was a non-flying billet with the "Running 9th" Marines.

Then the doctor put me on bed rest.

My now two-year-old, strong-willed child made that difficult.

So my mother came to stay with me. Bless her for that.  It couldn’t have been easy to leave her own home and life and take care of a lonely, grumpy preggo and her challenging toddler. We didn't agree on much about child rearing. We didn't agree about much of anything. Yet she came to help me and I tried to be appreciative.

Which led to an escalation in my anger at Andy. Maybe I should have been angry at the Marine Corps or my mother for being an additional stress instead of the supportive help I wished her to be. Nope. I blamed it all on Andy.

An emotional, non-logical reaction.

So many of us have partners far away through no choice of their own. For some it’s orders from the military. Others travel for their work or work so hard they might as well be in Japan. Anger creates larger distances than deployments. My mother and my husband treated me with understanding and love until my own love remembered to be appreciative.

TADs and Deployments #3

Deployments.

Never liked them.

When I was first married, even a night away from my guy brought lonely to live at my house until he returned. Later, before kids, I learned to tolerate it--appreciating the time to get projects done: a special Christmas present, putting mirror and redwood panels in our bath (It was 1976!), or just to have a day or two to read a book or visit friends without needing to cook dinner or hurry home. After kids, having him gone at all meant no relief at the end of the long day, no adult ear to listen to my joys and woes and ain’t-our-kid-cute? stories.

But all those short cross-countries had a different quality than the TADs. Most of those lasted two or three weeks somewhere else: Tyndall AFB, or Nellis AFB, or Fallon NAS. When my husband left on a TAD, something always happened to remind me why he was indispensible around the house. TAD might as well stand for Things Always Deteriorated.

One time my guy was TAD to Fallon. First, the car quit working. Of course. Then I opened the door to the tow-truck operator and my dog leaped in the air with shark eyes to bite him. I put my hand out to stop her and she bit me. The red feather pulsing out of my arm told me the bite had punctured an artery.

Thank goodness for my civilian neighbors who drove me to the hospital, cleaned up the blood and watched my three young girls. We no longer see each other across the street, but I remember and am grateful. Pennies for Heaven.

Later, when I shared my tale of woe with Andy, he felt bad but he couldn’t do anything about it. I remember he was angry and worried and helpless all at the same time. He flew fast jets, practiced Air Combat Maneuvers--ACMs; control and situational analysis were his mantras. When Things Always Deteriorated when he wasn't around us, he had no control and he couldn't watch out for the bogeys. He’d rather be with us at night then go back to a BOQ room. I’d rather have had him with me at night, too.

But he did love the flying.

So many of our military today are serving back-to-back-to-back deployments, mostly in a war zone. This blog post is for those who stay at home, who take care of the kids and the house and the car and their hearts so there is something to come home to. Make friends with your neighbors--even if they don’t understand what your spouse does. Who knows, your car might break down.

And to the neighbors of our military families--reach out.

Thinking of all of you today.