Remembering Leadership
Early in my military career I learned that I was to show respect to senior individuals, i.e., senior officers. Having an aviation mustang (came up through the enlisted ranks and became an officer) for a father taught me that the chief’s really ran the Navy and saluted the officer’s as they went off to war. So I learned I should also show respect to those that had the knowledge and skills, even though I outranked them. But I also learned there were those whom you showed respect or who might even demand your respect but often never earned it. Seniority in many cases just meant someone had been there longer but did not necessarily learn the skills of leadership. While I was usually smart enough to follow the rules and show respect, I certainly could see there were some folks that were better at leading people than others. That lesson came home to me in my first squadron after a change of command.
A common perception among the junior pilots was that the senior pilots lacked a few skills that we took for granted. Flying formation, since they were usually the leaders, was not their forte. With a few exceptions they were not usually in the top grades on carrier landings nor the best bombers. Our euphemism for a bright lit night was a “commander’s moon” since they seemed to be more comfortable flying when they could see the ground. Of course, these were the “Yeager Years” where we assumed if another pilot made a mistake that they just were not as good a pilot as we were, and it was better to die than look bad.
Our new future XO, Don Hall checked in awaiting his inevitable role as the executive officer after the change of command. He was not from the Lemoore community and therefore unknown to us. The ops yeoman let it leak that this guy had over 4000 hours in jets, something no one in the squadron had, most of whom came up through A1’s to A4’s and then to A7’s. He was pretty quiet. The skipper suggested that we take him out flying to show him our daily operations to Fallon, etc. First thing we noted was that he was flying as tight a wing position as any junior officer out there. After dropping a few practice bombs we also realized this guy had an eye for putting the pipper on target. Later we would realize that he could out bomb us, out land us, and out fight us in tactics (dogfighting to you unwashed masses.) He was the real deal.
We would soon also learn that his style of leadership was different. Instead of the usual “do this, do that” he would ask if we could accomplish something that needed doing. This guy actually had people skills and showed us a whole new way of leading men in the squadron. He wanted excellence, and his way of getting it was showing how it was done. We rapidly came to admire the man as a pilot and as a leader. He was by my personal standards one of the best pilots I had ever met, and a complete breath of fresh air as a leader.
It was fitness report time, something most of us dreaded. A paperwork drill at best, and meaningless to most of us because we were just trying to get the job done and did not seek recognition nor did we really want to hear our shortcomings. I slithered into the office and stood at attention.
“Sit down, VD.” I sat.
“You know, I keep asking the operations officer ‘who did this’ and he would tell me VD. I would ask the maintenance officer and get the same answer, Same with admin. If it needs doing you seem to be the go-to guy to get it done. Sometimes it takes some effort to find out who did it, and your name keeps popping up. That is obviously commendable, but I have some advice for you. Not every XO or CO is going to ask those questions. You need to take some credit for this stuff and let people know what you are getting done. Toot your own horn. I realize that is probably not part of your personality, but as career advice, I suggest you try it out.”
I had never heard anything like that in my few years in the Navy for sure, nor could I recall any other office mentioning that kind of counseling. I was stunned, to say the least. All I could say is “I’ll try, sir.”
“Keep up the great work, that’s all I have.” I walked out knowing I just found a role model for becoming a better officer.
We looked forward to his becoming the Commanding Officer and even greater things happening. We were also recovering from an eleven month combat cruise and had only six months to work up for another Westpac to Vietnam. When Don took over we were really pumped but working our tails off to get ready to go to sea. We also had a bunch of new pilots to train in airwing procedures, and get comfortable with carrier operations, etc.
We were just finishing up our first at sea operations and had come into San Diego for a few days off. Some of our wives had come down from Lemoore to meet with us. When liberty was over and we were returning to the ship, there was a rumor on the pier that we might not go to sea that day. I told my wife to hang out at my parent’s house in San Diego until 1300 in case it was true. I went aboard and started looking around. First clue was they did not raise the brow (our entry walkway) at 0900 in preparation for departing. Finally, around ten o’clock the 1MC shipboard announcement speaker gave a “Now Hear This” and the captain of the ship came on the air. His manner was always a bit casual. “Gents, I got some good news and some bad news. The good news is we are not going to sea today.”
Cheers could be heard all over the ship. It took a minute or so for the noise to die down.
“The bad news is, you are all going home to prepare because in eight days we are departing to Westpac, three months early.” You could have heard a pin drop on the hangar bay. He had some explanation probably lost on most everybody, that Comnavairpac said we were in better shape than any airwing out there, and the North Vietnamese were starting an offensive that demanded more air presence now. We were all in shock. Skipper Don sat us down, organized the things we needed to accomplish in the next eight days and send us on our way. We called our wives to come get us. We went home, wrote our wills, said our goodbyes, and headed back a week later with our cruise supplies. While distressed at leaving so early and without the time to really prep our families, there was still an air of excitement that we were going to do something serious to get this war over.
We did not even stop in Hawaii, such was the urgency of our departure. We accomplished some engine change test flights off of Midway Island and kept steaming while dragging a screw to mask our sonar signature. The whole ship shook. We broke the deck on one of the escort destroyers trying to stay up with us. We flew a few airplanes off when we got near Guam and finally arrived in the Philippines at Subic Bay. We had engines to change, bombs to load, booze to smuggle on board, and a few days to get drunk and ugly and then we were off.
That time of the year around the Philippines it was very high humidity. At night it was like flying in a bowl of milk. If one dropped a flare it lit up the atmosphere so bright you would lose night vision, but it gave no perspective as to where the ground was. Quite unnerving. When it did clear up and the wind died down, the reflection of the stars on the ocean made it all look like sky, so no horizon even then. Unlike the states, the PI did not have the light pollution of big cities to give us help.
Since we had barely gotten started on night carrier operations when the whistle blew, we left the Philippines after getting supplies loaded and started workups off to the west to get ourselves ready for combat around the clock. It was a few days into the workups when we started working night operations since we had been 23 days hard steaming with almost no flying coming across the ocean.
One of the traditions in the squadron was to put the most junior officers with the most senior pilots. We had rocket numbers assigned based on the pecking order with the skipper being Rocket One. The most junior pilot was given the moniker Rocket 99 and was usually assigned to the skipper or the XO. When we started the night ops the duo of Rocket One and Rocket 99 were out doing some night operations. Rocket 99 was getting some severe vertigo (technically, spatial disorientation) from the atmospherics, plus anxiety about night operations since he had very few night traps. From the radio it was obvious he was having trouble concentrating enough to get himself set up for the night marshal stack. To put that in perspective, the stack was set up so that each aircraft in the stack was a thousand feet higher and one mile farther from the ship, and their push times were one minute apart. One minute late or early and you land on someone else. Rocket 99 was having trouble just keeping the airplane pointed in the right direction. The Skipper could hear in his voice the fear and finally said, “Join up on me and fly wing for a while to get your bearings.” Rocket 99 joined up in the stack. The Skipper told him he would set up the pattern for Rocket 99 and would break off when it was time to push and set up his own pattern. That seemed to settle down the neophyte and he sound quite confident when he finally announced leaving marshal. The skipper had to whirl around quite quickly to set up a mile farther out and push a minute later.
Rocket 99 shot the approach and made a credible landing. But when CCA called the Skipper’s side number they got no answer. The squadron rep in CATCC (Carrier Air Traffic Control Center) walked over to the screen and asked the controller where the skipper’s radar contact was. The controller replied he had lost contact at about twelve miles. They tried to make radio contact a number of times and got no reply. Since other aircraft were coming down, they asked if anyone had seen an ejection or a fire. No one had. The plane guard helicopter was given vectors to the last radar contact but in the black night could see nothing. In the ready room we were in serious shock. We could only hope that he ejected and come daylight he would show up floating about.
At dawn a large group of ships and helos started searching the area. They found only two parts, a nose wheel, and the back side of a bomb pylon, a phenolic, hollow piece that floated to the surface. I was assigned to the accident board, something that I really did not want to face. When they brought the pieces back it was obvious from the nose wheel that the gear had been up on impact, and the nose wheel, very lacerated, had come through the doors. Based on the radar plot and our usual operating procedure, instead of leveling off at 1200 feet, the aircraft had continued descending until impact. Whether aircraft malfunction, distraction, spatial disorientation or fatigue, he had flown into the water.
The next days were filled with reports, services, and just too much stress. I finally found a moment to myself and walked out on the sponson from the hangar bay and stared into the ocean. All that Yeager Years training left me empty. How could I possibly survive this war and these operations if someone like Don Hall crashed into the water. He was better at everything than we were. I could not rationalize that I was better than he was, nor could I rationalize that it was a mistake I could not make. It was a bleak reality and probably the first time I had to face my own mortality up front. I was devastated, crushed and feeling terribly inadequate.
Then I realized that all that forward looking optimism of serving under this outstanding individual had also evaporated and I was left empty, lonely, disappointed and afraid. I sat in the salt spray for hours, trying to align my brain to the reality. All I could come up with was to do my best to be like him, and hopefully the gods would look kindly on me and let me survive.
As I look back from almost fifty years of perspective, his leadership, his genuine concern for his fellow shipmates, his excellence, still resonate as a shining light for all to follow. Don, you are still missed and revered. Rest in peace, shipmate.