Don Buckbee
Member
Subject: Memorial Day Thought
(From the old F-8 pilot network)
Greetings Gunfighters
This letter from Dick Schaffert to his old roommate
Norm Levy is most appropriate for Memorial Day. I
hope we all had someone like Norm in our thoughts
today, even if we could not express them as eloquently
as did Dick.
Throw a nickel on the grass, gents
Tom
Brown Bear sends:
To: LCDR Norm Levy
'Morning, Norm. It's Memorial Day,
07:29 Tonkin Gulf time. Haven't talked with you in a
while. Seems like a good day to make contact. It's
36 years and 5 months to the day since I last saw you,
sitting on the edge of your bunk in our room on the
Oriskany. 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
50K--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 head around the elevator pit, the
one near the flare locker. The Ordies were busy
putting away the flares. They'd been taking them out
and putting them back all night. I finished shaving
and started back to our room when the guy on the 1MC
said: "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 into the hangar deck. A
huge ball of fire was rolling along the top of the
hangar bay.
You and forty-five other guys, most of
them Air Wing pilots, didn't make it, Norm. I'm
sorry. Oh, God, I'm 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 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 scum
enjoying the right to protest. The "right" you died
for!
There was a bus, with our wives, waiting for us VF-111
Sundowners; there was a black hearse for you. The
protestors threw things at the 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 M-16's
convinced them to stay back.
I watched the TV news with my children
that night, Norm. Sorry, the only clips of our
homecoming were the Baby Killer banners and the one of
the burned girl, which they played nightly for 8
years. It was tough to explain that to four
pre-teenaged kids.
You know how it went, Norm. The scum were the
heroes--they went on to be CEO's, who stole from our
companies--lawyers, who preyed off our
misery--doctors, who we can't afford--and elected
politicians, who broke 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 else! 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, Norm.
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 only thing many of us have left is
our memories, Norm. We hold those dear! We band
together in groups like the Crusader Association.
Some might say that has to do with flying a peculiar
aircraft, I say it has to do with a peculiar bunch of
guys. 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, Norm. You earned it.
Your Roomie, Brown Bear
(From the old F-8 pilot network)
Greetings Gunfighters
This letter from Dick Schaffert to his old roommate
Norm Levy is most appropriate for Memorial Day. I
hope we all had someone like Norm in our thoughts
today, even if we could not express them as eloquently
as did Dick.
Throw a nickel on the grass, gents
Tom
Brown Bear sends:
To: LCDR Norm Levy
'Morning, Norm. It's Memorial Day,
07:29 Tonkin Gulf time. Haven't talked with you in a
while. Seems like a good day to make contact. It's
36 years and 5 months to the day since I last saw you,
sitting on the edge of your bunk in our room on the
Oriskany. 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
50K--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 head around the elevator pit, the
one near the flare locker. The Ordies were busy
putting away the flares. They'd been taking them out
and putting them back all night. I finished shaving
and started back to our room when the guy on the 1MC
said: "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 into the hangar deck. A
huge ball of fire was rolling along the top of the
hangar bay.
You and forty-five other guys, most of
them Air Wing pilots, didn't make it, Norm. I'm
sorry. Oh, God, I'm 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 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 scum
enjoying the right to protest. The "right" you died
for!
There was a bus, with our wives, waiting for us VF-111
Sundowners; there was a black hearse for you. The
protestors threw things at the 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 M-16's
convinced them to stay back.
I watched the TV news with my children
that night, Norm. Sorry, the only clips of our
homecoming were the Baby Killer banners and the one of
the burned girl, which they played nightly for 8
years. It was tough to explain that to four
pre-teenaged kids.
You know how it went, Norm. The scum were the
heroes--they went on to be CEO's, who stole from our
companies--lawyers, who preyed off our
misery--doctors, who we can't afford--and elected
politicians, who broke 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 else! 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, Norm.
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 only thing many of us have left is
our memories, Norm. We hold those dear! We band
together in groups like the Crusader Association.
Some might say that has to do with flying a peculiar
aircraft, I say it has to do with a peculiar bunch of
guys. 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, Norm. You earned it.
Your Roomie, Brown Bear