Authors: Alan Maki
Doc took one more weak-kneed step, fell to his knees and tumbled helmet first off the end of the ramp. His exit was the most unorthodox I had ever seen. In spite of his initial fear, Doc landed on the soft DZ as a conqueror. I was proud of him for having the courage to do something that he desperately didn’t want to do.
Shortly afterward, the CH-46 settled to the DZ, where Lieutenant Decker and I gave each other and John Bagos safety checks before our jumps. Once the three of us were loaded, the helo quickly gained altitude until we reached ten thousand feet. When Lieutenant Decker made his final spot, he walked aft to the ramp, where John exited first, followed by me, and then Decker. Because John was wearing a slick jumpsuit and Decker and I were wearing our specially made flying suits, with added material between the arms and legs for catching additional wind, thus slowing our rate of descent, both of us were having a difficult time catching him in the air. I finally had to draw my arms and legs in tight to increase my rate of descent in hopes of gaining on John. In the meantime I noticed that John was spinning slowly to the
left. I was gradually getting closer to him, but not soon enough for a hookup—we were to wave off, as briefed, at 3,500 feet. Because John failed to wave off, I decided not to wave off to Lieutenant Decker and continued to gain on John. Strangely, John continued to spin slowly to his left but gave no other signs. Once he passed two thousand feet, he spun to his left and made no effort to pull his rip cord. Naturally, I was confused at John’s actions and knew that something was desperately wrong. As I continued trying to get down to him, I caught myself yelling, “Pull, John! Pull, John!” I knew he couldn’t hear me. I watched him continue to fall toward the ground at about 160 miles per hour with no attempt to pull his rip cord. Finally, his shadow and body came together on the ground with a cloud of dust flying up, creating a silhouette around his body.
By that time I was in a daze and well under one thousand feet. After I had pulled my rip cord and was in the saddle, I broke into tears. I landed a few feet from John’s body, which was lying facedown as if he were still free-falling. I knew he was dead. For some reason, I didn’t have the courage to go over to his body, and I simply continued to grieve. Within a short time Lieutenant Decker landed nearby and came over to me, put his arm around my shoulder and comforted me. I kept thinking that I was responsible for losing one of my very best friends. John was also a good friend of Lieutenant Decker’s; it was a terrible loss for both of us. Sadly, John would have retired in twenty-four days.
Eventually, a Navy ambulance arrived and took John’s body to the morgue. Lieutenant Decker and I returned to the Paraloft, stunned and in silence. I quickly showered, changed into my khakis, and went over to NSWG staff to accompany CDR Irve C. LeMoyne to notify John’s wife and children that he was dead. That was one of the hardest things I had ever had to do. Because John had previously asked me to be the executor of his last will and
testament, my responsibilities had only begun. Early the following Monday morning, Bob Keene and I were back at Niland teaching another sniper course. I had little time for grieving, which was just as well.
I didn’t have the heart to jump again until one day before my thirty-seventh birthday, September twenty-ninth. I was the jump master, and jumped with a great bunch of Team 12 guys from 9,400 feet.
Six weeks after John’s death I was called back to UDT-12 to replace Senior Chief Frank Perry as the chief master at arms (CMAA). Frank was a legend in UDT and SEAL team as an athlete, a plank owner of SEAL Team 1, and one of the mildest speaking and nicest individuals that I had ever known within the teams. He was making preparations to retire, and needed several weeks to break me in to my new responsibilities. Once I relieved Senior Chief Frank Perry as the command’s CMAA, he retired from active duty with twenty-six years service and returned to his home state of Maine.
My immediate boss was Lt. Comdr. Denny Baber, the command’s new executive officer. Commander R. A. Gormly had also relieved Commander Winters as the commanding officer, or captain.
While I was the CMAA and acting command master chief of UDT-12, I had the opportunity—or curse, depending upon how one chooses to look at it—to be the jump master of Coronado’s annual Fourth of July celebration in 1980. Every Fourth of July, the Navy took advantage of the opportunity to promote excellent community relations between the Navy and the citizens of Coronado and San Diego.
That year’s SpecWar show was basically the standard scenario that we had been using for years. One of the events was the UDT/SEAL helo cast and recovery. Initially, swimmers exited a CH-46’s ramp or the helo’s
deck hatch, as it moved slowly forward at an altitude of twenty-five feet. Once the swimmers had entered the water with their fins on their web belts, their face masks, K-bar knifes, UDT life jackets, and, lest I forget, their UDT swim trunks, the frogmen swam toward an assigned beach in a skirmish line as if performing a combat hydrographic survey. After the swimmers arrived at the beach, they performed crowd-pleasing surprises in one form or another. When the swimmers had accomplished their mission, they returned to the center of the bay, where they lined up twenty-five yards apart. A short time later they were picked up by the CH-46, utilizing a Jacob’s ladder hanging down from the center of its deck.
Another event demonstrated the use of the McGuire rig for the emergency extraction of SEALs and downed pilots in a hostile environment, and then a squad of SEALs rappeled off the ramp of the helo from one hundred feet. The McGuire event was demonstrated by two SEALs who were hooked up to a couple of 120-foot rappeling lines that were in turn carefully secured to the CH-46. As the two men held hands, they were lifted by the helo to an altitude of a hundred feet or so, and then they sailed over the watchful crowds as the helo made its racetrack flight pattern around and over Glorietta Bay.
The old World War II swimmer cast and recovery from an LCPL MK-4 or -11 was demonstrated by another UDT squad, which swam to the beach for another form of reconnaissance, and later set off a few small underwater charges. After the recon, the swimmers swam toward the center of Glorietta Bay, where they formed a straight line with twenty-five yards separating each man and awaited pickup. Utilizing the time-proven World War II method, the LCPL with an IBS carrying a UDT recovery man attached to its port side soon came along at a speed of approximately twelve knots and started the recovery of the
combat swimmers. The coxswain of the LCPL carefully guided the boat alongside each swimmer as the recovery man placed a pickup loop over each swimmer’s upraised left arm and flipped him into the IBS.
Another event included a demonstration of SpecWar’s SDVs—Swimmer Delivery Vehicles, or minisubs—and seven or so UDT static-line parachute jumpers exiting from a CH-46 helo at about 1,250 feet, depending upon the wind’s direction and speed, over Glorietta Bay, where the jumpers splashed into its center. And, finally, the Navy’s Leap Frogs (UDT/SEAL skydivers) exited the CH-46 from twelve thousand feet with smoke grenades attached to their jump boots to enable the crowd to see all of the jumpers as they performed synchronous movements and created six- or eight-man stars. Eventually, the SpecWar jump team landed with their five- and seven-cell “squares” (parachutes) on the Coronado Golf Course, in the midst of the awed and pleased crowd, concluding the SpecWar demonstration.
During all of this activity, a SEAL squad, dressed in their combat gear with cammi paint on their faces and weapons, had quietly patrolled into the crowd as if on a combat mission. The squad’s mission was to capture another SEAL dressed as a civilian from the center of the unwitting crowd. Once the abduction began, the targeted individual made a good fight of it, which eventually required the SEALs to fire their blank-adapted M-16’s to simulate the wounding of the supposed Communist pig. Before the fight was over, pandemonium broke out—terrified women screamed, rug rats bawled, and old women fainted. In short order, one of BSU’s high-speed boats arrived to spirit off the SEAL squad and their prisoner from the confused crowd. These shows were greatly enjoyed by the public; however, detailed rehearsals had to take place before each July fourth.
On the morning of July second, after several days of preparation by all departments, I briefed the helo swimmer cast and recovery personnel first in the UDT briefing room. Shortly afterward, when I started briefing the parachute jumpers, I discovered that my request of the UDT-12 training officer to select only experienced jumpers had fallen on deaf ears. I needed experienced jumpers because the very narrow Glorietta Bay was no more than 150 meters in width and had a hundred or so yachts that lined the golf course side of the bay. Because time was short, I accepted my lot in life and the very real possibility that some of the jumpers would get hurt or worse.
With that in mind, I began my briefing with a few solemn statements. “I know that some of you guys have recently graduated from Airborne School and are looking forward to today’s jump. However, you are about to make your first water jump under adverse conditions. The bay is narrow and filled with obstacles, and the wind seems to be gradually increasing from offshore. My spot as the jump master must be exact—there is no room for error. You must do exactly as I tell you. I may have to give you last minute instructions just prior to the exit point due to changes in the wind. Now let’s get on with the briefing.”
Within another two hours, all of us were in the helo at an altitude of 1,250 feet circling Glorietta Bay in a clockwise, racetrack flight pattern. I threw out two streamers—the streamers have the same rate of descent as a jumper using a T-10 nonsteerable canopy—to check for drift. Not surprisingly, the streamers drifted to the far side of the Coronado Golf Course due to the wind having increased to a steady fifteen knots. Using one of SpecWar’s PRC-77 radios that I kept in the helo, I called the SpecWar demonstration director, who was on the western edge of Glorietta Bay, and asked him if he wished to cancel the jump due to
the borderline wind conditions. His answer was empathic. “No problem. Put the jumpers out as scheduled.”
As the jump master, I had the authority, according to SpecWar’s guidelines, to cancel the noncombat jump if I felt that the conditions were unsafe. In spite of my dislike of the situation, I decided not to cancel, and had the pilot adjust his racetrack pattern out just past the surf zone, which was approximately 150 meters seaward of the beach, across the highway and on the seaward side of the Coronado Condominiums. Using good Kentucky windage, I dropped two more streamers to recheck the spot where I wanted the jumpers to exit the helo. With satisfaction, I watched both of them land in the center of the bay. I decided that I would spot long so that the inexperienced jumpers would only have to steer directly for the center of the bay. I quickly passed the word to each jumper to exit closely together and to steer directly for the center of the bay as our helo swung around and started its approach to the exit point. I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for PO3 Douglas B. Smith and the other guys. They knew they would be drifting directly over the new, tall Coronado Condominiums on their way to the bay. They also knew that if anything went wrong, they would be the ones paying the consequences.
As we approached the exit point, I did my spotting from the side of the starboard door of the CH-46. Once we had reached the exit point, which was outboard of the surf zone and above the Pacific Ocean, I gave the hand signal for the seven jumpers to jump off the end of the ramp. Within three to four seconds all jumpers had exited. Unfortunately, one of the jumpers went through several suspension lines of the previous jumper’s parachute, resulting in their entanglement. As they were slowly spinning their way toward the bay, I told the pilot to stand by for casualties and had him circle well above the entangled
jumpers. Fortunately, my spot was a good one, and the entangled jumpers cleared the Coronado Condos with room to spare and splashed safely into the water, missing the end of a small pier—on the Silver Strand, or west side of Glorietta Bay—by ten feet. The remaining jumpers landed in the center of the bay with no injuries or problems. I was relieved, to say the least. As Ian S., the Company POIC at the Embassy House in My Tho in ’69 was fond of saying, “All’s well that ends well.” My feelings exactly, I thought as I returned to the North Island Naval Air Station with the helo and crew.
As in the past, SpecWar’s Fourth of July demonstration and all of its events went exactly as planned with no hitches or casualties.
For the remainder of that year, I served under two of the best XOs—Lt. Comdr. Denny Baber and Lt. Comdr. Dale L. McLeskey—and the best CO of my career—Comdr. Robert A. Gormly. I was also selected to attend the prestigious Sergeants Major Academy located at Fort Bliss, El Paso, Texas.
Prior to my departure for the Sergeants Major Academy, I decided to have a going-away party at my house with two of my best friends, Randy Bryant and Jim Thompson, both ex-Marines. I had promised them refreshments, hors d’oeuvres, a barbecued venison hindquarter, and other forms of fine victuals as enticements. What I didn’t tell them was that the “venison hindquarter” had actually come from a large, male, German shepherd. For entertainment, I told them we would have pellet pistol and pellet rifle matches between the three of us, and the loser would wash the dishes and serve the other two. Neither hesitated in accepting my invitation. Because Jim had shot competition in the Marine Corps, he was especially eager to challenge me in thepistol and rifle matches. In some ways we were alike—Jim had to justify his pride and I had to protect my image.
A week before the party, I had been awakened at 0130 hours with whining and growling that seemed to be coming from Lady, my black Labrador bitch. I went to my back door and saw that a German shepherd had crawled over my six-foot backyard fence and was hung up with my prized bird dog. I was infuriated! I didn’t want another batch of puppies. Lady had a nasty habit of having nine puppies per litter, which resulted in over one hundred dollars per month increase in 1980–81 dog-food dollars. I got my .22 pistol, walked up to the two lovers, and let fly a projectile into the preoccupied German shepherd’s ear. Within seconds I was dragging the dehorned dog to my shop, where I strung him up from the rafters. I gutted and skinned him like a deer and put his four quarters into my freezer. That’s justice—that’ll teach you to screw around with my dog, you Communist pig, I thought.