BEST SELLING AUTHOR STARTED OUT ON THE USS YORKTOWN

Allan Gurganus Tells All

USS YORKTOWN Vietnam War veteran Allan Gurganus l

anded for four solid months on The New York Times bestseller list with his highly praised 1989 first novel The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All. His follow-up book was the prize-winning short story collection White People.
Question: Do you have a first memory of wanting to be a writer?

Allan: "I started out being a painter. I had one-man shows when I was 14 and sold some work. The first blinding realization of what writing could do was when I was on the USS Yorktown in the war in Vietnam. I became so bored I decided I was going to actually read a book. It was Henry James' The Portrait of a Lady and it took the top of my head off. I was so deeply thrilled by it. I thought, "I bet I could do this, I bet I could do something like this." I was such an innocent that I didn't understand the complexity."

You've said you read 1,200 books on the Yorktown. How did you pull that off? How did you get the books?

Listening to "Boss Radio KHJ Hollywood/Los Angeles" while on
patrol off the coast of North Vietnam

I was a sailor on the USS Yorktown sailing off the coast of North Vietnam in the late sixties. One of my watches was on a six inch gun. At night, we could see the targets of North Vietnam getting bombed by US Navy and US Air Force war planes. It looked like distant thunder although the sound didn't reach us in the Gulf of Tonkin.

One of the sailors had his sister make hours of tapes of KHJ radio as it broadcast to the Los Angeles region from its studio in Hollywood. She would mail the tapes to her brother on the Yorktown. We would all gather on the mess decks after our work shifts and various watches around the Yorktown were over and before the "Mid Rats" (midnight rations) were put out for the flight crew and guys working around the clock. We'd listen to KHJ radio on the speakers the other sailor set up on his reel to reel tape machine.

It felt like we were home to hear the "boss jocks" talking about the girls on the beach, and the "temperature in Hollywood is 72°" and the used car commercials from "Ralph Williams on Bellflower Boulevard!" while we floated around in Yankee Station off the coast of North Vietnam. I'm sure the "boss jocks" didn't know that their voices went so far and that they meant so much to us. I know the old boys of the Yorktown had their Tokyo Rose to listen to but we had KHJ radio in Hollywood.

TOO FAST TO STOP AND TOO SLOW TO STOP;
CRASHING FROM THE YORKTOWN FLIGHT DECK INTO THE NORTH CHINA SEA

Van Team 'Able' of Navy Squadron VC-35 was aboard the U.S.S. Yorktown (CVA-10), and had joined Task Force 77 two weeks after the Korean Armistice was signed. Our story occurs exactly 30 days after the signing of the Armistice. Three men had been formed into an aircrew team about five months earlier and had flown many hours together. They were Lt. Richard L. (Dick) Arnicar, AE-2(CA) James R. Ash, and AT-3(CA) Ron L. Cammans. Dick was a recalled WW-II Navy carrier pilot, married with no children, and a graduate Engineer. Jim had 2 years of college, volunteered when the war began but turned down NavCad because he didn't want the reserve obligation. Ron was too young to have had the opportunity at college, and he had volunteered when the war began also.

The Yorktown was on station in the North China Sea and, our ECM mission for the day launched around 09:30. It was a beautiful day and we were in our assigned AD-4N, designated NR-13. (No joke, just a bad omen.) Each crewman was in his usual assignment, Ash in the port seat and Cammans in the starboard. Our pre-flight and run-up was normal and we awaited the signal for deck launch, as if it was just another hop in a time of non-hostility. After the signal Dick released the brakes and that big engine began to hurl us toward the bow. We ran down the deck, aircraft straight and level, until we reached the forward portion of the ship's island. It was then that we heard the most frightening of sounds. (Whether you're driving on top, or in that small compartment in the fuselage, the sound is heard by all and means the same to each.)

The sound was instantaneous - total - SILENCE. The engine had quit. No spitting, no sputtering. It just quit. Dick immediately realized that we were going too fast to stop, and too slow to fly. His reaction was immediate, and life saving. He steered the AD to starboard, and we left the flight deck on the starboard side, just short of the bow; and the momentum kept the wheels from catching in the catwalk railings.

I can't speak for what was going through Dick's mind, but I know he was quite busy. But for me, I just looked out my 10-inch diameter porthole and watched the ship go by. I was tightly strapped, and I knew Ron was also; so there was nothing I could do but watch. I can't equate to you the feeling of the impact with the water, but I would suggest you imagine a plane with considerable forward momentum diving off the top of a 7-story building. It was a sudden stop.

After impact, each crewman has his own story; and all three are different. In my case, I was tightly strapped but I foolishly had made no effort to brace myself. My chin went violently to my chest and I was momentarily stunned, or unconscious for a brief time. When I came to my senses I was immediately aware that the ship was on my side of the aircraft, and that I would have to exit on the starboard side. When I looked to my right the starboard hatch was jettisoned, Ron was gone, and water was halfway up the hatch.

In AirCrew School we were told that a plane would sink in about 15 seconds, and that the sinking plane could drag you under if you were close to it. My survival skills told me to get out and to swim like hell, which I did. The official shipboard photographer was taking numerous pictures which, when we saw them later, revealed Ron swimming near the plane's starboard elevator and waving to the ships crew that he was O.K. They also revealed the fastest swimmer in the world taking a 90-degree angle away from the aircraft.

The pictures also revealed something else. Dick's canopy was open, of course, but he couldn't get out of the cockpit. The ship's crew (and many of our own flight crew) were trying to signal Ron and I to go back to assist Dick, but Ron thought they were asking his own condition, and I had my back to the ship. (To this day, I regret my instincts to leave the aircraft without thinking to check on whether Dick was out or not. (You make your decisions, then you live with the result.) Dick had suffered spinal chord injury, which resulted in permanent loss of the use of his legs. The pictures reveal him with his hands on each side of the cockpit, trying to push himself up and over the side.

Each time I watch the movie "The Bridges of Toko-Ri" the helicopter pilot, "Chief Forney" played by Mickey Rooney, always makes me think of the Yorktown's rescue 'copter pilot. How I wish I knew his name, for he is a real hero to me. Realizing Dick's predicament, he lowered his sling into the cockpit. Because of Dick's condition he was unable to properly place the sling, and the water was rising fast. Dick managed to physically hold onto the sling until he was safely placed back aboard ship.

Dick spent considerable time in rehab, enjoyed a rewarding engineering career with an aircraft manufacturer, and he and his wife adopted two children. He, and his two AirCrewmen, attended the 50th anniversary reunion of VC-35 in October, 2000. . Lt. Dick Arnicar has been picked up by the rescue 'copter, and is enroute back to the Yorktown. Ron has thoughtfully got his one-man life raft inflated, and is luxuriously relaxing in it. I'm at least 20 yards away treading water when I see, over the swells, that he has a raft. After swimming to him I get a good hold on the broad end, and we both rejoice that all three of us survived.

Everything appeared to be O.K. with both of us, so Ron resumes his 'relaxing' in the raft; with me hanging on behind his head. As Ron told (and retold) the story at our recent VC-35 reunion, he thought things were fine, until he kept hearing an unusual sound. Glub - Glub - Glub. He decided to check on me and found that, even though I was hanging onto the raft, my head was underwater. When he had entered the raft he had thrown out the sea anchor, and my feet were tangled in the line and it was pulling me under.

Ron pulled in the sea anchor, which helped me considerably. The carrier was no longer in sight over the swells, but we were confident that the good old U.S. Navy would soon come to our rescue. After a time, which seemed longer than it probably was, we could see a Destroyer headed our way. Rescue was at hand, or was it?

The Destroyer kept coming toward us, coming toward us, and coming toward us. In fact it looked like it was going to ram us. I hadn't felt that I felt panic when I came to my senses after the AD hit the water, but I knew I felt panic now. It kept getting closer & closer, and the

Destroyer's bow never veered away from us. In fact the very front of the port side of the bow nosed right into our raft, and the raft just slid down the side of the ship until we were amidships. (Obviously the Skipper knew how to keep our raft snug to the ship, but he sure didn't communicate that message to us.) Ron and I were relieved, and knew that we would soon be out of the water and safe aboard the U.S.S. Parks. Not quite!

Since I was the swimmer, a rope ladder was lowered for me to board first. I'm about halfway up the side when the ladder either breaks, or turns loose. Again, glub, glub, glub. Ron helps me maneuver back to the ship, and another rope ladder. Finally we're aboard, greeted by the Skipper, and received our portion of brandy before a physical appraisal in sick bay. We were initially offered the opportunity to change from our flight suits into dry officer's khaki, but we thought we should 'own up' to only being enlisted men. (The red carpet was withdrawn.)

Our adventure wasn't quite over, for our transfer back to the Yorktown remained. This was accomplished, within a few hours, with a ride on a breeches buoy. This would be exciting, even with a smooth sea. (I'd estimate that the swells were 3 feet or better.) As the Destroyer rolls port then starboard, the chair drops toward the sea then dramatically shoots skyward. It's a real roller coaster ride, and one I'll remember always.

Back aboard the Yorktown Ron & I were debriefed, then allowed to visit Lt. Arnicar. The carrier's metal smiths have created a transport cage enclosing his bed. The bed was raised in the middle about 18 inches, and Dick was lying on his back. It certainly looked like an uncomfortable position, but he was paralyzed from the waist down and didn't appear to be in pain. Within a day or two he was transferred, by breeches buoy, to a tanker to begin his trip to Long Beach Naval Hospital.

Ron and I continued the cruise flying VC-35's missions in our AD-4N's, piloted by junior pilots assigned from VA-65. These pilots had never flown with Aircrewmen, but that's another story! You can imagine.

J. R. Ash
http://www.abledogs.com/Stories/toofast_1.htm

I'm sure a bunch of you guys worked longer and harder hours than I did. But I still just wanted to share a thought with you... When we were "on the line" my regular work hours were 0600 to 1800. Being of low rank sometimes I landed a 4 hour watch on top of these regular hours.

It would usually be a 2000 - 12M watch. So I had 2 hours to pass the time from the end of my 12 hour regular work shift, then do a 4 hour watch till midnight, then be back at my regular 0600 - 1800 work shift the next day.

And being of low rank, I pulled this kind of duty a lot more often than I would have chosen for myself! So whenever I had one of these kinds of days, it meant I worked from 0600 till 1800 the next day with only 4 hours of sleep in between. I learned quickly to try to sleep those 2 precious hours between 1800 and 2000 when my 4 hour watch began.

What a l-o-o-o-n-g day and night that was!

When we arrived back from WestPac and I was a mess cook; only a few of us left to work the entire mess decks for all who stayed on board and - I kid you not! - I worked from 0600 on Saturday to 1800 on Sunday with only eating and bathroom breaks - 36 hours straight through -- no time off for sleeping or anything else!

The picture of AB3 Kevin Luby staring into the sight gauge to look for impurities

in "aviation fuel" in the JP-5 Pump Room was very interesting. When I was a member of the Gas Crew, which was V-7 Div. in my era, we did not have such advanced technology. And, in fact, since I spent all of my working hours fueling aircraft on the flight deck, the only time I ever personally saw the inside of any of our Pump Rooms, which were all located in some part of the bowels of the ship, was when I had to stand one of those watches that required you to enter every one of our Division's compartments.

We had a Chief (McPhee) who would run a piece of thread across the hatch, attached to the dogs on either side. The idea was that he would know whether or not the guy on watch actually entered all of those little spaces or not. The theory being that the watch would break the thread when he opened and entered the Hatch.

But we were always smarter than that old hunch backed B--tard. So,we would untie the thread, enter the compartment and leave some date/time sensitive item in the compartment, leave and retie the thread.

When McPhee started his rant we would insist that we had, in fact been in the space and could prove it. The ensuing trip down to the seventh deck or so with him - and usually another one or two other guys - would confirm that we had indeed been in the compartment.

"Well geez, Chief, we would say, "I figured you wanted that piece of string to be there for some reason, so I made sure not to break it and tie it back just like you had it. Didn't I do it right?"

Ah, but my best recollection of our Pump Rooms was that we had our Division Still in our Lube Oil Pump Room on the seventh deck . . .that is, until the night it exploded and coated every inch of that pump room with raisin mash. Pity, Pity. Pity. After that happened, it was back to the old stand-by Turpin Hydrate, or the bottle of Southern Comfort I convinced my Mom to send me in my Christmas package.

Those were the days, mates.