In remembrance of my father, Veterans' Day 2013
My father, Lt. Col. Browning H. Gorrell, Jr. (USAF ret.,
deceased) is the focus of my thoughts on this Veterans’ Day, as in many years
passed. Whether or not he was a true
“hero” or “highly decorated” is irrelevant from my perspective. I believe he was, as much as I conflict (or
am conflicted with) the idea of war, the military industrial complex, etc.
I wish I had a copy of his picture, taken during flight
training in about 1965, standing proudly posed at the cockpit of his T-38. He was very trim, not too tall (5’8” in a
family of giants well over 6’). Given
the latest in modern weaponry, his stature was not a challenge, no impediment
nor handicap. He had everything it took
to be a pilot, and then some.
When I actually did come along, in January, 1966, the
sediment which crept under the front door from summer dust storms was replaced
with as much snow from a particularly fervent downfall at our home on Reese Air
Force Base, Lubbock, Tx. Not long after
that, the newly minted father was enduring survival training, I believe in
Washington or Oregon…as close to jungle conditions as available in the
continental US. A call came to the newly
minted mother, inquiring as to what my dad’s choice of aircraft was for his
pending Vietnam assignment.
As the family lore goes, Mom was confronted with a question
where she had no footing for an answer.
This was a question, and a conversation, for Dad. Dad, however, was totally off the grid,
isolated in some moss-covered, hyper-vegetated world for something like 3
weeks, lacking any of the modern means of communication we take so for granted
today.
So, as any savvy person, especially a school teacher who
needed to learn the ramifications of her very important choice, she began
asking questions. From the very basic,
“What are the choices?” (A: F-4 Phantom or C-123 Provider); to, “What are the
planes all about?” (A: The Phantom is a front line fighter with heavy armament,
ability to carry bombs and strafe. The
C-123 Provider is a cargo plane, hauling all sorts of stuff everywhere).
Further: “What about
safety?”
A-1)
The F-4 Phantom
flew at Mach 2.23 (close to 1500 mph), at a ceiling of 60,000 feet with an
arsenal of “1 x M61 Vulcan 20 mm Gatling cannon and up to 18,650 lbs. of
weapons on nine external hardpoints, including air-to-air missiles,
air-to-ground missiles, and most types of bombs.”
http://militaryhistory.about.com/od/militaryaircraft/p/f4phantomii.htm
A-2) The C-123 Provider was and remains a workhorse for the
USAF’s logistics needs, moving people and material everywhere. The caller, the story goes, let it be known
the plane is unarmed yet has an armored cockpit. It does not engage in combat. “Non-combat” untangled from military lexicon,
and explained in layman longhand, means avoid combat while transporting men,
alive and dead, fuel, munitions, vehicles and whatever else needed to go from
point A to B, within a combat zone, to the front lines, hot or not, based out
of Da Nang.
Faced with this choice, and the known facts, my mother, very
pregnant with my little sister, obviously chose the non-combat, armored cockpit
aircraft. My father laughed when he
heard her story, agony, and decision.
The “armored cockpit” turned out to be slabs of steel in the crew’s
seats, offering real protection only to their respective asses. He served in Vietnam from January thru
December of 1967. He arrived home to
meet his 7 month old daughter for the first time, and in time to celebrate his
son’s second birthday.
On January 30, 1968, as Mom was welcoming the 30th year of
her life, Da Nang was engulfed in the Tet Offensive, the singular largest
military offensive of the war thus far, with the US playing defense against
80,000 plus very angry and committed North Vietnamese and VC.
I only recently, like a few weeks ago, made the connection
between Tet and Dad’s deployment in Da Nang.
While watching Full Metal Jacket, there is a scene of “the base” being
assaulted during the offensive. I
started to think about the chronology and realized he was either in the middle
of it, or very recently departed.
Mind you, Da Nang was not a central part of, nor as severely
affected as other cities, during the Tet.
Regardless, Da Nang would be at the very bottom of the list of places I
would like to be on January 30-31, 1968.
I watched a video (no audio) of the time before, during, and after the
30
th and 31
st.
The
gist of it is a progression from placid outpost, to full on hot combat zone and
the fog of war, to a puppy (
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2jkKDL4smP4
). If it wasn’t a focal point of the offensive, I would hate to see, much less
be in, what was.
As I learned after a
conversation with my mother (fact checking), Dad arrived home on the cusp of
the offensive and was saved from the assault.
This is not to say he was too far removed from “the
suck”. I have heard several variants, or
pieces parts of what seems to be one story, plus collective memory, but have
been foiled in online searches for confirmation of the following.
One story my dad told me was about flying with a “cowboy”
pilot whose greatest joy was flying above a river, below tree top level. The rear cargo door, basically an enormous
ramp the size of two garage doors total, was lowered. Attached to the frame of the aircraft was
chain, which attached to heavy duty rope, which, in turn, was attached to a
swift boat anchor, a substantial, hooked, chunk of steel. The goal of this excise was trolling for
water craft, i.e. junks. My father was
appalled and angered.
Although I was not able to corroborate the fact online, both
my mother and I remember my dad being a recipient of the Distinguished Flying
Cross. I had never heard her story about
it until today. Apparently, in his
understated fashion, Dad said they had an award banquet to attend. He was now in Charleston, SC, soon to embark
on the bulk of his career with the C5-A Galaxy.
I’m sure it was full mess-dress. I’m also sure my mother was outfitted in the
best fashion of the time, despite what we might think about it now (love ya,
mom). So the young Captain and his wife
did their duty and he received his medal.
No biggie as he played it out.
Over a decade passed before my mother realized the
significance of the Cross. While packing
for our departure from Scott AFB, near Belleville, Il., at his retirement, Mom discovered the
document which accompanied the award. It
sent her into a tizzie and jives with other stories I had heard from Dad.
Essentially, the document outlined his actions and the
events of that day. He and crew flew a
full load of fuel to the front lines, again below tree top level, following the
river. On the trip, they received fire and
were hit multiple times. They flew a
second flight, same procedure, same results, yet arriving back at base without
having blown up in mid-air. Incoming
tracers (+) 25,000 pounds of fuel (–) any protection from the plane’s skin or
framework (=) the likelihood of bad things, very bad things for all aboard.
I remember as a child, amongst all the memorabilia,
significant and trivial, mounted on the walls of our home, a relatively small,
unadorned plaque. It was awarded for a
“Punctured Provider”. Obviously, his
aircraft was a C-123, aka Provider. The
Punctured bit gave note to the fact he had received fire, with holes in the
plane to prove it, but survived. Dad
brushed it off as something that was given him by the guys in his outfit, not a
legitimate accommodation. It isn’t heavy
math to think this was in conjunction with the Cross, an award offered on the
battlefield, within the squadron, to make light of an otherwise extremely gut
wrenching experience.
Flash forward to 1979.
We lived in O’Fallon, Il. Dad was
stationed at Military Airlift Command Headquarters, Scott AFB, I was 13. He took me to see Apocalypse Now on the big
screen, my first ever R rated movie and the spark for the only real
conversation I ever had about the war with my father.
If memory serves, the Iran Hostage situation was in full
swing by that point, and I was well aware of a major military base at high
alert. Although I have since studied
other instances of such, the state of things on the base was staggering for the
young mind. Even in retrospect, looking
at it from on base was more massive than looking at bases post 9/11 from off
post. My mother compared it to the Cuban
Missile Crisis.
The flight lines were chockablock full of everything,
engines running – fighters, the signature C5s, support vehicles, flight crews…
To get on base, something which usually required a flash of military ID for the
“parent” / driver, one now had to have their associated, active duty, military
spouse meet them at the gate before proceeding to the grocery
store.
In the theater, having never been to a movie with only my
dad, without Mom and Cis in tow, it was immediately a different
experience. What I saw changed me
forever, as did reading George Orwell’s 1984 the previous year in 7th
grade.
There was cussing, subterfuge at the highest levels, much
blood, and drugs. The violence was
presented in a way I had never seen before, from the opening scene in the hotel
room to the butchering of the water buffalo.
Most riveting, formative, and telling was probably the scene at the
bridge where the US builds it every day, the
VC destroy it, and all the while the participants are locked in a, by
default, hallucinogenic, totally unimaginable cycle of events. I was transformed.
Dad was transfixed.
He could not keep his very wide open eyes off the screen. He seemed clammy, with a hint of perspiration
at the brow. Afterwards, he was a
different man, a man I only knew for about half an hour.
He talked about the war, not in depth, but for the only time
nonetheless. He told me about when my
sister was born, early morning May 10, 1967, Lakeland, Fl time. The Red Cross had a very efficient system to
alert active duty folks to such events.
Apparently, Dad beat them by several hours, shooting upright in his
bunk, in the middle of the night Da Nang time, and announcing proudly, “It’s a
girl!” before flopping back to sleep.
Another story was not so cozy. Dad had always, for good reason, fashioned
himself a proficient amateur photographer.
He damn sure acquired the right cameras, mostly in country. He told me of a crystal clear night, with
good light for time lapse shots. This
night, Da Nang was receiving direct hits from incoming mortar fire. The planes coming and going are likely
carrying fuel or ammunition.
A plane had begun its take off. Along the way, mortars struck the plane and
or the runway. After the crew escaped,
thankfully, the whole thing exploded in a multitude of ways, eventually
exceeding the runway and penetrating a mine field. In other words, pyrotechnics for miles. To bring this particular story to a tight
conclusion, I will offer first hand witness of Dad grabbing the kitchen stool,
his camera, and taking up watch on top of the station wagon when a tornado
warning was issued during our tenure in Oklahoma. He wanted the shot. This night on the flight line in Da Nang, he
got it.
Back to the thought- I didn’t understand Vietnam when it was
happening. As I became more analytical,
as my experience and learning grew, I became increasingly disaffected with the
service. However, I do not want to digress from my
account of Dad’s history.
To review: Dad began
to fly, spent time in the war, and returned to do some serious work with cargo
planes. When we moved to Charleston,
about 1968, until we moved to Altus, Oklahoma in appx. 1972, Dad progressed
thru the C-131 and ultimately to the C5A-Galaxy, the biggest, baddest bird in
the sky.
He was trained in Altus, even though still based in
Charleston, a member of the 2nd cadre of pilots trained on the new
format, a very select crew. Ultimately,
he would go on to help write the manual on C5 operations while at Military
Airlift Command, Scott AFB. He was
flying all over the world, gone for weeks at a time, in both planes. If memory serves, he flew the first C5 to
England, from Charleston, met the Queen and showed her the aircraft.
While still in Charleston, which would be until around 1972,
Dad took me, then less than 7 years old, to the flight line one day for a walk
thru of his plane. Prior to this first
hand encounter with the largest flying object known to man at the time, I had
seen pictures of the C5 with a Volkswagen Beetle parked next to it for
scale. The Bug was about the size of one
engine.
The statistics still ring in my head: wingspan – close to a football field (223’),
maximum payload-142 tons, tires – 52, wiring – enough to encircle the globe
several times. The cockpit, the actual experience
of sitting in the Captain’s chair was simply overload, an unbelievable myriad
of dials, buttons, and monitors.
Standing in the empty cargo area, where Greyhound buses could be stacked
two tall and several deep, was akin to looking at the Grand Canyon for the
first time.
On another work trip, Dad allowed me to accompany him to the
radar station in Altus, OK. The
scene: my father was, to be objective, a
hot commodity coming up through the ranks in the C5 program. One Saturday morning, after my bowling
league, he said we had to swing by “work” for a minute. “Work”, to me, was the squadron building on
the flight line, where we had Christmas parties and I imagined him spending his
time while earthbound. I was between 3rd
and 5th grade.
Instead, on a summer day, we traipsed several floors below
ground, in an inconspicuous 4 story building, to a very large, very steel door
with only a 4”x6” peephole, which was in itself a one way mirror. A voice came through the grill beneath the
apparent mirror, asking for ID to be displayed in the mirror, then password.
To this request for a password, my father replied something
like “Christ, Jimmie, just let me in so I can sign form XYZ and be done with
it.” The door swung open. The room was arrayed with radar monitors and
computer equipment (c. 1974) from desk height to ceiling. I had never seen anything like it and knew
the only reason I was allowed in was because I was too young to understand
it. Most present were clad in Bermuda
shorts and polo shirts. I could imagine
Hunter S. on duty at such a time.
Here, I will flashback to his early career. Dad was not originally a pilot, rather a
weather person associated with the first space launches. He would study the conditions and help decide
whether or not a launch would be prudent.
He kept his nose for weather his whole life, imparted it to me, which I
have imparted to my son. He would often lament not hanging on to the paper copies of pre-flight
clearances for weather, where he and all the original astronauts signed off. Instead, they were filed in triplicate or
pitched.
At one point in Oklahoma, there was a very severe outbreak
of tornadoes, second only to the relatively recent outbreak that clobbered
Tuscaloosa, Al, Joplin, Mo., etc. At one
point, there were 5 funnel clouds on the ground in our county, and two on the
base where we all knew our dads worked. I had often seen my dad in attack mode- grab
the stool, camera, maybe a beverage, go wait for the ultimate twister pic. This time he was at the flight line.
The elementary school did the unthinkable, closing the
school and sending students scurrying in the face of the storms, no duck and
cover as was standard operating procedure.
My sister, myself, our friends, headed directly for our house as it was
closest to school. We probably had 10-12
very scared kids hunkered down in the hall during the multiple warnings coming
over the radio, with one very nervous woman trying to placate fears. Mom repeatedly reminded us that our fathers,
all of whom were in the same squadron, would sensibly, safely, be in bomb /
storm shelters.
That afternoon, the skies turned black and violent, the
creek rose at least 10’, and then the sun came out. Dad pulled in the drive to much
celebration. “You’re alive!” being the
common sentiment at home was met with “You wouldn’t believe what I saw!” from
the flight line. He and his comrades
were standing on the flight line taking pictures the whole time. The next day, we visited the flight line,
where C5s were spun willy nilly. Soon,
we were presented with 8x10 glossies of the twister from approximately 100
yards away.
My other significant memory from Altus days, probably the
first cognizant days of my father’s path and the war, was the return of Vietnam
POWs in 1973-75. I don’t recall the
dates, nor do I feel like researching them at this point. The memory is nevertheless etched in my mind,
as crystal clear as any modern means of saving images.
We sat, the four of us, in what had been the garage of our
base housing on Lakeshore Drive, Altus AFB.
The “den” was a common style of conversion in which my dad, friends, and
myself to a very limited degree, participated.
The scheme was turning at least 2/3rds of the attached garage into
living space. Essentially, it became the
TV room. My participation was mostly
plugging in various tools as the “cordless” had yet to arrive.
In this cheaply paneled, yet comfortably outfitted annex, we
sat to watch the televised return of POWs.
I can’t remember the year; sources say 1973, gut memory says 1975. Regardless, we, as a family, watched hundreds
of POWs exit planes on the final legs of their transport, on American
soil. My parents were glued to the
screen as I have never seen them, before or after.
Among the emaciated, bearded, celebratory survivors were
friends. These were friends from pilot training, from all eras pre-war, friends
who had been lost for all intents and purposes returning home very much
alive. Later, some of these survivors
visited us at home, and the same reactions were universal. I remember hysterical joy from both parents,
tears of relief and latent mourning from Mom and Dad. This was the first of only two times I ever
saw my father cry. The second, and last,
was when his mother died.
Dad’s career continued on the predictable trajectory. Thru Air War College in 1977/8, and on to MAC
Headquarters, at which point, I believe, he did not see any prospect in the
requirements for advancement in the services.
At least, he weighed the pluses of continuing vs. the pluses of
retirement, at an opportune and necessary point.
Basically, this meant less stick time, more bureaucracy, for exceedingly rapid moves farther abroad in order to climb slowly to General. He didn't buy it and had a valid out.
Because of this, the best decision I think my parents ever
made, I have known a family “home town”, a place I can claim for generations
back, before I started High School. That
in and of itself is a deviation from the military norm which, from my
experience, lands families in geography far removed from any historical
connection. Thank God for a family home,
and a family I memorialize as good, strong, and moral.
Love ya Dad. I often
wish you were here for counsel.
