In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  We landed in Slidell, Louisiana, on an airstrip lit with chem lights because the nearby power plant was flooded. We immediately started to unpack the gear and stage equipment for convoys into New Orleans. As the sun began to rise over Slidell, the tremendous devastation came into full view. Anything not bolted to the ground had been tossed by the heavy winds. Boats and refrigerators hung like Christmas ornaments in the trees lining the streets and filled the backyards of the neighborhoods. Cars were not parked on curbs or driveways; they were in yards, behind houses, or “parked” halfway in living rooms. Fallen trees had ripped homes in two. Plate glass windows were destroyed. Oil, water, and a menagerie of chemicals had been mixed into soups that filled the gutters and walkways and were waist-deep in the streets. The heaviest hit area, the township of Irish Bayou, on the northeast coast of Lake Pontchartrain, had been gutted and laid flat. Nothing but the skeletons of the homes remained.

  It quickly became clear that our mission was not what we had originally thought. Louisiana didn’t need martial law; it needed divine intervention. We put down our weapons, picked up shovels, and began looking for anyone who needed assistance. We dug up rubble to release people in duress and helped others get their cars out of ditches so they could try to move on to help others.

  The work in and around New Orleans involved a variety of efforts. Almost everything was being coordinated by local police, mayors, and civic leaders. Areas not flooded by water were flooded with Marines wielding sanitation and medical supplies and chainsaws. Local leaders led us to areas where trees and debris had to be cleared to provide residents access to their homes. Marines cut trees free from roofs, cleared roads, and helped distinguish trash from treasure for those unwilling to leave the hazardous zone.

  The first few nights, we slept on the tile floor of a semi-flooded warehouse now emptied of any merchandise worth salvaging. Later we moved to the grassy expanse of the NASA assembly facility in Michoud, Louisiana. We would spend two to three days in one area and then move to a different area to assess damage, establish communications, and provide initial relief until local authorities could set up support services.

  The flooding in New Orleans was subsiding slower than expected, but we were making progress. Then, as if conditions weren’t bad enough, the water became a stagnant soup-like mixture of oil, mud, tree branches, and debris broken free from and within homes. The damage to structures and civilians was monumental. Houses and other buildings in the city were flooded to the rooftops, and people were trapped for days. People’s possessions floated down roads, which now acted as canals. The putrid, fetid water grew worse each day, sickening hundreds of people. Our priorities shifted from disaster cleanup to rescue 9-1-1. Our commanding officer ordered the Marines to load up amphibious assault vehicles to rescue trapped citizens and to survey homes and facilities. We had to gear up to push through harsh terrain to save lives.

  As the rescue effort progressed, another important mission was on the minds of many Marines. Nine months prior to Katrina, a member of 1/8 had lost his life on the streets of Fallujah while defending the city. LCpl. Bradley J. Faircloth was revered as a strong, courageous, and fun-loving Marine. The morning that we arrived in Louisiana, we learned that Faircloth’s mother, Kathleen, in Mobile, Alabama, had suffered significant damage to her home as Katrina swept the Gulf Coast. We couldn’t divert resources to our fallen brother’s family in the first seventy-two hours, but when there was sufficient stability, we sent a team to find the Faircloth family and provide special support. The members of Bradley’s platoon, using a private plane out of Slidell donated for the task, flew more than 115 miles to Mobile for a thirty-six-hour mission to clean up and fix Kathleen Faircloth’s home. It was an unconventional mission, but one that upheld the Marine Corps’ sense of brotherhood. We look out for our own—especially those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.

  During the thirty-six hours, the Marines had the opportunity to share with Kathleen their memories of Bradley and stories from the battle of Fallujah. Though it is painful to hear the facts of combat, most widowed mothers want to know some of the details. They want to know how their sons died. These stories often sustain families. They are honored to know that their sons died bravely.

  The battalion’s mission in New Orleans started with a declaration of martial law and ended with Marines extending hands of service to the neediest citizens. Nearly every aspect of the mission was challenging in new and unexpected ways. The Marines of 1/8 take pride in answering the call to serve, wherever, whenever.

  Working Where the Land Meets the Sky

  Katherine Kranz

  Though fighter aircraft are a crucial part of naval aviation, most winged aviators do not end up strapped into the cockpit of a sexy fighter jet. Most are tasked with other unique missions within the naval aviation community that focus on supporting the war fighter. Some of the officers who graduated with the USNA Class of 2002 would enter the fray in the Middle East almost immediately as division officers on ships or submarines in the Persian Gulf or as leaders of Marines on the ground. For others, it would take longer to arrive at the “tip of the spear.” For me, between syllabus training time and a weak stomach, it would take almost three years before I could earn sea duty pay.

  When I packed up my car in 2005 and headed west to Point Mugu, California, to join the Black Eagles of VAW-113, I was headed into the unknown. During naval flight officer training, I had realized that I was “physiologically challenged” in an aircraft. The flight surgeon called it spatial disorientation, but most people just call it airsickness or puking your guts out. Prescription medications failed me, so I pounded saltines and ginger ale, wore acupressure wristbands, and held on for dear life every time I strapped into the T-34 Turbomentor. At the end of each day, I felt the way Dan Aykroyd and Chevy Chase looked at the end of the flight-training scene in the 1980s classic Spies Like Us, only worse. Twice I suffered through the dreaded airsickness adaptation program known as the “Spin and Puke,” but I never really got over my problem. I would have done anything to get my wings, including feeling sick every time I went airborne, which is what I did.

  My options for playing shotgun in the skies were diminishing fast. Both in heart and mind, I knew the indelible truth: I would never survive a career in the back seat of a tactical jet. With my health, sanity, and performance suffering, I asked to be selected into the E-2C Hawkeye community. I did not know much about the aircraft or the mission, but I knew the aircraft could not go upside-down, which was a good thing for me and for my stomach. As an officer in the Hawkeye, I would not be dropping ordnance in defense of troops in contact; I would not be head to head with a wave of hostile bandits threatening a carrier strike group, and I would not be hovering over a military mishap saving lives during a search and rescue mission. What would I be doing?

  The Hawkeye is called the “quarterback of the skies” because it plays a role in so many missions. Built to augment the carrier air wing, the original platform design of the Hawkeye was to help combat the Russian bomber threat. Because American fighters did not have optimal radar-range capabilities, the Hawkeye became the eye over the horizon for the air patrol. Its aviators are trained to provide tactical assistance wherever and whenever needed. There are times when the environment is dynamic, when all five crew members are working frantically to identify forces in the battle space and disseminate this information to nearby assets. A Hawkeye crew can also lead, giving orders to air-wing assets to receive fuel, deploy ordnance, or run an air-to-air intercept. Other times, the mission is to simply be airborne, listening, observing, and assimilating data.

  I was doing my part in the Fleet, but I often felt that my role was inadequate. So many others were enduring more. Even when operationally deployed, my nights were spent on USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76), a floating city where they served four meals a day and the showers always had hot water. I vividly recall lying awake at night wondering how I was actually contributing to this historic war. In 2006, things began to ch
ange.

  During Reagan’s maiden deployment, VAW-113’s commanding officer, John Ring, drafted a concept of operations for the Hawkeye to expand its mission beyond its maritime interdiction mission and operate over land. Commander Ring had identified a gap in radar and radio coverage by the Air Force airborne warning and control system (AWACS) that he believed the Hawkeye could fill. The AWACS was overtasked and could be relieved if the Hawkeye was granted authorization to support ground assets. Our strike group admiral approved the operation, so the first OnStar mission was a go.

  The new mission was a boost to our squadron. Each night, two Hawkeyes launched at ninety-minute intervals from Reagan to enter Iraq’s airspace and provide a communication bridge for convoys traveling between checkpoints. Most of the time, our crew listened, received information, and monitored their operations in theater. We broadcast information about road closures and threats from improvised explosive devices and reported troops in contact. Every night, we landed safely back on board Reagan, feeling confident that we were contributing to the fight.

  The first time we flew over land, or went “feet dry,” it was like trying to communicate in a new language. Through coded frequencies battling environmental interference, these initial reports often came across as static until our ears attenuated.

  Katherine Kranz stands in front of her E-2C Hawkeye on USS Ronald Reagan while in support of the first OnStar support mission in Iraq.

  “Hawkeye (tschhhh), Hawkeye.” That’s us! I thought to myself. This must be important!

  “(tschhhh) Alpha, checking in, checkpoint Kilo, heading from Ramadi to (tschhhh) Fallujah on Route X-ray. 20 Vicks, 30 Pax.” What does that mean? What do I say? Who do I tell? Does he need something from me?

  “Alpha, this is Hawkeye. Roger. Copy.”

  When the message was broken or completely incomprehensible, we would all do our best to decipher and write down what we had heard, and I would end up replying with a confident “Copy all” to leave no doubt in the minds of those in danger that we were there to support them. Between shuffling maps, notating the relayed information of garbled static, and attempting to write legibly in a vibrating aircraft, our mission had become more challenging. In a way, I welcomed the challenge, and we all soon became more comfortable with the new mission procedures.

  One night midway through our Gulf deployment and halfway through a flight over Iraq, we were confronted with something new. Convoys had checked in with us, and we had passed on important information, but aside from chatter between convoy commanders, the net was silent. Suddenly the quiet ended: “Hawkeye, HAWKEYE, this is CONVOY Tango . . . (tschtsch) . . . hit us, we’re under fire!” The panicked voice pierced the upper decibels of the frequency net. The man was gasping for breath between sentences. Somewhere far below us, his convoy was under attack, and we were the only asset they could reach to ask for help. The screams became incoherent, garbled words and babbling. If I knew where he was, I could provide immediate assistance, but it was impossible to discern his location.

  Another of our crew members radioed to get two helicopters on standby to provide close air support and medical evacuations. At that point, I could only offer reassurance that help was on the way, but I still desperately needed the location of the convoy, and the soldier on the radio was still screaming. “Take a deep breath,” I said in a calm voice. “I know you are scared, but everything is going to be fine.” My mission commander solidified communications with a combat air support Blackhawk attack helicopter. I told the troops on the ground that help was on the way, and all we needed was good GPS coordinates. The soldier yelled, “Convoy located: 33, 15, 55 north 44, 36, 00 east.” Finally, we had it. We relayed this to the inbound support aircraft.

  The pilots came over the internal communications system, “Guys, we’re on ladder. We gotta start heading back or we’re going to run out of gas.” This meant it was a matter of minutes until we were out of range of the convoy’s radio. Had we done everything we could for them? We could only trust that we had provided what we could and turned the necessary information over to the AWACS. We headed back with confidence that help was on the way for them.

  The Hawkeye only has a supporting role, but that support brings strength to the aviation community and the Navy. Someone flies the fuel tanker so the fighter jet has enough gas to drop ordnance, and someone turns the wrench on that fuel tanker so that it too can fly. Each piece of the military machine is linked to the rest and supports one common goal. There is no greater honor than supporting those who truly lay down their lives to protect this country, knowing that they would do the same for you if the roles were reversed.

  On Building Submarines and Building Character

  Lucas Adin

  People sometimes ask me what it was like being in the Navy. As anyone who has served in the military likely knows, there is no single easy answer to that question. For me, it was a mix of frustration, hard work, and personal empowerment, which began with my freshman year at the Naval Academy. As we adjusted to our new lives in the military, we were reminded frequently about the commitment we had made to our country and to the people we would lead. Whether we would be directing ships at sea or leading Marines into combat, we all would one day have a vital role in defending our nation, even if it seemed relatively small, and the training we undertook at the Academy was preparing us for those roles. Yet, even late in my time at the Academy, despite all the training I had done and the weeks spent among ships, aircraft, and Marines, I still had trouble imagining what form my role would take. Being the kind who usually blended into the crowd, even at the Naval Academy, I never imagined myself in one that could be considered unique.

  When I received news that my first duty out of the Academy was on USS Virginia (SSN 774), it nearly sent me into shock. Virginia was a brand-new, state-of-the-art attack submarine—the lead vessel of its class—scheduled to launch in late 2003. We had begun to learn about this new “boat” during my freshman year at the Academy, but the details were limited. Construction on Virginia was initiated in 1998 in response to the increasing cost of the Seawolf class of submarines. This new design was a less expensive alternative, and the new vessels would be more capable of operating in littoral areas, close to the shore.

  When I arrived at the sub in the building yards of Groton, Connecticut, I was given a tour by a pair of junior officers who had arrived a few months before I had. I tried to make sense of my surroundings as we climbed through the boat’s innards, but they were so jammed with workers, test gear, and construction equipment that it was hard to move, much less identify the various parts. Other than the obvious ones, like torpedo tubes or the crew’s bunks, I recognized almost nothing. Over the next couple of years, I would learn the function of every pipe, valve, and electrical panel I saw that day. The boat was impressive, but it was hard to imagine it being ready for a mission at sea, and almost as hard to believe I’d ever know enough to help drive it.

  The nuclear-powered attack submarine USS Virginia under construction at Groton Shipyard, Connecticut, April is, 2003. (U.S. Navy)

  Virginia was put to sea in the summer of 2004, and as is often the case, it got under way without the most junior crew members, who were not sufficiently qualified to help drive the boat, including me. We had been left behind so there would be sleeping capacity for engineers, testing personnel, and of course, the VIPs in a very crowded boat. While I knew I was perhaps two months from finishing my first major qualification, which would allow me to begin contributing on the watch rotation, it still seemed a lifetime away. Even as I watched the boat pull away from the pier on its historic voyage, I still felt like little more than a spectator. This was my first of many lessons on the importance of qualifications, but I had not fully embraced its significance. I was still more a midshipman than an officer.

  In November 2005, when I pinned on my gold-plated dolphins, signifying the completion of officer qualification, I had been in the boat for nearly eighteen months. This was long past the normal c
ompletion time, and my enthusiasm for my assignment had faded significantly. Although we had spent a good amount of time at sea during the preceding year and had even conducted a brief tactical mission, the first for a Virginia-class submarine, my qualification for the most rewarding watch position at sea was immediately followed by another long year in the shipyard. I had trouble staying focused on my work and even had to redo one of my final qualification boards with the captain. I was bitter, discouraged, and at that point in my submarine career, I wanted little else than for it to be over.

  To some people, my frustrations seemed unwarranted, and for good reason. After all, I was a member of the first crew of this first-of-class submarine. My name would be listed with all the other “plankowners” on a plaque that would remain on board the ship until it was decommissioned. I had seen and participated in testing exercises most submariners never experience in their entire careers, including unusual and dramatic tests of the propulsion plant as well as firing the ship’s first torpedoes at sea. Yet it was impossible not to think of other junior officers in the submarine force like my own roommate, who was helping lead his boat on a long and technically challenging deployment that would take them under the polar ice and around the world. Meanwhile, I was stuck in a shipyard in New England, trying to pass qualification boards I knew I was smart enough to pass. Beyond my personal development, I was also having trouble identifying the contribution I was making to this ship and its crew and to the Navy in a meaningful way. I wanted to serve, to have some impact on national security; that was why I had joined.

  Some of the setbacks for me and my peers in Virginia had to do with the practical difficulties of being on a new-construction ship. Training the crew required some creative adaptation. To put this in perspective, it is hard to learn how to navigate a boat out of port when it is still bolted to the pier and covered in scaffolding, and it is nearly impossible to qualify to operate a piece of equipment when it hasn’t yet been installed. Most of the time, we used computer simulations and props to create scenarios we might encounter, which reminded me of some of the absurd things that we were told at the Academy as part of our military training. A classic example was the repeated notion that returning late to Bancroft Hall, the Academy’s dormitory, was akin to missing a ship’s underway movement, as if an eight-wing building would break from its moorings and set sail without us. The training lesson was to get us to appreciate the importance of timeliness, and more important, the consequences of being tardy in the Fleet. To the midshipmen, it was a joke. While I knew that the implications here were much more serious than they had been back at the Academy, it was still difficult to keep my focus day to day when my training scenarios were so far from reality.