Tribute
To Ron
William
Wayne Weems
© 2012
by William Wayne Weems
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Here
is yet another reminiscence involving a Tennesseean
fallen in the service of his country. I don't have any political agenda
in writing these. Some hope to stress the sheer numbers fallen on any
particular
battlefield to point out the ultimate futility of the struggle to which
they were committed, others may stress the sacrifices made to
illustrate
the worth of the individual and the cause to which they gave so
much.
My view is much closer to the Rabbi who noted from the Jewish point of
view there is an obligation to honor someone both in life and in
death.
When we respectfully remember those fallen in the service of our
country
we both honor their memory and perpetuate that memory.
There
is a famous song in which the crooner laments about
explicit pictures in a men's magazine: "My dream's been sold, my angel
is a centerfold". I felt at least part that way, part very
old geezer
when I discovered an Air Force aircraft of a type in which I had spent
considerable time is now a hot dog stand called "Aero Dog" in Tulare,
California.
That
Air Force version of the Convair short range airliner
was the T-29 "flying classroom". One of these disappeared
from the
collection of a large aviation museum a few years back, and this
example
was likely chopped up to make the "Aero Dog" restaurant.
It
was in that airplane I played with a host of navigational
gadgets (some dating from the World War II era) while trying my best to
get through Air Force Navigation School in the late 1960's. I
had
been rejected in prescreening for Air Force Pilot School; I was so
infuriated
at their dismissive appraisal that I couldn't walk and chew gum at the
same time that I made it a point to get my private pilot license
later.
I also continued to seek aircrew status then; for a person of my status
in the Air Force of that era this quest meant Navigational School.
The
Air Force had pushed a host of its Navigators out
of the service during the transition from B-47 to B-52 bombers. Air
Force
planners thought new internal navigation aids were more than sufficient
for the B-52's to find their way...but there were embarrassing
incidents
in which these devices failed, or ground stations necessary for their
fixes
went out of service for days on end. Not acceptable for an
instrument
of deterrence in an era of mutually assured destruction
(MAD). The
kicker was when someone noted necessary elements of the automated
navigational
devices sent out strong electronic emissions during
operation. So
much for stealth; the bomber might as well be flying with its lights on.
But
that series of events also caused the Air Force to
require we as trainees do an endless series of manual calculations with
pencil and paper; we couldn't even use small electronic calculators
because
they hadn't been invented yet. High above the Pacific Ocean,
making
celestial sightings with a sextant, running star tables while making
the
calculations to transfer the fix to an artificial map grid and all the
time maintaining a deviation progression chart on the old gyroscopic
compass
that made the continuance of the artificial grid possible (don't ask) I
discovered another of my many failings. Under this time pressure I
would
sometimes inadvertently write down a number like 268 as 286.
Yes,
stress dyslexia. The Air Force knew it when they saw it, knew
I couldn't
do anything about it even though my classroom work was
excellent.
I was out of that school almost instantly. They offered me
missile
school but I just couldn't see myself in a missile silo 90 feet
underground
for weeks at a time, key around my neck and pistol at my side, watching
warily as my teammate cleaned his pistol. As some readers
might know,
over time I became a Lawyer and retired from the Air Force Ready
Reserve
as a JAG. But "back in those days" one of my good buddies in
Navigation
school was a redheaded boy from Gallatin, Tennessee named Ronald D.
Perry.
Ron
had no trouble with numbers, he sailed through Navigational
school with scores high enough to gain him entry into the Electronic
Warfare
Officer school. There he learned how to use classified
electronic
devices to defeat threats to the big bombers like those posed by
surface
to air missiles. He was in one of the B-52's over Hanoi that
had
been tasked by President Nixon to bomb the North Vietnamese back to the
peace talk table. Russian advisers on the ground were running
around
pulling their hair out, for their North Vietnamese pupils were
disobeying
instructions and salvoing millions of rubles of missiles at single
aircraft
in an attempt to overwhelm their target's internal defenses and be sure
of bringing down at least one bomber. Ron's plane was so hit
and
he died, probably still at his console; never could play a game of
Atari
"Missile Command" without thinking of Ron. And although Ron's
remains
were returned to this country for honorable burial in 1975, there is
this
lingering suspicion I alone might see his ghost at the "Aero Dog" or
shades
of others who met a similar fate. Doubt I will ever eat there.
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William
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