WetLeather Motorcycle Rider Information

First and foremost, let me say that in no way
is the intent of this little story to belittle the
the Naval Aviator; some of the bravest people
on the face of this earth. Kay?

When it was all said and done, it was I who paid the
price. My fellow Arresting Gear Crew Mates would
much rather have gone for a tray full of mystery
meat, rather than waiting for the bolters and tanker.
(bolter: an aircraft that fails to engage the arresting gear.
tanker: miss more than two times and you need to find
a gas station)

It's not like you needed some sort of clearance to
enter an arresting gear space. The machinery is
rather simple and I'm sure not a secret to anyone.
We just didn't care to have people in there that weren't
Rats. Gear Rats, that was us. Rats, nasty little critters
that peer at you from their dingy little holes. Our
little holes just happened to house the equipment
that would bring a Navy fighter to a stop on the proverbial
dime and make change.

Or maybe it was because of the serious consequences,
should the equipment fail. A person doesn't let folks
just wonder around that type of machinery.

For whatever reason, we were very protective of our
machinery spaces. Almost to the point of neurosis, as
you'll see.

The arresting gear engine rooms are aft, as you'ld guess.
There were three of them that ran athwart ships, on the
O3 level (the first below the flight deck), from the starboard
to port passageway.#1&2 were in the same space (that
made things a bit crowded), #3 had it's own and #4 was in
with the barricade engine. The only engine room with two
active engines was 1&2. I was operating #2.

The V-2 berthing space, called 'the compartment' ran
port\starboard as well. A curtain hung at each end, at
the respective passageway. Port\starboard, starboard\port,
athwart ships, you know what I mean.

There was a passageway quite a bit further forward that
ran port to starboard. I don't think I ever went up that
way more than a few times. There was nothing for me
that far forward. My whole world was aft. It was this
forward passageway pilots used to get to their ready
rooms, from the starboard to port side.

So, from about amidships aft, the only way to get from one
side of the boat to the other is the 'passageway',
then an engine room, V-2 berthing, and then two more
engine rooms. Why all this talk about passageways?
So I can tell ya' the story! It's about passageways. Sort'a.

We were having a meeting in the shop when they told us
the passageway up forward was closed. I don't recall why,
but you can't cross there for the day. I'm wondering what
the hell that has to do with me, and why the Chief is looking
at ME while he's giving us, what appears to be, worthless
information.

Then he says, "The pilots need to be able to get to their
ready rooms."

Ah, oh. I have no idea what it is, but here it comes.

"Leave both doors open on 1&2. They'll be crossing there."

"Hang on here Chief, you want me to stay in the space
and be a bell hop?"

"That shouldn't be an issue," says he. "They'll be crossing
while we're operating."

I'll spare you the dialogue of the argument that followed.
Suffice it to say I was an E-2, he was The Chief.
'Okay, fine. I have to do this, and do this I shall,' I'm thinking.
Yep, you betcha. Heh.

I know it wasn't the drivers' fault, the Chief's fault, anyone's
fault. It was what it was, but for some reason, it pissed me
off just a little. I mean, why couldn't they cross at #4 or #3,
or even the compartment. Yeah, yeah, I was going to spare
you all of that.

We used to get rags in big wired bales. The bales were
discarded civilian clothing that were hacked up. I knew an
operator that had the back side of a pair of shorts hanging
on the bulkhead in his engine room.  Maybe you had to of
been there to appeciate the true 'art' of the faded portion
of those shorts? I'm getting side tracked. We went through a
LOT of rags.

I started digging in the latest pile. When you cut the wires
the bale becomes a pile. I found exactly what I was looking
for. A big rectangle of cloth, purple in color.

Next I scrounged a top side helmet and stripped all the
armor off of it, leaving only the skull cap. Then I grabbed
a pair of goggles.

On the way down to my engine room I made a stop and
borrowed the dark visor off a motorcycle helmet from
one of my crew mates. I snapped the visor on to the
previously bare liner.

Imagine you're a pilot. Imagine you've just stepped into a
machinery room with two arresting gear engines. The
space between the two engines can't be a full three feet.
You know these things jump and flat ass scream when they
take a trap. I'm here to tell ya', it'll scare the piss out of ya'
if you're not used to it. You also know your life is in the
hands of the operators of these machines.

That's when you look to the port side as you pass the
#1 operator on the starboard. The #2 operator, at the
other end of the machinery room, is wearing a purple cape,
tied at the throat, and he's bare chested. Well, except for
the Sun tattoo over his sternum.

He's wearing god-knows-what on his head. Snaps are
flopping all over with exception to where the motocross
visor is affixed just above the goggles he's wearing.

And he's cackling like a mad man as he makes the setting
for the first aircraft. You hear him call into the phones,
"Two set five-two-zero, Tomcat," and he looks at you
and says, "Oh yeah, he's mine! All mine!"

And the operator starts cackling again. As you're trying to
make the port passageway he screams, "Heads up!" The
deck jumps and you hear that banshee scream that seems
to pierce your brain. #2 just took a trap (arrestment).

And then, I suppose you go to your ready room for
your mission brief. There were a bunch of pilots that
came through there. Sometimes in groups.

Now the way this works is, the drivers that just came
through my space will be on the next launch. We called
a launch and a recovery a 'go.' These guys won't be the
next we catch, but on the go after.

Of course I don't need to tell you that The Chief caught
wind of my antics and, ah, lets just say he wasn't pleased.
After my ass chewing, and the surrendering of my cape,
it's business as usual. Hell, I'd even forgotten about it,
mostly, when these guys started coming back aboard;
the pilots that had crossed through earlier.

>From deck edge, the DE operator calls 'em in to the
machinery rooms on the sound powered phones
(we're blind), "Long groove, short groove, over the ramp,
heads up!" but then "Bolter, bolter bolter." Again and
again and again. Seems they were all flying down the deck,
hitting beyond the #4 wire. I thought it a bit odd, so
many bolters, but it didn't dawn on me until the #1 operator
yelled at me-

"Drift, you son of a bitch!"

"What? What?"

"The last thing they want is #2. You son of a bitch!"

Now this is the same guy that was yuckin' it up on
the 'phones' earlier. "He's got a purple cape on! He's
going fuckin' nuts! It's too bad you guys are missing
this," etc., etc.

Yeah, the same guy. Now, I'm a son of a bitch.

Pretty soon anyone with a set of phones on are ragging
on me. "I'm pissin' in the drip pan, Drift. Ya' know why
I'm pissin' in the drip pan.....?"

I really knew my ass was in the ringer when PriFly calls
down,

"Two, Primary."

"Go Primary"

"They're launching the tanker, Drift. You son of a bitch."

That tanker just added another 1\2 hour to the go. He'll
be the last to trap after he's done fueling thirsty airplanes.
What's another 1\2 hour tacked on to what would have
been an 18 hour day?

Some days things just don't work out the way you planned.
You know what I mean?

JimK