Trafford Publishing: I Never Liked Those C-130's Anyway

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I Never Liked Those C-130's Anyway

by J. Wilfred Cahill and Malcolm Smith

213 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0776; ISBN 1-4120-0407-1; US$21.95, C$29.00, EUR18.85, £13.06

Up through the ranks from enlisted to Lieutenant Commander as the Coast Guard transformed from the old guard to the modern Coast Guard- one of the few enlisted to become a pilot.

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about the book about the author sample excerpts or Table of Contents catalogue info

About the Book

Your chance to relive a little piece of "The Good Old Days" and find the answers to these burning questions:

Which future Coast Guard Captain said "Shit, Mal, let's do a 360 and get out of here."
Which Coast Guard astronaut said, when asked to describe his scariest moment, "Flying as Malcolm Smith's co-pilot."
Which Coast Guard aviator got the blame for putting training wheels and streamers on the commanding officer's and XO's new bicycles.
Which Coast Guard aviator threw up in his glove while flying rather than make a mess in the cockpit.

This book brings back some of the funniest moments of the Coast Guard during the time period between the "Old Guard" and the new modern Coast Guard.

"For more than two decades, Mal has threatened to write a book to chronicle his many colorful experiences during his Coast Guard aviation career. Mal can spin a tale better than any sailor and his exploits in and out of the cockpit are indeed legendary. But the fact is, the closer he gets to the completion of this life-long dream of his, the more nervous I become. I can't wait to read it!"

RADM David W. Kunkel, COAST GUARD AVIATOR #1726

"Malcolm Smith is a master storyteller with a flair for finding humor in everyday activities and recounting his observations with entertaining splendor that leaves you thirsting for another. Since meeting him when I was a teenager in Alaska, I have been absorbed by his colorful renditions and have long awaited this composition. I just hope I'm not the subject in one of his stories."

CAPT. E. Darrell Nelson, COMMANDING OFFICER, CGAS KODIAK

About the Author

Malcolm R. Smith, born in San Diego, CA in 1940. He joined the CG in 1957 on a dare under the "buddy-system" with his lifelong friend Larry Wiliams. It was the best mistake he ever made, he said. After boot camp in Alameda, he reported to his first duty station the CGC Dione, Freeport, Texas. Then came radio school in Groton, CT. and then to the CGC Nike. After too many Campeche patrols it was off to Aviation at CGAS Corpus Christi, TX. The first of three tours at CGAS Kodiak was next, followed by a tour at San Diego. He graduated from OCS in 1965 and then on to flight training in Pensacola, FL. graduating in 1966 as aviator #1189.
Duty stations included: Elizabeth City, NC; Kodiak, AK; St. Petersburg Fl and New Orleans, LA. During his career he flew in the following aircraft; C-123, C-130, HU-16, H-52 and H-3. After attending Port Security and Law Enforcement School, he served as captain of the Port and Port Security in Kodiak, AK.
His awards include the Air Medal (2), Coast Guard Commendation medal (2 w/"0"), Coast Guard Unit Commendation (2), Coast Guard Meritorious Unit Commendation Ribbon (2), Coast Guard Good Conduct Medal (2) and the National Defense Service Medal.
After retirement in October 1977 he has owned an art gallery and a commercial real estate company. He presently lives outside of Aspen, CO with his wife Diane and enjoys all outdoor activities. He has three daughters: Kelly, Holly, and Wendy and two grandchildren.
J. Wilfred Cahill was born June 8, 1949 in Winooski Vermont and raised in Hicksville, NY, Buffalo, NY, Salt Lake City, UT, St. Paul, MN, and graduated high school in Bel Air, MD.
He attended the College of St. Scholastica in Duluth, MN were he was elected the first male student body president of that former all female catholic college and sold ladies shoes in a downtown store to fund his tuition.
Following college he did a short stint in Barclays Bank at 120 Broadway in New York where his grandfather had worked for over 30 years.
Leaving the bank in the late summer of 1971, guitar in hand to hitch hike and troubadour his way across the country. He arrived in Aspen on Columbus Day 1971 with the intentions of ski bumming for one winter. That one winter turned into a 30 year love affair with the mountains. Except for a short tour as a marine oil field rigger in the Gulf of Mexico during 1973. He has resided in the Frying Pan and Roaring Fork River Valley's ever since.
He is the proud father on an only daughter in who he is well pleased.
Since 1985 he and his bride of 27 years, Bonita, have owned and operated a successful real estate and property management firm in Aspen.
And since meeting Malcolm Smith in 1992 he has become the de facto Colorado Fly Fishing Guide for the Coast Guard retiree's.
He currently resides in Carbondale and Olathe, Colorado.

Sample Excerpts

COAST GUARD DAY

In the late 1960's the largest Coast Guard Air Station in the world, at Elizabeth City, North Carolina, held the Coast Guard Day Celebration to display its wares and promote itself. A great deal of effort was put into advertising the event that the general public would attend. I was put in charge of organizing it by the Air Station Commander, Captain Fred Merritt. My duties included an array of assignments, from displaying the search and rescue aircraft to admitting the general public and conducting operational drills and flyby's for the spectators, which included the public, the Air Station brass and the 5th Coast Guard District hierarchy.

A variety of small rescue boats lined the docks on the Pasquotank River. Their reflections glistened and shimmered in its fluid but murky waters. Numerous types of aircraft were statically and magnificently displayed on the base ramp. All were available for public inspection in effort to promote the Coast Guard. A powerfully intoxicating display of the Coast Guard's sea and air capabilities greeted the spectators. Children fidgeted at their parents sides at the prospect of looking inside those planes and helicopters. They fussed relentlessly in anticipation of military aircraft flying over head, with precision and power. The Coast Guard brass puffed with pride in the knowledge that the Coast Guard's new technology and image would have a serious impact on the public. It would also help to provide more funds from congressional subcommittees and command a greater respect for the service itself. After all, that was one of the things Coast Guard Day was about.

Finally, the big moment had arrived for the Coast Guard to display one of it's newest pieces of equipment. Such was the mobile communications center. It was self contained, in a sea going shipping container like box. Stout and of steel construction, the mobile com center could hold two communications technicians and an array of state of the art communications gear, such as radios, telemetry and transponder receiving devices that are integral to any of the thousands of search and rescue or disaster related missions undertaken by the Coast Guard each year. This baby was hot and new and expensive. And it was heavy. But even so, it was designed to be airlifted by chopper to any site that could be hovered over. Today, this Coast Guard Day, was it's grand unveiling.

During this ostentatious display of the Coast Guards might and prowess, I would be responsible should anything untoward take place.

I had instructed the new mobile com center be placed dead center on the tarmac and in front of the line of service aircraft. The crowd's attention was called to the unit. As they looked on, the distinct and unmistakable "whop - whop - whop" of a Sikorsky H-52 main rotor grew louder over head. Out of nowhere the chopper appeared. It hovered above the shiny new mobile com center, a cable and hook in tow. Children covered their ears or jerked at their parents hands while pointing up at the hovering contraption. The brass held down their hats. Ground crewmen deftly and adroitly moved in under the hovering craft to make the connection between load and machine and with a thunderous application of collective, the chopper grunted the heavy mobile com center into the air.

In the right seat at the controls, sat an experienced rotary wing pilot of consummate ability. He had been chosen to perform this duty specifically for his familiarity with dead lift load transports. He was to fly the new mobile com center down the tarmac, along the runway and out over the river, stop dead over the water, hover, rotate the aircraft and then bring the load back over the assembled display aircraft, pass by the crowd and then disappear behind the main hanger on the other side of the packed visitors' parking lot. There he would drop the load and return to hover in front of the crowd without it. Thus displaying it's mobility.

The civilian spectators "oohed and ahhed" as the big chopper lifted the mobile com center off the tarmac and began it's run across the river, some one hundred yards away. They applauded as the aircraft moved along with the heavy load hanging dead still underneath. So skilled was the pilot that not the slightest perception of drift or wiggle in the load could be detected by the onlookers.

At the far side of the river, the skilled pilot stopped the air craft so smoothly that the load remained dead center, again without the slightest perception of drift. He rotated the chopper 180 degrees and began his run back to the base as planned.

Whether due to malfunction, miscalculated load capacity, wind shear or pilot error, the load released. The brand spanking new and terribly expensive mobile com center plummeted one hundred feet to the shallow tidal waters of the Pasquotank River below. It hit the surface with all the impact of a bowling ball dropped into a bathtub and sustained the damage of a cereal box caught between. Its top stuck out of the shallow bank side waters. It's sides split at every corner. Brackish tidal water poured inside the compartment. The salt instantly corroded the electrical components and a faint wispy plume of acidic vapors emanated from the open corners.

Undetected by the pilot, the forward movement of his craft had absorbed the release of his load. He continued his appointed run back. Since, Elizabeth City Air Station shared it's runway with commercial aviation operations, the pilot had been assigned a separate military radio channel as not to interfere with commercial aviation radio transmissions during the exhibition. So the commercial tower could not advise him that he had lost his load over the river. Nor did the Coast Guard radio contact him due to the distraction from a multitude of other communications duties attendant to the day's events. Hence, and regrettably the pilot continued his run unabated, back to the base and over the assembled display of service aircraft on the tarmac, completely unaware that all he had was a long cable and a big hook.

I tried to move to the back of the assembly, out of sight of the old man. I stepped back but nobody made a hole. They were all transfixed on the H-52.

The first aircraft in line on the ramp was a C-130. The Sikorsky approached it dead center. The big hook snagged the long line antenna that stretched between the cockpit and the tail of the C-130. It ripped the antenna off from cockpit to tail like a plucked eyebrow. As the pilot continued his run over the line of aircraft, the hook now with about one hundred feet of heavy antenna cable attached to it, made damaging contact with almost every aircraft on display. Scratching and breaking windows and windshields as it went, pinging off the tight metal skins of the aircraft as the civilian crowd roared - they loved it!

I cringed in horror. Captain Merritt glowered at me with utter contempt. What could I do? No one seemed to be able to raise the pilot, and now he gleefully banked the aircraft making the prearranged pass over the crowd, parking lot and back to the hanger. A sigh of relief was almost collectively breathed at the realization that no one was hurt, until the aircraft's hook and cable snagged the chain link fence that separated the parking area from the tarmac. The five foot high fence slipped off its posts like a child unzips a box of Cracker Jacks. Over the parking lot flew the H-52, cable & hook, antenna cable and twenty or so feet of chain link fence. I winced again, as the chain link fence was dragged across the tops and hoods of parked civilian cars - smashing windshields, indelibly scratching paint jobs and ripping radio antennas and windshield wipers from their very sockets.

As the chopper passed over the last car in line, the old man turned to me and barked, "Smith, will someone PLEASE shoot that son of a bitch down?"

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