Free Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam by Bill Yancey Page B

and pushing.
    Chief Powell ran the hangar deck as his own personal fiefdom. Even the hangar deck officer knew better than to argue with him. Out of the corner of his eye, Wolfe saw the pot-bellied, gray-haired chief step out of hangar deck control and stare in his direction. Elevator #3 operator put down his sound-powered headphones and sauntered over to Wolfe. He and the third bay crew stared out the starboard elevator space at Forrestal less than a mile away. The two destroyers, USS Rupertus and USS MacKenzie, which had been spraying Forrestal with foam and water in an effort to control the multitude of fires had pulled away from the carrier. At one point they had been within feet of the huge ship. They joined a third destroyer, USS Tucker , searching the debris field for survivors and bodies of crew who were blown or jumped overboard. The dark black smoke had lightened to a haze gray funnel that climbed into the sky. “What did you do to piss off the chief?” the elevator operator asked Wolfe.
    Blank look on his face, Wolfe shrugged. “I haven’t done anything all day, except carry fire hoses and injured up and down ladders. Don’t imagine that could have pissed him off.”
    “Well, he’s pissed about something,” the operator said. “Wanted me to tell you to double time to control. Wants a word , he said. By the way, that’s never a good thing.”
    “Great,” Wolfe said, turning and jogging between aircraft and yellow gear to the second hangar bay and hangar bay control.
    Four men occupied the ten by twelve foot room, seated on a couch or two chairs or standing behind the status board: the Hangar Deck Officer, Lieutenant Rogers; Chief Powell; Airman Jake Snow; and first-class petty officer, Guy Munford. Chief Powell had returned to his usual position in hangar deck control, sitting next to Snow on tall stools behind the Plexiglas Ouija board , a desk-sized Plexiglas representation of the hangar deck. On the board, V-3 Division Chief Powell choreographed the movement of aircraft on the hangar deck. Flat, plastic, scale silhouettes of aircraft sat parked on it, as they were in the hangar deck. Lt. Rogers and Munford sat in plush lounge chairs near the huge coffee machine drinking coffee.
    Airman Jake Snow wore a sound-powered headset. A microphone hung under his mouth. Pushing a button on the large round microphone, Jake the Snake spoke to the elevator operator in Hangar Bay 2, “Elevator #2, F-8 , VF-162 #213, needs an engine swap. Coming down in two minutes.”
    Chief Powell took a flat silhouette of an F-8, marked it 162/213 and positioned it on the Ouija board in a space large enough to enable an engine swap. He then turned his attention to Wolfe. “Where did you think you were going, Wolfe?”
    Wolfe looked at the chief, confused. “Pardon me, sir?”
    “Don’t sir, me, Wolfe. Save that for Lt. Rogers,” Powell said pointing at the officer who smiled wanly when Wolfe glanced in his direction. Wolfe returned his attention to the chief. “I work for a living. Got it?”
    “Yes, si- Chief,” Wolfe said, glancing again at Rogers, who seemed to blush slightly. Munford grinned. The totally bald petty officer enjoyed Rogers’s discomfort sitting in Chief Powell’s domain.
    “I said: Where did you think you were going when you volunteered to work the flight deck on Forrestal ?” Powell repeated.
    “To the Forrestal , Chief,” Wolfe said, even more confused.
    “Well,” Powell continued, “if they need your assistance, Boot. Which I doubt by the way, since you barely know your way around this ship, and never stepped foot on the flight deck until today. And if you do go to the Forrestal , I will place you on report as AWOL. Got it?”
    Totally bewildered, Wolfe shook his head. “You don’t want me to help the Forrestal’s crew?” he said.
    “Correct. I want you working in Hangar Bay 3, on Oriskany . Now, get back to work.”
    “Yes, Chief.”
    Munford spoke as Wolfe left the control room. “If