Training had gone well that Friday.
Bravo Squad from Seal Team 8's Echo Platoon had fastroped onto the deck of the combat stores ship Niagara Falls and practiced cover, movement and navigation on the unfamiliar vessel for about an hour, long enough to break a sweat and learn some good lessons. I was hot just observing, so I knew the cool breeze across the fantail had to feel especially good to the squad, whose members wore full close-quarters combat gear.
Our ride home, an HH-60H Seahawk from Helicopter Support Squadron 15, arrived right on time. As the helo settled on the deck, I saw Lt. Robert Scott Wood Jr. in the right-hand seat, and knew that my friend, Lt. Cmdr. J.A. Hilliard, was on the left. The civilian merchantman chocked the wheels and the squad started loading onto the bird.
I stopped and shook the hand of one gray-haired member of the fire party, who had earlier introduced himself as a graduate of BUD/S Class 43 - a fellow frogman.
``How'd we do?'' I asked.
``Things have changed a bit,'' he said. ``Your boys looked fast and mean. I wasn't going to get into their way.''
I pumped his hand once. ``Thanks,'' I said. ``Maybe I'll see you at the reunion.'' As I turned toward the helicopter I heard him holler, ``Good luck, commander!''
I was the last one in the helo. The crew chief got the thumbs up and passed the word to the pilot that everyone was on board and we were ready to lift off. The helo gently rose and went into a left-hand turn, headed back toward ``Mother,'' AKA the carrier Enterprise.
I am not a good enough writer to describe to you what a perfect day it was. The temperature was mild, and the wind blowing in the open door was refreshing. The sky was absolutely clear, a crisp, light blue that stretched forever. The Persian Gulf below us was calm and glassy, save for gentle, one-foot swells. Dolphins broke the surface here and there, and sea snakes glided just below.
Everyone was in high spirits.
As we neared Mother, we could see flight operations being conducted on the flight deck.
There is something very odd about watching planes land on a carrier from a helo. On the carrier deck it makes sense - you can see, hear and feel the jets slam the deck and draw the arresting wire out. From the helo, you have only a visual reference: The planes seem to drop to an impossibly low speed, thanks to your own forward motion, then land and stop in an incredibly short space. Without the noise, without seeing the wire, it appears more magic than the product of metal and steam.
The guided missile cruiser Valley Forge was down below, looking good, as was the guided missile frigate Jarrett. Mom looked awesome, as usual.
I looked up at Petty Officer 1st Class Steve Voigt, a member of my SEAL unit, who was sitting between the two aircrewmen. He hollered something to one of them, then tipped his head back and laughed.
I came to the surface of the water, unable to breathe. The sun was bright, my life vest was up around my cheeks, and my eyes stung.
``Sir. . . Sir. . . Are you OK?''
``I don't know,'' I yelled. ``What happened?''
``We crashed,'' the man answered. ``I'm going to get a head count.''
My question had been stupid - of course we had crashed. But how, why?
You'd think the scene would be chaotic. It wasn't, just surreal, probably because I'd received a sharp blow to the head. The Jarrett's small boat reached us with impossible speed. Mother's plane guard helo was overhead almost immediately. I remember someone being hoisted up.
And shouts in the water.
``What's the count?''
``Ten,'' came a reply. ``Missing two.''
``I can't find Voigt. Damn, I can't find Voigt.''
``Where's the chief?''
``I saw him over there.''
I tried to go back down to the helo. It was gone.
``Where's Steve?'' somebody hollered.
``These guys are messed up. We've got to get 'em back to the boat.''
``Easy, easy. These two can't climb. Bowhook, connect to the forward fall.''
``Hoist away.''
``Stretcher bearers!''
``This one goes first.''
``I've got you, sir.''
Being part of a well-drilled team has its advantages. They took care of me. The rest of the men pulled from the water were taken care of, as well, handled firmly and correctly. We were given first aid, stabilized, and made comfortable on the Jarrett.
Shipmates, not gawkers, either there with a purpose or waiting for one, met us when we returned to Mom. The walking blood bank had long since turned away volunteers. Stretcher bearers, corpsmen, doctors, chaplains and runners were everywhere. I would not have preferred treatment anywhere else in the world.
The story does not have a fairy tale ending. We lost three great men that day: Steve Voigt, of Hampton Roads, who left behind a young son; Lt. Robert Scott Wood Jr., who left a fiancee; and Lt. Cmdr. J.A. Hilliard, who left his wife.
This column is dedicated to them. It is dedicated, too, to the survivors, and to those who pulled us out and patched us up.
The Enterprise Battle Group steams on, maybe a little more humble, but certainly as determined as ever to live up to a sacred trust with our fallen comrades.
We will complete our mission.