Every once in a great while, the local fish wrapper here in Shopping Mall USA prints a nice story-about nice people. Today was one of those days.
Follow me inside and read about Chooch, Great American………..
They called him “Chooch,” but the story has more to it
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Huntsville Times
It was dumb luck that we met. Chuck noticed me watch a Cessna fly over the neighborhood block party and came over to ask if I liked planes. I jabbered about flying with beer and hot-dog in hand and asked if he flew, too. He said he used to but didn’t anymore and changed the subject.
Chuck was giving me a way out. Not hung up on being tactful all the time, I persisted until he admitted to starting out in piston engine Corsairs over Korea and finishing up in supersonic Crusaders. Ah, a naval aviator who spent decades in fighters. I could only laugh for having been such a dolt. Chuck was gracious about my braggadocio and agreed to share some of his experiences.
Left over planes.
Corsairs were just planes left over from the last war when fighting broke out in Korea. Jets then entering service could neither carry an impressive load nor stay over the target area for long. Prop-driven fighters, being phased out, regained relevance because they carried lots of bad news and could cruise around for hours looking for trouble.
In lending his bent-wing Corsair to the interdiction program against the North Korean supply system, Chuck helped prove the continued utility of such unfashionable things as conventional weapons in the dawning atomic age.
Chuck said he’d once watched an enemy supply train go into a tunnel and stop inside the mountain to hide. He took his plane right down over the rails and began firing unguided HVARs (High-Velocity Aircraft Rockets) into the tunnel’s mouth. He realized he was fixated on the target, pulled up hard, and was barely able to out-climb the mountain. While he focused on avoiding terra firma, the other pilots saw secondary explosions boil from the tunnel.
Chuck’s proclivity for blowing up trains earned him the call sign “Chooch” in a squadron kangaroo court. Call signs were inside jokes that the fighter pilots did not get to pick for themselves; which explains a lot if you’ve known any. (Sorry about your luck, “Chemo” and “Shawshank.”) He invited me to call him Chooch, so I did.
It was fun to hang around this friendly neighborhood war hero. He had the air of a retired Viking who’d hung his scarred-up armor on the wall for decoration. Having done so much, there was really nothing left to prove.
Chooch had a life. He’d moved here with his lovely wife and little white dog to be near his children and grandchildren. On any given day, you could see them out on a stroll. Chooch did not dwell on the past. I was the one who wanted to hear all about Korea, to take notes, and even record him.
However, Chooch passed away suddenly Jan. 9, 2008. He had not been in any physical decline that I could see. In fact, he was stronger than most men half his age (including myself). It was very sad, but I’m happy for him upon reflection.
Chooch would have been embarrassed by the fuss made over a protracted illness. That was not his style. He had “gone west” from his inland cottage in the company of his wife, full of years but still in his strength, and far removed in time and space from the heaving gray bulk of a carrier and muzzle flash of anti-aircraft batteries. I was lucky to meet Chooch, and I know no one like him.
Quiet lives
How many veterans quietly go about their business in this town? They wait to be next in line, sit in the adjoining booth and seem to enjoy their anonymity. Age is an unreliable guide as many are in their 20s now. Writers love to write and protesters love to protest, but they are just exercising privileges won on the battlefield by a long line of veterans stretching back to the Revolutionary War.
The notion that complaining loudly does not protect free speech seems lost on many who exercise it the most.
Since I can’t expect to bump into all of you heroes, I’ll close with, “Thank you for your service!”
Adam Starace of Huntsville is a Times community columnist for 2009.
So true about real heros. Once several years ago on Veterans Day I spotted a neighbor I knew had seen real combat in WWII walking. I stopped, rolled down my window and simply thanked him for his service. I then drove off so I would not see his tears.