Mighty Thunder is beholden to Dr. Richard “Brown Bear” Schaffert for sharing this life changing and very personal experience from his arduous and gallant combat tours on battle hardened USS ORISKANY in the years of Rolling Thunder.

Mighty Thunder proudly adds his personal memory and the last catapult launch of Lieutenant Ed Van Orden to the RTR archives… On 19 November 1967 the United States lost eleven combat aircraft and nine valiant warriors to be recorded as one of the most costly days in aircraft and aviators of the entire war… LT. Van Orden’s I’ll-fated cat shot—that wasn’t—was the 30th aircraft lost by Attack Carrier Air Wing SIXTEEN and USS ORISKANY on their 1967 Rolling Thunder cruise.

Rolling the Dice on a Failed Catapult Shot
1730 hours, 19 November 1967, USS Oriskany, Yankee Station

At the time of his death, Edwin Van Orden was my roommate on the USS Oriskany. Ed was scheduled for a BARCAP flight, with a launch time that would result in a “pinky” recovery after sundown. CAG Shepherd required a rep in PRI FLY for each model of aircraft on the launch. That normally meant both an F8 and an A4 driver.

I was scheduled as the F8 observer and was standing forward of the Air Boss looking out the windows toward the bow. Ed’s Crusader was spotted first to taxi onto the starboard catapult. The Oriskany was still turning into the wind as Ed taxied forward into the holdback. As the ship rolled steady, the Boss gave the signal to launch aircraft.
I could see the nose of Ed’s Crusader lower as he went to full power. The Green Shirts finished checking his plane, and I saw Ed put his head back against the headrest and salute.

The Cat Officer touched the deck to initiate the launch. However, instead of the nose being pulled down by the force of the shot, the nose came up as the catapult shuttle shot forward and flung the empty bridle a couple hundred yards in front of the ship.

I immediately shouted “brakes,” and turned toward the Air Boss who was already transmitting “brakes” and “back on the power.” I looked back and saw Ed come out of afterburner. Unfortunately, his Crusader was sliding forward on the cat track, with the brakes locked and the wheels skidding on that slippery surface. I was under the impression Ed would get it stopped before he reached the end of the flight deck.

At the last second, the nose of his aircraft went down as the nose wheel dropped over the edge of the bow, and into the safety net below. Ed ejected at that moment. The Martin-Baker seat rocketed him up and slightly to the right. At the top of the trajectory, the drogue chute deployed and Ed tumbled forward out of the seat. His main parachute was coming out, but it was obvious Ed was going to hit the water before it completely deployed. I jumped through the PRI FLY hatch and looked back over my left shoulder, to see him still about 50 feet above deck level.

I was running down the ladder attached to the back of the island and could only see forward toward the bow as I reached each succeeding level. Ed was already out of sight when I reached the 0-5 level. I was certain he’d be in the water as I reached the flight deck and ran through Flight Deck Control. There was an F8 on the port cat, but it was shutting down and several people were running forward towards the port bow. The plane guard helo was pulling into a hover off the port bow, and I was certain they’d be picking up Ed. I ran to the rail behind the port blast deflector, which was coming down. I watched for a swimmer to emerge from the helo, but then I saw two White Shirts carrying a stretcher running for the port bow.

Ed’s parachute had snagged on the port gun tub, and he had slammed into the side of the ship. Green shirts were already pulling the shroud straps, and Ed, up into the sponson when the stretcher crew got there. They immediately laid him face-up on the stretcher, lifted it to the flight deck, and started towards Flight Deck Control. His left arm was hanging down and I lifted it to lay it across his chest. I held it there as we ran across the deck, into Flight Deck Control, and descended the escalator to Sick Bay. The Corpsmen and Doc were there immediately and started working on him. I felt completely helpless standing back while that was happening. When they took off Lieutenant Edwin Van Orden’s mask and helmet, I became aware that his face was completely white!

It was only a few moments before one of the Corpsman came to me and said:  “Sir, his neck was broken. He must have died immediately.”

For some reason, I checked my watch and noted that I had to get to Ready Three. I was already a few minutes late for my flight briefing. I met Skipper Rasmussen in the passageway between Sick Bay and Ready Room Three (they were almost adjacent on the Oriskany). I could only mutter quietly, “He didn’t make it, Sir!”

It was only a routine night BARCAP, and I was the flight leader. I briefed my wingman and the spare pilot, we manned aircraft; and the Oriskany performed another, of many, single-catapult launches. I don’t recall any of the specifics of that mission. I was operating inside my mental “steel shell” which seemed to envelop and protect me often during those stressful times.

Oriskany continued flight ops until midnight. I was back in Ed’s and my stateroom about 0100. I called Ship’s Admin and told them I’d need some boxes to pack Lieutenant Van Orden’s personal effects. I knew all too well how to do that, having done the same for my roomie Norm Levy a year earlier. I knew the importance of checking every detail, because Ed’s parents would be the next ones who opened those boxes. I carefully browsed though his mail before sealing it in larger envelopes. It lifted my spirits when I noted several letters from a Western Airlines hostess. I remembered her very clearly. While Oriskany was in Hong Kong about a year earlier, Ed, Norm, and I had been dispatched to Japan to return some F8s repaired at a facility near Atsugi. On the commercial flight to Tokyo, we’d met this beautiful girl who had been on a holiday and was returning to the States. When we landed, we naturally volunteered to share a taxi into town. Turned out she didn’t have a hotel reservation, and it was approaching midnight, so we invited her to come with us to the Sanyo Hotel (under contract with the US military) and use their phone to find a room. She wasn’t able to find one, so we naturally invited her to share our “suite.” There were actually four beds in three rooms and we were “Officers and Gentlemen,” by act of Congress! The club was still open, so we “partied hearty.” Unfortunately, we had to leave for Atsugi at 0800 the next morning; but we paid the rooms for her for the next two days.

Reading her letters to Ed, it was obvious something good was going on between them. Two days later, after Sundowner Tooter Teague left Yankee Station with Ed’s body, to be buried near their homes in Texas, I wrote her probably the saddest letter I ever had to write. I wrote it while sitting the “Alert Five” in a Crusader on the starboard catapult which had killed Ed. I did not cry! In fact, I never shed a tear, starting at age 8 when my leg was shattered during a Nebraska tornado until I woke up one night, at age 53, in an apartment in the Austrian Alps. Yankee Station, Norm Levy, and Ed Van Orden all came back to me in a sudden dream and I cried for about two hours. My Austrian companion thought I was going crazy . . . she wasn’t far from wrong.

When they finally counted, it turned out Ed’s F8C Crusader had been launched 505 times, with a “keel pin” that was rated at 500!

Captain Richard (Brown Bear) Schaffert, US Navy (retired)