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I usually hang out in the fixed wing forum but decided to take a look in hear this morning. I have to admit, it isn't often I find fellow model builders and a Marine talking about my late buddy Gunny Paige. I've attached a news article written about him a few years after the mishap. It will explain some of the reasons why "Rockey 604" went in that day. JP was a very good friend of mine, a day doesn't pass that I don't think about him. He was the kind of guy you want your children to become. Take the time and read the article.
SSgtD6152, It'd be great if you have some time to e-mail me regarding Gunny Paige...Thanks
IN THE LINE OF DUTY; It Took Only 40 Seconds for the CH-46 Sea Knight
Helicopter to Roll and Sink to the Bottom of the Ocean. That's All the
Time It Took for One Gunnery Sergeant to Prove That Heroism Is Not
Dead.
(Copyright (c) 2001 Los Angeles Times)
When the CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter, number 154790, lifted slowly off
the deck of the amphibious assault ship Bonhomme Richard on a sunny
winter afternoon, Marine Corps Gunnery Sgt. James P. Paige Jr. was
right where he wanted to be.
Paige had not been scheduled to take part in that training flight in
which the helicopter would ferry 12 Marines and one Navy corpsman to
the oiler Pecos for a risky, exacting exercise in "fast roping" down to a
"hostile" ship and taking control at gunpoint. He'd been on limited
duty since breaking a bone in his foot two months earlier and could have
stayed aboard the Bonhomme Richard, part of a pre-deployment exercise
14 miles off San Diego.
Truth be told, Paige could have been back in his native New Jersey,
drawing a pension and starting a second career in law enforcement; at
37, he had been a Marine since he was 16. He'd made tentative plans for
the second half of his life but instead had signed up for one final,
yearlong tour of duty. The lure of an assignment in sunny San Diego and
the opportunity for overseas deployment proved irresistible.
There were friends who could not understand the appeal of another
year of bone-rattling rides aboard the aging Sea Knights, another year
of trying to match the strength and endurance of young men half his
age, another possible deployment at sea away from his wife and their young
daughter. But his family understood.
Paige had never wanted to be anything but a Marine. As a kid he
fashioned his own Marine Corps dress uniform, complete with a red strip
down the seam of his jeans, and marched in Memorial Day parades. He
left high school and enlisted.
He was in the Military Police for a time before finding his true love:
helicopters. He trained as a helicopter crew member, a job that
involves the loading and unloading of men, equipment and weaponry with equal
emphasis on speed and safety. In the air, enlisted crewmen are required
to assist the pilots by looking outside the aircraft for obstacles and
advising them about speed and altitude.
As a fighting force that arrives from the sea and strikes quickly, the
Marine Corps is dependent on its helicopters and its men, particularly
in the senior enlisted ranks, who fly them. Being one of those men was
the joy of James Paige's life.
With a brief tour as a recruiter, Paige's career had comprised a series
of duty stations with helicopter squadrons, including the elite unit
assigned to Marine One, the helicopter reserved for the president of
the United States, his family and their guests. Paige served on Marine One
during the latter months of George Bush's presidency and the first
months of the Clinton administration.
A decade earlier, Paige had received a far different set of orders,
also at the behest of a president. His squadron was among those Marine
units sent by President Ronald Reagan on an ill- defined mission to
serve as a stabilizing force in war-torn Beirut.
Humberto Morin, who served on a helicopter crew with Paige in Beirut,
said Paige was the kind of Marine who was not afraid of dying, "only
afraid of not getting the job done right the first time."
On Oct. 23, 1983, Paige left the Marine barracks adjacent to the Beirut
International Airport shortly after 6 a.m., eager to get to work early.
A few minutes later, a yellow Mercedes-Benz five-ton open-bed truck
packed with explosives roared past sentries and over concertina wire
and crashed into the four-story barracks. The building was reduced to
rubble in an instant; 220 Marines were killed, more than any single day since
the landing on Iwo Jima. Eighteen Navy corpsmen and three Army soldiers
were also killed by the suicide-terrorist.
For 72 hours Paige frantically dug through the rubble, sometimes with
shovels and picks, sometimes with bare and bloody hands, hoping
desperately to find Marines who were still alive. At home, his family
did not know whether he was among the dead or the living.
He was not a man normally given to introspection, but after he returned
from Beirut, he told a hometown newspaper that he was forever changed
by the horror he had seen and that he felt "older inside." He was 21.
"He was a man when he came home--he had lost his innocence," says
Paige's sister, Ellen Prusecki. "The smell of death and the image of
being unable to rescue his fellow Marines never left him."
Like a number of Beirut survivors, Paige got a special tattoo on his
arm, "Oct. 23, 1983. Beirut, Lebanon. 241." And each year on the
anniversary of the terrorist attack, he would phone other survivors for
conversations only they understood.
IN THE LATTER MONTHS OF 1999, TROOPS FROM THE 15TH MARINE Expeditionary
Unit from Camp Pendleton, along with a helicopter squadron from Miramar
Marine Corps Air Station in San Diego, were training for a six-month
deployment to the Persian Gulf.
For six months, the Marines would be "on station," waiting to mount an
amphibious assault should Saddam Hussein threaten his neighbors, or
possibly to board an oil tanker on the high seas to enforce U.S. trade
sanctions.
As a gunnery sergeant, one of the highest ranks attainable by an
enlisted man, Paige would be in the thick of things as a helicopter
crew chief.
A gunnery sergeant, or "gunny," is a rank entrusted with a particular
responsibility to instruct younger enlisted men on how to get the job
done, how to act like Marines and sometimes how to stay alive when
staying alive is not easy. A smart junior officer takes his cues from a
gunny.
By all accounts, being a gunnery sergeant was a job that Paige took
very seriously. John Sieke, Paige's older brother and an Air Force
veteran, remembers a conversation just days before the flight of the
CH-46 Sea Knight.
A friend, accompanying Paige to the airport where he would catch a
plane to California, was puzzled why Paige was staying in the Marine
Corps; he could have retired with 20 years and started to live a more
normal life.
"My brother said: 'If I can save just one life by teaching these young
Marines what to do, then I've done my job,' " Sieke says.
Even in a profession where a "gung-ho" attitude is common, Paige was
known as a "lead-from-the-front" type.
Lt. Col. Matthew Redfern, commanding officer of helicopter squadron
166, was not surprised when Paige requested permission to be part of
the mission that day, Dec. 9, 1999, even though the helicopter already had
a full four-man crew.
Paige had joined the squadron that summer and, as a crew chief who had
flown missions in Beirut under heavy sniper fire, served as a role
model for younger Marines. First to arrive in the morning, last to leave at
night, always concerned with maintenance, always eager to fly.
"Gunny was a hard-charger," says Redfern, who gladly granted
permission.
As the helicopter lifted off, Paige, with more helicopter time than any
man aboard--1,849 hours--was manning the right-side gun position just
behind the crew door. After a two-month layoff with the busted foot, he
was back in the air and happy.
"When and if you fly with someone that senior to you, you learn things
from them," says Sgt. Robert Evers, who was seated on the opposite side
of the helicopter. "And if you ever turn down an opportunity like that
you're a fool."
IN THE MOST ROUTINE OF CIRCUMSTANCES, A FLIGHT IN A CH-46 SEA Knight
helicopter is no pleasure cruise. Even the men who love them curse them
on occasion.
Big (16 feet, 8 inches tall), bulky, noisy (communication is by headset
or hand signals) and given to eye-rattling vibrations, the CH-46 was
introduced during the Vietnam War. With careful maintenance and
upgrades, it has continued to be the Marine Corps' premier medium-lift,
all-weather assault helicopter. And it is not unusual for it to be
older than the Marines inside.
Miles of cable and plastic-coated electrical wire line the overhead of
the cargo portion. There are two doors in front and four windows that
can be used as emergency exits, and a 34-inch square covered opening in
the floor called the "hell hole"--for both emergencies and
"fast-roping" exercises.
In the air, the CH-46 has a top speed of 166 mph, a range of 150 miles
and a maximum takeoff weight of 24,300 pounds. In the water, the dull
blue-gray hunk of metal doesn't float worth a damn. The Marine Corps
has installed emergency flotation devices to help its helicopters stay
afloat long enough for the crew to escape, but those devices presuppose
an orderly, horizontal landing.
At 12:47 p.m. the CH-46 lifted off from the Bonhomme Richard as the
lead of five helicopters on an exercise to train Marines how to "take
down" a hostile ship at sea. While SEALs boarded the ship from rubber
boats, the Marines would lower themselves hand over hand from a rope
dangling from the hovering helicopter. As part of the exercise, the
Marines lugged assorted weapons and breaching tools, including 16-pound
hammers and 30-pound cutting torches.
The crew sat on two benches running the length of the cabin. The CH-46
was so packed that a first lieutenant had to squat on an ammunition
can. Paige, although senior to the other two enlisted personnel on the crew,
was only meant to be an observer.
The Sea Knight proceeded uneventfully to a designated holding pattern
10 to 12 miles behind the rear of the target ship, the oiler Pecos,
manned mostly by civilians. At 1:06 p.m., with 10 miles' visibility, a
3-knot breeze and an air temperature of 60 degrees, Paige's helicopter
was given approval by the Pecos to begin an approach. At an initial
speed of slightly more than 100 mph and an altitude of 100 feet, the
helicopter headed toward the ship.
When the helicopter was about a quarter-mile behind the Pecos, Cpl.
Adam Johns, a member of the flight crew, told one of the pilots, Capt.
James Lukehart Jr., that the helicopter was "coming in fast."
"Yep, I'm going in fast," Lukehart replied as he slowed things down.
Lukehart and the other pilot, Capt. Andrew Smith, cut speed to about 60
mph and kept the aircraft at an altitude between 65 and 100 feet.
Smith gave a one-minute warning so the Marines could unbuckle and
prepare to stand and lower themselves through the hell hole. Smith then
gave a 30-second warning, by which time all the Marines were standing.
SEALs in boats behind the Pecos thought the helicopter was flying low;
perhaps the Marines planned to land rather than hover. Marines aboard
the CH-46 observed an inordinate amount of propeller wash in the water.
The chief mate aboard the Pecos, assigned as a landing safety officer,
saw the helicopter at 100 yards out and began to provide arm and hand
signals for the pilots to increase power and altitude. But he was
dressed in white, not the traditional yellow for landing safety
officers, and Smith and Lukehart ignored his instructions. At a routine
briefing on the Bonhomme Richard, no one had told them that the landing
safety officer would be in white.
Helicopter 154790 continued on its course.
A Navy captain aboard the Pecos screamed "power" into the radio, but
the CH-46 did not receive the instructions and neither pilot responded.
The white-clad officer began to motion frantically that the helicopter
was coming in too low. At the same time, Johns told the pilots,
"Looking good and keep driving it in."
As the Sea Knight reached the Pecos, Smith and Lukehart believed it to
be 15 to 20 feet above the deck. But as the helicopter crossed the
deck, Johns realized that the aircraft was "losing altitude" and made a
"power" call, the first such call that Smith remembered hearing. Sgt.
Evers heard a thumping noise at the rear and thought it must be the
sound of the aircraft landing on the deck. "What's going on?" he
demanded over his headset.
In a deviation from standard policy, Evers did not look outside the
left-side window. If he had, he could have seen that the left rear
wheel had hit a "man-overboard" safety netting at the rear of the Pecos.
A second after the thump, Lukehart's radio exploded with calls for
"power, power, power," issued by observers on the Pecos who could not
see that the wheel was fouled in the safety netting. Lukehart applied
more power, and the front portion of the helicopter began to lift. The
rear section, in effect, was anchored, and the helicopter lifted
slowly, agonizingly, to an unnatural, almost upright position.
"If you've ever been on a roller coaster, the tick, tick, tick of the
big hill before you get the momentum to go down the rest of the roller
coaster, that [was what it was like]," says Staff Sgt. Timothy Mueller,
an intelligence specialist with the Marines. "It felt like we were
ticking back. And then when we heard the engines scream . . . everybody
in uniform said, oh, s -- -- --!"
With the nose of the CH-46 straining upward, the helicopter rolled
gently to its left and crashed heavily into the ocean. It was so close
to the Pecos that spray hit the deck. The propellers exploded into
thousands of pieces and the helicopter began filling with water as it
continued to roll over. It had taken six seconds from the moment Evers heard the "thump" to the
crash.
The unbuckled Marines were thrown asunder. Heavy, sharp-edged equipment
floated everywhere. Safety lights failed. The helicopter's flotation
device failed to activate. The pilots' escape doors failed. Staff Sgt.
Mark Schmidt said later: "It was so dark that I couldn't see anybody's
face."
Marines struggled to remember their safety training: wait for the
helicopter to stop rotating, find a reference point and move quickly to
a window or door. Men jumped or were pushed from the hell hole, the
side doors and the giant hatch at the rear. They tried desperately to shed
the rifles and gear that weighed them down. Some found their escape
route blocked by bodies or floating equipment. Others, who lost
consciousness upon impact, were groggy.
Capt. Eric Kapitulik, the platoon commander, thought to himself: "I
don't want to die this way."
Smith, one of the pilots, clawed his way down the aisle of the cabin,
looking for open windows. In the darkness, he missed the open crew
door. Only on a second attempt did he find an open window.
Fear of death focuses one's attention rather sharply. Of the 11
survivors, according to a Marine Corps investigation, only two recalled
seeing anyone in the moments before or after the crash "due to
disorientation, shock, rushing air bubbles, murky water or lack of
light."
Those two remembered seeing Paige. While most scrambled for their
lives, Paige was pushing, shoving and heaving fellow Marines out the
doors. Among all the Marines aboard, Paige, sitting near a door, had
one of the easiest escape routes and was not burdened with heavy gear. A
few swimming strokes, and he could have been safe.
Instead, he stayed. Evers remembers seeing Paige saving others as the
helicopter stopped moving and began sinking rapidly. "As we were
sinking, there was some light. It was coming through the gunner's door
and the hell hole and the hatch and all the parts of the aircraft . . .
I saw Gunny Paige . . . Somehow he got more forward, and he was helping
people out of the crew door also. We went down. It got dark. I lost
him. I couldn't see him anymore."
No one knows how many Marines were saved by Paige. Some had been
knocked unconscious by the crash and only regained consciousness when
they bobbed to the surface.
Just 40 seconds after the helicopter's wheel had become ensnared in the
ship's safety fence, it was over. The Sea Knight sank in 3,900 feet of
water, with six Marines and a Navy corpsman still inside. One of the
Marines was James Paige.
The 11 survivors were plucked quickly from the water by crewmen in
rubber boats who had just delivered the SEALs. The helicopter sank so
quickly that there was no time to mount a diving attempt to look for
additional survivors. It took two weeks before the seven bodies were
recovered by the Navy's remote-control vehicle Scorpio. Autopsies
suggested that several of the dead were already unconscious when the
helo filled with water.
At a memorial service a week later at Camp Pendleton, Paige received
special praise. With tears in his eyes, Redfern told 1,400 Marines and
their families that Paige had died as he had lived, "in the middle of
the action."
A MARINE CORPS INVESTIGATION completed six months later faulted Sgt.
Robert Evers for not noticing that the left wheel of the Sea Knight was
entangled. It also noted that the preflight briefing was deficient.
Evers has since left the Corps; the pilots are back on flight status.
James Paige's ashes have been spread off the coast of Peleliu Island in
the South Pacific, scene of a Marine battle in World War II.
Last December, a quiet ceremony to honor Paige was held at Sayreville
War Memorial High School in Sayreville, N.J. Paige's widow, Marianne,
accepted the Navy and Marine Corps Medal on his behalf. She has moved
to Pennsylvania and attends East Stroudsburg University. She plans to "do
what's best" for their 3-year-old daughter, Annalee Marine Paige.
Marianne Paige bears no ill will toward the Marine Corps or any
individual Marine. She knew the risks of her husband's profession and
accepted them. One of her proudest possessions is a drawing of a CH-46
signed by members of one of the squadrons where he served.
Ellen Prusecki, Paige's sister, is not surprised that her brother
thought of others rather than himself. Not after Beirut.
"If he had saved himself and left others behind, he would never have
been able to live with himself," Prusecki says. "He'd have just kept
thinking: 'I left my men.' "
The citation for Paige's medal, signed by Marine Commandant Gen. James
Jones, speaks of heroism and valor and how "in total disregard of his
own safety" Paige helped others escape.
Marianne Paige has a simpler explanation for Annalee, who still looks
up at passing helicopters and asks when her father is coming home:
"Daddy stayed in the water to help people. He stayed too long. That's
why he went to heaven. Daddy was a hero. Your daddy was a Marine."
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