Airman receives call sign Chaff Dog

From email dated September 2, 2019 (launched from parent page Flight deck operations):

Birth of a Call Sign

By Gary Schreffler

Here’s how a call sign is born.

Have you ever wondered how people who fly end up with those “call signs?” Well, I guess it is time to come clean and tell the story how I got the name Chaff Dog.

You have to go back to 1984. I was a crewman with HS-12. The USS Midway (CV-41) was at sea somewhere. I do not remember where we were, but it was up north, because the Soviets kept buzzing us with Bear and Badger aircraft. Most of you are aware that whenever radar picked up Soviet aircraft flying toward the ship, fighters were vectored to them, or the alert fighters were launched if none were in the air. Of course, whenever any fixed-wing airplane was launched the helicopter went up first.

One very quiet morning, I was the alert 5 crewman / rescue swimmer. Two F-4s were on the cats, as well other aircraft on the flight deck, were also sitting alert five. (For you black shoes, alert 5 meant the crew was in the aircraft, so that we could be airborne in 5 minutes or less once the order came down to launch.) The helicopter, an SH-3H Sea King, was equipped with a 400 pound chaff dispenser that held 240 canisters. Each canister was covered with a blue plastic cap, about the size of a 50 cent piece.

About 45 minutes into the alert, the 5MC announced the dreaded “Launch the Alert 5.” Now my job was fairly simple: Go back to the chaff pod, pull the pin from the shackle, get into the helicopter and strap in. So, as several jets began firing up their engines, I went back to pull the pin. I remember that when I pulled, something snagged the sleeve of my flight suite.

Here is where, perhaps, I may have erred. Rather than look and see what has holding my sleeve, I simply yanked it free as I pulled the pin.

KA THUMP.

My sleeve was stuck on the shackle release. So, when I pulled the pin out and then my sleeve free, I jettisoned the chaff pod. It only weighed about 400 pounds, so it made a big thump. However, it is not the thump I remember. What I remember is 240 plastic caps starting to blow into the wind, and a huge cloud of chaff.

There I was, standing in awe of the sight of all these blue caps and a dark gray cloud blowing everywhere, when the 5MC—with a certain degree of panic—starts yelling, “Shut down the engines, shut down the engines. FOD. FOD. FOD.”

My pilot then sticks his head out the pilot’s window, looks at me, and says, “What the *^%& did you just do?” I just looked down at my feet and shrugged.

The Air Boss had that very question. After everything was shut down, there was all sorts of activity on the flight deck, as everyone was chasing these stupid blue caps around—a lot like watching people trying to catch greased pigs. I do remember kind of laughing a bit. (OK, I thought you deck guys looked funny at the time). After a while, two Soviet Badgers flew over the ship, from bow to stern. Many very cool pictures were taken of these two aircraft. They were cool pictures because there were no pesky F-4s or A-7s escorting them and cluttering up the picture.

That is when the 5MC started blaring, again. But, this time, it was a bit personal, “I want that idiot crewman, his pilot and the HS-12 skipper to meet me on the bridge. NOW!”

“Uh oh,” I thought. My pilot did not look too thrilled, either. Of course, all the maintenance guys were howling with laughter.

After a lengthy climb up the ladders to the bridge, my pilot and I met up with our CO outside the door. He glares at my pilot and asks, “What the #&*@ did you do?”

My pilot says, “Ask the idiot crewman.”

About that time the door opens, and some Marine tells us “they” are ready for us.

I still can picture my pilot (Lt. Romine), my CO (CDR. Roop), and myself standing at attention while, in order, the Air Boss, Midway CO, Flag Captain, and finally the Admiral, read my CO the riot act. It seems they did not enjoy the picture opportunity that two unescorted badgers had presented. And during this interesting conversation, I got to enjoy being spit on by each yelling person, as his nose parked 1 millimeter from my nose. After about 15 minutes, I was ordered to “Get off my &^%$ing bridge.” I wish to point out that it was the Air Boss who actually said that, but I felt it was not the time to correct him.

So, I go back to the ready room, where I am met with howls of laughter. Of course, I am no longer thinking it was so funny. And I am really trying to shrink in size before the skipper returned. I honestly believed that a stripe was going to be coming off. As I am being laughed at (can you believe how insensitive some people can be?), some poet starts calling me Chaff Dog. A new round of laughter resumes. Remember, not just crewman are laughing at me, so is every pilot in the squadron. Except, of course, for the CO and Lt. Romine, who are still on the bridge. The laughter suddenly halts when the CO walks into the ready room.

Now I am trying to crawl and hide into a ready-room chair drawer. Cdr. Roop takes a seat at the duty officer desk, and just looks at me. Finally, he says, “Thanks, I always wanted to see the bridge.” Some snickers, but mostly silence.

Suddenly, after about 30 minutes, Cdr. Roop says, “Chaff Dog, why are you hiding? Did you learn anything today?”

I said “Yes sir.”

He then said, “Well then, Chaff Dog, I guess I have nothing to add to our talk on the bridge. Just make sure I never visit it again.”

I could have cried. My career was not over. I was not going to be sent to the mess decks for a 10 year TDY. I was saved. So I thought.

I spent the rest of the day in the aircrew shop, getting caught up on work (I was the logs and records petty officer), when several fellow crewman and maintainers and the Aircrew Division Officer came into the shop, with my flight gear. All my previous name tags had been removed. My name had been removed from my helmet. Everything was replaced with the name “Chaff Dog.” A call sign was born. I flew for another 10 years, and that name followed me like a Filipina bargirl chasing a 100 Peso note!!

I still laugh as I remember everyone chasing those stupid blue caps all over the flight deck.

Lesson learned: For god sakes, if something snags your sleeve, stop and look before yanking. I am really fortunate my foot was not crushed.

Chaff Dog