By
John H. Schumacher, Lt Colonel, USAFR (Retired)
Former
AT-2, USN
VAQ-33
Connie Crewman 1974-76
Connie,
Connie, leaking oil,
Darkened
cabin in which we’d toil,
Ugly
duckling, some would say,
Straining
down each long runway.
Breaking
free from earth’s surly grip
You
took us aloft for every trip
To
Roosey Roads and
To
Cecil Field and places far.
A
“Fifties Child” when you were made
Your
recip motors strong and staid
A
triple tail your lovely crown
A
pregnant belly big and round
Tip
tanks adorned your graceful wings
Tho’
they contained comm-jamming things
With
black boxes in your cargo hold
Our
enemies’ defenses did unfold
With
slender lines and lovely form,
In
VAQ you were reborn,
You
jammed our enemy’s radar hearts,
As
you hung on with aging parts.
Our
glorious country you did serve.
Though
on many landings you did swerve,
The
“Shuttering Shitcan” jet jocks screamed,
Yet
you swept the skies of our foe’s beams.
You
never failed us through the years,
As
time marched on, we all sensed the fears,
That
your days were numbered all the more,
As
maintenance costs so much did soar.
No
other bird had quite your face,
Wingspan’s
length, or stealthy grace.
Your
elegant dolphin-like form,
Such
comfort brought, our hearts did warm.
Those
endless hours o’er sea on station,
Defended
the shores of our great nation,
We
humbly recall those halcyon years,
Serving
with you, choking back the tears.
Yet
you hung on through thick and thin,
Competing
with the jet blast’s din,
‘Til
finally ended that long wait,
As
at last you met your fate.
So,
Bu. No. 141292,
Bean
Counters finally came for you,
Your
final journey was bitter sweet,
We
bade you well, your tour complete.
And
you were stricken from the books,
Museum
fodder, for all to look,
Yet
ignoble treatment you received,
You
were surplused, we all grieved.
Subsequent
damage you endured,
As
your new owners neglect inured
To
cause your airframe yet more rust,
Mortal
damage suffered thus.
Drawn
and quartered, broken hard,
Left
strewn upon museum’s yard,
Your
fuselage still strong and round,
Worth
twenty-seven cents per pound.
Now
all we have are memories fond,
Of
how you hauled us across the “Pond,”
To
You
were our refuge in the air.
So,
Connie, Connie, we all say,
How
proud we were back in the day,
When
your ride was smooth and soft,
Each
time you carried us aloft.
With
quaking voice and welling tear
We
say goodbye, sweet Connie Dear,
We
fly you through the warm slip streams,
Tho’
that flight be but within our dreams.