Grumman F-14 Tomcat: Bye - Bye Baby...!: Images & Reminiscences From 35 Years of Active Service

Zenith Press
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DIVFor thirty-five years of active naval service, the Grumman F-14 Tomcat was the foremost air superiority fighter of the Cold War, with continuing service as a fighter-bomber in the Gulf Wars. Two hundred thousand sailors, both pilots and "ground" crew, served in F-14 squadrons with the Tomcat over its decades of flight. This book is a grand remembrance of this great aircraft by those who flew it. Hundreds of pilots have included their favorite stories of the missions and planes that brought them home. Two hundred exceptional color photographs show the F-14 on the deck, in the air, and over the sea./div
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About the author

DIVDave Parsons logged over twenty thousand photos as a Tomcat RIO during a career in the U.S. Marines and Navy and now serves as a warfighter liaison between NAVAIR and the Special Ops community. He and his wife live under the traffic pattern at NAS Oceana, near their four grandchildren.As the very first editor-producers of The Hook magazine, Bob Lawson and his wife, Sallie, dedicated themselves to telling the story of carrier aviation. They now live near St. George, Utah.George Hall photographed military aircraft for over thirty years and founded George Hall Photography, a stock photo agency. He passed away in April 2006./div

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Zenith Press
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Published on
Jul 10, 2011
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History / Military / Aviation
History / Military / Naval
History / Military / Pictorial
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Dick Camp
One of the bloodiest battles in Marine Corps history, Operation Stalemate, as Peleliu was called, was overshadowed by the Normandy landings.  It was also, in time, judged by most historians to have been unnecessary; though it had been conceived to protect MacArthur’s flank in the Philippines, the U.S. fleet’s carrier raids had eliminated Japanese airpower, rendering Peleliu irrelevant.  Nevertheless, the horrifying number of casualties sustained there (71% in one battalion) foreshadowed for the rest of the war:  rather than fight to the death on the beach, the Japanese would now defend in depth and bleed the Americans white.


Drawing extensively on personal interviews, the Marine Corps History Division’s vast oral history and photographic collection, and many never-before-published sources, this book gives us a new and harrowing vision of what really happened at Peleliu--and what it meant.  Working closely with two of the 1st Regiment’s battalion commanders--Ray Davis and Russ Honsowetz--Marine Corps veteran and military historian Dick Camp recreates the battle as it was experienced by the men and their officers.  Soldiers who survived the terrible slaughter recall the brutality of combat against an implacable foe; they describe the legendary “Chesty” Puller, leading his decimated regiment against enemy fortifications; they tell of Davis, wounded but refusing evacuation while his men were under fire; and of a division commander who rejects Army reinforcements.  Most of all, their richly detailed, deeply moving story is one of desperate combat in the face of almost certain failure, of valor among comrades joined against impossible odds.

George Hall
A TANGLE of sequestered streets lying around a triple-towered cathedral; red roofs and gables massed under the ramparts of an ancient castle; a grey Roman arch lit up every spring-time by the wallflower’s mimic gold; an old-world Bailgate over whose tavern yards drifted the sleepy music of the minster chimes; a crooked by-lane leading down to a wide common loved by the winds of heaven—these were the surroundings of my childhood’s home in that hilltop portion of Lincoln which has never quite thrown off its medieval drowsiness.

Not far from my father’s doorstep, as you looked towards the common, lay a narrow court lined with poor tenements, and terminating in a bare yard bounded by a squat wall. Every detail of this alley stands out in my memory with the sharpness of a photograph; the cramped perspective of the place as you entered it from our lane, the dreary-looking houses with their mud-floored living-rooms fronting upon the roadway, the paintless doors and windows, the blackened chimneys showing rakish against the sky, all combined to make a picture of dun-coloured misery. There were, it is true, a few redeeming features gilding the prevailing drabness of the scene. The entrance to the court had a southerly outlook upon green fields stretching up to the verge of the Castle Dyking, or, to revive its more gruesome name, “Hangman’s Ditch,” so called from the grim associations of a bygone day. From these fields a clean air blew through the court, rendering it a less unwholesome haunt for the strange folk who dwelt within its precincts; while not half a mile distant lay the breezy common, a glorious playground for the children of Upper Lincoln.

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