When the Missiles Left Cuba
A Navy aircrew got it on film.
- By Paul F. Stiller
- Air & Space magazine, November 2012
The Pollysboy 11 crew: Author Paul F. Stiller, standing, third from left; Bruce McCormick to his left; George Fabik, far right; Eric Neptune, front row, far right.
Courtesy Paul F. Stiller
October 23, 1962. It was one of those inky nights. The stars were brilliant, but there was no moon and the lights of mainland Cuba had long since disappeared over the horizon to the southwest. We were flying our Lockheed Neptune SP-2H patrol aircraft “dark”; wartime procedures dictated that external running and strobe lights be extinguished. The afternoon had been the mixture of boredom and exhilaration that defines air reconnaissance patrol at sea. For about a week, flying out of U.S. Naval Station Guantanamo Bay on Cuba, our detachment of Neptunes had been making low-altitude flights three miles off the coast of Cuba to find, photograph, and report all aircraft, ship, and submarine traffic. We had already detected several submerged Soviet submarines.
Yesterday, all hands had gathered in the officers club mess hall to watch President John Kennedy announce on TV that Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev had ordered the deployment of short- and medium-range intercontinental ballistic missiles to Cuba, a mere 90 miles south of Key West, Florida. Some missiles were already in Cuba, along with surface-to-air anti-aircraft missiles and the technicians to launch them (see “Cuba During the Missile Crisis,” p. 32). Kennedy was quarantining the island: The United States would deny any Soviet ship carrying missiles, missile equipment, or military personnel from continuing to Cuba.
In Pollysboy 11, our radio call sign, Bruce McCormick was commander and primary pilot; I was copilot. Our flight plan would take us around the eastern tip of the island, then northwest toward Havana harbor. About 40 miles east of Havana, George Fabik, the radar operator, spotted a large target in the harbor, heading north toward the open ocean. “Encrypt a message to Caveman,” McCormick said.
I pulled the KAC-1 Red Book, a huge, metal-bound codebook, into my lap, and composed a report to the commander, Fleet Air Wing Five (radio name Caveman) at fleet headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia. “Break, break, Caveman, Caveman, this is Pollysboy 11. Prepare to copy, break, break.” Everyone in the Western hemisphere listening to the tactical frequency would be scribbling down our message.
Caveman’s reply: “Wait for the ship.”
McCormick throttled back the engines to conserve fuel. We spent the next three hours flying lazy circles at 1,500 feet. “Ordnance, fire up the galley and let’s see what they gave us for lunch.” It was the duty of the ordnance man to cook the food. When he wasn’t dropping bombs, Dennis McEachran was a pretty darn good cook.
“It’s steak and fried potatoes, boss. Anybody need fresh coffee?” If we had been in Norfolk, we would also have had the two dozen cupcakes my wife usually made for our patrol flights.
Puffy cumulus dotted the sky, with an occasional rain shower. Often, toward the end of a flight, we would fly under one of these showers to rinse salt from the airplane. We flew so close to the water that we would pick up spray from the waves. After a flight, when I swiped the airplane’s skin and held my fingers to my lips, I could taste salt.
“The ship’s at the three-mile limit.”
“Give me a heading.”
“Roger, sir. Come to 193 degrees, contact five miles.” At 6:03 p.m., the ship had arrived at the three-mile limit. We could legally take a look. Flying at 50 feet above the water, we readied our two bulky KB-10A 70-mm black-and-white cameras to photograph the details of the ship as we raced past it.
As we swept up the ship’s starboard side, we saw eight canvas-covered, cigar-shaped objects lashed on the deck. Was this a Soviet ship carrying the first load of missiles coming out of Cuba? Were the Soviets relenting?
The photo guys confirmed they each had taken the first of 70 photos. As we zoomed down the ship’s port side, the maintenance captain—appropriately named Eric Neptune—threw the Red Book into my lap. This time the message would be highest priority. “Break, break, Caveman, Caveman, this is Pollysboy 11. I have FLASH traffic. Stand by to copy.”
Caveman commanded us to stay over the ship and report every half-hour until released, then fly to Naval Air Station Key West and get the photos developed.
Twilight settled in around 9 p.m., the azure waters slowly turning black. Without our external lights, we were invisible. The only thing an observer could see was the blue fire from the exhausts of our engines. The ship also showed no lights. The captain knew we were up there, but he wasn’t going to make finding his ship easy.
At night, the only way to see the ship was with the 70-million-candlepower searchlight 50 feet out on our starboard wingtip. If the searchlight was on longer than 30 seconds, heat from the burning carbon arc tips would melt the searchlight frame and possibly start a fire in the wing. Two aircraft in our detachment of five had experienced such melting, requiring new searchlight units to be flown in. The destroyed units had to be chopped out with a hammer and chisel.
The extreme brightness of the searchlight would ruin my night vision for at least 15 minutes, making me useless as a pilot. McCormick would protect his eyes by lowering his seat, flipping down his helmet-mounted sunglasses, and using duffel bags crammed into the dashboard windscreen to block the brilliant light. He would not look out of the cockpit, flying on instruments until I switched off the light.
At 11:45 came the message: “Make searchlight pass at midnight. Divert to Key West immediately thereafter.”
At 11:59, we lined up to make a 30-second run up the ship’s stern. We set our altitude at 1,500 feet. Radar operator Fabik was counting down. I adjusted the pistol grip, tipping the searchlight down and slewing it left.
Five…four…three… A blue-white blaze exploded in my eyes. Excruciating pain. I couldn’t see anything.
I hadn’t pressed the trigger. I had not turned our searchlight on.
It had to be another patrol aircraft, at our altitude, flying directly at us. Perhaps it had just started a searchlight run. Its crew had no idea we were there. We were closing at 300 mph. In 30 seconds we would collide.
McCormick yanked the airplane into a 90-degree right bank. We both pulled hard on our yokes, trying to swerve out of the way. I tried blind-calling the other airplane, going from frequency to frequency. “Break off! Turn right! Turn right!” There was no answer.
Seconds later, we heard propellers thrash under the belly of our airplane. We later learned that another squadron’s airplane had wandered into our area to check out the ship, not realizing we were there. We had missed each other by feet.
We landed at Boca Chica air base, Naval Air Station Key West, around 1 a.m. on October 24. The airfield was darkened by the national emergency: a war that might begin at any minute. The crew tied down the airplane while I was driven across town to the photo lab. We passed the silhouettes of countless Marines in foxholes, rifle bayonets protruding, dug into boulevard medians.
After technicians made a print of each shot of the Soviet ship with missiles on its decks, I annotated the back of every one. Around 3 a.m. a courier appeared. “Give me your six best pictures for the president,” he said. I made my selection and he scooped the photos into a briefcase, handcuffed the case to his wrist, and left to fly back to Washington. The photos would be at the Pentagon by dawn on the 24th.
We flew back to Guantanamo Bay, by then having logged 20 flight hours on two hours of sleep in the last 38 hours, with one inflight dinner the evening before. Thank God for coffee.
The official announcement and photos of Soviet ships with missile cargo first appeared on October 28. As far as I can tell, our images never became part of the official documentation of the Soviet pullout. But we knew that on October 23, we photographed the first Soviet missiles coming out of Cuba.
A 1958 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, Paul Stiller received his Navy wings in 1959, and flew with Patrol Squadron 56 until 1963. Since then he has designed medical instruments, zoo and museum exhibits, and theater scenery.
Comments (7)
Hi Paul,
Great job and extremely interesting article.
Best regards,
John
Posted by John Jacobson on September 22,2012 | 11:41 AM
I was less than a day old when Pollysboy 11 overflew that ship. This was global stuff, and really scary. Who knows what could have transpired if that deck was empty? Kinda glad the pullout was confirmed; otherwise I doubt I would have made it if the worst happened.
Posted by Mark Diggle on September 25,2012 | 09:51 AM
Pete,
Even after 50 years it's still good to revisit a Pollysboy adventure memory.
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Posted by Carp on September 26,2012 | 08:24 PM
I never knew that the searchlight couldn't be on for more than thirty seconds.
Posted by Bob Neu on September 27,2012 | 06:49 PM
(These comments are being made by a Naval Aviator who flew Neptunes (5's and 7's) in the mid 1950s, as well as H-3 helicopters embarked on the USS WASP right in the middle of the quarantine.)
Very, very interesting account and helps provide a clearer picture of all that took place. It raises some questions, however. One is tempted to speculate on why there were missiles photographed leaving Cuba five days before the Soviets agreed to remove them. Robert Kennedy's book, "Thirteen Days", gives almost an hour-by-hour account of the difficulty John Kennedy had in making the decisions that led to a peaceful resolution of this adventure. R. Kennedy makes no mention of any missile withdrawals that they were aware of during the tense period just prior to the Soviet "Blink". It certainly appears that the photos taken by Pollysboy 11 never reached the Kennedys, else they would have been mentioned in the book because R. Kennedy laid out very clearly all the relevant factors they had to consider while making their decisions. This October 23 withdrawal of missiles, had they known about them, would have been of considerable import thus unquestionably worth mentioning. Rather puzzling.
It's worth noting that R. Kennedy's book contains a picture captioned "October 24, Soviet ship laden with jet-bomber crates photographed by U. S. reconnaissance aircraft." Significantly, there are eight long massive crates on the vessel's deck. I would not describe them as appearing to be "cigar shaped", however.
Regarding another commenter's note about the thirty second limitation on the use of the searchlight, my recollection of that searchlight was that it was prone to malfunction, even when limitations were observed. However, on occasions when you needed to illuminate a surface contact the radio circuits would almost instantly be filled with profanity coming from the guy on the bridge of the ship that you just temporarily blinded. They were not at all understanding or charitable.
Posted by Kelsey Goodman on October 20,2012 | 08:31 PM
I was there, flew a P2V from Jacksonville, FL. Several yrs ago I visited the bone yard in Tucson, AZ, and swear I saw my old plane there.
Posted by Raymond Narug on October 22,2012 | 05:50 PM
I was A Radioman with Air Crew Wings, which means I was qualified to fly three different positions on the P2V Neptune. My primary position was Radioman. One of the other various duties was to photograph ships when required. Before my discharge in March of 1962, my crew LF 1 out of Jacksonville, Fl with Commander Bishop as Squadron Commander and Lt.Kraft as Captain and Lt. Nelson as Co-Pilot, flew recon flights rigging ships coming out of Cuba. On one occasion I remember photographing, with a movie camera, some ships having long tube shaped containers on their decks. As we flew over them, at a very low altitude, the crewmen on the ships pulled canvases off the tubes so we could see the tubes. Weather there was anything in those tubes or not we didn't know but we photographed what we saw. The particular flight I am referencing was a daytime flight.
Posted by Ken Wilhelm on November 8,2012 | 11:30 AM