© 2001 by Stephen A. Judycki

I stared out the window and watched the familiar landscape fade, as Delta Flight 901 climbed to cruising altitude. It was 10:10 on the morning of Wednesday, August 16, 1978, and I was traveling on temporary additional duty orders from a Navy helicopter squadron in Jacksonville, Florida.

 At 7:30 that morning, I reported to the funeral home wearing my tropical white uniform and toting a couple changes of clothes.   The driver motioned me over to his idling hearse, and opened the tailgate for me.  I looked inside and nodded my head, not knowing for sure what I was supposed to be doing.  He asked me to stow my garment bag, which I folded in half and placed beside the casket.  The driver closed the tailgate and followed me around to the passenger door, which he opened for me.  I wasn't accustomed to having doors opened for me.  He got behind the wheel and we departed for Jacksonville International Airport, some 30 miles to the north.

Commuters in rush hour traffic didn't seem to notice the hearse in their midst.  They passed us without as much as a glance, sometimes on both sides, as they jockeyed and sped to their destinations.  Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't spoken a word since we left, but the silence was broken when the driver tuned in a popular radio station.  I didn't know that hearses had radios.  The DJ entertained his morning audience as he did every morning, but this morning was different.  I was performing the most serious job of my life in the midst of people for whom it was just another day.  This strange juxtaposition felt very odd to me.  I was too stressed to recognize the simple lesson that life does go on.  By special arrangement, I assume, we drove onto the tarmac where the planes taxi up to the terminal.  Delta personnel directed us to an overhead door beneath the gate for Flight 901, and then helped move the casket into the building.  The hearse departed, and I guarded the casket until it was loaded into the plane's cargo hold. While waiting there, and later while aboard the plane, I reflected on the events that led to my temporary duty.

 During the early morning hours of Sunday, August 13, 1978, the non-secure telephone rang in the duty office of Helicopter Antisubmarine Squadron Fifteen (HS-15).  The squadron duty office was a small, white trailer located inside an aircraft hangar on the naval air station.  The hangar was usually very quiet at night, sometimes eerily quiet.  The first-floor shops and second-floor offices on the east end of the hangar were dark and locked.  Four helicopters were parked, nose-in, on the east end of the hangar facing the shops, and four more were parked, nose-in, on the west end of the hangar.  A Hangar Security Watch patrolled the inside of the dimly lit hangar, ready to report any abnormalities to the Assistant Squadron Duty Officer (ASDO), who sat at a desk inside the duty office.  The phone call was from the civilian authorities, which informed the ASDO that one of HS-15's enlisted men had been arrested, and was in protective custody at the police lock-up downtown. In accordance with standard operating procedures at the time, t he ASDO telephoned the Barracks Master-At-Arms and instructed him to awaken  the Duty Driver, whose job it would be to retrieve our sailor.   Normally a 24-hour watch, Duty Driver was a 48-hour watch on weekends.  Section One had the duty on the weekend of  August 12-13, and the Squadron Watch Bill listed AMSAA Kim Hall as Duty Driver.  Although Saturday night had just turned into Sunday morning, technically it was still Airman Hall's first day as Duty Driver.

The Barracks Master-At-Arms was the duty petty officer in charge of a squadron's enlisted living quarters .  In our case, these quarters were a two-story, stucco-covered, wood-frame structure that dated back to the 1940s.  A cluster of these buildings, with interconnecting first-floor corridors, was built to support the large number of aviation personnel being trained for service during World War II.  We were told that the barracks were designed as temporary quarters with an anticipated life of five years, and they were supposed to be demolished after the war.  Still in use thirty years later, they housed the enlisted personnel for all of the Navy's east coast helicopter antisubmarine warfare squadrons:  HS-1, HS-3, HS-5, HS-7, HS-9, HS-11 and HS-15.  At any given time, however, at least half of these squadrons were absent because of carrier deployments.  

The Barracks Master-At-Arms usually sat by the telephone in an office located at the intersection of the first floor hallway and the interconnecting corridor.  He supervised the Barracks Fire Watches from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., and made both routine entries (e.g. "2300... All secure.") and non-routine entries in a logbook.  Upon receiving the phone call from the ASDO, he either sent the Fire Watch or went himself to Airman Hall's room to wake him up, and order him to drive to the jail to pick up our man.

Airman Hall drove through the main gate of Naval Air Station Jacksonville in the squadron pickup truck and turned right onto Roosevelt Boulevard, accompanied by ATAN Arthur Dionne of Saugus, Massachusetts–a friend who was not on duty.   After driving north on Roosevelt Boulevard for ten or twelve miles, the most direct route to downtown Jacksonville involved travel on short stretches of I-10 and I-95.  While on I-95, for reasons unknown, the pickup truck left the Interstate and entered the median strip between the northbound and southbound lanes.   The median strip at this particular point was a fairly wide, fairly deep, grassy gully.  Airman Dionne was ejected from the vehicle as it rolled over in the gully, suffering a broken back, but Airman Hall remained in the vehicle and died of injuries he sustained in the crash.

Kim Errol Hall was born in Weston, West Virginia, on June 1, 1958.  He was a 1976 graduate of Auburndale Senior High School in Auburndale, Florida, and joined the U. S. Navy at Coral Gables, Florida, on November 5, 1976.  We knew him as "Halsey," but his sister used to call him "Buck," because of his tendency to buck authority.  It was a nickname that he continued to earn.  When he first reported aboard ship, his temporary duty was working in the Chief Petty Officer's Mess, where he served their meals, cleaned their tables, etc.  As best I can recall, one of the Chiefs spoke to him in a disrespectful and denigrating manner, and he told the Chief in no uncertain terms what he could do with himself!  That action cost Kim much more than it was worth.  Some months later, he was assigned to HS-15's Line Maintenance Division, where I worked as a Plane Captain and an LSE (Landing Signalman, Enlisted).

Since returning in April from a seven-month Mediterranean Sea deployment aboard the aircraft carrier USS America (CV-66), Kim trained to become a Plane Captain/LSE. I spent a fair amount of time working with him, and preparing him for a certification test and an interview with a Plane Captain Certification Board comprised of squadron pilots.   The Navy didn't have a Plane Captain rating, but the importance of inspecting aircraft before and after flight couldn't be overstated.  Consequently, few young enlisted men assigned to aircraft squadrons escaped transitional duty in a Line Maintenance Division, before starting work in their chosen occupational rating.  For most, the term in purgatory was one year or less.  I liked it and stayed for over two years!  Entry level work in the Line Maintenance Division of a Navy helicopter squadron consisted of greasing rotor heads and landing gear, checking the fluid levels of engines, gear boxes and hydraulic system reservoirs, and being a chock-and-chain runner during flight operations "up on the roof."  Because this was basically thankless grunt work, most young men –typically 18 or 19 years old– quickly aspired to become the more prestigious Plane Captain/LSE.  It was satisfying to be known as a good Plane Captain.  If a pilot performed a cursory preflight inspection, it was usually because he trusted the Plane Captain whose signature appeared on the inspection  card for the aircraft he was about fly.  Being an LSE was also satisfying work, if you liked playing a key role in the turn-up, launch, and recovery of squadron aircraft from the pitching-and-rolling deck of a steaming aircraft carrier.  

It was anticipated that Kim would be certified prior to upcoming deployments aboard the aircraft carrier USS Independence (CV-62). While training him to perform Turnaround Inspections and routine maintenance on the squadron's Sikorsky SH-3H aircraft, I came to know him as a conscientious person who was surprisingly detail-oriented; but more than that, I began to know him and like him.  Just as I had been taught by those who came before me, I taught Kim to be a physical inspector.  "Don't simply look with your eyes," I told him, "but look with your hands...and don't be afraid to get them dirty!"  He wasn't, and I could tell by the enthusiasm in his voice, as he recited inspection procedures that he rote-memorized from the Turnaround Checklist, that he was going to be a good Plane Captain.  I remember standing on an engine cowling with Kim, as he squatted down and told me what he was looking for.  "Check the exhaust area for damage" he said, as he pointed.  "Check the tail pipe and power turbine case for cracks" he said, as he ran a hand over the tailpipe's surface, inside and out.  "Check the power turbine for free rotation and oil leaks" he said, as he shined his flashlight into the tail pipe, then reached in and spun the last set of blades with a finger.  "Check the engine deck for fuel and oil leaks" he said, as he checked something suspicious, then smelled his fingers for signs of its origin.  

Just days before the tragic accident, I went to Ponte Vedre Beach with Kim and a couple of buddies in Kim's yellow VW "Beetle."  He drove onto the beach, as was permitted at the time, and proceeded to prove his boast that "you can't get a Beetle stuck in the sand."  Sand flew in all directions, and the passengers were whipped around the inside the car, as he performed his donuts and figure eights.  Later that day, while walking along the shore, I proved my boast that I could find a healthy handful of shark teeth before we returned.  I had been to Ponte Vedre Beach on many previous occasions, honing my skills until I became an accomplished shark tooth hunter.  

 At 8:15 a.m. on Monday, August 14, 1978, the officers and sailors of HS-15 assembled at the hangar for morning muster.   T he squadron pick-up truck was parked in front of the hangar doors with crushed cab, dented fenders, and grotesquely placed clumps of dirt and grass. CDR Andrew A. Granuzzo, Commanding Officer, announced the news that one of our shipmates was dead, and another was hospitalized in critical condition. Memorial services for Airman Hall were set for Friday, August 18, at the Station Chapel. Visiting hours for Airman Dionne were from 11:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. at Memorial Hospital. When the squadron was dismissed, the Line Maintenance Division was instructed to remain in formation.

 After morning muster, the rest of the squadron broke formation and headed off to their shops and offices, while approximately 30 of us remained as instructed. LT Denny Wilcox, the Line Maintenance Division Officer, asked for a volunteer to escort the remains of Airman Hall to his designated place of burial in West Virginia. No one volunteered. LT Wilcox asked again, but still no one volunteered. Kim Hall was well liked, and he had many friends in the Division who were going to miss him. Although I was not among his closest friends, I thought he deserved to be accompanied by someone he knew. I stepped forward just as the frustrated lieutenant began to speak again...possibly to ask a third time, or to chide us for our seeming lack of comradeship.  I never second-guessed or judged my shipmates for their decision not to volunteer.

As a tribute to naval personnel who die on active duty, an escort is provided by the Department of the Navy to accompany each remains to its final resting place.  The escort is responsible for the dignified handling and safe delivery of the remains to the next of kin.  The escort also serves as the personal representative of the Department of the Navy in his relations with the bereaved family.  Escorts are expected to perform this difficult duty in a manner that will reflect credit upon the Naval Service.  Escorts must be courteous, serious, and polite in all their associations.  They must be tactful and understanding, and express their sympathy sincerely to the bereaved.  Escorts are on duty continuously, even during hours spent away from the family, and their conduct must be above reproach.

  At 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, August 15, 1978, I reported to the Decedent Affairs Officer at the Naval Regional Medical Center in Jacksonville. I was briefed on my responsibilities and given some written materials related to my escort duty. Among the materials was an Escort Manual, a Release of Remains Record to be signed by the Floyd Funeral Home, a Schedule of Movement, a Request for Payment and Request for Headstone to be delivered to the next-of-kin, and two American flags–one for burial and one for presentation. I was then instructed to proceed to Rivermead Funeral Home, located south of the air station in Orange Park, to identify the remains.  I hadn't realized that identifying the remains would be part of my duty when I volunteered, and I was apprehensive about doing it. I had attended wakes and funerals before, but this was different.  I wasn't sure what to expect and I didn't know how I would react.

At Rivermead Funeral Home, the funeral director led me into the mortuary after a brief conversation in his office.  He opened one of the stainless steel doors, and pulled out a long drawer containing a sheet-covered body. He pulled the sheet back to the shoulders and asked me if it was the remains of Kim Errol Hall. I stared at the floor.  He said firmly, “Son, the only way you can identify him is to look at him.” I gave a quick glance. The uncosmetized face and unkempt hair bore some resemblance to Kim Hall. I uttered that it looked like him.   Getting increasingly frustrated with me, he said, “Son, you have to be sure. Look a little closer.” This time I stared long enough to recognize that it was Kim. I acknowledged a positive identification, then  inspected an identification tag and confirmed that it bore the correct name. With this task completed, I returned to the empty barracks and practiced folding and unfolding the American flag in a very precise manner, using my bed as a makeshift casket.

 Back to reality.  The first leg of our journey ended at 11:09 a.m. when we landed in Atlanta, Georgia. I rode as a passenger on a tractor, with casket in tow, from the Delta terminal to the United Airlines terminal, where I spent nearly four hours, alone, guarding the casket in a dark warehouse. Occasionally, airline employees walked nearby, but they kept their distance. They looked at me and the casket, but none seemed to want to get close enough to talk. I sure could have used some company.  My mind continued to wander.

The casket and I departed Atlanta on United  Flight 804 at 3:00 p.m., and arrived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, at 4:35. I met the driver from Floyd Funeral Home in the passenger terminal, and we waited for what seemed an eternity for the plan e's baggage and cargo to be off-loaded.  It was 5:15 before we were able to load the casket into his hearse and begin our 130-mile drive to Weston, West Virginia. It was very hot and humid outside and this hearse, a much older model, didn't have air-conditioning. Soggy from perspiration, my summer whites were stuck to me, and they were marked with brown creases from the road dust that blew in through the windows and air vents.   While I had mixed feelings in the morning about the respectfulness of playing music in a working hearse, it would have been a welcome distraction ten or eleven hours later.  Unfortunately, this hearse also didn't have a radio.  

The wake was scheduled to begin at 7:30 that evening, but we did not arrive at the funeral home until 7:45. Though I had no control over the situation, I was feeling distraught over the fact that Kim's family had been waiting inside the funeral home without a body to wake. I helped the driver wheel the casket into a private entrance of the funeral home, and prepared to make a final identification before the body would be presented for viewing. Upon unlocking and opening the casket lid, we observed some leakage from Kim's mouth and nose, which disturbed his facial makeup and stained his white shirt collar. The funeral director explained that this sometimes occurred because the cargo compartments of airplanes are not pressurized. He dabbed the shirt collar with white liquid shoe polish and touched up Kim's makeup.

 Realizing that I was still wearing my dirty summer whites, I asked where I could change into my dress blue uniform. The funeral director told me to use a room on the second floor, located at the top of the stairs.   I retrieved my garment bag from the hearse and ran up the stairs.  I opened the door and felt around in the darkness for the light switch, but couldn't find it. There was no time to waste, so I engaged the doorstop and dressed by the light that entered from the hall. While pulling up my pants, the doorstop lost its grip on the carpet and the door swiftly slammed shut.  It was very dark. With my arms extended out horizontally in front of me, I  inched my way toward the place where I expected the door to be.  It was so dark that I couldn't see my hands just two feet in front of my face.  When I reached the wall, I ran my hands across its surface in an attempt to find the door handle, but instead I found the light switch. I flipped it on, turned around, and received such a surprise, that my heart felt as if it would explode from the rapid and powerful waves of blood that it suddenly began pumping to my extremities.  I was surrounded on three sides by caskets!  Wooden caskets, metal caskets, plain caskets, decorative caskets, and even infant caskets. The funeral director neglected to tell me that the room at the top of the stairs was a casket showroom.

 A few minutes later I entered the viewing room downstairs and found the wake fully underway. Kim's parents–Andrew W. and Benigna “Betty” Hall–stood at the head of the casket and received the line of mourners who came to pay their respects. Standing beside them were Kim's sisters–Victoria (Hall) Vela and Ella Jean Hall. If we had arrived on time I would have introduced myself immediately, but I felt awkward because the family was now engaged in their duties. I found an empty spot at the foot of the casket, and assumed a sentry-like position there.  When the Halls noticed me standing there alone, they came over and brought me back to stand with them. I was supposed to be assisting and supporting them, but it felt like they were taking care of me. Possibly they noticed how young I looked. I was 19 years old, but I could have passed for 16 or 17. Perhaps it occurred to them that if the situation had been  reversed–if Kim was escorting my body–they would want my parents to look after their young son.

 As the wake was concluding, I began to think about accommodations. I didn't see any hotels or motels when we drove into town, but surely there would be some place to stay nearby. When close family members and I were all that remained, the funeral director went over the logistics for the funeral the following day. A contingent from the Naval Reserve Center in Parkersburg, West Virginia, was to provide full military honors at the cemetery. At the conclusion of the ceremony, and upon receiving a cue from CDR Byrum from the Naval Reserve Center, I was to present the American flag to Mrs. Hall and make a short rehearsed speech. As we began to depart the funeral home I told them that I would see them in the morning, but they would have no part of that. They told me that I would be staying with them. I explained that the Navy had specifically instructed me not to do that, but they insisted and I conceded. Kim's parents and sister, Ella, lived in Lake Alfred, Florida. His other sister, Victoria, was an active duty airman, who was stationed with her airman-husband at Langley AFB in Portsmouth, Virginia. We all stayed as guests at the home of Kim's cousin, Sayrann Hall Stalnaker, and her husband Bill.

 Back at Sayra's house I changed into civilian clothes and went out with the men–Raúl Vela, Bill Stalnaker, and cousin Frank Lujan of Sante Fe, New Mexico.  Mr. Hall stayed at the house with Mrs. Hall. At a nearby bar they introduced me to a local favorite called a “Red Eye.” It was simply an under-filled glass of beer–in this case Stroh's on tap–topped off with tomato juice.   Surprisingly, it tasted pretty good, and they claimed the tomato juice would stave off a hangover if I was to overindulge. On our way home we stopped at the Weston Dairy Mart to pick up some snacks and breakfast food for the extra people who would be staying at the Stalnaker's. Now it was my turn to insist–over strong objections I paid for the groceries. That night I bedded down in a sleeping bag on the living room floor near Kim's sister Ella, who was also in a sleeping bag. At her request–and with the manners of a perfect gentleman–I held her in my arms while she cried herself to sleep. It had been a long, emotionally draining day for Kim's family.  I did my best imitation of someone sleeping.

 Morning came all too soon.  It was Thursday, August 17, 1978.  Before long I was standing at attention, saluting, as Kim's flag-draped casket was carried to the gravesite. At the close of the interment rites, I snapped to attention and saluted one last time as the rifle squad from Parkersburg fired its volleys. While the echo from the final volley hung in the stillness of the air, the sounding of taps began. I fought to keep my eyes from welling up, but couldn't stop them.  I used the index finger from my white-gloved saluting hand to wick my right eye, but my left eye had to wait for taps to finish. I hoped that no one noticed.  My throat constricted as I presented the American flag, just folded for the last time, to Mrs. Hall. She peered directly into my eyes as I forced the words from my throat.  “This flag is offered by a grateful Nation in memory of the faithful service performed by your son.” It was difficult to deliver those words to a mother. I thought about my mother.

After the funeral, I gave Mrs. Hall a manila envelope containing two articles her son had been wearing the night of the accident. She opened the envelope and pulled out a stainless steel chain with a silver Mickey Mouse pendant, and a black leather case containing a 4-inch folding buck knife.   Mrs. Hall closed her eyes and held the articles for a couple of moments, seeming to make a connection with her son, then put them back in the envelope. She gave me the envelope, and told me to keep them as a token of her family's appreciation for what I did for them.  I was stunned by the kindness shown to me by the Hall family. I was reeling from their pain which, unexpectedly, became my own. I felt guilty that I had not been Kim's best friend, because some of his family assumed that I was.

 A small cedar box that I acquired as a child has held Kim Hall's chain and knife since the late 1970s. When I looked at them recently, I noticed how time had tarnished the silver pendant and the brass ends on the knife handle.  While my memories are just as old, they remain untarnished.  I especially remember the "Red Eye."  Whenever and wherever I have one, the distinctive taste of that first sip takes me back to the hills of West Virginia, while I pay silent tribute to an old acquaintance who will remain forever young.

Photographed aboard USS America in October 1977. 
From left to right:  Kim Hall, Artie Dionne, Steve Judycki.