Contributed by CAPT Tom Golder (A Lifetime VP-45 Association Member)

The Legend of the Iron Duke began in Adak when I drew a picture of a P-3 with “LN” markings on the tail and the number “7” on the nose. This plane belonged to the XO’s crew; and you didn’t want to mess with the X.O…or his plane. That day, LN-7 had a TACAN unit that was faulty. So I drew a big lemon around the plane, and posted my picture on the officer’s mess bulletin board….singed with the name “Iron Duke.” For a while, it was the talk of the wardroom; even the DOD teachers chimed in. Everyone knew the picture came from someone on our crew, and most thought it must have been from me.

But some background:

VP-45 had recently moved from Bermuda to NAS Jacksonville where they transitioned from the old P-5 Marlin seaplane to the newer P-3A Orion. I reported soon after that transition.  I always thought the “Bermuda Group,” as the old P-5 guys became known, was a bit lacking in military bearing as they came from a less disciplined tropical environment. As a LCDR, I worked hard to shape them up. 

Some of our squadron’s bulletin board postings were hung in the dead of night, and included comments concerning the female school teachers assigned to Adak, who also lived in the BOQ. Many of these postings made a crude attempt at poetry akin to the famous Yukon poet, Robert Service - a poet who I had enjoyed ever since my mother put me on to him in grammar school. Since my artwork got so much attention, I started to add some of my own poems using my pseudonym “Iron Duke.” Some postings were lost to history; but I have included a few below that describe some of our adventures, even after our squadron returned to Jacksonville.

Note: Then LT Tom Golder (the author), "Iron Duke," is pictured to the right.

Tidbits from the Iron Duke:

After the 1965 - 66 Adak deployment, the squadron went back on line with detachments spread around the Atlantic. We often had a detachment in Bermuda consisting of two planes, and occasionally three. By virtue of my O-4 seniority, I had some influence over scheduling which Bermuda crew did what flying. When the officer-in-charge of the detachment was off the island flying on patrol, I might use (some might say “misuse”) my authority in scheduling my crew for a long “loop patrol.”

Whenever I did this, there was usually some heat and grumbling around the hangar deck that I was favoring my crew. The long loop assignment meant flying a sequence of patrols from Bermuda to Lajes - good shopping, and from Lajes to Rota - more good shopping. Then we would reverse that flight track back to Bermuda. It also meant no administrative work at the squadron office for about a week; just fun flying.

A typical logbook entry shows: December 5, 10.2 hours to Lajes; December 7, 10.0 hours to Rota; December 9, 10.3 hours to Lajes; December 11, 10.0 hours back to Bermuda.

At that time, the U.S. Navy still had a naval station on Bermuda and the runway was shared with Kindley Air Force Base and commercial airliners. I was not particularly happy with the general appearance and military demeanor of the detachment’s personnel, and believed we should have been setting a better example for the Air Force people. These thoughts were not shared by everyone.

Shortly after our return from the long loop patrol mentioned above, the following note appeared on the bulletin board:

One Last Ode to the Iron Duke:

The Iron Duke strikes again and with real class,
for he has shot down eleven men from reaching Spanish grass.
Although he and most of his gang have been there twice,
they are now called Crew Three and they deserve more than one slice.
For as the old lesson goes for all those who know,
the curse of Crew Three is too strong to hold low.*

We thought we had left it in the bygone land Alaska,
but the curse has sprung up again like a cobra from a basket.
As dependable as Santa emerging from the chimney covered with soot,
the curse strikes again with a new master—the Iron Duke.
But be not too forlorned—hold down the old fort,
for the legend may yet perish—the Iron Duke is short!**

(*Crew three used to belong to LCDR Jerry Jones, who was the operations officer. He really had power; and it was well known that his crew got all the good deals. When I came to Crew Three, I brought more than a few of my old crew with me.)

(**This last stanza refers to me having orders to the USS Independence and leaving the squadron in a month or two.)

Another eloquent poet in the squadron was too much for the Iron Duke, so a rebuttal was deemed to be in order. Soon after, a second note appeared on the bulletin board:

Geezzee, What Do the Iron Duke Do; A statement of policy:

The last thing the Iron Duke would do,
would be to try to shaft another’s crew.
While extra time in Jax had one, two, six, and four,
crews nine and three fought the Bermuda war.

Two weeks at home on bosoms warm,
three would have gladly swapped for long loops storm.
But four was lucky so three got plucky,
and evened the score on December four.

Batman, Superman, ice cream cones,
comic books, apple pie, melodic tones.
Clean tongued officers, enlisted too,
the stars on our flag on a field of blue.
Squared white hats, clean dungarees,
quiet at night for plenty of “Zs.”

These are the things the Duke is for,
only these and nothing more.
But never too humble to accept rebuke,
I did it, I’m glad—says the Iron Duke.

My apologies to Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Service, and poets everywhere.

I departed VP-45, enroute to my first ship, the USS Independence (CVA–62) with orders to be the guided missile officer. I read a poem at my going away party. The last lines went something like this: “If you are flying in the sky toward the enemy and see a guided missile go flying by, be not afraid, it isn’t a fluke, it was launched from the Independence by the Iron Duke.”

After reporting to the ship, I penned one last ode that I sent to Dave Parker, my trusted former copilot:

The Duke grows rusty, his iron erodes,
he misses VP, its various modes.
In the fast P-3 he can no longer play,
he’s doomed to 170 (knots) in the C-1A.

He misses the P-3 with its quiet power to spare,
and listens while piston banging rents the air.
With Brad and Bob Bass, we meet new friends,
in our “moving” Navy it never ends.

Big Julie is short, Black Mac’s almost gone,
who remembers Big Red, Hawk, and Sloopy Hang On?*
But Forty Five endures ‘tween Bermuda and Arg,
with Commander Townes, the sly fox, fully in charge.

The Duke plays with Sparrows, Bullpups, and Sidewinders too,
I stash ‘em and stow ‘em and test them true.
I put ‘em together and take ‘em apart,
their intricate workings I know by heart.

But alas, near the pickle the Duke will not get,
it’s fired by some “jock” in a sleek new jet.
But fear not, for as the missile comes out of the skies,
the enemy will know just before his demise,
that it’s the real thing, it isn’t a fluke,
on the side will be stenciled: “From the Iron Duke!”

(* “Big Red” was the nickname we gave one of the Adak schoolteachers; she was redheaded and very tall - a nice girl. “Hawk” was another schoolteacher, with a hawkish look; but she got prettier after six months. By the end of the deployment, the bachelors were dating all the ladies. One officer ended up marrying one of them. Sloopy Hang On was a popular 1960s song we played at every squadron gathering.)

WebMaster Note: Thanks to CAPT Tom Golder for this and two other great "sea stories."