—  •  —     What’s in a Name?   •  —  —
   After flying 17 twelve-hour days (and nights) in Vietnam we were ready to go home back on Okinawa. We were lonely, tired, sick of C-rations and sand-filled beds and had our fill of the nastiness of war.
   Getting home to our families on “the Rock” was a 5 hour flight of 1200 miles over the South China Sea. We would pass between Hong Kong and the Philippines,  then over the southern tip of Taiwan.
  We would be scheduled to go home pretty much on time.
The problem was getting an airplane. More maintenance could be accomplished at our home base, Naha, Okinawa, than at Cam Rahn Bay, RVN. So, at the end of the flying day the maintenance folks would pick the sickest, most battle damaged wreck of a plane and assign it to the crew to fly back.
Of course they would claim it to be legally safe for flight but that was usually a matter of great argument between the flight crew and maintenance.
   We crew members were quite familiar with the condition of the fleet of airplanes and the status of the war and thus could anticipate the onset of another dreaded “Sunrise over Kilo Whiskey”.  This event started with hours of wrangling and arguing with maintenance over the airworthiness of the airplane which resulted in taking off at midnight or later followed by flying all night and facing the morning sun directly in our already weary and bloodshot eyes.
   Some planes had engines that we knew would fail during flight, some had no pressurization, on some the landing gear would not retract because it had to be tied in place with cargo chains. This meant a long slow flight. Fuel leaks, props out of sync, bullet and shrapnel holes, inoperative hydraulic pumps and on and on were the menu of the day. But maintenance knew we wanted to go home and would sell us planes we would normally never agree to fly. But we understood their situation too.
   So off we went into the long black night, exhausted even before starting engines, hoping this wreck will fly for five more hours. Passing abeam Hong Kong and the Phillipines gave some hope but passing over the southern tip of Taiwan was about two-thirds the way home and meant we will probably make it.
   Located on the southern end of Taiwan was a Radio Beacon with the Morse code identification of  K W (dash dot dash, dot dash dash)  Kilo Whiskey. When the ADF needle swung indicating station passage our spirits rose and so did the morning sun. At altitude a low sun can be very blinding in weary eyes. Another sunrise over Kilo Whiskey.
   Now was the time to shift emotional gears and forget the nastiness of war. Forget the destruction, shooting, burning, body bags and other coarseness. Now one could afford to think about the loving arms of one’s wife, the hugs and cuddles of four little girls, good food, a clean bed and all of the good life. That needle swinging over KW meant hope and happiness and good things. It meant we made it through another shuttle down south and now could enjoy a rest with our loved ones.
   I flew in Southeast Asia some part of every month for four years. Thus I passed Eastward over Kilo Whiskey dozens of times and the name means very much to me. No, it does not mean a large bottle of booze. It means coming home.
 I survived and I’m home and I’m thankful and that is why I named my boat Kilo Whiskey.
                       E. William Guenther Lt. Col., USAF