Commander A. Dodge McFall, U.S. Navy (shown here as he took command of VA-76 at NAS Lemoore, California), was lost at sea during predeployment night operations flown from the Bon Homme Richard in December 1966, as his squadron prepared for its second tour off Vietnam. Despite an intensive three-day search, his body and A-4F aircraft were never found.
His service reputation was summed up by retired Rear Admiral Julian Burke, in his oral history: ". . . the people who knew him thought that he would have ended up with as many as four stars. They all thought that highly of him. He had presence, charisma. He wasn't a showman, but he just had extraordinarily good ability and judgment and was a very decent person."
Ironically, Commander McFall, who had served in five A-1 Skyraider squadrons, had published a poignant "Farewell to Spads" article in Proceedings less than a year before his death. His daughter Gardner, in her early teens in 1966, found that "his death marked my life utterly, and his absence has been as powerful as any presence." In the course of coping with her loss and honoring her father's memory, she has become an award-winning author and poet, whose work on this page is taken from her self-described elegy, The Pilot's Daughter (St. Louis, Time Being Books, 1996).
Missing
For years I lived with the thought of his return. I imagined he had ditched the plane and was living on a distant island, plotting his way back with a faithful guide; or, if he didn't have a guide, he was sending up a flare in sight of an approaching ship.
Perhaps, having reached an Asian capital, he was buying gifts for a reunion that would dwarf the ones before. He would have exotic stories to tell, though after a while, the stories didn't matter or the gifts.
One day I told myself, he is not coming home, though I had no evidence, no grave, nothing to say a prayer over. I knew he was flying among the starry plankton, detained forever. But telling myself this was as futile as when I found a picture of him sleeping in the ready room, hands folded across his chest, exhausted from the sortie he'd flown. His flight suit was still on, a jacket collapsed at his feet. I half thought I could reach out and wake him, as the unconscious touches the object of its desire and makes it live. I have kept all the doors open in my life so that he could walk in, unsure as I've been how to relinquish what is not there.
—Gardner McFall©1996 time being press