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 aflare in sight of an approaching ship.
Perhaps, having reached an Asian capital,
he was buying gifisfor 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 mysey, he is not coming
home, though I had no evidence,
no grave, nothing to say a prayer over.
I knew he wasflying among the starry
plankton, detainedforever.
But telling myself this was as futile
as when I found a picture of him
sleeping in the ready room,
handsfolded across his chest,
exhaustedfrom the sortie he'dflown.
Hisflight 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 desireand makes it live. I have kept
all the doors open in my lge
so that he could walk in, unsure
as I've been how to relinquish
what is not there.