laststandonzombieisland

In June 1960, the first flight of armed and operational silo-based SM-68A/HGM-25A Titan I ICBMs, part of the newly-formed 850th Strategic Missile Squadron at Ellsworth AFB, South Dakota, came online.

This sparked a new breed of Cold Warrior: the Missileer. Otherwise known as missile combat crew (MCC), or missilemen, missileers have stood their underground posts quietly and with honor for the past 73 years and will continue to do so into the future– still with their patented “30 Minutes or Less, or your next one is free” guarantee.

Their watch is remembered in the poem Missileer:

Missileer
Major Robert Wycoff, USAF (Ret.)

In vacant corners of our land,
off rutted gravel trails,
There is a watchful breed of men,
who see that peace prevails.
For them there are no waving flags,
no blare of martial tune,
There is no romance in their job,
no glory at high noon.

In an oft’ repeated ritual,
they casually hang their locks,
Where the wages of man’s love and hate,
are restrained in a small red box.
In a world of flick’ring colored lights,
and endless robot din,
The missile crews will talk awhile,
but soon will turn within.

To a flash of light or other worldly tone,
conditioned acts respond.
Behind each move, unspoken thoughts,
of the bombs that lie beyond.
They live with patient waiting,
with tactics, minds infused,
And the quiet murmur of the heart,
that hopes it’s never used.

They feel the loving throb,
of the mindless tool they run,
They hear the constant whir,
of a world that knows no sun.
Here light is ever present,
no moon’s nocturnal sway.
The clock’s unnatural beat,
belies not night or day.

Behind a concrete door slammed shut,
no starlit skies of night,
No sun-bleached clouds in azure sky,
in which to dance in flight.
But certain as the rising sun,
these tactic warriors seldom see,
They’re ever grimly ready,
for someone has to be.

Beneath it all they’re common men,
who eat and sleep and dream,
But between them is a common bond,
of knowledge they’re a team.
A group of men who love their land,
who serve it long and well,
Who stand their thankless vigil,
on the brink of man-made hell.

In boredom fluxed with stress,
encapsuled they reside,
They do their job without complaint,
of pleasures oft’ denied.
For duty, honor, country,
and a matter of self-pride.

Major Robert Appleby Wyckoff passed in Santa Barbara earlier this month, at age 83. He penned more than 100 poems and the Colgate University English major got into ICBMs in sort of a funny way.

As recalled by his obit:

Bob would consider us remiss if we did not start this writing with some irony and close it with a sense of pride. The trajectory of his life was changed by a typo. As a graduate from Colgate University with a degree in English Literature, and as the cold war was heating up, he chose to enlist in the United States Air Force. He abbreviated his degree as “Eng,” which was misinterpreted as “Engr” by the Air Force, and he was assigned to an engineering position in ballistic missiles. He was dispatched to Malmstrom Air Force Base, MT, to defend our great nation as a combat crew commander, missileer. While at Malstrom, he earned a master’s degree in Systems Management from USC. He continued his missileer career at Randolph AFB, TX, and Vandenberg AFB, CA. To his credit, Bob was smart enough to learn engineering, engaging enough to become a leader, and loving enough to be the quintessential family man until his last breath.