Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  “That’s not what I mean, Robin. How do you like that new lead-computing gun sight?”

  “I suppose it’s fine, Al, but we don’t carry a gun.”

  “You what?!”

  “I said we don’t carry a gun, Al.”

  “Why not, for God’s sake!”

  “Al, out of all my fighter guys, only a precious few have ever fired a gun at an aerial target, let alone learned how to dogfight with guns. Hell, they’d pile into a bunch of MiGs with their hair on fire and be eaten alive. Besides, a gun pod hanging on the belly eliminates five or six bombs and induces tremendous drag. On future models get an internal gun where it belongs and teach the new pilots how to fight with it.” I really had to argue with myself about my own desire to carry a gun. I knew I could hit anything I shot at but was damned sure I didn’t want to tempt my men to engage a MiG-17 in an old-fashioned dogfight or give them the urge to go down in the mountain passes in Laos to strafe a stupid truck. In either case, I would have lost bunches of them. We needed guns, no doubt about it, but we needed pilots trained to use them even more.

  “OK, Robin,” Al responded, “I see your point, but how about that new RHAW [Radar Homing and Warning] gear? That’s supposed to be a great improvement over the stuff we jury-rigged for the Cs.”

  “Yes it is, Al. But a lot of us turn it off when we cross the Black: too many false alerts when your life depends on your eyeballs. All that zit-zit noise and flashing colored lights in the cockpit is a bother. We know the enemy radar is searching, tracking, and locking on. He’s paid to do that, and he does it every time we’re up there. We don’t need some fancy electronic gear to tell us he’s doing his job. We know he’ll launch when he can provide guidance to his SAMs. It’s our job to see the missile launch if possible, then determine if we are the target. If the SAM doesn’t move on the canopy, we know we’re it, and if we take the evasive action we’ve learned, it will make the damned thing miss, we hope.”

  “Damn. Well what about that new bomb-delivery sight system?”

  “It’s good, Al, but we are learning to use it in the easier target areas. We don’t like anything that makes us do a lot of straight tracking during the bomb run when we’re in Route Pack 6.”

  “How do you bomb then?”

  “Now we’re flying a ‘pod’ formation. We’re spread out about 1,000 feet and stack 200 or 300 up or down. A little rough at first but the guys are used to it now, and it gives our pods optimum effectiveness against the radars. When we get to the target, each flight lead calls the roll in and everyone in his flight of four rolls-in at once. That means all of us are going down the chute at the same time, each at his predetermined dive angle and converging on the target. We pickle at 7,500 feet and break hard to a predetermined departure heading. That gives us the least amount of exposure to his ground fire and puts us right back in formation for getting the hell out of there. It works, Al. Believe me, it works. Our bombing is better and our losses over the target are practically nil.”

  “OK, my friend, but what about the AIM-4 Falcon missile? Take this old C model here, it—”

  Uh-oh. I knew the shit was about to hit the fan. “That’s actually a D, Al.”

  “No, it’s a C. It’s got Sidewinders on it.”

  “I assure you that F-4 is a D, Al. I had to put Sidewinders on the whole fleet of Ds. The AIM-4 isn’t worth a damn.”

  “Robin, what in hell have you done? You can’t do that!”

  My ensuing explanation was rather long and drawn out, but apparently Al got the message and didn’t blow his stack. He merely said that he’d look into the matter when he returned to Eglin. The rewiring of F-4Ds for reliable Sidewinders was eventually done fleetwide. Later, I was told the air force kept working on the Falcon for years and finally gave up.

  In mid-June, Jimmy Jumper, colonels assignments at the Pentagon, let me know there was a bunch of hoopla about my fourth MiG. Everyone was lathered up that I would get number five, become the first ace of the war, and summarily be sent home. The SAFOI (secretary of the Air Force Office of Information) had the urge to popularize the air war by producing an “ace,” which the public could identify with. The situation angered me deeply. The PR machines were really cranking up with rumors of a big homecoming parade in D.C., a promotion to brigadier general, and a highly visible assignment at Systems Command to head up the Limited Warfare Deputate at Wright-Patterson. I called the information office at the 7th to confirm this. He explained it was Secretary of the Air Force Harold Brown and SecDef McNamara ordering it.

  “Tell them both to go screw themselves! They can court-martial me. I just won’t get number five! It means more to me to command my wing than to satisfy their childish exploitation of me for PR purposes!” I understood that getting the fifth MiG and retaining my command would make me a particular target and endanger my guys as well. My propaganda value to the North Vietnamese as a POW would be staggering. Damn! We’ve got a war raging over North Vietnam, and some little prick behind a desk in the Pentagon has me by the balls! Why was the number five so important?

  It came on the back of those months after Thai Nguyen when Momyer had forbidden me to lead missions. So I didn’t fly lead; I pushed from the rear. How was I going to stop myself from shooting at MiGs? This was the ultimate Catch-22. How could I be in the cockpit facing a MiG yet hold back? It was hard for this old warrior to simply not fight, when I knew with all my heart that I was the best fighter pilot out there. It wasn’t ego; it was experience, desire to win the battle, and honest love for my men. How could I passively watch the battle because of a number? It had happened to Gabby Gabreski in World War II. He let his wingman get the kills. I’d have to do the same.

  I wasn’t worried about after my tour in September. If it was TAC it was OK, but the current plan had me going back to the Pentagon. That’s what Ella expected and wanted. Brigadier General Jumper let me know that she was very vocal about it, so we would keep any talk of any assignment away from D.C. on the q.t. Jimmy was a tremendous ally on that subject, but he had no recourse on the “ace” mandate. Ella was also hoping I’d get my fifth MiG and be sent home early, and in glory. Well, I had big news for both of them. I told Jimmy I would slit my throat if they put me back in Air Defense. I also wasn’t going to come home anytime soon. There would be no fifth MiG. There was no way in hell I’d leave my men.

  From that point forward in the many missions of June, July, and August, I deliberately chose not to shoot down number five, wanting instead to finish my tour and lead my wing. My neck was stuck way out. I wouldn’t stop flying, but it meant I couldn’t fight, even when in a fight. There would be nine or ten more opportunities to get a MiG, sometimes so easy I could have closed my eyes and hosed off a Sidewinder, but I just sat there and looked at him. I let my wingman take him. It was hard.

  About that time, I became embroiled in an incident that took on international proportions. I saw it as fallout from the continuing bad-mouthing going on between wings, especially from a few guys at Takhli toward everybody else. The wings showed personalities, both good and bad. Despite the fun parties and serious talking enjoyed at various tactics conferences, despite how much we were all visiting one another at different bases, despite gaining more respect and confidence in one another and working well together, the trash talk was still going on. Korat and Ubon were behaving, but Takhli had a real problem.

  We were all frustrated about the target limitations imposed on us by Washington. Haiphong Harbor near Hanoi was the worst insult of all. We should have closed it down, blockaded, done whatever necessary to keep it from operating, but we couldn’t touch it. Ships came in and went, bringing in supplies: MiGs, trucks, ammunition, food, cement to fix the blown bridges, you name it. The Vietcong troops received their stuff within days—and we were letting it happen!

  There’s a fine line between constructive competition and downright destructive bad-mouthing. That’s what was happening with Takhli. They said nobody died as nobly as the boys from Takhli. E
ven between the F-105 wings, Takhli called themselves “Hertz” and insulted Korat as the “Avis” wing. Their tactics were right and everybody else was wrong. Everyone else stank and they were the only ones that were good. It was like standing in the middle of a grassy field with a circus mallet and pounding the earth around you for five or six hours until you are standing on a little tuft of grass surrounded by a sea of mud. You’re not any higher than you were when you started pounding. In telling yourself, “Look how high I am, standing above all this!” you’ve just made yourself look silly. Worst of all, that field mouse pounded down into the mud will eventually recover and come back to bite. That is what happened with this incident.

  We were coming off target on the northeast railroad. It was a tough mission in and out because of thunderstorms. Crossing out over the gulf I looked south and saw somebody in the process of attacking the dock at Hong Gai near Cam Pha. A couple of bombs went off near the dock. There had been a Russian ship tied up there for several days, an easy target for sure, but prohibited. I thought, Who in the hell is doing that? They weren’t smokers and I knew where all of my guys were, so we pressed home.

  About three days later, wires started coming in: “Who strafed the ship?” I thought, This is funny. Why are they asking me? I don’t even have guns, for Christ’s sake. About two weeks later, another message came in demanding the name, rank, serial number, and position of the flight and flight path in and out for each guy in my flight on that mission. I thought, Uh-oh.

  Finally, the commander of PACAF, General Jack Ryan, showed up at Ubon and based himself there. He was conducting the investigation himself. I will never forget the night he told me how the investigation was going. He sat down in front of my desk and told me what he and his staff were finding. Somebody had strafed the ship and killed a Russian sailor, and it got all the way to the Kremlin. The Kremlin called the White House, and the White House told them to go to hell, the U.S. didn’t do it. President Johnson’s staff had asked the troops and they said they didn’t do it. Everybody denied being anywhere near it. Brezhnev said, “Well, I am coming to the United States for a UN meeting and I’m bringing the evidence with me: photographs, shell fragments, damage reports, plus maybe the autopsy on the dead sailor.” Still, there were utter denials.

  General Ryan got a phone call toward the end of his meeting with me. He jumped in a T-39 to Takhli. He was back about three or four hours later, came into my trailer, sat down, shook his head sadly, and said, “I can’t believe it. I have personally interviewed those people before. I’ve talked to everyone there and they had nothing but absolute flat-out, right-in-the-eye denials.” Ryan told me that a sergeant finally broke. It was getting way over his head and he told one of Ryan’s people that they ought to look into something that had to do with a film pack being deliberately destroyed. This sergeant was accountable for those film packs and he thought the trail was going to lead to him so he blew the whistle. Ryan’s staff got the records and proved that a particular flight had shot their guns that day. There was denial that they had. It was found that the guns had been recharged but the film packs couldn’t be accounted for. The packs were serially numbered and were assigned to each airplane by that number.

  What happened was the guys who strafed the ship came back to Takhli when the wing commander, Bob Scott, was away. They took the film packs out of their bird to take to him. The NCO responsible told them he couldn’t let the film out of his sight, so he accompanied them to the O club, where a party was going on. Colonel Jack Broughton, 355th Wing DO, who was a hell of a fighter pilot, came outside to meet with them. When they told him what had happened, he opened the film pack in front of the headlights of a jeep and exposed the film. The film went blank, and when asked by the investigation team, he said, “Sir, I have no evidence.” The statement he made was not an outright lie, since the evidence of the strafing no longer existed, but he was brought up for court-martial along with the two pilots for destruction of government property instead of for violating the explicit rules of engagement. I know that he didn’t want his guys nailed for strafing the ship, because everyone hated that damned off-limits harbor. His action was understandable, but clearly dishonest. A couple of fine young pilots got screwed over by a cover-up intended to preserve the wing’s image. The real tragedy of the whole subterfuge was that the president of the United States got caught in a lie. Jack Broughton’s career was ended.

  After General Ryan left, I held an aircrew meeting and said, “Don’t you guys ever do that to me, because I will never, ever do that to you! My loyalty is first to the oath that I swore as an officer to the Constitution of the United States. My loyalty is upward. My loyalty to you is as your commander. I will fight for you, I will protect you, and I will do everything I can, but I will not lie for you. I will not steal for you and I will not cheat for you. Don’t you ever try to do it for me. If you screw up like that, come and tell me. You are in my outfit. It is my responsibility and I will make the decision and take the brunt of the reaction. That is my job and don’t you ever try to deny me the fulfillment of the responsibilities of my job. Take this as a lesson, guys.”

  The 13th AF staff judge advocate soon called and said, “You have to report to Clark. You’ve been assigned to serve on a general court.” I said, “Morey, I can’t do that.” He said, “Why not? It’s an order from General Wilson [commander, 13th AF]. You have to.” I said, “No, Morey, I can’t do that. You will just make yourselves look silly.” He repeated the order, and I knew I could not divulge what Ryan had told me. Ryan had spoken to me in confidence and I treated it in confidence. So I had to jump in an F-4, fly all the way to Clark, and sit down to wait for half a day while they went through the bullshit. When the staff judge advocate finally asked, “Does anyone on the court, or on the board, know of any reason why he should not serve?” I stood up and said, “Yes, I do.” The judge asked me why. “Because I have material knowledge of the evidence in this case.” Then I marched out of the courtroom and flew back home.

  Throughout June and July MiG CAP missions worked well, the result of good tactics developed with the F-105s. Targets were nearly all railroad yards, where we encountered heavy flak yet few SAMs and even fewer MiGs. I questioned the effectiveness of railroad strikes day after day and had several go-rounds with HQ on it. We needed to broaden our target base. Good military targets still existed—supply dumps, warehouses, barracks, training areas, lines of communication, bridges—but we were hampered by Washington’s policy of politeness. It was a daily frustration.

  The battles went on. We were fighting for all we were worth. God, I loved my guys. They all understood why the Old Man wasn’t firing at MiGs and they became even better pilots in the deal. The old wolf taunted the enemy, snarled face-to-face, wore them down, then danced aside for the pack to come in for the kill. My own tactics under my self-imposed no-kill zone became sharpened by the new challenge. Briefings intensified and debriefings shortened and sharpened; nights at the O club were ribald, loose, off-the-charts fun.

  Daytime desk duties droned by, almost with a sense of normalcy. Ruby was the most professional secretary I’d ever known and she ran a tight ship. It freed me to do all the running around necessary to my job, but there were also light moments around the office. There was the day Chappie casually mentioned that I ought to review the end-of-tour report prepared by our Catholic chaplain.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Our Catholic chaplain,” he responded.

  “Damn, Chappie, I didn’t know we had one.”

  “Come on, boss, stop kidding. He’s been picked for an out-briefing and I think you should review his report.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why don’t you take care of it?”

  “Now, boss, you’re getting upset. We’ll drop it for now.”

  His concern told me there was something I should see, but when he sensed my reaction, he clammed up. In those days an out-briefing meant the selected individual gave a written and oral report at ea
ch echelon of command all the way back to the Pentagon. I’m not sure what was done with the information, but it seemed to be a prying effort on the part of staff officers involved. Several days later I reminded Chappie of his concern and asked to see the report he was so worried about.

  “Now, boss, don’t get mad.”

  “OK, Chappie, I won’t. Just give me that report.” I took one look at the first paragraph, and shouted, “Damn it, Chappie, get that son of a bitch in here!”

  “My God, boss, you can’t call a chaplain that! See, I knew you’d get mad.”

  “OK, OK, I’ll try to be good. Just get him in here.”

  The chaplain showed up and sauntered up to my desk. He was in uniform with his captain’s bars on one collar and his chaplain’s insignia on the other. He was sort of roly-poly and just stood there.

  I looked at him and asked quietly if he considered himself an officer in the United States Air Force. He acknowledged that he was.

  “Then salute!” I said, which he did with some difficulty.

  “Now, Chaplain, about this report of yours. In the very first paragraph you clearly state that the wing commander openly tolerated and even encouraged his senior enlisted personnel to live off base and to cohabitate with the native women. You go on to condemn my actions, inferring I approved of the men hiring cleaning ladies and domestic help for sexual reasons. I’m not at all sure how you know this, but let me tell you something. There are over eight thousand men on this base, more than we have barracks for. So the senior NCOs have to live somewhere. Now, I am responsible for their food, their work, their clothing, their on-base recreation, and their total response to our mission. All that and more are the things that fall under my responsibilities as the wing commander. Their morals are YOUR responsibility, and it appears to me you are trying to shift the blame for your failure onto my shoulders. You may be sure I shall make note of that in my evaluation of your performance. Now, please remove yourself and think about what I’ve said.”