Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  I could see Chappie watching the proceedings through the philodendron screen between our desks. When the chaplain departed, he came around to my desk and wanted to know what I was going to do about that report.

  “Why, nothing about the report, Chappie, but get the transportation officer over here and find a copy of the chaplain’s orders. Meanwhile I’ll call the Chief of Chaplain’s Office in Washington and explain what happened and what I’m going to do about it.”

  With some changes to the wording of his orders, our chaplain found himself returning home the other way around the world. The last I heard he was having quite a problem finding transportation out of Saudi Arabia. I presume he ultimately arrived back in the States because, surely, God was on his side.

  Days later, my vice wing commander committed a breach of etiquette I just couldn’t forgive. I had a pair of flying socks in my desk drawer—mind you, they were my lucky socks, left over from World War II. I wore them on every mission and washed them from time to time, but obviously not enough for Chappie. He opened that drawer one day when I was gone and threw my socks away. The next morning before a mission: no socks. Ruby looked puzzled and was honest in her denial of any knowledge, so I immediately confronted Chappie. I was pissed. He relented under my anger and confessed to throwing them away. I ordered him outside into the trash container to retrieve them. When he came back into the office some time later, it was obvious that the previous night’s garbage from the mess had been thrown on top of the socks. Chappie was a mess and stank to high heaven. I let him know in no uncertain terms that he smelled far worse than my socks ever could. Then I put on my socks, pulled on my boots, and went out to fly another successful mission.

  In late July a tech came over with a helmet camera that Hughes Aircraft wanted me to wear in the cockpit. It looked like the head of Medusa, with tubes and wires coming out all over the place, connecting to God knows where. I was supposed to capture live-action combat film as I turned my head in flight. My F-4, now SCAT XXVII, was out of commission for days as the tech worked with the ground crew to get the support equipment for the headset installed. I argued that the gadget was useless but finally agreed to test it. The first flight proved it all. While pulling g’s in a hard turn around some MiGs, I tried to check six. No dice. Couldn’t even turn my head back over my shoulder. I pulled up and out of the fight and came home raging mad. That helmet disappeared overnight. It probably ended up on a shelf behind some guy’s basement bar in Utah.

  Pilots from other wings often dropped over for social times at the O club, as we did at their bases. One of my favorites was a kid named Lieutenant Karl Richter, a 1964 Air Force Academy grad. We liked each other enormously. He was an F-105 pilot from Korat with a great career in front of him. At the age of twenty-three, he was the youngest pilot to shoot down a MiG. Tragically, he was killed on July 28. At the time he had 198 missions over North Vietnam, more than any other guy in the theater. I was really broken up when I heard. Richter had been flying with a new pilot on his wing when he spotted a bridge. He instructed the trainee to stay above to watch as he rolled his F-105 toward the target. Enemy antiaircraft artillery opened up, hit his Thud, and forced him to eject. His trainee watched Karl’s parachute disappear into cloud cover. Rescue forces reached him but he died en route to the hospital from injuries received during his ejection. It was a hell of a loss for all of us.

  Richter’s buddies at Korat knew that Karl and I were great pals. They decided to give me a remembrance, something of Karl’s I admired: his pet monkey. Just a day or two after Karl went down, I opened the door of my trailer to utter disaster: all cupboard doors and drawers stood open, toilet paper lay in ribbons from one end to the other, a potted plant was dumped over, and dirt was everywhere. My pillow had been dismantled, dishes and glasses were broken, files were hurled, work papers and maps were shredded beyond recognition. That damn monkey sat screeching and laughing on the top of a cupboard with his next missile clenched in a tiny fist. I roared and lunged at him. The comedic chase scene that followed ended only because the Korat guys had kindly left the harness and leash on the critter. I threw the little beast into the head and slammed the door. But there might be the potential for some fun.

  The next morning, I showed up at the office with the monkey perched docilely on my shoulder. Ruby just laughed at my story. Chappie was horrified. “Boss, you’re not going to keep that thing, are you?” Yup, I sure was. Then I announced the monkey’s name would be “Stokely Carmichael.” Chappie’s face was a sight to see at that news. It tickled me no end. Well, Stokely didn’t last more than half an hour in the office. His mischief and chattering were impossible. I ordered a cage built and installed outside my trailer. That became his home. He became the wing mascot. Nights at the O club were especially entertaining. The guys would bail out and dive for cover when I walked in. The Thais on the O club staff were scared to death of the monkey but knew they couldn’t do anything. I’d put Stokely down on the bar and that damned monkey would make one pass down the length, knocking over every glass in his path. Sometimes he’d stop to jam nuts into his mouth or stick his fist way down into a glass and fling beer in all directions. Then he’d jump onto the back shelves and make one pass down behind the bottles, screeching the whole way. It was chaos: bottles breaking, guys yelling while protecting their drinks, Thai waitresses screaming, the bar manager shouting a stream of Thai curses, and me laughing. What was their problem?

  I was not immune to return favors. Bill Kirk and Joe Moore plus three or four other guys decided to haul an F-4 drag chute behind a jeep at a great rate of speed to see if it would blossom and slow the jeep down. They dragged it all over the ramp and never did get the damn thing to open. With that failure they thought it would be fun to drape the chute all over the inside of my trailer. Maybe they didn’t realize how dirty it was, or then again maybe they did. When I returned to base the next day and opened the door to my trailer, there was grime and gravel and oil all over the couch, chairs, table, and bed underneath the chute. I knew instantly who had done it.

  The guys were in the tactics room when a note was handed to Kirk. It read, “An unauthorized piece of Air Force property was stolen, damaged, and improperly displayed. The perpetrators of this offense are put on notice. A report will be placed in the appropriate personnel files.” Best of all, when Bill and Joe returned to their room, Stokely was there to greet them. Their bedroom and bathroom were totally destroyed, every surface was covered with shaving cream, and monkey shit adorned the walls. Those guys avoided me for weeks.

  New tasking came in August. Target: the mile-long Paul Doumer Bridge spanning the Red River at Hanoi. The bridge was a principal link for both road and rail traffic from China and the industrial area north of the Red to the capital, Hanoi. It had been on the list of restricted targets. On August 11, it was released. We’d seen the bridge and knew it was a significant target. We knew the enemy would fight like hell to defend it. We’d have to fight like hell to destroy it. If this first effort was unsuccessful, the defenses would only get bigger. The bridge had to be dropped on the first strike. Accuracy was imperative. No civilian areas near the bridge were to be hit. We were told to expect the heaviest defenses yet encountered in the war. We believed it.

  Colonel Bob White led the 355th strike force out of Takhli. He would also coordinate the entire package planning and serve as the mission commander. The F-105s from the Korat wing would be led by the 469th Squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Harry Schurr. I would lead the 8th. We would have the usual package of MiG CAP, Wild Weasels, EB-66 jamming, and two four-ship flights of F-105s with cluster bombs dedicated to flak suppression.

  The frag caught us by surprise. Takhli had already loaded 750-pound bombs and wing tanks for a second mission of the day. Crews scrambled to download everything. They reloaded the Thuds with 3,000-pound bombs and centerline tanks. Crews were quickly briefed in all the wings, and by early afternoon the force crossed the Red River and was moving down Thud Ridge toward
Hanoi.

  Heavy flak and missiles showed up before we reached the target area. The strike force, moving en masse, sailed right into it. Damn I was proud of those Thud drivers for not dropping their ordnance early and hightailing it out of there. The flak-suppression flights dropped their CBUs on the active flak sites on the approaches to the bridge and blew several of them to hell. My gut was clenched when I saw the first of their flights disappear ahead into the ugly black smoke, followed by the first force of bridge-bombing Thuds. MiGs suddenly came out of Phuc Yen about 20 miles out but passed right under the formation, making no attempt to engage. What the hell? More showed up to harass the force and we engaged them. MiGs made several unsuccessful attempts, but couldn’t outbattle us. As we rolled and feinted with the MiGs, I watched the flights of Thuds roll in one after the other, releasing their bombs through the flak. The impacts of 3,000-pounders enveloped the bridge!

  Following them, I roared the Wolfpack over the target, the wail of the Phantom J-79s adding a new tone to the cacophony over Hanoi. If it was possible, the flak seemed intensified. They threw everything they had at us. We dove into the chaos and dropped our 750-pound Mk-82s on target, then pulled up to resume defending the departing force from MiGs. Another wave of F-105s screamed in to ensure the strike. More M-118 3,000-pounders. Huge orange balls of fire exploded. With each detonation, the humid air flashed clouds looking for all the world like miniature A-bombs. As I led my flight up and out, two unarmed RF-4Cs drew a tremendous barrage of antiaircraft fire as they flew low over the bridge to film the results of the strike mission. Two spans of the bridge were dropped and not a single bomb fell on civilian areas. Best of all, we all made it safely home: a perfect mission made perfect by outstanding coordination among the wings and the extreme bravery of many pilots against the heaviest odds seen to date in North Vietnam. I was extremely proud of the Wolfpack.

  On the thirteenth, the 8th Wing’s morning mission was a MiG CAP to cover F-105s inbound on the Canal des Rapides Bridge just upriver from Doumer. My force would bomb the marshaling yard northeast of Hanoi on egress. I named Ron Catton, call sign “Cadillac,” mission leader. I took up the flank, leading the fourth flight as “Chevy.” The MiGs were stirred up by our recent bridge strikes, so we expected some action. My flight would be first to engage any MiG attack, and sure enough, just before we left the Thuds and turned toward our target area, a single MiG-21 came screaming through our formation from five o’clock going to eleven o’clock, heading toward Thud Ridge. I gave chase and told my flight to hang in with the others. This might be fun! I zoomed after that little fucker, knowing I could scare the shit out of him. Just as he crossed over Phuc Yen, two SAMs came up at me and I dove to evade. I lost sight of one SAM, but the other curved right around and hit the MiG! It was beautiful! I laughed cynically as the MiG crashed just off the Phuc Yen runway. I knew they were listening on the radio so I said, “Congratulations, you dumb bastards!”

  I turned hard back toward the battle and joined up with my flight. One of my guys—it turned out to be Catton—was in a vertical climb, pouring smoke from a direct hit on one engine, with three MiG-17s hot on his trail. He called to me, “Hey, Chevy, I’ve got three MiGs cornered at six o’clock!” That wise-ass, I’d have to chew his butt later for that remark. Just as Catton reversed, head-on, straight down through the MiG formation I ordered him, “Come out on the grass toward Thud Ridge and shut up!”

  He went down low over the rice paddies and into the small-arms fire of farmers whacking at him with their rifles, the MiG-17s right behind and closing. An F-4 on one engine even in afterburner was easy prey for a MiG-17. He was a sitting duck. I called my flight. “OK, Chevy. Let’s go!” We screamed in off the ridge just as the MiGs got into gun range behind Catton. We fired Sparrow missiles head-on at them over his canopy. So much for my decision not to get number five. Oh well, only a month left anyway. Damned if I was going to let the enemy get one of my guys! The MiGs wisely broke northeast for home. We chased for a minute until I called, “Egress!” My flight turned southwest, toward our tanker.

  I called Catton, who was alone and headed outbound. “Cadillac, Chevy Lead here. What’s your status?”

  “Smoke in the cockpit, fire light on, losing fuel rapidly, will bail out over Laos. Call rescue.”

  “OK, Cadillac, you hang in there!” I knew he was in deep shit, losing fuel big-time and still over enemy territory.

  A KC-135 tanker pilot listening in immediately got on the horn. “Negative, Cadillac Lead, Red Anchor 31 here. I’ll come up to get you. Give me your coordinates.” The tanker pressed far north of his limit and met Catton’s F-4 just south of the Black River. They joined up and headed out back toward Udorn. Catton described his battle damage and fire-warning light to the pilot, concerned for the tanker’s safety.

  “Cadillac Lead, get your sorry ass in position for hookup before I change my mind!”

  What a warrior! There aren’t many tanker guys who can buy a drink in a fighter bar. Turned out that KC-135 dragged Catton all the way to Udorn, where he dropped off for a flameout pattern. After landing, his left engine quit, damaged when the right was destroyed. Quite a day at the office!

  A week later, Catton appeared at my office with a rumor coming out of HQ that Red Anchor 31 was to be court-martialed for coming after him over North Vietnam. After thinking about it for a moment I said, “Hell, no sweat. Put him in for the Silver Star!” We did just that and the court-martial was canceled.

  The day after the battle, I went to the 7th for a meeting and laughed with some guys from intelligence and ops about the SAM hitting that MiG. We chuckled over how beautiful it was. I said, “You know, I still can’t figure out how they goofed. The only thing different I noticed was the MiG was up pretty high. Usually, they aren’t.”

  The intel guy said, “Oh yes, he was above his missile-tight altitude.”

  I asked, “What is that?”

  “He blundered up above 3,500 feet, and they have missile-tight below 3,500 feet. That keeps their MiGs from being engaged.”

  “No shit. How long have you known that?”

  He said, “Oh, that has been the rule for a couple of weeks now.”

  “You dumb fucking asshole, why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Colonel, it’s up to ops to tell you.”

  The ops guy said, “Hell, we didn’t know it!”

  I was furious. “Why didn’t you bastards tell me? Just three days ago I came off a target, went whistling across the Delta just north of Hanoi, and had twenty-eight SAMs shot at me in about two minutes. All I had to do was go down to 500 feet? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

  “Well, it’s highly classified.”

  Classified, my ass! Keeping a secret from whom? The enemy knew their policy already! Intelligence and operations weren’t working together. Un-fucking-believable. The real tragedy of this screwup would hit us hard in the last week of August.

  The edge was taken off my anger for a couple of days, August 18–19, when Ubon hosted the second practice reunion for the Red River valley pilots. Guys came in from Takhli, Korat, Da Nang, and Udorn for a great tactics session. The first night’s party was at our O club. Stokely nearly got shot during one of his sweeps down the bar, so he stayed in his cage for the rest of the gathering. The next day’s meeting accomplished more good tactics discussions and selected an emblem for the group. The RRVFPA came into being. All wings had finally developed some friendship and mutual respect on the ground and in the air. We had progressed and improved on missions together. The reunion finale was a monumental blowout in downtown Ubon. Everyone survived, I think.

  Eighth Wing’s tactics continued evolving over my last two months. We learned a ton as we flew supporting the F-105 wings on strike missions, slipping in sequence with them, enjoying the protection of all the pods, and completing some damned fine strikes. But tactics had to be flexible to meet changing conditions and situations up north. MiGs were up in August, snapping at our heels, hitting hard and flying sm
art. In intel at Ubon we were going crazy trying to figure out what was happening that was different. I studied photos, drew different coordinates on my desk map, then erased and plotted again, trying to find a pattern, working like hell to change our tactics to beat the enemy’s.

  On August 23, I led a MiG CAP from Ubon as part of the overall force hitting the Yen Vien railroad and Doumer Bridge in Hanoi again. Those industrious little bastards had put every available citizen immediately to work repairing the bridge. It was functional again. We kept bombing. They kept rebuilding. It was a hellish game of tag.

  About 60 miles northwest of our target, Big Eye called, “Bandits! Bandits!” If the MiGs were up, there would be no SAMs. I couldn’t split off with my flight and go hunt them down, so we had to follow protocol, sticking close to the Thuds to protect them when MiGs appeared.

  Suddenly, Jesus Christ! Two MiG-21s came screaming in supersonic at six o’clock and knocked two of my guys down with Atoll air-to-air missles before we knew where they were coming from. That broke up the package as we turned after them to fight. Everyone was turning, calling wingmen, pulling g’s, firing missiles, diving and climbing. Our sequencing and bombing plan was shot to hell as we reformed approaching the target. Another F-4 was lost just as we got there. It was becoming a disaster. I turned to engage a number of MiG-17s just north of Phuc Yen. In the course of this fight, the F-105 force egressed through the area, going like bats out of hell. As I turned right from an unsuccessful pass on two 17s, I saw an F-105 in afterburner in a steep inverted dive closing on the tail of a 17, which was on the tail of an outbound F-105 barely 200 feet away from me at 2,000 feet. That Thud had to be going at least 1.25 Mach! He looked like a shark after a minnow. I could see his tracers and the muzzle flare back from his 20 mm Vulcan. He was firing like mad, scoring numerous hits on the MiG. I breached radio discipline and shouted at the unknown pilot, “Go get ’em, Thud!” The MiG caught fire, rolled inverted, and went into a nearly vertical dive. God, it was a thrilling sight. The next instant I was worried that the Thud’s closure rate was so fast he wouldn’t be able to pull out in time. I rolled left to watch him and saw the MiG strike the ground in a fireball as the Thud pulled up just above the ground and tore off after his outbound flight.