Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  When I got home I jumped on the phone after debriefing and called Colonel Flynn at Korat. “I want to confirm some great goddamn son of a bitch’s kill today!” Flynn walked back into the 388th debriefing and told Lieutenant Dave Waldrop that Colonel Robin Olds had just confirmed his kill.

  The sight of Waldrop saving the ass of a fellow F-105 and knocking down a MiG in the process was the only good thing about that black day. Six of my guys were gone. I learned that three had bailed out, one was dead, and the fate of the other two remained unknown until the POWs were released in 1973.

  How the hell had it happened? I charged down to the 7th two days later to find out what they knew. The same intelligence fellow told me, “Well, yes, the MiGs have been practicing for two weeks to get into a position to do that. They’ve been taking off when the strike force is coming in, circling at high altitude, and practicing dives in pairs to come in behind you.”

  I thundered at him, “Why in hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well, it’s too … it’s sensitive. It’s classified.”

  “Goddamn you, there are six young fighter pilots up in Hanoi right now because you did not tell me, because you did not let me know. Something like that would have been easy to counter, but you chose to withhold vital information. You are the direct cause of our loss of six men and three airplanes. Goddamn you to hell!” We almost came to blows.

  With the end of my tour coming up in late September, I dreaded the assignment coming my way. My requests to stay at Ubon for another tour, or at least stay in a combat command someplace, anyplace, were getting nowhere. Please, God, not a staff job; not the Pentagon again. I was doomed and I knew it. When the news came in early August, it was a complete surprise. Chief of Staff John P. McConnell sent a letter informing me that Lieutenant General Thomas Samuel Moorman, superintendent at the U.S. Air Force Academy, had personally requested my assignment there as commandant. What? Were they nuts? What would the Air Force Academy do with a grizzled old disgruntled fighter pilot in charge of the cadets? I was stunned and questioned the news immediately. Word was they wanted something completely different from the norm. A combat veteran could energize the corps. Cadets were looking for a hero. McConnell thought it was a great idea. He told me General Gabe Disosway had a son there and Brigadier General Herbert Bench had two. Those boys reported that my picture was up in 50 percent of the rooms. The academy was short on spirit, enthusiasm, and dedication. They needed my guts and fire.

  My reporting date was October. Oh God, what on earth could I do with a bunch of eighteen- to twenty-two-year-old kids? I called my old friend Ben Cassiday, now a brigadier general, for his opinion. Ben was a World War II combat pilot, recently flying F-4s as commander of the 36th TFW at Bitburg, and he had been on the startup of the academy in the late 1950s. He had been deputy commandant and commander of the Cadet Wing through the graduation of the first class in 1959. He would give me the straight word. He did; he laughed. Ben’s amusement was about my confusion, but he assured me it would be a great assignment, a new challenge, not to worry. I thought about Karl Richter and the many other academy grads I had in the 8th. Maybe it was OK. There were far bigger problems than moving to Colorado to a job I thought unsuited to my abilities; there was telling Ella we were leaving D.C.

  With the end of my tour in sight and all hell breaking loose with the MiGs using their new tactics, I ramped up training and tactics meetings in the first three weeks of September, flying lead on as many missions as I could. I made another pitch to the Pentagon to stay for another tour. No deal. Office hours were spent preparing a report to be delivered in a speech to the guys on my last day: a recap of the past year plus vital information I wanted to cram into their heads. I was exhausted. I felt frantic, cornered, trapped by my ordered September 27 departure. My replacement, Colonel Bob Spencer, arrived two days before my final mission, and my time was filled with showing him the ropes. I could tell he’d be a different kind of commander. I scheduled my last mission on September 23 because we were fragged up north. This would be my one hundredth “official” mission, fifty-two short of the actual number I’d flown.

  To my disappointment, the twenty-third dawned with weather preventing missions to Hanoi. The alternative was Route Pack I so I decided to do something a little special. Three men, Bill Kirk, W. T. “Mac” McAdoo, and Joe Moore, had been flying with me since Bentwaters. We knew one another well. I trusted them implicitly in flight, knew they would follow my lead, and tapped them as my wingmen for that final mission.

  We took off as scheduled. We roamed around Route Pack I looking for targets, found a few minor things, dropped bombs, then formed up at altitude. I’d briefed them before the mission on my intentions. “OK, guys, let’s put on a little air show for the gang at home, tight diamond formation, Thunderbird style. We’re gonna practice for a few minutes.” We practiced a series of maneuvers for less than ten minutes before heading home. I called ahead and got traffic cleared. We came screaming in low over the runway in tight diamond for the first pass, then up into a loop, followed by a barrel roll. Each pass was tight and low over the runway. When we landed, drenched with sweat, we could hear the shouts and whistles from the crowd over the whine of our engines while we taxied in. Debriefing was a nonevent. Colonel Spencer had watched the show and predictably wasn’t happy. He later told the guys they could never do that again. Beyond that, even traditional victory rolls over the runway were prohibited.

  I climbed out of my gear in the equipment room and, still in my sweaty flight suit, headed toward the O club; the guys surprised me by hoisting me on their shoulders and carrying me to the club and up the front steps. It’s a good thing there was a lot of shouting going on, because I couldn’t stop the tears running down my face. It was, without question, the proudest moment of my career.

  The club was jammed with the crews. Our three American girls, Ruby, Kathy, and Marge, were there, along with the Thai staff and people from across the base. It took a while to settle everyone down to listen to my prepared speech. I choked down a ton of emotion when I faced my Wolfpack for the last time.

  “Hello, gang. I’d like to take the opportunity at this last pilots’ meeting not to really say good-bye to you, but to at least talk to you while I’m sober! This afternoon I’d like to recap this last year for you. I’ll try to be as brief as possible, go over some of the things that influenced the changes around here, point out the current problems, perhaps even anticipate some of your future problems, and certainly during the course of the monologue, to express my deep affection for you all. Anyhow, where’s my board? Damn it! Somebody go get that working board.” There was laughter as the large map of North Vietnam and Laos was dragged from the back of the room.

  I spent the next half hour describing the events, battles, tactics, HQ orders, enemy maneuvers, missile snafus, characteristics of MiG-17s and MiG-21s, SAMs, strike logistics, communication glitches, mission successes and failures, base problems and solutions, and wins and losses the wing had experienced under my command. From October 1, 1966, through August 31, 1967, the 8th TFW flew 13,249 combat sorties over North Vietnam and Laos and 1,983 combat support sorties over Laos, for a total of 15,232 sorties and 27,880 hours. The wing experienced 37 aircraft losses, 29 in combat, 18 in RP 6A, 2 in RP 5, 5 in RP 1, and 4 in Laos. Seven were operational losses, and 1 was lost while on loan to the 366th at Da Nang. A total of seventy-two 8th TFW crew members were involved. Six were killed, thirty-two were missing in action, and thirty-four were rescued, a 47 percent recovery rate of lost aircrews. I went on to name every man down, the date he went down, and his current status. It was hard to get through that list.

  I drilled down with advice: Stay alert, listen to the Wild Weasel calls, maintain radio discipline, don’t screw around with fuel, don’t go in alone, be flexible for changing tactics, use the intel library, don’t go dead between the ears. “Don’t be complacent! Don’t be pigheaded! You guys in the front seat think you know it all, that you don’t need the checkli
st. Have the guy in the back read the bloody checklist to you. Your bomb switches, your pretakeoff, postlanding, the emergency procedures, the whole nine yards. Even the little bit about the pretanker check. For Christ’s sake, be a team!

  “All of you guys are the greatest. The squadron’s the best. You Night Owls are something else. I tried flying with you a couple of times and was terrified. I can’t do what you do. I chickened out! All of you—remember, when you go home you’re not going to be the same young guy that swaggered in here. You’ve had the experience of a lifetime and it’ll be tough when you get home. That sweet wife who waved good-bye is not going to recognize you when you walk back in that front door. She’ll sense immediately that you’ve changed. She’s going to want to know why and how you’ve changed because she’ll want to know where she stands with this stranger she’s married to. I guarantee you, within the first ten days home you’re going to have a fight. You’ll probably go to a party or two in your hometown, where they’ll sort of half-ass welcome you back. Your best friend from high school or college will walk up to you and tell you what a dumb shit you are for having been fighting this stupid war. Then you’ll fly off the handle at him, or you’ll want to tell someone what it was all about, and you’ll realize that nobody gives a damn. Remember I told you this; it might make it easier.

  “You still have a helluva war ahead of you, gang! There are an awful lot of MiGs up there, and they’re getting more aggressive every day. You’re sure going to have some fun, and I’m certainly going to envy you. I know the 8th Wing is going to go at it with great spirit, high morale, superb skill, and the application of absolutely the best tactics. I know the Wolfpack will keep right on improving! I hope those MiGs show soon because it’s been a long dry spell since June. You’ve got some hard work in front of you. In closing I’d like to remind you of something: The period of time you spend here with the 8th Tac Fighter Wing is going to be one of the finest experiences in your lives and it will influence you for the rest of your days! You’re going to look back on this as the highlight in your career. So I ask you, give it everything you’ve got; enjoy it to the hilt! Be soldiers, be warriors, be men, not babies but men! Take every scrap of pleasure in your comradeship with one another and your growing knowledge of yourselves. You know what’s in your heart and how hard that old heart beats sometimes when you’re lying in bed at night facing a hard one in the morning. Go anyway! You’re learning a lot about yourself. It’s true for everybody else in the damn hooch lying around you. You’re not alone. That’s the greatest thing, troops—it’s teamwork that does it. It’s friendship that cements it together. It is dedication that accomplishes the mission. You’ve got those attributes and more! Godamn it, I am so proud of you I could cry. God bless you shit hot fighter pilots. I love you all. I wish you all the best from the bottom of my heart. Carry on.”

  With emotion I couldn’t contain, I had to turn away to go behind a curtain as bedlam broke out. The kids had never seen this side of the Old Man. It was the most deeply felt moment of my life. I wanted to bawl like a baby, but the party was on! Someone thrust a shining silver tankard of beer into my hand, and the cheering crowd propelled me over to a cake, which I cut with a great, dramatic flourish. We nearly blew the roof off the club for the rest of the day.

  As the afternoon wore into evening, I found myself seeking a quiet corner with Ruby to thank her for her fine work and dedication. We had developed a strong friendship and mutual respect over the months since her arrival but had kept the relationship strictly professional. I trusted her and enjoyed her easy banter. She had made my office a sanctuary. As we talked and spent time together at the party, other feelings emerged. There was something more, something deeper between us. I had less than a week left on base, with no flying and no official duties. It was obvious where I’d spend most of my time. Ruby and I left the club together that night and I melted into the arms of a woman who welcomed this weary old warrior with sweet tenderness and grace.

  The following few days became a blur. I dropped into the background of life on base. Most people thought I had already left. I spent some time visiting each of the shops, said my good-byes to the Thais, sorted through papers, packed up belongings, and shipped my footlocker. Stokely found a home safely behind bars in the local zoo. Mostly, I spent time with Ruby. I knew she’d be a friend for life.

  On September 27 I headed home with a heavy heart. I didn’t want to go back to Ella. Affection, friendship, and passion had come my way again. It bore no resemblance to my bleak marriage. From Clark AFB, I flew in another baby blue Braniff to Honolulu. The plane was met by a crowd of reporters. Oh Jesus Christ! In answer to their questions I told them, “Look, I haven’t had a wink of sleep in twenty-four hours. I want breakfast, a hot shower, and to go hide somewhere for four days. I’m honored to have had this tour and feel a great deal of humility when I think of all the fine young men still fighting. Right now, all I want to do is get used to the fact that for me, from here on out, there will be a tomorrow. I consider my new job at USAFA a tremendous challenge and I’m quite flattered with the assignment.”

  I checked into the BOQ at Hickam. I needed time to think, to be alone, to hold still, to decide. The mirror in my room reflected a man hollowed out by a year of war. Thirty-five pounds were gone, my face was gaunt, my jaw was clenched, my hair was thin and graying, and there were deep circles under my eyes. Only my mustache was alive and well. I noticed my hands shaking when lifting a glass later at the Hickam O club. Being around the guys felt familiar and right. Many of them looked like hell, too. It didn’t matter. We were family. After several drinks at the club I went out to the beach, swam out into the ocean, and just floated on my back. Despite the Honolulu lights, the stars were bright. Looking up at them, feeling totally alone, I cried. The tears finally came in the privacy of that warm, safe water. The decision was made. I was not going home. There wasn’t enough left of me to go from one war to another. I could stay in Hawaii for a while, go over to my maternal aunt Steve’s house on the Big Island, eat avocados, pineapples, and bananas from her trees, sleep, get fat, carve wood. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

  Two days later, an hour before the scheduled late-afternoon flight, I picked up the phone to call Ella with the news. The long-distance line crackled and hissed; the phone rang once, twice, three times. “Hello?” It was my daughter Chris.

  “Hi, Chrissie. It’s your old man.” God, I hadn’t heard her voice in a year.

  “Daddy! Oh, Daddy, when are you coming home? I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Baby, can you put your mother on the phone?”

  “Uh, no, Daddy, she’s out somewhere.” At 8:00 P.M. Washington time, I knew that meant Ella was deep in her cups. Chris lowered her voice and said tearfully, “Daddy, please, please come home. Susie and I really need you.”

  And that was that. “OK, Chrissie, I’ll be home tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

  All the way across the Pacific and the mainland I thought hard about my year at Ubon Ratchathani. My command was the culmination of many years of preparation. It was a highlight of this man’s career, not, as many outsiders supposed, because of the physical action of the mission, but because of the total experience: serving with dedicated men, sharing deep respect and comradeship forged on an anvil of challenge and danger. It was a time of maximum effort where every single man contributed his best for the good of the whole. Each man was as important as the next in getting the job done. It was a time of courage and self-discipline, of deadly seriousness and riotous fun. Each man was measured and stood revealed in the esteem accorded him by his comrades. The unit became larger than the sum of its parts and buoyed each man in his performance. It was a deep human experience for all of us; each was made a better man for it, each a better member of our air force, and a more dedicated member of our American society. All that we stood for, everything that we meant to one another, would last all of our days. We needed to remember our days with the Wolfpack, and in remembering, keep the
faith in each other and in our nation. Battles would surely continue on a different scale in different arenas. We would carry on that battle wherever the enemy appeared, be it national, neighborhood, or personal. I prayed we’d never shirk our fight for truth, decency, law, integrity, and justice, and for our home, America. We fought for her; many of us died for her. We believed in her, and under God, we would preserve her.

  On the long flight toward D.C., I remembered the people, the pilots of the 8th TFW, all the ground crews, what they did and how they felt. I remembered the supreme effort made by all: laboring under the scorching sun or a tropical downpour, working to meet the frag, supporting our daily lives, feeding us, housing us, supplying us. I remembered lines of bomb-laden trucks outside the gates of the ammo storage area, the surgical delicacy of a young airman working in a precision-measurement equipment lab or in the electronics shop, the curses of load crews faced with almost impossible weapon changes, the old sergeant major proudly escorting a crowd of VIPs through an immaculate shop, the hustle of crews on the arming ramp, a crew chief or dock crew working long past the shift change, the guys in the lox plant or over at the avionics shop, the firemen and rescue troops, the medics and communicators, the stock chaser, every man in every job doing his best, making the Wolfpack an efficient and proud combat unit. I also remembered the wonderful Thai women who took care of us in the O club and base services, how proud the waitresses were when I insisted they wear their traditional Thai dresses instead of the ridiculous and demeaning club waitress outfits. I will never forget the gentle humor and sweetness of the Thai people, always a smile, always a teasing remark, always such peacefulness in their attitudes and thankfulness for everything in their lives. They are a people full of grace, and I thanked them.