Every Man a Tiger: The Gulf War Air Campaign

by Tom Clancy

  The squadron commander runs the squadron; he tells everyone what to do based on what he is told at the wing staff meetings. The operations officer’s job is to make sure the operation goes smoothly. Thus, he watches over the squadron’s monthly schedule and makes sure it is workable. Then he makes sure that the flying schedule is going as planned; and he makes changes as pilots call in sick, aircraft break, the weather turns bad, or as someone needs a special, unanticipated training event. He also works with the other squadrons to coordinate missions and training. And finally, if the commander is flying or TDY, he backs him up by attending wing staff meetings and taking over other duties, as appropriate.

  Other important members of the squadron staff:

  Stan Eval (standardization and evaluation) pilots administer check rides and tests, inspect operations for compliance with regulations, and check on the personal equipment of the troops to make sure they are taking care of the pilots’ masks and G suits. From Stan Eval pilots, line pilots get an instrument check (capability to fly on instruments), tactical check (capability to fly a combat mission), and flight-lead check (capability to lead other pilots around the sky).

  Instructor pilots fly with the new pilots until their initial check ride, and also with pilots scheduled for upgrade (such as someone who is about to become a flight leader).

  Weapons and Tactics pilots, usually fighter weapons school graduates, watch over bomb scores to make sure the squadron is doing a good job or if it needs extra training in bomb-delivery techniques; they keep track of the weapons-delivery systems, to make sure maintenance is keeping the guns harmonized with the gun sights and the release racks working properly (the release racks have to give the bombs a precise shove when the bomb shackles are blown open); they conduct training classes at bomb commanders school; and they keep the tactics manuals up-to-date and available for the line pilots to study in their free time.

  Trainers keep watch over individual training records and make sure the flight commanders are scheduling their people for needed training programs.

  Intelligence, usually a lieutenant, is nonrated. He keeps track of enemy threats, conducts classroom training on such things as SAMs and enemy aircraft, and helps in mission planning.

  ★ A typical squadron schedule at Lakenheath would usually start with the maintenance troops coming in at 0300 to get the jets ready. At around 4:00 A.M., the first pilots scheduled to fly would open the squadron and make the coffee; they will be on duty after 8:00 P.M., for a typical day of over twelve hours. Supervisors start arriving at 0500.

  The flying schedule begins with three four-ship flights taking off at 0600, 0615, and 0630, for an hour-and-a-half mission; followed by three more four-ships at 1100, 1115, and 1130; followed by two more four-ships at 1600 and 1630. The first eight sorties would go to an air-to-ground range for bomb deliveries. The other four aircraft would be configured without external fuel tanks and bomb racks and would engage in two-versus-two air-to-air training in airspace off the coast. All of those aircraft would be “turned” to the same mission in the midday “go,” and four of the bombers would drop off the schedule for the third “turn.” Some pilots fly twice; others only once.

  If few jets break during the day, then the aircraft set aside for spares will not be required, which might allow an add-on sortie or two. On the other hand, if the jets give a lot of trouble, the maintenance troops might work until midnight.

  Also on the schedule are the pilots who are on alert, attending ground school, in the simulator flying practice instrument and emergency procedures missions, at the altitude chamber for their annual chamber ride, or who are TDY to the weapons ranges, to Germany as forward air controllers, or back in the States for fighter weapons school.

  The schedule is roughed out monthly with range times, takeoff times, and number of sorties. Names are filled in weekly and changed daily, with the next day’s schedule usually posted by 4:00 P.M., so each pilot can check it in time to go home and get some rest if he has to be back by 4:00 A.M. Starting in 1969 (and still in force, except during wartime), pilots were required to have twelve hours off before flying.

  Also at work in the scheduling process is the law of supply and demand: if there is to be a workable schedule, a squadron needs so many flight leaders. For instance, if the daily schedule calls for four four-ship flights in the morning, four more in the afternoon, and three more later in the afternoon, that means a total of forty-four sorties (what they called “4 turn 4, turn 3”). Say a pilot can fly twice a day. Then about eleven four-ship flight leaders are needed, plus someone on the duty desk and in the tower. Since some of those forty-four sorties require an IP or check pilot, that means about fifteen flight leaders are actually needed.

  There are about thirty pilots available in the squadron, plus a few overhead—the squadron operations officer (he may have an assistant) and the commander (who also has an adjutant, an intelligence officer, and a maintenance officer, who are not rated). However, four of the pilots are on alert; five are attending school in the United States, or are at Wheelus, Libya, for gunnery training, or are attending bomb commanders school; three are on leave; two are on Duties Not Include Flying (DNIF ) with colds or sprained ankles from sports; two are processing out to return to the States; three are new pilots who just arrived and are looking for a house; and three more are in Germany on forward air controller duties. That means that twenty-two of the thirty pilots are not available. You can get some help from the five wing staff attached to the squadron for flying, but that still only makes thirteen pilots to fly, with fifteen flight leaders needed. . . . That kind of math went on all the time.

  ★ The wing commander is the senior commander on the base and has about 3,500 people under him. In the past, the wing commander was a colonel (as were his deputy and his vice commander), but now he is a brigadier general. Immediately under the wing commander comes the vice wing commander (usually a steady old hand whose job is primarily to help a young up-and-comer who will probably get promoted to general), who fills in when the wing CO is flying, TDY, or otherwise off-base. Under the vice comes the DCO, or deputy commander for operations, who runs the three flying squadrons (and who usually moves up to wing commander); the DCM Maintenance, who is responsible for all the aircraft maintenance (a big job which can make or break the wing; the DCR Resources, who runs supply, finance, and the motor pool; and the base commander, who watches over civil engineers, services, security police, legal, public affairs, and personnel.

  Above the base level (at the time Horner was in England) was a three-star numbered Air Force commander (in those days, most Air Force one-and two-stars worked in the Pentagon), then a four-star Air Force Command commander (commanding TAC, SAC, MAC, USAFE, or PACAF ), then the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, the Secretary of Defense, and the President.

  The Goldwater-Nichols Law of 1986 changed all of that, at least in terms of operational command, but that was twenty years into the future.

  LAKENHEATH

  In October 1960, after three months at Nellis, Chuck and Mary Jo Horner left for England. Their C-118 transport landed at RAF Mildenhall, and they boarded a bus for Lakenheath just a few miles away.

  RAF Lakenheath was in Suffolk, just north of Cambridge, and about two hours’ drive time northeast of London. Originally a World War II base, whose Quonset huts and brick tower looked like sets from Twelve O’Clock High, it had been closed after the war, but been reopened for B-47s, which for a time sat alert with nuclear weapons. There was a problem, though. A dip in the runway too often caused the big bombers to get airborne before they had enough speed to maintain flight. Most of the pilots would relax and let the aircraft settle back on the runway, but a few of them would struggle with the controls and try to fly. The aircraft would stall, fall off on a wing, and wind up a fireball.

  A more accommodating airfield seemed like a good idea.

  A replacement for the B-47s appeared in the late fifties, when Charles de Gaulle ordered U.S. fighters to leave France;
and in 1960, the 48th Wing, then stationed at Chaumont Air Base east of Paris, pulled up stakes and moved to Lakenheath. In the process of the move, personnel who were close to the end of their overseas tours went home early. This in turn resulted in unusually large numbers of new people being assigned to the wing. This had a downside: Every week six or seven lieutenants with the bare minimum of flying time showed up at each of the wing’s three squadrons. Since Horner was in the first wave, he became a flight leader almost immediately. For a young pilot to become a flight lead is an honor and indicates rare confidence from the squadron leaders—or else it means there aren’t any experienced pilots in the squadron and you use what you have and hope for the best. In Horner’s case, it was the latter. The blind were leading the blind; and the accident rate proved it. In the first three months he was assigned to the wing, six aircraft and four pilots were lost (Horner didn’t actually contribute to any of these accidents, but he came close). Since the tour was for three years, that meant he stood an excellent chance of going home early in a pine box. On the other hand, young Chuck Horner was having a very good time, and learning a great deal about flying fighter aircraft.

  Second Lieutenant Horner got quite a shock, however, when he first walked into the squadron. He had 100 hours of F-100 time, had never flown in really bad weather (a daily occurrence in England), and expected to be led around by the hand for six months or so to learn the ropes. The ops officers smiled, got him a local area check-out and a Stan Eval check ride to certify he could sit alert, then stamped him flight leader and hoped he made it.

  When Horner arrived at Lakenheath, among the first people he met was his new squadron commander, Major Skinny Innis—one of the wildest members of a profession that tries to corner the market on wildness. Innis, like many others, had gone off to World War II before he finished college. During that war, pilots of his age group had operated almost without rules—the name of the game had been to get the job done. The downside was that a lot of them had died in accidents and not as a result of enemy fire. Innis had survived that war, and Korea, by means of brains, energy, flying talent, and luck.

  In the two worlds that make up the military—field and headquarters—Skinny Innis was at the far extreme of the field orientation. One earned points there for being outrageous, and Skinny had acquired just about as many outrageous points as it was possible to accumulate. All he wanted to do was fight wars and have fun in the downtime. He was profane, inelegant, not only un- but antidiplomatic, and often wrongheaded; but he deeply loved his nation, flying, and the Air Force; he made it fun to serve with him; and he kept his pilots looking at the enemy instead of worrying about their own careers.

  Skinny hated to be supervised. In practice that meant that he and the wing director of operations, Colonel Bruce Hinton (who was called “Balls” Hinton and had had several kills in Korea), often had fistfights when they had a difference of opinion. Since they had both served in World War II and Korea, lived with adjoining backyards, and were friends as well as antagonists, however, they tolerated each other’s wild behavior.

  Even though Skinny hated authority, he was loyal to senior commanders, which meant he worked their problems and did the mission they laid out for his squadron. He ran the squadron the way he wanted to, however, which today would not be politically acceptable, and he specialized in making flamboyant statements.

  At the officers’ club at Lakenheath, a large bell was mounted over the bar. When you walked in, you had to buy drinks for everyone at the bar if someone could ring the bell before you got your hat off. Skinny turned the game upside down. He bought bowler hats for all the 492d Squadron, declared them the Mad Hatters, and “ordered” them to wear their hats in the bar. If they didn’t, they had to buy the bar a round. (The bowler rule was in effect only when you wore a civilian jacket and tie; uniform was excepted.)

  Then Skinny decided that wasn’t enough. His squadron also needed to be different from the other two squadrons at work, so he bought them glengarries, the traditional Scottish hats, to wear with their flight suits. When Bruce Hinton tried to stop this change in uniform (correctly judging it against the uniform rules), they had another fight, and Skinny won. Thus, for the three years Horner was at Lakenheath, everyone in Skinny’s squadron wore a glengarry, with his rank on it, with his flying suit.

  There was a serious point behind the apparent silliness. Skinny’s goal was to create an elite unit, the 492d Tactical Fighter Squadron, within an elite unit, the 48th Tactical Fighter Wing. His methods probably went too far by today’s practices; but back then, in the shadow of World War II and Korea, commanders had a great deal of latitude. During Vietnam, Horner and the other pilots at the bases at Korat and Ta Khli in Thailand wore nonregulation Aussie hats for the same reason.

  Horner’s initiation into the Skinny Innis leadership style came on the day of his first mission at Lakenheath.

  That morning, he looked out the window at fog thick enough to cut with a knife. Believing that prudence was a wise course for junior officers, he reported to Major Innis in a military manner and calmly informed him that since he had never flown in actual weather, let alone the kind of fog they had outside, the major might consider finding someone else to take the mission. Major Innis looked up from the paper he was reading, glared at Horner, and snapped, “Get your ass in the air. You don’t think I’m going to fly in shit like this, do you?”

  It was a case of learn or die, and he learned.

  As it turned out, after Horner had been in the squadron a couple of months and proved he could hack it, Skinny let him know that he had gone to high school in Iowa with his cousin Bill Miles and had been one of his closest friends. They had both joined the Air Corps together, and gone on to get their wings.

  Years later, in 1964, Innis—now a colonel—was in Saigon flying old, broken-down B-26s over South Vietnam. In those days, the U.S. government was pretending that Innis and the other Air Force people in the country were “advising” the VNAF, though, in fact, they were doing much of the fighting. Some of Skinny’s friends loved being there, because that was where the action was, and when Chuck Horner heard about that, he did what he could to get himself into the war.

  When he wrote Innis to ask for his help, however, Skinny advised him to stay as far away from Vietnam as he could. Even then, Innis realized the war was destined to collapse into disaster.

  ★ The mission of the 48th TFW was primarily nuclear strike, backed up by conventional air-to-ground and air-to-air. That meant that the pilots primarily trained in the delivery of nuclear weapons and sat alert in the European version of the SIOP (the Single Integrated Operations Plan for conducting a one-day nuclear war), just as SAC pilots did in bombers back in the States. In order to qualify in nuclear weapons delivery, they had to drop a certain number of practice bombs every six months and certify on their target. They also had to describe to a board how the weapon worked, talk through their mission, and know command and control cold—that is, they had to know who could release them to go on the mission, what procedures had to be followed in order to arm the bomb, what kind of code words they could expect, and so on.

  Each training period, pilots also flew a few air-to-air and air-to-ground conventional-weapons training sorties, but they were only required to be familiar in those events—they didn’t have to qualify by achieving a specific bomb score average.

  ★ This is how a typical nuclear delivery training sortie might go—a two-ship air-to-ground:

  The lead and the wingman brief two hours before takeoff, check the weather and notices, suit up, and step to the jets about twenty minutes before start engine, which is twenty minutes before takeoff time (which is predicated on range time). After preflighting the jet and starting and checking out the systems, the two taxi to the arming area at the end of the runway. There the weapons troops take out the safety pins on the practice bomb dispenser and arm the guns by rotating a live round into the chamber and connecting the electrical plug that provides current to the bul
let primer. From there the two taxi onto the runway and close the canopies. After a head nod, the brakes are released. After a second head nod, they light the afterburners and take off. A third head nod is the signal for gear up, followed by flaps up. They then turn out of traffic on the air traffic control frequency and fly a departure route, climbing to 1,000 feet on top (that is, in the clear on top of the overcast).

  Since the lead planned a low level in France, they now head for the let-down point. In the meantime, the lead moves his wingman out to about 4,000 to 6,000 feet, meaning that the lead is not looking into the sun and he can clear his wingman’s six o’clock (his tail) without himself having to squint into the light. After he reaches the let-down point, he rocks his wings, which signals the wingman to join up on his wing. The wingman lines up the light on the lead’s wingtip with the star on the lead’s fuselage in order to maintain forward and aft reference, and down the two go into the weather.

  The lead breaks out at 1,000 feet above the ground and kicks his wingman out by fluttering the rudder. The wingman then takes up a chase position off to one side and slightly high, about 500 feet aft of the lead’s jet. From there he can look through the lead to clear the air for other airplanes that might appear in his path. The lead’s job, meanwhile, is to fly the route and arrive at the range at the scheduled range time.

  The navigation is not easy. The lead must maintain the planned speed and heading, while using a map to locate an identifiable point on the ground. If it comes into view at the precise time and the precise place that had been planned, then they are not lost. (They must not try it the other way. That is, they must not find a point on the ground and then try to find it on the map. Doing that means they are lost.)

  At the Initial Point (IP) to the range, the lead switches the flight over to range frequency and calls the range officer for clearance. The wingman now splits off and makes a 360-degree turn, which will leave him about two minutes spacing on the lead’s aircraft for a nuclear over-the-shoulder delivery. Meanwhile, the lead arms his switches, gets clearance, pushes up to delivery speed, and heads toward the range.