War For the Hell of It: A Fighter Pilot's View of Vietnam

by Ed Cobleigh

  The Old Man sees the target area is completely but not unexpectedly covered in cloud. He deliberately and slowly turns the formation southward. We are most vulnerable in a banked turn. The ECM pod loses its coverage of the SAM radars and we are belly-up and blind to any lurking MiGs. We roll out headed south, everyone thinking hard about what to do next.

  Due to the politically motivated bombing pause, we are prevented from striking any other target. It says so in the great red book titled "Rules of Engagement" in Wing HQ back at the base. Hitting a non-approved target in North Vietnam, regardless of how effectively such an action might affect our war effort, is a court-martial offense. The strike flight continues southward down the panhandle of North Vietnam with the Wild Weasels and the MiG CAP trying to catch up.

  There is one, and only one, ragged hole in the cloud deck ahead. The Mission Commander starts a slow turn around the roughly circular hole, to peer down into the white-walled well. I take a quick glance away from looking for MiGs when Satan Flight is over the hole. I instantly recognize the bend in the river and the karst hills nearby which identify a well-known river crossing, a shallow water ford. I know this target area by heart from my previous flying as a Sewer Doer. Vietnam Highway One crosses a broad muddy river here below us. There is an embarkation point on the north side of the river, a truck park and refueling depot on the south bank. Half a mile down the river there is a huge cave in the side of a karst hill; it looks as if the river flows into the cave, hence the nickname, "the disappearing river." The Bad Guys hide a floating pontoon bridge in the cave to use for crossing the river when the water is too high for trucks to ford. All this is readily apparent to me with one glance straight down as I bank steeply up on my left wing.

  The enemy has grown complacent during the bombing pause, enjoying our good will. The monsoon cloud cover is offering them additional ease. Instead of relaxing as Washington hopes, they are taking advantage of our forbearance to move fleets of trucks down Highway One. Each one is loaded with deadly war material for use against U.S. troops in the south. I can spot dozens of trucks on both sides of the ford, several in midstream, and more yet in the dirt parking lot waiting to be re­fueled.

  This is the wrong truck park. Under our flight orders we are only allowed to hit the suspected site farther north. These trucks are off limits and are safe from air attack. Of course, they may be the very same trucks that should be farther north or that were up there yesterday, but let's not split political frog hairs.

  We are peering down from on high into the round hole in the cloud deck. The North Vietnamese are also looking up and seeing our sky-darkening armada wheeling overhead. They know there is a bombing pause on, our beloved President told them so on TV. They are probably laughing their little Asian asses off at our impotence and are giving us the Vietnamese version of the finger.

  We get lucky. Someone down below on the ground panics and yanks the firing lever on a fifty-seven-millimeter antiaircraft gun, hurling a seven round burst skyward. We all see the dirty gray puffs of smoke as the shells detonate harmlessly at about 15,000 feet. The explosions look like used cotton balls.

  That's all we need. The Rules of Engagement clearly state that we have the right to return fire if shot at. The Bad Guys have the right to remain silent with their guns if they so wish. They did not exercise that right. Now we are operating on another page in the ROE book, one we know by heart.

  The Old Man doesn't even need to call his shot or to change the plan on the radio. We all know what is coming now. I hear "Lead's in" echoing in my earphones. The four ships in his flight roll in together and take up their respective positions in a forty-five-degree dive. One after another, the other three strike flights of four Phantoms each perform the same maneuver from different points of the compass around the hole in the clouds. I watch their jets change from green/brown to white as their pale bellies are rolled skyward and then back to green, their top color, as they dive steeply toward North Vietnam. Each flight salvos its bombs in the clear air of the hole and pulls off individually through the side cloud wall, joining up again on top. The attack is carried out as planned, only about fifty miles south of the original target. For such intensive airborne action, there are very few radio calls. These guys know what they are doing and they don't need a lot of chat to do it. Each flight leader calls "in" and calls "off" then specifies a compass heading on which to rejoin the formation.

  Once the nose of the Mission Commander's jet was pointed toward the earth, the Bad Guys instantly got the picture that they were under attack. The sky opens up with antiaircraft fire, with guns firing wildly in all direction into the gap rent in the clouds. The white puffs of thirty­seven-millimeter fire and the dirty bolls of fifty-seven-millimeter shells are everywhere. Instead of aimed fire, the panicked Vietnamese seem to be trying to put as much iron in the air as possible in hope that someone will run into some of it. Flak explosions sully the flat, clean white top of the cloud deck. The hole in the clouds partially fills with drifting shell-burst smoke.

  Our MiG CAP flight has the best seats in the house as we continue to circle the scene of the action. No MiGs are to be seen. They would have to be stupid to fly into that flak; they might get shot down. I estimate that at least 1,000 rounds of large caliber bullets are shot at the strike flights.

  There is bloody carnage below. Burning trucks litter both sides of the river with several turned over in the middle of the ford. Brown and white geysers of muddy water erupt in the river as bombs go astray. The refueling depot is aflame with the thick black smoke of burning petroleum. Secondary explosions triggered by the bombs sparkle on the ground as flammable truck loads are torched off. The flames from the burning trucks and the fuel dump mingle with the AAA muzzle smoke and with the bomb splashes.

  The few folks left alive on the ground are probably wondering, "'What the hell happened? The Yankee Air Pirates (that's what Hanoi Jane, the heavily accented voice on the Hanoi propaganda radio station, calls us) aren't supposed to do that. One little fifty-seven millimeter squirt and they bomb us all to hell."

  The strike package forms up and heads southwest, toward our base in Thailand. It wasn't pretty; it was war.

  Did we destroy the fifty-seven millimeter gun that started it all and allowed us the excuse to "return fire"? We must have; we scattered bombs hither, thither, and yon around the ford area, one of them surely must have damaged the offending gun, wherever it is, or was. If our bombs didn't take out the hotheaded gunner, I'm sure his commander summarily shot him, for bringing the steel shit storm down from the skies.

  I didn't shoot down any MiGs today but no MiGs shot me down either. The experience was great, today's flight fueled my adrenaline addiction big-time. The intensity started during the pre­flight intelligence briefing at 0430 hours; the atmosphere in the room was electric. Usually, the guys are trying to stay awake, or are laughing and joshing. Today we knew we were going north and it showed on our faces.

  We hung on every word the Boss uttered as he briefed the flight; after all, he has been there before. The ride out to the flight line in the blue USAF bread-van truck was silent and tense, no kidding allowed.

  The ground crew was all business today as I pre-flighted the jet. As usual, the crew chief climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and helped me strap in, managing the parachute/shoulder harnesses for me. He handed me my helmet, today he said, "Good luck, sir." That meant a lot to me.

  I have never felt as proud of my country I did today while flying formation on the aerial refueling tanker in the predawn twilight. There was nothing to do then but fly formation and think while the other guys got their gas. Dawn was breaking over the Plain of Jars; the tankers had permission to go further north than usual. On routine missions they drop us off at the Thai border. As the sky lightened and the stars faded, I could see tankers all around me, each with its four ship of Phantoms or Thunderchiefs close behind. The sight was awesome; the Wolf Pack was going north.

  As we cross the fence, the Mekong R
iver, on our way home and enter Thai air space and into relative peace, I reach down and deactivate the missiles, flipping the missile arm switch to "safe."

  The Boss leads us back for landing and I get to practice my close formation flying skills. On our initial approach to the field, we fly down the runway with all four jets aligned on Satan Lead's left wing in echelon formation. I tuck in tightly, leaving only three to five feet between my canopy and the wingtip of Satan Two. I am sweating, trying to fly good formation on Satan Two, but at the same time, I can't bounce around too much. Hostile Man, as Satan Four, has to line up the other three jets of Satan Flight and tuck into the ever-moving line. His is the hardest job, averaging out the movements of Satan Lead, Two, and Three. If he can't, the formation will look crappy from the ground.

  'We want to look good for the waiting enlisted guys on the ground. They are the ones who busted their humps to put us in the air. We want them to know that we care as much about how we fly as they care about their essential but unglamorous and uncomfortable jobs. As we pass over the ramp, they'll see that the bombs are all gone; that will be well received. Once we land, they'll note that we brought all the missiles back; that will be a bummer. No MiG kills today, no red stars to paint on the sides of the jets below the canopies.

  Later, I plan to meet Wyatt and Doc at the bar. I hope they don't ask how many kills we recorded today.

  War for the Hell of It

  It is two o'clock in the morning; sadly I'm not flying. Instead of committing aviation, I'm sitting, drinking, and watching it rain and rain hard. Sleep is out of the question, my internal diurnal clock is programmed to deliver massive jolts of adrenaline at this time of day; I am as wide-awake as a tree full of owls. I have flown combat missions for the last thirty-three days or nights without a break and my Squadron Commander has taken me off the flying schedule. He says he's worried about me being affected by combat fatigue, that I need a rest. I'm more worried about incipient boredom. This rank inequality of personal priorities, not to mention the inequality of military ranks has gotten me temporarily grounded. I have been ordered to travel down south to Bangkok on official leave. When I told the commander I'd rather not go to Bangkok, his reply indicated that this was not a offer I could refuse. I fly out in the morning on the C-130 shuttle run, call sign "Klong." The Klong will take me to Bangkok and return with me plus a load of mail in three days.

  Oh well, maybe it will be fun to see the exotic sights of Bangkok once again and eat some food that hasn't been (over) cooked by someone whose call sign is "Cookie." Maybe I'll meet a lonely, round-eyed airline stewardess over on a trip from the States who wants to slip out of her uniform. Maybe we'll spend a romantic weekend together in Bangkok. Maybe the Chicago Cubs will win the World Series. Perhaps my new love and I can catch the games on TV in our luxurious hotel room at the Bangkok Officers' Club. Yeah, right. But as long as I'm wishing for the moon, why not go for the whole impossible dream?

  In the meantime, while I'm dreaming of getting lucky in Bangkok, the rain is still pouring down in torrents here in Ubon. Hailing from the temperate climate that predominates in the southeastern United States, I have never seen the like of Thai rain. East Tennessee has basically two types of rain. The first type leaks, drips actually, from flat layers of stratoform clouds. This rain falls softly and lightly, interspersed with periods of drizzle. It can go on for a few days at a time and usually occurs during cool or cold weather. The second type is generated by summer heat giving rise to cumulus clouds and thunderstorms. This rain falls heavily and quickly for half an hour followed by the sun breaking through after the thunderstorm moves on. Thailand has managed to combine the these two flavors of rain into a monsoon storm. It has been raining harder than anyone has ever seen in Tennessee and it has been doing it constantly for four days. All the while, the temperature has not budged from 85 degrees. It's as if the gods of rain have something to prove or else Thailand needs a thorough cleansing. We have tropical thunderstorms embedded in warm stratoform clouds. This weather would be amazing if it wasn't so miserable.

  Everything and everybody is soaked. I haven't been really dry since the monsoon started a week ago and I won't be dry again until it ends in about two months. I get soaked walking to the squadron. I get drenched doing the preflight inspection of my airplane. When I open the canopy, there is a puddle in the middle of the seat cushion a quarter-inch deep. By the time I strap in, I am even wetter. During the climb out to cruising altitude, the Phantom's air conditioner spits cold, visible white condensation and ice chunks at me as it dries itself out. By the time I get to the tanker, I am both soaked and freezing. Hours later when I return to land, the dry air at altitude has desiccated me somewhat, but when I park the jet and open the canopy in the rain, the process starts all over again.

  I could wear my official USAF hooded poncho while on the ground but that would generate uncountable jokes about walking around in a giant prophylactic. I would rather be wet than be the subject of crummy humor. I can't wear a poncho around the jet anyway, too many sharp edges to catch it on. So, for a few months I'll be wet. Being sodden hasn't improved my mood. Being grounded and wet is just the pits. I won't be able tonight to clear my head by flying, to hide in the air. The rain is impinging on my mind as well as my body.

  If I could only get airborne my mood would improve. When the mountains of Laos stop the monsoon clouds from blowing farther east, Thailand is covered with a wet blanket of vigorous precipitation. It is clear over North Vietnam now and there is aerial work to be done there. Only I'm not doing it right now and no one else in the squadron is either. We are observing another bombing pause dictated by our fearless leaders in Washington, confining us to only flying over Laos, which is socked in, inaccessible.

  Flying combat missions can be as repetitious as any other regular activity. More dangerous certainly than punching in at the office, but just as routine in schedule. While I'm sitting here on my damp butt watching the rain come down, my inner self thinks I ought to be over North Vietnam getting shot at. I have broken my nightly routine and I haven't had my adrenaline fix tonight.

  What I have had is lots of Bourbon, not the free rotgut stuff in the squadron fridge, but the real thing from Lynchburg, Tennessee, with Jack Daniel's name on the label. Of course, I know that Jack Daniel's isn't really Bourbon, it's better. However, at two o'clock in the morning in northeast Thailand with the monsoon in drenching progress, the exact distinction between true Bourbon and Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey escapes me; it has something to do with charcoal filtering. I am on my second (or is it my third?) ice-tea glass of Bourbon and water, as if I needed more water just now. I started earlier at the Officers' Club, but adjourned to my quarters to sit, think, and drink. Not necessarily in that order.

  I am sitting on a U.S. government-issue folding chair on the porch of my Officers' Quarter, better known as the "hooch" for reasons long lost to history. The hooch is built like a cheap 1950s motel, with six two-man rooms in a row, three on each side of a central day room, latrine, and shower. Each room has an outside door that opens onto a covered porch running the length of the hooch. A wooden railing, the current resting place of my wet-booted feet, fronts the porch. The Officers' Club is almost deserted now with only drunks at the bar. "Who wants to talk to drunks anyway?" I ask myself as I take yet another sip. The cute and curvy Thai barmaids went off duty at midnight, replaced by their male counterparts. The Thai guys are friendly enough, but not much to look at compared to the alternatives. The nightly poker game broke up around one o'clock and I drifted over to the hooch porch to ruminate and drink undisturbed.

  Unbothered by others, I am deluged by my own thoughts as they come flooding into my head, the rain continuing to pour down. There is no one else around to interrupt my contemplation. Two rows of hooches face each other, separated by a courtyard of muddy, patchy grass and by cascading water. There is no one on the porch of the facing hooch; I am very much alone with my glass and my thoughts. No rice paddy in South Vietnam has m
ore water in it than the bare area between the hooches; still the night's hard rain falls on, splashing in the shallow pond in front of me.

  Thinking of South Vietnam, that miserable country is the reason I'm sitting here watching falling sheets of water. What am I doing here? Why are we fighting this so-called war? It isn't a real war, of course. You fight real wars to win and we aren't doing that. When we start winning, when we get the North Vietnamese on the ropes, our politicians in Washington call a bombing halt to allow the Bad Guys the opportunity to stop what they are doing. Naturally, they re­group and re-arm and we fly back north once again to get shot at some more. A few more empty stools at the bar. A Sergeant comes and packs up some missing pilot's belongings to mail home. Another mother or wife gets a knock on the door from three USAF officers in full blue uniform; the Duty Officer, a Flight Surgeon, and a Chaplain. Someone loses a son or husband, more kids grow up fatherless. We call another bombing halt and the futile cycle continues.

  This war is not turning out as I was led to believe when I signed up to attend it. I was told, and I believed, that we were fighting for freedom and independence for South Vietnam, to allow those good folks to live in a Jeffersonian democracy. I've been to Saigon; that was an eye-opener. We are fighting for crooked politicians, profiteers, pimps, prostitutes, and drug pushers. We are fighting for peasants that are on our side during the day and are Vietcong at night. The capital of South Vietnam is awash in Saigon Cowboys; these street hustlers are everywhere, like shoals of sharks. Each young Vietnamese stud seems to have a fake Rolex and a motor scooter with a longhaired girlfriend in a high-slit skirt perched crossways on the back.