by Mark Berent
FLAMING F-105 EMERGING FROM SAM BURST
"I think Pintail Four just blew up back off our left wing," Court told Frederick over the intercom.
"Ay yup, saw it. There's Lead and Two at our two o'clock. And, ahhh, let’s see, yup, there's a MiG dropping in on them." Court looked high and to the right to see what looked like a MiG-19 swooping down from a position high behind the lead F-105.
"Pintail Lead," Frederick transmitted, "that was Pintail Four that just blew up. You got a MiG on your ass, and I'm pulling up into him." Frederick's voice sounded almost gleeful, Court thought. He looked closer at the Mig and the airspace behind it. Higher up was a second Mig in position to shoot at anybody who went after the MiG attacking Pintail Lead. He told this to Frederick on the intercom.
"I don't have him," Frederick said, "you keep your eye on him. I'm going to get this first one." With a violent pull he racked the F-105 into a tight climbing right turn to get a quartering head shot at the attacking MiG. Without forward visibility, Court couldn't see the MiG Frederick was after although he had a good contact on the other enemy fighter higher in the sky.
Berrrrrump. He heard and felt Frederick fire a burst. Then another. Suddenly, Frederick slammed the plane into a left bank so hard that Court's helmet smacked into the canopy. Only by snapping his head back and to the right could he keep his eye on the high enemy MiG. Frederick fired again.
"Hah, got him," he hollered into the intercom. Court felt the plane jolt as they flew through the debris of the exploded MiG. "Where's that second one?" Frederick asked,
"He's at four o'clock. He pulled up high, off to one side in a modified chandelle, then rolled on his back. I think he's coming in on us." Court could just barely make out the enemy fighter.
"I don't have him."
"He's rolling in now."
"Damn, I don't have him."
"Gimme the airplane," Court yelled. He had his head bent way back over his right shoulder, and didn't dare look in the cockpit knowing he'd lose the tiny speck. By feel he reached down and grabbed the stick.
"You got it," Frederick said. Court waggled the stick to show he had control.
"Gimme a few seconds of burner while I unload," Court demanded. He eased off the heavy G-load on the airplane as Frederick plugged in the afterburner long enough to increase the airspeed another 100 knots. "I still don't have him," he said. Their airspeed climbed to 525 knots.
"I'm going to pull around, and put him at your eleven o'clock position then you take it." Court knew that when he rolled out with the MiG in front, he would lose sight of him from the rear cockpit, but by then Frederick should have him pinpointed. Without taking his eyes from the MiG, Court pulled the big fighter almost straight up quickly using up the speed they had gained from the afterburner. Although he had never flown the Thud, he had the pilot's innate feel how far to take a plane before it would stall. He didn't have to look at the airspeed indicator to know that in a few seconds that point would be reached.
"How the hell will he be at my eleven if he's on my right side now. Don't you mean one o'clock? And look out you don't stall us." Frederick grunted out against the G-load.
Court didn't answer. He'd taken enough crap from one each Major Theodore Frederick. Court eased off the G-load as the F-105 pointed straight up. He held the stick with a delicate grip as he babied it through the nibbles of a stall waiting for the right second to swing it in the direction he wanted. He still had the MiG in sight, but now had the eastern sun at his back so that the MiG pilot, if he were trying to track him, would lose him in the glare.
The MiG pilot held his steady state bank angle seemingly waiting for Frederick's airplane to stall and start falling, then it would pounce. He's good, Court thought. I'll bet he's got blond hair and blue eyes and is a lead jock in the Soviet Frontovaya Aviatsiya.
Just when it would look to an outsider like the Thud had stalled and was going to spin or slide into oblivion, Court started to ease the nose down to the horizon as if coming through the top side of a loop. As the nose fell to a position just above the horizon, still inverted, he quickly rotated his head from over his right shoulder to look forward and down through the top of the canopy at the MiG. Though still upside down, the maneuver placed him up-sun and in the MiG's six o'clock position.
"What the hell?" Frederick said, hanging from his straps.
"Start pulling the trigger, Frederick, he's all yours," Court cracked out as he ruddered the inverted airplane a few more degrees nose low and to the right. He lost sight of the MiG as it slid behind the instrument shroud in front of him, but directly at Frederick's eleven o'clock position as seen from their inverted position. If Frederick had to roll out to complete the kill, the MiG would be at his one o'clock position.
"You got the airplane," Court said, light-headed from the negative Gs, "he's at your eleven o'clock."
Frederick wiggled the stick slightly to show he had control of the airplane and pressed the trigger on the B-8 stick grip. He placed 42 rounds from the 20mm M-61 Vulcan Gatling gun in the left wing root area of the MiG 19. Still firing, he let the pipper of his gunsight slide back to the center of the fuselage to the engine bay. Sparkling impact points lit the path. The MiG gracefully arced over as a great tongue of flame belched from the tailpipe and then the wing root. Frederick rolled to a wing low position, and quit firing as the left wing of the MiG separated in a blinding flash and the fuselage started violent snap rolls to the left. The side-load G-forces were so heavy the pilot would never be able to grab the handles and eject. He'd have to ride it down the remaining two miles contemplating his Marxist belief in no life after death. Frederick and Court watched for about one second then Frederick stuck the nose down to gain speed and rolled to a westerly heading.
"See any more?" he asked Court.
"As a matter of fact, I do," Court said, as calm as he could, considering his heart was jack-hammering his chest. He had spotted a MiG very low to the east of Thud Ridge. So low, in fact, it looked about to belly in or land on a grass strip.
"Youuuuu got it," Frederick said. "Let’s see what you can do for a second act." As cool as both men were trying to sound to each other, they were both panting and sweating and jerking their heads around constantly to keep track of who was where in the swirling air battle. Since their wingman, Pintail Four, had blown up, they had to keep scanning their six o'clock in addition to all the other sectors of the sky.
Court rolled inverted, pulled the throttle back to 80 percent, and pulled the nose through until he was aiming at the eastern edge of Thud Ridge. Unlike the second MiG, he had to dive straight at this one to get into position, but to do so would hide the MiG behind the instrument shroud in front of Court. The F-105F simply wasn't made to be fought from the back seat. He had to turn it back to Frederick.
"You got him?" he asked.
"Yeah, I got him. Gimme the airplane."
"You got it," Court said.
"I got it," Frederick said and wriggled the stick.
Frederick held the dive while rolling left and right in a modified diving jink. As he would swing back, Court could get a glimpse of the MiG. It was another 19 and its gear and flaps were down. It was trailing a thin wisp of smoke.
"Heh, heh," Frederick said, "I'm not even going to pull the trigger. He's got a little engine fire and has to land. Watch this."
He lowered the nose even more, pushed the throttle up to 100 percent, and held steady until it seemed they would dive into the ground at the side of the hapless MiG. Then he pulled a 5-G level off to recover at 200 feet above the ground. The airspeed indicator read 762 knots. They were splitting the air faster than the speed of sound. The supersonic F-105 trailed two conical shock waves, one from the nose and one from the tail. Were there any windows or crockery under the airplane, which there were not, they would have shattered from the over-pressure and vibration caused by the successive shock waves.
The MiG was at 400 feet, nose high at 135 knots, gear and flaps down, trying to land. Frederick flashed under i
t and started an immediate pull to the right as he headed west to fly up and over Thud Ridge. Both pilots looked back over their right shoulders. The MiG, caught in the two shock waves and the violent vortex of the supersonic Thud, was pitched into a position where its nose pointed straight up, and then it made a partial roll as if the pilot were trying to recover. Out of control, the plane tumbled and fell and slammed into the ground where it exploded into a ball of red and orange fire and black greasy smoke.
"We got him," Court yelled. "We got him.”
In the midst of his elation, Court's flyer's dimensional sense of space and time made him look forward just in time to see Thud Ridge begin to fill the side panel of his windscreen. Without time to blink, or shout a warning, his hand shot to the stick and eased it back a fraction. They were so close the speeding plane clipped the top of a tree when they swept over the Ridge. Frederick didn't say anything as he regained control and started a climb to the west. A moment later he put out a call on the out-bound frequency.
"Pintail Three's on the way out, Lead, what's your position?" No answer. "Anybody read Pintail Three?" No answer.
"Probably too low," Court said. Frederick grunted. He held the climb headed west toward Laos and Thailand. He leveled at 32,000 feet and switched to tanker frequency.
"White, you up?"
"Calling White say your call sign."
"White, Pintail Three. I need gas. Gimme a steer."
"Roger, Pintail Three, hold down for a steer."
Frederick pressed the mike button for five seconds allowing White tanker's direction finding equipment to home in on his signal. Court had noticed earlier the fuel gauge registered lower than their scheduled Bingo, the fuel level at which a pilot had to either head home or go for a tanker.
"Gotcha, Pintail. Steer 232. You copy?"
"Roger, 232."
Thirty-two minutes later Frederick slid the F-105 under the tail of the White tanker. "Balls," he said over the intercom, the first word he had spoken since they had nailed the three MiGs.
Court, who had been damn near biting through his oxygen mask to keep from shouting victory yells, had made up his mind he wasn't going to say one bloody word until he absolutely had to. He had long ago emptied his water bottle of lemonade, but his mouth was so dry from the adrenalin surges that he figured he probably couldn't talk anyhow. He wondered what Frederick had seen about the tanker that made him say `balls.'
"White, are you a Papa?" Frederick asked.
"Roger that, Pintail. Thought you knew. Our frag order shows Pintails on Green today, not White. You must be a tad skosh on fuel to come to us." White was the closest tanker to Frederick and Court's egress point from North Vietnam. Had they come directly back with Pintail flight as briefed, they would have had enough fuel to go to the scheduled post-strike tanker.
Frederick cleared his throat. As they eased up to the tanker, Court saw there was a long hose with a basket on the end dangling back from under the tail instead of the boom with the flyable vanes that the boomer would plug into the Thud's receiving bay. To get fuel from the basket meant the receiving airplane had to have a probe, a long metal pole to stick into the basket to make connection with the female receptacle at the center. Once plugged in, fuel would flow back through the pole into the receiver's main fuel tank. The system was called probe-and-drogue. It was the method used by the F-100 and all the Navy and Marine airplanes in the air. Only the USAF had airplanes that needed a flying boom to plug into its innards and transfer fuel. The F-4 was rigged that way.
The boom method required someone to lay down facing aft in the rear end of the tanker and fly the boom tip into the gizzard of the receiver. There could be only one on a KC-135, or any other tanker. The probe-and-drogue method didn't need a boomer, just a big pod from which to reel out the hose with the basket on the end. A tanker could carry three pods; one under each wing tip in addition to the one under the tail. The call sign of any tank with a basket always had the letter P as in Papa affixed to it. Many times Court had refueled with two other F-100s at the same time on the same tank. Now here they were, Court thought to himself, too low on gas to go any place while flying next to a truck full of it, but from which they couldn't tap.
Then he felt a hydraulic system activate, followed by a roaring sound to the left side of the front cockpit. It was a probe hydraulically moving out from the stowed position. Court hadn't known the Thud had both systems installed. He wondered briefly why no one referred to it as bi-sexual. He heard Frederick clear his throat again.
"Ah, Bannister," he said in a voice like a rich man required to ask a beggar for a dime to place a phone call, "you do this probe and drogue business all the time in the F-100. Get us a little gas, will you?"
Court leaned his head against the left side of the canopy and saw the probe extended into the breeze. He took the controls. By kicking right rudder he could see the basket. He slid up to it, straightened out at the last minute and stuck the probe into the basket without rippling the hose. He was extremely gratified to hear the boomer, who had nothing else to do except monitor the situation, say "Nice hookup, Pintail. You're receiving."
"Run that by me again," the Wing Commander said, "about the one you claim to have spun in." The crowd had gathered in the intelligence room when Ted Frederick and Court Bannister started their debriefing. No one else from Tahkli had gotten any MiGs that day. The Wing had, in fact, lost one of their own, Pintail Four, and had one so badly shot up the pilot barely made it to a safe recovery at Udorn, a base close to Laos. Now a pilot was claiming three MiGs shot down.
MiG shoot downs were a great occasion since only 22 had been shot down so far for a loss of 16 USAF and Navy aircraft. The ratio was not good. In Korea, it ran 12 to 1; twelve MiGs shot down for the loss of each friendly airplane.
Current Pentagon thinking was beginning to dimly perceive what Nellis fighter pilots had been trying to tell them for years: To run an aggressive fighter program that turns out top level fighter pilots, the Air Combat Maneuvering (ACM) portion must be realistic. To be realistic meant: a) procuring airplanes that look and fly like MiGs, and b) accepting the peacetime crashes that invariably are a part of realistic ACM training. So far, the USAF had done neither despite the reports from pilots like Boyd, Suter, and Kirk, top jocks who didn't have enough horsepower to change the system, but who had the skill and guts to push for it.
The U.S. Navy had already received Captain Frank Ault's report detailing the needs and was starting to act on his recommendations for more realistic fighter training at their fighter school at Miramar NAS near San Diego.
Frederick again told of the low level pass at the landing MiG again. Court corroborated the claim.
"Your gun camera film will confirm your first two shootdowns," the Wing Commander said, "but we need another source to confirm your third. Two crew members from the same plane can only file the claim. To corroborate it, film or an independent party must provide confirmation. As it stands, when your film comes back, Frederick will get credit for one and a half, Bannister for one half." He turned to Court. "You're not doing so bad considering you are only supposed to be flying with us for flak and SAM experience.”
His expression became stern. "But that's it. No more chasing MiGs." He looked at Frederick and shook a finger in his face. "You are forbidden to fly Bannister any place but where the orders call for. He is here to learn our tactics, not chase MiGs, and you damn well will teach them to him, or I'll bust you back to flying Blue Four for the rest of your tour. You understand, Frederick?"
Major Ted Frederick informed his full colonel Wing Commander that he understood.
It was now eleven in the morning. Court and Frederick had another mission to fly at two o'clock when they were scheduled in the F-model for one plus thirty over Laos into Steel Tiger. Aerial refueling was not fragged.
"Grab a nap," Frederick said, "meet me in the squadron at twelve thirty." Court went to his bunk, set his alarm, and, to his fading surprise, fell immediatel
y into a deep sleep.
At two forty he and Frederick were tearing up the Ho Chi Minh Trail from the pass at Ban Raving to Mu Gia with an intermediate stop at Ban Karai. Except for learning the area, the mission was a complete waste. No trucks were caught out, no guns came up, no supply caches were uncovered. Frederick called Hillsboro and got instructions to dump his bombs at coordinates WE 73213976, a suspected truck park just off a spur from Route 12. Frederick flew to the target and dropped his six 750s in three passes of two each into the heavy jungle at the foot of a low hill. Only dust and wood splinters erupted from each explosion. "Couldn't have been anything there," Frederick said, "nobody was shooting at us. They were probably sitting back laughing while we waste bombs."
"Just making splinters for Uncle Ho's toothpick factory," Court said. "We have these monkey killer missions in the South, too. Since we didn't get any MiGs, maybe we should paint little toothpicks and dead monkeys on our airplanes."
0715 Hours Local, 30 September 1966
F-105F En route to Route Pack One
Democratic Republic of Vietnam
The next morning, Court took off shortly after sunup in the backseat of the F-model flown by the ATC captain. Frederick had said he should get experience with pilots less experienced than he. They flew to Route Pack One and found it clobbered by rain clouds and fog from the deck up to 14,000. On orders from Blue Chip, they contacted Hillsboro who told them to contact a radar bombing site. They did, and were carefully directed by radar to bomb straight and level through the overcast. An hour later they were on the ground with nothing but a set of coordinates to give the Intel debriefer. There was a message for Court to meet Frederick at the O’ Club at 1830.
Before his meeting with Frederick, Court went to the O’ Club dining room to sketch out his report. The dining room section, which occupied half of the club, was partially filled with men eating a late lunch, having coffee, writing letters, or simply talking. Many had waved to Court when he walked in. He declined their invitations to sit, stating he had a report to grind out. He drew a mug of coffee from the big urn and chose a table off in the corner.
When it came to being controlled on a strike, except for speed and armament, Court saw little difference between the capabilities of the single-seat Thud and the two-seater F-4. Maybe the backseater in the F-4 could write down target information faster than the single pilot in the Thud, but that seemed about it. What made the difference was the tactics generated by each F-4 or Thud Wing based on that particular Wing's experience. Since they did not have to follow any overall 7th Air Force procedure on how to fly armed road recce, they developed these tactics using the Wing memory of what worked as interpreted by commanders and weapon officers. Once in a while, a new commander, anxious to make a name for himself by changing things, would challenge the Wing memory and fly a particular formation or approach altitude that had already proven deadly. He would invariably pay for this conceit by losing men and sometimes himself.
Court also noticed that, while individual pilot skills varied directly with total flying time, broken down into time in the airplane and combat time, effectiveness at hitting the target was a direct function of aggressiveness. The aggressive pilot, once he became acclimated to his airplane and the combat scene, always turned in better results than a pilot without that spirit, even if the less spirited one had more time in the airplane. No surprises there, Court thought.
In fact, Court noted, except for the high threat environment which quickly surfaced lack of aggressiveness in the few pilots who would have been better off pursuing another way of life, the Da Nang and Tahkli scenes were no different than that of his F-100 wing at Bien Hoa.
All things being equal, what would make the difference in killing targets in Tally Ho and Steel Tiger, be they trucks, guns, or supply caches, would be the acquisition phase. The Da Nang and Tahkli pilots, and those from Ubon and Udorn and Korat, as well as Navy pilots flying over the Trail, simply weren't able to spend the amount of time cruising up and down to learn what belonged in the area and what didn't, or what had changed overnight and what hadn't. Court wrote that the fast FAC program should correct that deficiency.
Near the end of his report, he listed with whom he had flown, when, where, with what ordnance, and the results. Before he wrote his conclusions, he sat back and lit a cigarette. The image of the faceless pilot whose bunk he had taken began super-imposing over the picture of Pintail Four exploding. At the same time, he heard the voice of Jack Barnes tell him Ron Bender was missing. Before he was finished with his cigarette, he saw again Paul Austin's F-100 shatter and roll into a fireball. He heard the mortars of the Bien Hoa attack and saw Harold Rawson run out with the satchel charge.
The sound and images flicked back and forth as if from a broken projector. To shake the memories he got up and walked over for more coffee. He concentrated on the mechanics of opening the spigot and watching the steaming black liquid splash into his cup.
He tried to analyze his feelings. He didn't feel sad, he noted, but he could feel an anger start to well and that surprised him. Anger about what? He wished Doc Russell were with him to talk it over. He returned to his table and sipped his coffee. He made a conscious effort to suppress his beginning anger. He succeeded and finished the report by concluding that the fast FAC program would prove its worth, and should be implemented as soon as possible. There was no place for his thoughts about bomb shortages, wasted bombs, wasted pilots; or his burgeoning anger. He made one last check for spelling errors, put it in his case, and went to the bar. The report would be typed at Phan Rang.
By 1825 he had already had two beers with the ATC captain and another Thud driver who was celebrating his 50th mission by drinking Salty Dogs. The ATC captain was talking about dip bombers. "They are the ones," he said, "who zip into the target area at 650 knots at 15,000 feet, dip the nose of their aircraft slightly, pickle off all their bombs, and scoot home. The best thing said about their accuracy is that their bombs most likely fall on North Vietnamese territory."
Activity in the club picked up as the pilots from the afternoon strike began to filter in. The weather had been fair in Six Alpha where they hit a rail junction that, as one pilot put it, probably was repaired by the time they landed. One Thud had been shot down by a SAM east of the Red River. The pilot had ejected safely, had a good chute, and had made contact from the ground over his survival radio. After ten minutes he said the bad guys were coming in on him, and he was going to start shooting. There was one more broken transmission that sounded like he said he had been hit, then silence. Nobody saw any MiGs.
At precisely 1830, Major Ted Frederick walked in and rang the big bell over the bar. "Attention," he said, looking around with a fierce scowl on his face. "Attention in the area. I'm buying, so is Bannister."
Court stood up at the mention of his name wondering what the hell it was all about. Suddenly he knew when a great smile broke out on Frederick's face. "We have credit for not one, not two, but THREE MiGs. Two for me and one for Bannister." He looked around in triumph. "Autographs will be given," he said.
The bar broke into pandemonium. No Thud driver had ever shot down more than one Mig on one mission. Frederick and Court were besieged by well wishers who insisted on buying them drinks. Corks popped and champagne squirted through the air as Soupy, the pretty little Thai bar maid, presented flower wreaths to the two pilots. The PIO people wanted Court and Frederick to dress up as if they had just landed and come to the flight line for some photos. Just as Frederick leaned forward to tell the PIO people what he thought of their suggestion, the Wing Commander made the request an order to be carried out the next morning. Thud pilots needed all the good publicity they could get, the colonel said.
After a really rotten week flying Downtown, some good news was long overdue. That the pilots were jubilant and genuinely happy over the victories was evident. Yet, down deep, each told himself he should have been the one who got the MiGs. When he could finally pull away,
Frederick pried Court loose from a crowd listening to his backseat story, and took him to a corner.
"The Board at 7th reviewed the film," he said, "which came out confirming the two gun shootdowns. Then, a guy in intelligence, a Colonel Norman, filed a Humint report about his people intercepting North Vietnamese messages saying a MiG 19 spun in on final at a dispersal strip next to Thud Ridge after an airplane flew under it in the traffic pattern. So that's it. I got the first one, half of the second, and half of the third. You got the two remaining halves and that, movie pilot, totals one each MiG to your credit."
Court looked at Ted Frederick for a long time. "You could have claimed all three. I never even pulled the trigger."
"Yeah, movie pilot, but I never saw the second two. As far as I'm concerned, I'd have credit for only the first one if it weren't for you." Frederick stuck out his hand. "Put 'er there, Bannister. You ain't much good at arm wrestling, but you're not bad in the backseat. Of course, I'll never know if you are any good in the front seat." They shook hands and walked back to the bar.
The ATC captain had his guitar out and was singing the fighter pilot words to Petula Clark's song Downtown.
When you get up at two o'clock in the morning
You can bet you'll go Downtown,
Shaking in your boots, you're sweating heavy all over,
'Cuz you got to go Downtown.
Smoke a pack of cigarettes before the briefing's over,
Wishing you weren't bombing, wishing you were flying cover,
It's safer that way the flak is much thicker there --
You know you're biting your nails and you're pulling your hair,
You're going Downtown, but you don't wanna go,
Downtown, that's why you're feeling so low,
Downtown, going to see Uncle Ho,
Downtown, Downtown.
