by C. R. Ryder
Ten miles from the target we lit the afterburners and flew in at around 550 knots. We began the bomb run at 12,000 feet.
The first two four ship flights flew in and dropped on target. We came in late and at the wrong angle and in the process gained the attention of PAV anti-aircraft gunners. The gunners threw up a wall of flak. We had to punch through this to get to the target.
We dropped our ordinance. Intel would later tell us that 20 of our 24 bombs went right through the roof of the hangar we were aiming for. It decimated everything. Then we rejoined the formation.
With bombs released on target, I formed up with my flight as they climbed up. We were looking to get above 4,500 feet as quick as possible where we would statistically be safer from ground fire.
“Missile three o’clock!” Came over the radio.
SAMs were in the air. A glance to my right and I could see three coming up out of the foliage after the formation.
Turning right into the missiles would be the best course of action. Airmanship prevented that however as that would take the flight over a heavily defended power plant. Instead we hugged the ground and pushed out of there at near supersonic speeds.
The maneuver almost worked. The first missile shot up heading toward the stratosphere. The second tried to chase us and collided with the ground. Unfortunately, the third missile found a Wild Weasel.
“I’m hit. I’m hit.” I heard over the radio about the time that I thought we had made it out free and clear.
“I think we can make it back to base.” Came a moment later telling us it was not that bad.
We tried to climb back up, but we were really low and all of a sudden we were enveloped in tracer fire. I heard the sound of pinging and knew metal had hit metal. At least ten 57 millimeter rounds had punched through my fighter. Pieces of one went right through the bottom of the cockpit between my legs and exited through the canopy. Another few inches either way and I would have lost a leg, my balls or if it had gone straight through my asshole probably my life.
Red lights flashed on the cockpit indicators telling me that the engine had caught fire. Almost immediately there was smoke in the cockpit. It got thick quick and I was nearly blind. I did an emergency decompression to clear the smoke. It didn’t work.
I was still climbing when gauges started failing and more lights were coming on by the second. My wingman joined up with me as I hit Mach 1.1 on the airspeed indicator.
“Missile left! Missile left!” I heard over the radio. It seemed like things were about to get worse. I was looking around for this missile while trying to deal with everything else. There was nothing I could see. Then I realized they were talking about me.
Pieces of my Falcon were falling off into the airstream.
My wingman must have figured that out about the same time because he started vouching for me.
“Negative! That’s not a SAM! That’s three!” Four said.
Everything was dying and I was flying off the compass at this point. All I wanted was to make it to the coast to our predetermined ejection area at that point. I didn’t want to bail out over the water, there were a lot more things that could go wrong going into the drink, but there was a better chance the slow moving rescue guys could get to me. The last thing I wanted to do was make them fight their way through hundreds of miles of enemy territory. You always want to be rescued, but the last thing you want is for someone else to die trying to save your ass.
Flames were coming into the cockpit. They were licking at my left boot. I felt the rudder pedal melt under my foot.
One of the tires exploded blowing the gear doors open. The other one fell into the jet stream and was ripped off. It was loud and scary and I thought that the plane had broken in half. It was nothing compared to the fuel tank exploding. One of the underwing tanks, full of fuel from our last air refueling, blew and took part of the wing with it.
I fought to regain control of the aircraft. I looked out the canopy and saw ground underneath me. The plane came apart faster than I could keep it together. There was no way I was going to make it to the water. Seconds later the aircraft became uncontrollable. It went into a spin and took me with it. I applied the recovery technique and it did not respond.
I tried it again.
Nothing.
Out of options, I departed the aircraft at about 14,000 feet.
As I waited for my chute to open I was thankful that I at least made it close to the gulf where I had at least a chance of being rescued. At 10,000 feet the mechanism triggered and my parachute opened. The risers came out fast. I had not tucked my chin and they scraped the bottom of my chin up pretty bad.
The ground came up pretty fast and I was looking for villages and patrols. The last thing I wanted was to make it this far and get captured by the PAVs. There were several large open areas that I could have chosen for landing zones. I passed them up because they were in sight of villages. If civilians captured me it might be worse than PAV regulars. Pulling hard on my risers I steered the chute to the most isolated area I could see. There was a small field outlying the other, larger areas. The best part about it was there was a ridgeline between my position and the nearest village.
I screwed up the landing and broke my elbow and two of my fingers. That and two burnt feet were a small price to pay considering what I had just been through.
At least I was alive for now. Whether or not that continued since I was deep inside Old North Vietnam.
I pulled out my survival radio and hoped someone was crazy enough to come and get me.
Staff Sergeant Mike Dolby
HH-60 Gunner
We were in the middle of eating dinner when my pilot Andy Bean came into the chow hall waving his arms. He had just come from the Squadron Operations Center and it looked like we had a customer.
"Scramble! Scramble! We're going in," the shouts went up, and my crew and I ran to our HH-60 as Bean and the copilot Coggins started the engines. We carried little boxes of cereal, granola bars and cinnamon rolls with us as we left the chow hall. We shoved our pockets full of the stuff. There was no telling when we would eat again.
As the helicopter got airborne, we manned the guns and prepared ourselves. We had to trust our training and preparation. The aircraft had been cocked on for fast launch. There was no time for everyone to double check our gear.
We did not know what we were going into. The guy we were going in to pull out might have already been captured. The PAVs might have his equipment and were trying to draw us into a trap. Or he could have died when he hit the ground or fell off a cliff evading. We had to be prepared for anything.
As the helicopters now sped across the ground to rescue one Major Arthur, according to the sheet intel handed us going out the door, I scanned the ground below, looking for enemies. This was called visual scanning. Despite all our technological wonders including thermal and night vision this was the best way to spot the enemy. The weather was clear for the first time the operation began. At least we had that going for us.
Major Ben Arthur
F-16 Fighting Falcon Pilot
Old North Vietnam
The only way to get through the bamboo was to crawl through it. Every step on my burnt feet sent pain up my leg. Struggling every step of the way, I cursed how slow it was going. I wanted to find somewhere to hole up before any unfriendlies showed up.
Finally I emerged into some dense jungle.
I had plenty of gear with me if I had to stay for a while. There was a survival radios with two extra batteries in my pocket. Besides my issued 9 mm automatic, I also had four knives. In addition I had sewn razor blades into my flight suit in various locations. The blades were for them and me. The idea of spending twenty years in a tiger cage getting my fingernails pulled out scared the shit out of me. I had decided before the war even started that if I got captured and if I couldn’t get away I’d do myself in.
For hydration, I had a bag full of water. It was not nearly enough. I drank half of it already.
It was one of my formation and from the voice I could tell it was Lieutenant Wilkes. The irony was I had just instructed him on rescue combat air patrol before we deployed.
"Get the fuck out of here Willie," I told Wilkes over the radio.
"Fuck you, Bennie," Wilkes said. "I'm running things. You’re looking good. You’re safe. Help’s on its way.”
“Sure,” I had my doubts about that. I had fucked up big. He was just trying to give me hope. There was no one coming to save me.
Wilkes held his position for the better part of a half hour. He made wide circles around the area to prevent the enemy from getting a fix on my exact position. Fuel though drove him to press on out of there.
“I’m Bingoed out.” Wilkes said indicating he was running on fumes.
“Thanks for sticking around.”
“Good luck,” Wilkes said and then the radio went silent.
I was alone.
Lieutenant Colonel Carol Madison
Air Force Intelligence Officer
“He’s too far north. The risk is too great.” Elway, my Army counterpart, was arguing. “Just have him hide until we can move troops closer.”
“How can you be so sure we are going to invade?” I asked.
“Let’s just say I am.” Elway replied. Whoever he was talking to had filled his head with promises.
“More POWs? How does that play?” I argued.
“A dead helicopter crew? How does that play?” Elway responded.
Everything came to a halt for the shoot down. The Air Boss himself was running things from the floor.
“We already launched search and rescue. Let me know who wins the argument.” He told us.
Well I guess we were going in.
Staff Sergeant Mike Dolby
HH-60 Gunner
Captain Bean was flying our HH-60 hard that day, and as we made their way toward Arthur, we received orders over the radio from AWACs to turn back and abort the mission. Then we received orders to continue from headquarters. It was one of those times when command and control were not getting along. This conflicting orders thing happened more than you would have thought and it was always frustrating. Either way we would end up pissing somebody big and important off.
AWACs repeated their retrograde order. They told us that Arthur was too far north, and rescuing him would be too great of a risk. They told us MiGs were reported in the area.
Bean made a decision that probably saved Arthur’s life.
“What do you say?” Bean asked us.
No one seemed to want to answer.
“Christ we’re almost there.” I told him.
"AWACs, there's too much static," Walker said. "I can't hear you. We're going in to get him."
Knowing there were MiGs in the area didn't diminish the threat of enemies on the ground, and I kept my eyes open. The entire crew was on edge. I hoped any civilians had the good sense to stay away.
Anyone would be a target for my M134 Minigun.
The way I looked at it if they wanted to mess with our helicopter then they were messing with my family. If they were going to mess with my family they were going to have to die.
Major Ben Arthur
F-16 Fighting Falcon Pilot
Hornets reached me about two hours after I was shot down. It felt like days had passed. The Hornets circled overhead and dropped smoke grenades to mark my position. They were all way off.
I waited for them to figure it out. They quit dropping smoke, moved further north and dropped more smoke. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Hey Navy, you’re way off target.” I told them over the radio.
"We know that," the pilot said. "We know what we're doing."
They were leading the enemy away from me. Well I guess I’m the asshole.
Less than ten minutes later I heard the whoop whoop of helicopter blades.
I just about cried.
The HH-60 appeared and then hovered overhead. I popped a smoke grenade and pulled out my flares. The device that fired the flares looked like a big marker. You pulled this string and they shot into the air. I had six of them and I fired them all. One of them bounced off the canopy of the helicopter as it swung by overhead.
“Fucker we see you.” The pararescueman said over the radio.
“Sorry,”
“Prepare to confirm identity.”
The helicopter crew would ask me a series of questions to make sure I was who I said I was. They were not taking any chances. For all they knew this could be a trap.
Staff Sergeant Mike Dolby
HH-60 Gunner
As the HH-60 went into a hover and I prepared to drop the penetrator, a heavy anchor-shaped device that penetrated the jungle on a cable and worked as a seat, four Vietnamese MiG-21s showed up.
“We’ve got four bandits inbound to your position.” Came over the radio from the AWACs search and rescue controller.
Everybody starts looking hard out the window, heads on a swivel and hoping that the MiGs will just keep going.
“Abort mission. Retrograde to base.” The AWACs search and rescue controller ordered over the radio.
“What do you think crew?” Bean asked us again.
“We’ve almost got him.” I said.
“Abort mission.” Came from the AWACs controller again.
"Negative. We’re here."
We all felt like tough guys, but it was a tough call. The HH-60 was a sitting duck. The MiGs would come screaming in at about 300 mph. If they caught us during the rescue the PAV pilots would have the advantage of firing a missile at the stationary target. We could only hope the Hornets in the area would run some interference for us.
Major Ben Arthur
F-16 Fighting Falcon Pilot
When the penetrator came down, I scrambled toward it on my damaged feet and no sooner took the seat and strapped myself in when I felt myself hoisted aloft. Clinging to the penetrator, which was still dangling beneath the helicopter, I saw gunfire erupt from the jungle. There was someone closing in and they were a lot closer than I suspected.
I had not heard a thing.
A bullet bounced off the penetrator and more off of the helicopter.
From above helicopter crew started spraying the jungle with bullets. The gunner was giving them hell with his big Gatling gun.
I pulled out my 9 millimeter and fired off the whole clip. I figured I might as well do something to help. Whether or not I hit anything was a mystery.
Staff Sergeant Mike Dolby
HH-60 Gunner
We were taking a fair amount of gunfire from the ground. I responded by firing into the worst of it. The trees turned to green mist and when mud and dust flew into the air I knew I had punched through the foliage. Still I had to be careful. If the minigun hit something solid like concrete it would produce an equal spray of ricochets. Aircraft had flown into their own stream before with murderous results.
The ground fire died down and we almost had the F-16 guy into the helicopter.
Then the MiGs arrived. Two missiles came streaking across the sky at us. Fortunately for us the two MiG pilots that threw down had waited too long. The missiles didn't have time to lock on, and they shot past the helicopter, exploding into the jungle in the distance. Luckily, the two Hornets were still in the area. They were on the MiGs right away.
We didn’t wait around for them to take another shot. Bean turned away and flew the helicopter as fast as he could away from the area with that F-16 pilot still dangling from the penetrator.
Still those two shots were the only missiles we saw fired that day, and the MiGs disappeared after that.
“I guess that’s why the AWACs called us off.” Bean said.
“Thanks for the scoop.” The copilot responded.
“We’ll have to buy them some beer.” Bean countered.
F-16 Fighting Falcon Pilot
My ankle and feet felt like hell. Every time the helicopter bounced with the turbulence I felt white hot pain. The pararescue guys said the burns were bad and they thought my ankle might be broken though I was holding out hope it was just twisted. They couldn’t get my boot off due to the swelling and the burns. They said that the docs would have to cut it off of me at the hospital. Either way it meant I would be laid up for a while.
While we proceeded back to their base and safety I watched the pilots manage their aircraft. I saw the low fuel light about the same time they did.
“Where are we going to land?” I asked the gunner, some kid named Dolby who had a thick Texas accent.
“We’re not.” He responded with a grin.
An AFSOC C-130 air refueling tanker met us over Thailand at 10,000 feet. By the time the tanker arrived all the low fuel lights were blinking along with other warnings of imminent engine failure.
“We call them the disco lights.” Dolby told me.
They were disturbing.
“We’re pretty low on fuel.” He added.
Originally, the helicopters were going to take me to a hospital ship where there were surgeons standing by to treat traumatic injury. When they saw that other than the ankle I didn’t need medical attention they diverted to base.
An ambulance met us when we landed. I grunted that I could walk, but they put me on a stretcher for which I was secretly grateful. I never saw the helicopter guys again. They were badasses though and I owed them my life.
