by Tom Wilson
"Check your spacing, Scotch Force," came Yank Donovan's terse radio call. He descended again, leading them lower yet, changing altitude so they'd not be predictable. Manny looked out at Animal Hamlin, off on his left wing, then to his right and the aircraft there. They looked good. His only criticism was that Yank Donovan was flying too slow for his liking. They were doing 480 knots, and Manny felt their minimum combat airspeed should be 550 to 600 when flying anywhere in pack six. He felt better when his aircraft's energy level was up.
He paused before making his radio call. Although relatively new at the combat game, Donovan was not the sort to take kindly to criticism. Manny waited a few seconds more, and when it became apparent they weren't accelerating, he pressed the transmit button.
"Scotch Force leader," he called. "Marlin lead suggests we're flying too slow."
Smatterings of flak popped harmlessly at their two o'clock, half a mile distant.
Scotch leader didn't answer Manny's call or respond by changing airspeed. Donovan was playing his own game, and since he was leading, they'd all dance to his tune.
Red Dog radioed from their vantage out in front of the force. Weather was fine for bombing . . . only a few clouds, and those were well east of the target area. The mission was a go.
"THIS IS BIG EYE. BANDITS AT BULLSEYE, TWO-EIGHT-ZERO FOR FIFTEEN. I REPEAT. BANDITS AT BULLSEYE, TWO-EIGHT-ZERO FOR FIFTEEN."
MiG-17's south of them. If they'd been MiG-21's, Big Eye would have called them Red Bandits. That was the new format.
"Honda flight's got a visual. Ten o'clock low for five. Engaging."
Manny glanced up and watched the F-4 MiG-CAP flight veer overhead, headed toward the bandits; then he peered carefully about the strike formation. Nothing except a few bursts of flak off to their left.
Donovan leveled as they approached 8,000 feet. They were out over the valley, headed toward the distant, shadow-cast mountains of Thud Ridge.
The Red Dog SAM-killers called a missile launch—targeted for the Wild Weasels, not the strike force. "Valid SAM launch," Red Dog lead repeated. "No threat to the force. Red Dogs, prepare to take it down." The Wild Weasel leader spoke in a conversational tone, as if he were at breakfast asking for the salt, instead of preparing his flight to dodge a surface-to-air missile traveling at three times the speed of sound.
Manny looked, but could see neither the Weasels nor the SAMs. He let his eyes scan the area to their starboard, at the area just short of sprawling Hanoi, but he couldn't yet make out the big airfield. Very quickly they'd change course.
On cue the force swept around to their right, making their turns too slowly for Manny's liking. He mentally noted to brief the pilots to make turns abruptly, so they'd not lose as much of their jamming effectiveness while the aircraft was canted to the side, with the ECM pod's output shielded by the wing. So much to do.
Stay on the offensive, he reminded himself.
As the sixteen ships continued toward Phuc Yen, Red Dog made a reassuring radio call; the sky was now clear of SAMs. Honda flight, unable to catch the MiGs, returned to fly nearer the strike force.
Phuc Yen airfield was ahead and slightly left. Manny began a visual search for the targeted hangar, but they were still too far out.
Thirty-seven millimeter began to puff over the northern side of Hanoi. Popcorn flak. It formed in thick layers, white puffballs you had to fly through when you dived toward the target. The gomers threw a lot of the little stuff into the sky when you got anywhere close, as if there were endless supplies of artillery rounds.
Closer now. He could see the runway. Stay on the offensive.
Six rounds of big stuff, 85mm, blew in fiery balls that quickly darkened into towering gray blossoms. More and more flak burst in the sky as they approached Hanoi. The airfield became distinct, and Manny could make out the hangar, looking brazen and tough, standing alone amid the rubble of several others flattened in earlier raids.
Finally Donovan pushed up his throttle, and the force followed suit. Manny glanced at his airspeed as they accelerated through 500 knots. Better, but still not fast enough. He sucked a few breaths of oxygen, staring at the target, which was no longer so well-camouflaged. Most of the netting had been blown away in the furious bombing of the past several days.
Yank Donovan stroked into afterburner as he began his pull-up, and the rest of the force followed, noses lifted skyward as they climbed toward the perch. Now that the gomers knew their target, the flak intensified. The guns of Phuc Yen pounded staccato bursts of fire into the sky. Manny's mouth was set firmly; they'd started the maneuver too slowly and would have to stay in the stuff longer than necessary.
Too late to worry about it. Manny controlled a shudder as a flurry of rounds burst so close, he heard muffled thunder over the roar of the engine. He stared at the aircraft before him and watched as Donovan's four-ship leveled, then hesitated.
Hurry! Manny silently yelled. Donovan was delaying his roll-in. Finally Donovan, then the remainder of Scotch flight, turned sharply left and downward. They'd go after the many gun emplacements about the periphery of the airfield.
Manny immediately began his own leveling turn—they were at 13,000 feet—and cast a quick look back at the other flight members. He swiveled and eyed the target again, pulled in a breath, and turned up on his left wing. Dammit! Donovan's pause at the perch had thrown Manny out of the prebriefed position. He found himself attacking from the south rather than the west. He'd have to make a quick turn as soon as the bombs came off, to avoid the guns massed north of the airfield.
His mind was too cluttered! Remain calm. Stay on the offensive. He gave a hard shake of his head to clear it, settled the aircraft at forty-five degrees dive angle, and adjusted slightly to place the aiming pipper slightly above the hangar, which was rapidly growing in his vision.
Steady. Tracking. Good target picture. He released at 7,000 feet. Yeah! he exulted as he pressed the button and felt the bombs go. They'd be good, he decided. Either a hit or damned close.
He pulled the control stick slowly aft and to the right. Four g's—a nice, calm pullout. The flight ahead of him was climbing out in ragged unison.
Time to think about collecting his own chicks.
"Marlin lead's off the target to the right," he announced as his bird began to recover from the dive attack. He could see the flak clearer now that he was no longer tracking the target—so thick and heavy it rated an Oh-My-God. Don't think about it. Stay calm. What's your next move?
Bursts flashed harmlessly past, misses but close enough to make him feel vulnerable. He pulled harder to get away—realized he was being predictable in the constant turn and began to jink eastward. He glanced out to his right, toward Hanoi, and saw bright red bowling balls flashing through the sky—all seemingly directed at his airplane, as if he were some kind of magnet.
As he approached the southern extremity of Thud Ridge, Manny reversed left, to hug up beside its first high mountain.
"Valid SAM launch, Scotch Force. This is Red Dog lead. Valid launch!"
He eased off his turn and looked out sharply. Until they rejoined in the cooperative jamming offered by the pod formation, they were vulnerable to SAMs.
"Homing on us, Red. . . ." The transmission immediately shut off.
Manny soared a bit as he approached a hill, then quickly swung his head back around to stare out at the valley, still wondering if the SAM could be targeted for him.
Nothing in sight.
"Break, Red Dog four! Br—"
Someone was breathing heavy over the radio, holding down the transmit button.
"Red Dog four's hit!"
One of the Wild Weasel crews.
"Get out, four! Get out!"
The Weasel Thud must be burning. Manny did a tiny dogleg right and left, so his flight could catch up. He consciously quelled an urge to breath harder. Stay on the . . .
Weeep, weeep, weeep. An emergency beeper was sounding its plaintive cry, followed by a second when the other Weasel crew
member's chute opened.
Damn! Manny thought bleakly. Two men down.
As he turned back to face the mountain, Manny's airplane was staggered by a mighty jolt, then another, then a third! Each was accompanied by a tremendous explosion, deafening even in the sealed cockpit. The Thud reeled drunkenly, the controls instantly sluggish.
Oh, shit! Calm yourself, dammit. Keep thinking of what you should do next.
Gain altitude! was Manny's initial thought, and he instinctively hauled the stick back and checked that the throttle was full forward.
Smoke gathered low in the cockpit, and he could see light down there. The bird was hit, and he knew it was a mortal one. He forced himself to remain calm as he wondered how far west he could get if he stuck with the bird. He couldn't yet turn for home, for the ridge blocked his way, so he continued climbing as he flew northward.
Someone radioed that he had a visual on a SAM. Another voice said it was a burning aircraft. He listened to Animal Hamlin's New Jersey accent saying something about Marlin lead and . . . bright fire.
Manny's fire was burning so intensely, they'd mistaken him for a missile! He tried to respond, but heard no side tones to tell him the radio transmitter was operative.
Someone yelled for him to get out, as they'd done with the Wild Weasel a few seconds earlier.
All of those things happened almost instantaneously, but time had entered another dimension and dawdled unnaturally. Manny glanced toward his feet to watch the thick smoke curling there, then observed his gauges as the oil-pressure gauge went to zero.
No way to fly without oil pressure. Stay calm. What's your next move?
His UTILITY, P-1, and P-2 lights came on.
Can't fly far without hydraulics, either. Things were going to hell. What's your next move?
Weeep, weeep, weeep. A new beeper squealed.
". . . lead, Honda three's out of the airplane. I got one good chute in sight!"
Another emergency beeper sounded. The Honda three front-seater.
The carnage wasn't yet complete.
". . . Honda four's hit!"
". . . losing control of the . . ."
". . . get out, get out."
". . . dammit."
Two more beepers wailed, and the accumulation of sounds from the locator beacons drifted in and out of unison. Manny shut off emergency-guard frequency to eliminate the racket.
In a period of seconds, two F-4s had been downed. With the Wild Weasel crew already out, six men were floating earthward. A bad day for the good guys. None of those would be picked up, for the rescue force couldn't come in this far.
Steady your breathing. Keep thinking of what to do next. Manny's heart remained calm. He was determined to make it out as far as possible.
As soon as he could see over the ridgeline, he cranked the stick to the left. The bird responded . . . falteringly, but he was turning. He settled on a westerly course of 285 degrees, which he reasoned was the fastest track between his position and the nearest mountain wilderness across the wide valley.
Climbing still . . . more smoke boiling up from below. Come on, baby, he breathed. We've got a long way to go. He didn't wish to join the others below in their chutes, sure to be killed or captured. Remain calm.
He was past the ridge and over the flats, headed westerly at 690 knots, the Thud gamely struggling upward.
Can't get high enough, he decided, and continued the climb. He scanned his altimeter . . . it was dead. He glanced at his airspeed gauge and found it inoperative. No inputs from the Pitot system, and he couldn't trust the rest of the instruments.
". . . left ten degrees," called Yank Donovan.
". . . you read, Marlin lead?" Like the others, the first part of Animal Hamlin's transmission was also lost.
Manny turned the bird southward a bit, as Donovan had directed, then again tried his radio—without luck. He couldn't transmit. Although the first words of transmissions were clipped, he could receive. His breathing remained calm, his thoughts lucid . . . as if he were an observer of the Titanic before it went belly up. He began a high-pitched laugh, but cut if off.
". . . through sixteen thousand feet," he heard Animal explain in the cool voice. Yank Donovan asked something, and Animal replied he was coming up on Marlin lead's right side . . . that the airplane was burning and shredded. He said he could see right through the Thud's belly to the engine, as if it were a cut-away model. There was a big chunk torn out of the right wing, and three feet of the aft fuselage was missing.
"Keep flying baby," Manny urged his Thud. Stay calm. Think of what you do next.
". . . keep your distance in case it blows," radioed Colonel Donovan.
Manny's eyes smarted and wept from the smoke. He leaned close to the canopy Plexiglas and saw an aircraft shape looming on his right. Animal Hamlin. The presence made him feel better. He leaned forward to check the situation indicator for his heading, but found that both electrical systems had shut down since his last look. He extended the ram air turbine for emergency power, but there was no change. He leaned well forward until he was close enough to see the needle on the whiskey compass, and corrected to 285 degrees, magnetic.
Another voice. ". . . out, Marlin lead. You're burning!"
He studiously ignored the advice. The farther he could make it to the west, the better his chance for rescue.
Animal's voice. ". . . through twenty thousand feet, Marlin lead. You're burning on the right side of your bird. Dark smoke. I think oil from your ATM's feeding the fire. Make sure you've got the ATM shut down so it'll stop pumping oil."
Manny felt for the air turbine motor switch.
". . . little better. Not burning quite so bright back there now." He owed Animal a drink for that advice.
Manny's feet were getting hotter. He looked to see if there were flames, but the smoke was too thick.
Animal's distinctive voice. ". . . doin' good, Marlin lead. Awfully good. Turn ten degrees left again, though. You're in a slight bank and keep drifting north."
Manny fed in a slight correction . . . what he thought to he ten degrees. Found himself starting to breath too rapidly and calmed it.
". . . out, Marlin lead!" someone yelled hoarsely.
Animal's cool voice returned. ". . . on the right side of your bird. Gotta start thinking about gettin' out, Manny. Coming up fast on the Red River, if that's what you been waiting for. Level off a bit now. You're in a slight climb again, and . . ."
Hamlin didn't finish his sentence. Manny's radio had gone completely dead.
He couldn't see at all now, partly because of the smoke, mostly because his eyes were watering profusely. He blinked and leaned forward but couldn't see the whiskey compass.
Gotta get rid of the canopy, he decided, and had trouble finding the manual lever. He pulled. The metal bow was thrust up into the airstream, and the canopy disappeared. Manny had anticipated a flash fire and was clutching desperately on to the left ejection handle in case he had to immediately abandon ship . . . but there was no flash fire and the smoke diminished. He blinked repeatedly to flush water from his eyes, wondering how tear ducts could carry so much liquid, then glanced over and saw that Animal's Thud was locked into position at his side. Hamlin gave him a nod and thumbs-up. It felt exhilarating to be able to see. He grinned and laughed into his mask as he returned the wave. Then he blinked some more and stared down over the side.
The Red River was directly before them, not more than a couple of miles distant. All he had to do was . . .
"Ungghhh!" he grunted, for the Thud pitched nose up into a steep climb. He stabbed with his left foot at the rudder, and the red-hot pedal fell against his leg, searing the skin and causing him to yell out in pain.
The damned rudder pedal had melted free! He tried to kick it away and felt his rubber boot sole grow sticky on contact.
He was fighting the stick as the bird soared, but little seemed to be working. He hung from his straps, now inverted, and the Thud did some kind of odd, twisting t
rick, and he was fluttering earthward in a spin.
There was absolutely no control!
Time to get out, he sagely decided. He had sufficient altitude for a clear ejection. He took a couple of seconds to position himself, as he'd practiced a thousand times in the simulator, then released the controls and grasped the ejection handle.
The Thud slowly righted itself and began a recovery arc, so he regrasped the control stick and felt a sluggish respond. Past the Red now. If he could only make it . . .
He groaned as the bird's nose pitched into a nine-g pull-up, which he'd thought impossible. This time he was tossed to one side when the aircraft reversed and began to flutter, only half flying, sinking earthward again.
"I got your number, baby," Manny coaxed, still panting from the g's.
He released the control stick.
No effect. The Thud continued to fall.
Dammit!
He grasped the control stick again. There was absolutely no response. Remain calm.
Manny fleetingly wondered if he was still beyond the river as he groped for the ejection handle, said a very quick prayer, pulled his heels back, sucked a shaky breath of oxygen, then pulled both ejection levers.
The explosive blast kicked him hard in the butt.
1440L—North of Bangkok, Thailand
Major Lucky Anderson
The gooney bird shimmied and whined throughout the takeoff from Don Muang airport, as if it were the right of a lady of her age to act as she wished. C-47's had been designed and first built in the thirties and had been a mainstay of every conflict since. Other cargo birds, like C-119's, had been designed to replace her, but she was still flying while they'd mostly been relegated to boneyards or sold off to other countries. Goons were not pressurized—on this one Lucky could see daylight through gaps where the passenger door didn't fit properly—so they had to fly down low enough that the passengers or crew wouldn't need oxygen. As reliable and durable as a railroad pocket watch, gooney birds shuddered for no apparent reason, and you could see their wings articulating up and down, phenomena that scared the hell out of young jet-pilot passengers, but she'd complain and groan and keep flying, and get you there every time. In Thailand goons were used to shuttle passengers and low-priority cargo between the various bases.
