Hamfist Over Hanoi: Wolfpack on the Prowl (The Air Combat Adventures of Hamilton Hamfist Hancock Book 4)

by G. E. Nolly

  “Are you okay, boss?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Contact Tower,” instructed Approach.

  “Roger.” Pause. “Good day.” I always tried to give a short pause and say “Good day” the way Paul Harvey did.

  “Kadena Tower, Scatback 403, gear down, final.”

  “Scatback 403, wind 040 at 7, cleared to land, runway 5 Right.”

  I looked at the aircraft clock. It was 1031 local.

  I put down final flaps, and touched down at exactly 1032. I made the high-speed turnoff, and taxied toward the parking spot. With about 100 yards to go, we were still about a minute early, so I slowed down a bit.

  As we turned to park, I shut down the left engine, and coasted to a stop with the red carpet lined up abeam the aircraft door. I set the parking brake, shut down the right engine and checked the clock. It was 1034 and 50 seconds. I hopped out of my seat and opened the door for the general.

  He stepped out onto the tarmac at 1035.

  To the second.

  14

  February 28, 1971

  After the General and his party deplaned, Lieutenant Colonel Byers looked at me.

  “Any sandwiches left over? I'm starved.”

  His voice had miraculously cleared up.

  “I'm sure you are, sir. You must have worked up quite an appetite on the way down here.” As soon as I said it, I was afraid I had overstepped my bounds.

  “Actually, I did,” he responded. “Do you know how hard it is to pay total attention to everything and act like you're out to lunch?”

  I had a puzzled look on my face.

  “I just gave you your IP readiness evaluation, and you did great. We'll do some more IP training on the way down to Clark, and then I'll designate you as an IP.”

  “Sir, I'm flattered, but I've never done any instructing.”

  “You're going to practice instructing me all the way down to Clark. At first, it will be difficult, but you'll get the hang of it. You already know how to talk and fly. Mostly, I want you to be an IP because we have a lot of Generals who want to get stick time, and they have to have an IP in the right seat whenever they fly the Sabreliner. When you fly with a General, you're pretty much flying solo, just like you were on the way here.”

  I was looking forward to the challenge.

  15

  March 23, 1971

  I'd been flying throughout Southeast Asia pretty much nonstop since arriving at the end of February. Every now and then I got 24 hours off in Saigon, and got a chance to visit Happy and deliver supplies to the orphanage.

  Like everything she tackled, Sam had done an incredible job collecting donations for the orphanage. She got sheets, blankets, pillows, food, toys, all the things they needed. And then she used her feminine wiles to convince transient T-39 crews to take the supplies to Saigon, where they were held for me at Base Ops. And then I'd take them to the orphanage.

  Every time I went through Base Ops in Saigon, I looked for the packages. They were always there. And there would always be a “care package” for me, too. Cookies, a small cake, or perhaps my favorite, what I called a “Japanese hamburger”.

  It wasn't really a hamburger, it just looked like one. It was actually a dessert called dorayaki, made of two small pancakes sandwiching sweet azuki bean paste. It was delicious. I loved it, and it was only available in Japan. And Sam always managed to include several in a package to me, along with a note telling me how much she loved, and missed, me.

  This was a night flight to Ton Son Nhut Air Base, in Saigon, from DaNang. We were on final approach right at midnight when the city came under rocket attack. Ton Son Nhut Tower sent us around, and we performed a missed approach and circled over the city until things calmed down, about fifteen minutes. The base itself hadn't been hit, and once the runway was inspected, we were cleared to land.

  We secured the airplane and went to the BOQ. As we checked in at the Billeting Office, several of the Vietnamese clerks were staring at me and talking among themselves. I checked my reflection in the window of the entry door, to see if I looked funny. Maybe a cut or a scratch. I looked okay. I couldn't figure out why they were staring.

  Finally, one of the clerks, a young girl, came up to me.

  “You Dai Uy Hamcox, yes?”

  Dai Uy was the Vietnamese word for Captain.

  “Yes, Hancock,” I answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “Rocket hit Hoi Duc Anh Orphanage. You friend, he live there, yes?”

  I dropped my bags and ran toward the door before she had even finished speaking. I needed to get to the orphanage, and fast. I ran all the way to the main gate, then flagged down a cyclo. I shouted “Go, go, go” at every intersection. Fuck the red lights.

  As we approached the orphanage, there was rubble all over the street. There were firemen putting out the remains of a blaze in what was left of a government building. The smell of burning buildings, and death, hung in the air.

  We pulled up to the orphanage main entrance, or, rather, what had been the main entrance. Now it was just a pile of bricks. I threw all of my piasters to the driver and ran inside.

  “Happy! Happy! Where are you? Happy!” I bellowed.

  No answer.

  I saw a nun, not Sister Theresa, a nun I hadn't seen before.

  “I'm looking for Chien.”

  She had a blank look on her face. I think she was in shock.

  “Chien Le. He has one eye. He calls himself Happy.”

  I heard a voice behind me.

  “I'm so sorry, Captain.”

  I turned to see Sister Theresa. She had tears streaming down her face. She came up and hugged me, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “I'm so sorry,” she wept, “Happy has passed away.”

  16

  March 25, 1971

  The past two days had been a blur. After I left the orphanage, I called the Scatback Ops Officer and asked for an extra day off in Saigon. He gave it to me without even asking me why.

  I was the only one like a family Chien had. I told Sister Theresa I wanted to perform the burial ritual.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “His body is really in bad shape.”

  “It's my duty. I'm his only family.”

  I had been given instructions from the Mortuary Affairs Office. I washed his small body, placed a chopstick between his teeth and put several grains of rice and three coins in his mouth, and wrapped his body in white cloth. Then I put his body in the diminutive coffin, and helped lower it into the grave.

  “Goodbye, Happy. Go in peace, join your parents and your brother Grumpy. I'll help your country. And I'll get even. I promise.”

  17

  March 25, 1971

  I desperately wished I could see Happy one last time. I already missed him. The way his face lit up when he saw me. The way he held my hand when he took me around the orphanage, to show me how he had passed out the supplies I had brought. The way he cleaned his glass eye by popping it into his mouth like a big gum ball.

  I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. I had seen too much death, lost too many friends, to grieve. Now I was wracked by uncontrollable, overpowering rage. I had seen enough. I wanted to get even. I wanted to do whatever it took to stop those fuckers from bringing rockets down from Hanoi to rain death and destruction on innocent civilians.

  I knew I was helping the war effort by carrying Generals, and Ambassadors, and supplies, and photographic imagery, all over Southeast Asia in my T-39.

  But now I needed to do more. I needed to get back into interdiction. I needed to bring the war to those bastards doing this destruction. I needed to bomb them back to the fucking stone age.

  I needed to get into a fighter.

  18

  April 3, 1971

  I was back flying. It was where I needed to be. When I was flying, I could compartmentalize, I could forget my problems. I could concentrate on getting the job done, accomplishing the mission. I would be heading back to Yokota soon, and I actua
lly wanted to fly right now.

  This day we would be carrying a two-star from Ubon to Saigon. An easy day flight. And the General, a late manifest addition, had advised Operations that he wanted to get some stick time, so I was assigned to be the IP in the right seat.

  I supervised the loading of the aircraft, and then got into the right seat and told my copilot, Captain Nick Nicholson, to stand by the door to greet the General, and invite him to the left seat of the cockpit. I heard the General's staff car arrive, and I pressed the starter for the right engine as I heard his foot hit the aircraft steps.

  The General entered the cramped cockpit and sat down in the left seat.

  “Welcome aboard, General,” I said. “I'm Captain...” I paused in mid-sentence, as I looked at my passenger. He was looking back at me, his mouth open in shock.

  It was former Brigadier General, now Major General, McCall, Sharkbait 41 Alpha, the pilot I had rescued in Laos!

  I held out my hand, and he shook it and gave a half-assed attempt to give me a hug. The cockpit was too small, and I was already strapped into my seat, so he settled for putting his arm around my shoulders and giving a big squeeze.

  “Hamfist! I was hoping I'd run into you one of these days!”

  “Congratulations on your promotion, General.”

  “Thanks. You too, Hamfist. But my promotion wouldn't have been possible without you.”

  It was time to start engines, and we were both all business as we taxied out, took off, and climbed to altitude. Once we were in cruise phase, we had time to talk.

  “How are you enjoying the T-39?”

  “It's a great airplane, General, and I really appreciate your help in getting me this assignment. But...”

  I paused. I didn't want to seem like an ingrate.

  “What is it, Hamfist?”

  “Well, General, I had asked for the assignment because my girlfriend, who's now my wife, was based at Yokota. But, to be honest, I'm not seeing her very much. I'm TDY to the Scatback operation almost all the time. And if I'm going to be gone, and in Vietnam anyway...”

  “You want a fighter, right?” he interrupted.

  I nodded.

  “Hamfist, I'll get you whatever you want. If you want a fighter to the States, Europe, wherever, just tell me where. And I'll get your wife a joint spouse assignment to the same base.”

  “Thank you, General. Sir, you may think I'm crazy, but I want to come back to Vietnam.”

  Then I opened up to the General. I told him about Happy. I told him how I wanted to help the South Vietnamese stop this outrageous war. I wanted to go back over the trail, to do whatever I could to stop them from bringing rockets down from the north. I told him I wanted vengeance.

  “Hamfist, I'm going to get you your fighter to Vietnam. But I want you to rethink your motives. If all you want to do is get even, it will be a hollow victory every time you pickle off your bombs.”

  “When you were killing those gomers at Chavane,” he continued, “you weren't doing it to get even with them for shooting me down. You were doing it to save my ass. Sooner or later, we're going to start a bombing campaign over North Vietnam again. When you drop your bombs on Hanoi, I want it to be because you want to stop the flow of munitions to the south, to end the war, not because you want revenge. If all you do is bomb them to get even, you'll be no different than the bastards who blew up the orphanage.”

  I felt like I had just awakened from an endless nightmare.

  “You're right, sir. Thank you.”

  The General's words had really opened my eyes and helped me get my head on straight.

  And finally, I was able to cry for Happy.

  19

  June 17, 1971

  I had been waiting for the call for several weeks, and it came in the morning. The phone in our on-base quarters at Yokota rang at 0800. I had slept in late, since I didn't have to brief for my flight until 1100.

  “Hello. This is Captain Hancock.”

  “Captain Hancock, this is Captain Myers, at the Military Personnel Center. I have your pipeline SEA assignment for you.”

  “Excellent. What do you have for me?”

  “We have a front seat F-4 for you. But I want to confirm that you are a volunteer for a second SEA tour. This is pipeline Southeast Asia. It won't be an F-4 to Europe or stateside.”

  “That's affirmative, Captain. I am a volunteer for a second tour in Southeast Asia.”

  “Okay, we have your fighter lead-in course scheduled for July 7th, at Myrtle Beach Air Force Base. Then we have water survival scheduled for July 24th at Homestead. We have several options for your RTU. We can keep you at Homestead, or send you to MacDill Air Force Base or Luke Air Force Base. Your choice.”

  The F-4 RTU – Replacement Training Unit – training would last about six months, so it was pretty important to get a base assignment I would enjoy. I didn't really know much about any of the bases, but I did know that Homestead was near Miami. I'd been to Miami Beach when I was a kid. The beaches weren't as nice as the beaches near my home, at Pensacola, but the night life was a lot better. Great restaurants and activities. Okay, I would go for Miami.

  “I'll take Homestead.”

  “You've got it, Captain. Fighter lead-in at Myrtle Beach, the rest of your training at Homestead. You'll have your orders by this time tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Captain Myers.”

  “You're welcome, Captain Hancock. Good luck.”

  It wasn't until after I hung up that I realized that Captain Myers at MPC had been working late. A call at 0800 in Japan worked out to 1800 local time – 6:00 p.m. – at MPC Headquarters in San Antonio, Texas. Nice to know the Personnel people kept working until the job was done. Maybe Fish, my former room-mate in Vietnam, had been a little rough on them in his assessment.

  I walked into the kitchen. Sam had already left for work, and had cooked my breakfast and left it in the Amana Radarange. The Amana was one of the first appliances we bought when we got married. We got it at the Pony Store, right off base, the same week we returned from our honeymoon. It was really a godsend. I didn't know how people got along without one.

  I showered and shaved, put on my uniform and headed out the door early. I needed to tell Sam about my assignment, and I didn't want to be rushed.

  20

  June 17, 1971

  I entered the Fifth Air Force Judge Advocate General Office and walked over to Sam's desk.

  “Good morning, Captain Hancock,” I said.

  “Good morning, Captain Hancock,” she smiled.

  I really wanted to give her a good-morning kiss, but I held back.

  We always got a kick about scrupulously avoiding Public Display of Affection and putting on an act of formality whenever we were in uniform. We knew that nobody would really mind a little PDA from newlyweds, but we wanted to keep our behavior strictly professional when we were at work. And it heightened our passion once we were finally alone.

  “Can you take a little time off for a cup of coffee?”

  Sam looked at her desk calendar, checked her watch, and nodded.

  “I need to be on a conference call at ten,” she said.

  I looked at my Rolex.

  “No problem,” I responded, “I just want to chat with you for a few minutes. Let's take my car. I'm parked in the General's spot.”

  Sam started to respond, then broke out into a broad smile. She knew me well enough to know I wouldn't be that stupid.

  We drove to the Officer's Club and went to the casual bar, called The Outback. I ordered two coffees and locked eyes with Sam.

  “Sam, I...”

  “You got your fighter!” she interrupted. “I can see it in your face.”

  Damn, she was sharp! I'd better never try to keep a secret from her.

  “Ham, I'm so happy for you! And I've been in the airplane when you were flying, so I know what a great pilot you are. Of course I'll worry about you, and I'm going to miss you, just like I miss you when you are TDY. But you'll be do
ing what you love, and you'll be doing something incredibly important.”

  “I love you, honey.”

  “I love you, too,” she replied. She looked around. We were alone in The Outback. She leaned over and gave me a passionate kiss. “Now, let's get back to work.”

  21

  July 7, 1971

  The flight from Yokota to Atlanta seemed to take forever. I was on a packed Northwest Orient Boeing 747 military charter flight that stopped at Anchorage, Alaska for a fuel stop, then continued on to Atlanta.

  The Yokota Traffic Management Office, which handled my transportation arrangements, advised me that I would be reimbursed for a rental car to drive to Myrtle Beach Air Force Base, in South Carolina. I opted for a Mustang – nobody said I had to rent a Chevy Nova!

  Myrtle Beach was home to the 354th Tactical Fighter Wing. The wing consisted of an operational A-7 fighter squadron and the Tactical Air Command Fighter lead-in School. In a brief two-week period, I would learn fundamental Air Combat Maneuvers – ACM – and gunnery in an AT-33.

  The AT-33 “Shooting Star”, nicknamed the “T-Bird” was basically a T-33 trainer aircraft fitted with a basic gun sight, a .50 caliber machine gun, a bomb rack under the fuselage, and hard points under the wings for rocket pods. The aircraft itself was old, really old. The T-33 had made its maiden flight in 1948, and was a derivative of the Lockheed P-80 “Shooting Star”, the first American jet fighter aircraft.

  The T-33 had been used for Undergraduate Pilot Training – UPT – until the mid-1960s. After it was replaced by the T-37 and T-38 at UPT, it was pretty much sidelined and used for proficiency flying and support roles at various Air Force bases around the world. I was actually looking forward to flying the AT-33, since I had heard the “old head” Instructor Pilots at UPT talking about flying the T-Bird, and it was going to be pretty neat to fly an antique airplane.

  I drove very carefully for the six-hour trip to Myrtle Beach, since I had been driving on the left side of the road for the past year and a half. I had to really concentrate at every intersection, to make sure I stayed on the proper side.