by G. E. Nolly
I had requested a month of military leave after graduation, and that was put in my orders also. The orders assigned me a Port-Call from Travis Air Force Base, in Vacaville, California, on March 20th .
When I received my orders, I saw that I had been assigned to Ubon Royal Thai Air Base. I was thrilled. I had operated into Ubon numerous times with Scatback. Being based in Thailand was like being in a completely different world from Vietnam. Friendly people, no sappers, no rocket attacks.
But the best part was, Ubon was the home of the Eighth Tactical Fighter Wing. The 8th had earned its reputation as MiG-killers during Operation Bolo, when F-4s from the 555th Tactical Fighter Squadron, called the Triple Nickel, made their way into history books by downing seven MiGs in just a few days. If I played my cards right, I just may get into the Triple Nickel and get a chance at my own MiG.
There was one piece of business left. I needed to unload my car. I listed the Corvair in the base newspaper for sale for $300, and it sold the first day. So I had used the car for free for the past six months.
When I boarded the MAC flight to Travis, where I'd start my leave, I felt pretty proud of myself for taking care of the weapon transportation issue.
That feeling of pride lasted exactly one month.
35
February 21, 1972
You'd think that a guy with a tour in Vietnam, and another tour flying all over Asia, including Vietnam, would be pretty street-wise. You'd be wrong. I had so much to learn, I didn't even know how much I didn't know.
When I got to Travis, the first thing I did was go to the Scheduling Office at the Passenger Terminal and advise them to cancel my Port-Call, since I would be arranging for a Port-Call on my own from Yokota, where I'd be taking my month of leave. I showed my orders to the Sergeant, and he filled out some forms and gave me copies.
Next, I needed to send my hold baggage on ahead to Ubon. My hold baggage was all my civvies, uniforms, G-suit, helmet, flying gear, everything I would need at Ubon, but didn't want to lug around with me. And, of course, my Browning. I put a copy of my orders in the A-4 bag that had my hold baggage, took the bag to the check-in desk, and put it on the scale.
“This is my hold baggage for Ubon, Airman,” I said, as I handed him a copy of my orders. “I have a personal weapon in the bag, but it's authorized.”
I pointed to the part of the orders that mentioned shipment of the weapon.
“All right, sir. I'll take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
For some reason, I had thought that bags were subject to x-ray screening, and I wanted to make sure that no one would think I was trying to smuggle my weapon overseas. What I had stupidly done, instead, was ensure that the weapon would never make it overseas.
The Airman took care of it.
36
March 21, 1972
My leave, of course, had seemed too short. I'd caught a Space-Available MAC flight to Yokota, and Sam and I had a wonderful month together. We went out to dinner with Tom and Miyako four times, and Sam had earned some Compensatory Time Off for some extra work she'd put in on some high-visibility projects, so we took a driving trip.
We headed south, and drove the entire length of Japan, ending up in Kyushu, the southern island.
“I want you to see Fukuoka, where I was born,” she said.
So we went to Fukuoka and visited Itazuke Air Base. Itazuke had been made famous by the fighter pilot song, “Itazuke Tower”, and it was really neat to see the base in person. During the Korean War, F-86 jocks had been stationed there, and had gone off to war, TDY, just like I had gone off to Vietnam, TDY. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
When I left Yokota for Ubon, it was different from the times I had gone to Vietnam. During the time I was with Scatback, we'd developed a routine for my departures. No more Gone-With-The-Wind farewell scenes, just resolute acceptance of our impending separation. We knew what it would be like.
Sam and I held each other for one last goodbye. A final kiss and I was on my way. As I boarded the flight, I looked back as Sam, Tom and Miyako waved to me, and again went off to war.
37
March 21, 1972
When I arrived at Ubon, The first thing I saw when I stepped off the plane was the sign that read, “Welcome To Ubon, Home of the Wolfpack”. I stood up a little straighter as a feeling of pride and anticipation surged through me. This was what I'd been hoping for, planning for, training for.
I checked in at the Information counter at the terminal, and the Sergeant provided me with my squadron assignment. It wasn't the 555th. I guess the disappointment showed on my face.
“Were you expecting to be assigned to the Triple Nickel, sir?”
“Actually, I was.”
“We see a lot of that, sir. The Triple Nickel isn't at Ubon any more. They relocated to Udorn a couple of years ago.”
I was processing this unexpected information, when I heard someone call my name.
“Hamfist!”
I turned around, and there, in the flesh, was Vince, my former room-mate from the Academy, the SAR pilot who had picked me up so many times!
We hugged each other like long-lost sorority sisters.
“Vince! How long have you been here? What squadron are you in?”
“I've been here two months, and I'm in the same squadron as you, the 25th. In fact, as soon as I saw you were assigned to us, I told the Squadron Admin guy we had to be room-mates. And he made it happen.”
“That's fantastic.”
“I have a lot to tell you about our operation. Let's get you settled, and then we'll go to the club and talk. Your hold baggage has been in the squadron storage room for a few weeks.”
We went to the squadron and I made the usual round of introductions. These guys would be my brothers for the next 12 months. Vince took me to the storage room, grabbed my A-4 bag and handed it to me.
“Here's your hold baggage, Hamfist.”
Something felt not quite right about my A-4 bag. I had put a padlock on the zipper closure, and now it was gone. I had a really sick feeling about this. I opened the bag, and all my flying gear was still there. But the gun was gone.
There were a few loose cartridges scattered in the bottom of the bag, but the weapon and the box of cartridges were missing. I told Vince about the gun.
“Vince, do you think anyone got to my bag while it was in storage?”
“No way, Hamfist. I received the bag the minute TMO said it had arrived, and it was exactly like this. There was no lock on the bag when they delivered it, and our squadron is really secure.”
For the Browning, the operation was a success, but the patient died. I had done everything right up to the last minute, then I blew it by being such a naïve boy scout. I had been programmed, from four years at the Academy, with its Cadet Honor Code, to think that everyone was honest. Even with a tour in Vietnam, I hadn't learned much about the real world.
Okay, no use crying over spilt milk. I got my bags unpacked, and Vince took me to the O'Club. I would need to report the stolen weapon to the JAG Office, but that could wait.
“You're going to love our flying here. We have great missions, and we carry a great mix of bombs. Mark-82, CBUs, LGBs.”
“What's an LGB?”
“Laser Guided Bomb. They're incredible. You drop it like a regular bomb, and it guides to the target when the FAC illuminates it with a laser. It's something right out of Star Trek.”
“Very cool.”
We talked on for a couple of hours. Vince had gotten an F-4 assignment to Europe after his tour at NKP, and then volunteered for a second tour.
“Are many of the guys in the squadron on their second tours?” I asked.
“A bunch. In fact, there are some guys on their third tour. We have a great group of guys.”
Vince looked at his watch.
“I'm supposed to take you to meet Colonel Holder in about a half hour.”
“Okay. Who's he?”
“Lieut
enant Colonel Robert Holder. He's our Ops Officer. Hates his nickname.”
“Don't tell me it's Dick.”
“Give that man a cigar! He's a really good guy, dyed in the wool fighter pilot. Flew Huns his last tour.”
The “Hun” was the F-100, a real fighter-pilot's airplane, single seat. The Hun was being phased out of the active inventory, replaced by F-4s. Even though the F-4 could do more, it was a shame to see the Hun go.
We went back to the squadron, and Vince escorted me into Lieutenant Colonel Holder's office.
“Welcome to the 25th, Hamfist.”
“Thank you, sir. It's a real pleasure to be here.”
“You wouldn't be bull-shitting me, would you? Everybody who comes to Ubon thinks they're going to get into the Triple Nickel.”
“Well, sir, actually the thought had crossed my mind...”
“I understand completely. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret. When we start bombing the north again, and we will start bombing the north again, we're going to be the bombers. And you know who gets to see the MiGs? The bombers.”
“The MiG-Cap,” he continued, “might fly along for hours, looking for trouble, maybe go for days without making contact. Every mission, we drop our bombs, roll up and take a look at our results. Instant fedback, instant gratification.”
“And there's the chance,” he smiled, “we'll probably see more MiGs than the MiG-Cap guys.”
“I'm looking forward to getting started flying, sir.”
“Well, it'll take a little while. Things are very structured around here now. You have to go to Wing Indoc for some briefings before you can start flying, but we'll get you on the schedule as soon as we can.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I left his office feeling really optimistic.
Later in the day, I went to the JAG Office and filed a report about the missing weapon. They put me in contact with a Captain from the Office of Special Investigations.
The OSI was the Air Force equivalent of the FBI, and they treated the matter with a great deal of seriousness.
“Do you remember the name of the Airman you checked your bag with?”
It had been a month since I had checked the bag, and I'm not sure I had even paid attention to his name at the time. I felt like a total idiot.
“No.”
“Well, we'll advise our office at Travis and see what we can come up with, but it doesn't look too promising.”
“Okay. Thanks for anything you can do.”
I would eventually be reimbursed the cost of the Browning. The money wasn't my chief concern. Weapons were not permitted to be imported into Thailand, so now there was no way I could get my hands on a Browning again. I learned my lesson, and it was a tough one.
Local area training was fairly involved. There were several briefings I attended with other FNGs, and several written exams. The Wing, rightfully, wanted us to know the local area, including major diversion airfields, down cold. In my own case, I had flown to all of them with the Scatback operation, but the training was highly structured, and there wasn't any allowance made for prior experience. I was anxious to get flying, but I would have to wait.
I needn't have worried. The war wasn't going anywhere without me.
38
April 13, 1972
Finally, I was scheduled for my first combat mission. The birds at Ubon were F-4Ds, which meant that they didn't have the internal gun. Other than that, I couldn't tell much difference. A little later, some TDY F-4Es arrived, and we flew them all interchangeably.
Springs Springer, a Fighter Weapons School graduate, was my IP in the back seat for my checkout. Springs was really an old head. Although he was still a Captain, he was already on his third tour in F-4s.
Springs gave me a thorough briefing on the base facilities, which I had already known, the target area, which I knew somewhat, and the weapons, which I knew about but had never dropped.
We were carrying snake and nape. Mark-82 high-drags and napalm. There was a lot of fighting in the An Loc area, and we would be launched single ship to rendezvous with a FAC. We were actually going to fly three sorties on this mission.
We were fragged to fly to An Loc for our first employment, then recover at Bien Hoa to refuel and load more bombs, and work the An Loc area again. After that, we'd recover one more time at Bien Hoa, refuel, reload and work a target in Laos on our way back to Ubon.
Three flights in one day. Now we're talking! At Indoc, they said I'd need ten missions to be considered combat ready. Three days like this and I'd be almost there.
There were Troops In Contact at An Loc, and they really needed our help. I couldn't see much on the ground to see who were the good guys and who were the bad guys, but the FAC gave us a good mark, and I had all my bombs on target. No secondaries, but I didn't expect any with TIC. Results Not Observed.
Obviously, the FAC knew what he was doing. The rules said that a FAC didn't estimate Killed By Air numbers. Unless there was an actual body count, there was no KBA. Simply RNO.
We recovered at Bien Hoa, left our gear in the airplane, and went into the ready room to get a snack while they prepped our airplane for the next flight. In the ready room, there was a long table with sandwiches, desserts, soft drinks and coffee. It seemed the airplane was ready to go before I had even finished my first sandwich.
Back to An Loc. Same target area, still TIC. This time, I just had Mk-82s, sixteen of them. Again, all bombs on target. Again, RNO. RTB at Bien Hoa one last time.
This time we were loaded with Mk-82s and CBU-24s. We took off and headed northwest, to rendezvous with a FAC over Steel Tiger. Although Steel Tiger had been my old Area of Operations, we were in the Pleiku FAC AO, south of my old hunting grounds, and I didn't recognize any of the targets.
The Pleiku Covey put us in on a suspected truck park, and we got several secondary explosions. It was like Lieutenant Colonel Holder had said. I dropped my bombs – they were great – and rolled up to see my handiwork. Instant gratification.
When I landed at Ubon, I was physically drained, but mentally pumped. We went to the squadron for a short debriefing, and then we were done for the day.
When I left the briefing room, the Captain from the OSI was waiting to see me. I figured he might have information about my stolen Browning.
I was wrong.
39
April 13, 1972
The Captain from the OSI was there to interview me regarding my being charged with the military crime of Missing Movement.
Apparently, the Sergeant at the Scheduling Office at Travis had dropped the ball, and left my name on the flight manifest for my original Port Call from Travis to Ubon. When I didn't show up for the flight, the Passenger Service Department issued an All Points Bulletin for me. They thought I was a deserter, while I was flying combat missions!
I showed the OSI Captain the copies of my Port Call cancellation, and he said he'd take care of everything. One thing I'd learned at the Academy, and I learned it well, was to hold onto every piece of paper with my name on it.
“Even if it's just a short note,” The Sergeant at Graduation Out-processing had advised me, “if your name is on it, hold onto it forever. Some day you'll thank me.”
I said a silent, “Thank you, Sarge.”
I flew several more triple-turns to Bien Hoa over the next several days, and then took a combat check ride.
The check ride was simply a normal combat mission, with a WSO in the back seat, and the check pilot flying on my wing. It was great to be leading the flight, something I'd done only a few times in training, and may not get to do for quite a while, since only the most experienced pilots would upgrade to Flight Lead.
My bombs were great, and the check pilot said I did a good job. Based on my bombs, I had expected him to say I did an outstanding job, but no such luck.
“Your bombs were excellent, Hamfist,” he said, “but you need to put more effort into thinking about your wingman when you lead. You had me down-sun dur
ing most of the flight to the target, when you should have put me up-sun. And when you made turns, your roll-ins were not very smooth.”
I could see I had a lot to learn.
40
May 2, 1972
This was my first mission over North Vietnam. If my WSO hadn't told me, I never would have known we weren't still over South Vietnam. No big red line on the ground to mark the DMZ, the border between North and South Vietnam. No difference in the terrain. Not even much difference in the enemy reaction, mostly just triple-A.
It hadn't always been that way with enemy reaction. About six months earlier, southern North Vietnam, Route Pack One, was as bad as the Hanoi area, Route Pack Six. Airfields with MiGs, SAMs, wall-to-wall triple-A. And then the F-105 Wild Weasels, in coordination with the Wolfpack airplanes, had used the “roll-back” tactic of attacking the threats at the periphery of the defended area and incrementally destroying the threats in the area, gradually increasing the area considered lower threat.
By the time I flew over Route Pack One, it was hardly more dangerous than Laos. Meaning – you can get your ass shot down any day of the week, but no MiGs or SA-2s.
We worked with an OV-10 FAC, Musket 3. Our target was a storage area, and I was carrying 16 Mark-82s. I made six passes, a thousand pounds of bombs per pass, and I had good bombs. No, I had great bombs. We got three secondaries, and the FAC sounded ecstatic.
While we were orbiting the target, my WSO, an old head close to DEROS named Cliff Clifford, pointed out the two prominent landmarks that distinguish southern North Vietnam: Bat Lake and Fingers Lake.
Bat Lake was shaped just like a bat's wings, and Fingers Lake looked like the outstretched fingers of a hand. Nobody ever accused fighter pilots of being overly creative, but the names worked. Even when most of the ground was obscured by clouds, if you caught a glimpse of Bat Lake or Fingers Lake, you instantly knew where you were.
North Vietnam was divided into “Route Packages” that had numbers starting at the DMZ, similar to the way South Vietnam was divided into Military Region I (formerly called I Corps), MR II, MR III, etc.
