by G. E. Nolly
Route Pack One started at the DMZ, and Route Pack Two was north of Route Pack One, and the numbering continued northward to Route Pack Six, the Hanoi area.
Route Pack Six was the most heavily defended area in the world. There was wall-to-wall triple-A of every caliber, SA-2 radar-guided SAMs with a range of over 20 miles, SA-7 heat-seeking SAMs, and, of course, MiGs.
The name MiG was an abbreviation for the names of the Russian designers, Mikoyan and Gurevich, small letter “i” being the Russian word for “and”. Like every other weapon the North Vietnamese – and, for that matter, the Chinese – had, the MiG was a Soviet-designed aircraft. The MiGs came in several flavors.
The MiG-17 was an older aircraft, but still lethal. It had a highly swept wing and could turn really well at low speed. The MiG-17 had a 27 millimeter cannon with 80 rounds and a 37 millimeter cannon with 40 rounds. Either cannon was capable of blowing you out of the sky in a heartbeat. It was subsonic, had a range-only radar, and didn't carry missiles. Its weakness was its manual elevator control. Although the ailerons were hydraulically powered, the elevator wasn't, which meant that the faster it went, the harder the pilot had to pull on the stick to turn. If you had a MiG-17 on your tail and went fast and went into a hard turn, the airplane itself was capable of turning with you, but the pilot – especially a little hundred-pound North Vietnamese pilot – probably wouldn't be strong enough to pull on the pole with enough force to stay with you in the turn. If you got a MiG-17 on your tail at low altitude, the best tactic was to go into a steep dive and pick up tons of airspeed. Then, pull out just before impacting the ground. The F-4 can make the pullout. The MiG-17 can't. A kill's a kill.
The MiG-19 was its newer brother. It was twin-engine, like the F-4, it was supersonic, like the F-4, and had hydraulic flight controls, like the F-4. In addition to its cannon, it also carried two Atoll air-to-air heat-seeking missiles, similar to our AIM-9s. It was fast and maneuverable. Really lethal. It could out-turn an F-4, and you would be really stupid to get into a turning dogfight with one.
The newest aircraft, the MiG-21, had a delta-wing planform. Like the MiG-17 and MiG-19, it was single seat. It was fast, it had a cannon and two Atoll missiles, and it too was extremely lethal. Its main weakness was forward visibility - it had a front windscreen with the transparency of a coke bottle.
I had a hard time with enemy aircraft recognition, and remembering the strengths and weaknesses of the different model MiGs. But it was important for me to learn them.
My life might well depend on it.
41
May 5, 1972
I was Number Two in Dingus Flight, working with a Nail FAC in Laos. Each of us had Mark-82s and CBU-24s. The FAC had found a truck park along the trail.
The airstrike was going great. First, the FAC put us in with our Mark-82s, to blow away the triple canopy cover, and I was about to make my first run-in with CBUs. I was in a 135-degree bank, pulling my nose through toward the target for a 45-degree delivery, when I heard the distress call on Guard, followed by a single beeper.
“Wolf 41 is hit! Bailing out over Bat Lake!”
I had been to breakfast with Vince about two hours before my flight briefing.
“What kind of mission are you on today, Vince?”
“It's my checkout as a Fast FAC. After I saw all the fun you were having as a FAC, I decided I wanted to see what it's all about. I'll be flying with Sambo.”
Sambo Sampson was one of the most experienced pilots in the squadron. He was on his third tour. He had been a Covey and a Raven, and now was a Fast FAC in the F-4. I knew Vince would have a great role model for his Fast FAC work.
Sambo's call sign was Wolf 41.
When I heard Wolf 41 go down, I had the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'd had so many times in the past. If I had heard two beepers, I would have felt a little better. But I only heard one. That meant there was only one good chute, since the opening of the parachute triggered the beeper.
I completed my roll-in, let the pipper track up to the target, and pickled off my CBU. I had to compartmentalize. There was nothing I could do right now for Vince, and if I dwelled on his situation, I might make a mistake that could cost one of the guys in my formation, or the FAC, his life. My CBU delivery was perfect, and I had a momentarily thought what an insensitive asshole I must be, to drop my bombs like there was nothing wrong. But it was what I had to do. I had to compartmentalize.
Back when I was in pilot training, at Laughlin, in 1968, I wasn't so good at compartmentalizing. Neither were most of my classmates. Our Class Leader was Charlie Higgins. Charlie was the Class Leader by virtue of his rank. He was a Captain among all of us Second Lieutenants.
Charlie had been a Bombardier-Navigator on B-52s. During an Operational Readiness Inspection, he had done everything right, but at the last minute there had been an equipment malfunction, and his bomb missed the target on the training range. Missed it by a mile. Charlie's crew was being chewed out by the Brigadier General who had been overseeing the ORI.
Actually, it was the Aircraft Commander of Charlie's crew that was being chewed out. Being a pilot, the Aircraft Commander was responsible for everything that happened on his mission.
During a break in the ass-chewing, Charlie spoke up.
“General, the bad bomb was entirely my fault. There was nothing the Aircraft Commander could have done. I accept full responsibility.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then the General spoke.
“Captain, if you want to accept responsibility, you're wearing the wrong kind of wings.”
A week later, Charlie had an assignment to pilot training.
Being a Captain, Charlie really knew his way around the Air Force, and was really a great role model. We all looked forward to his weekly bullshit sessions.
And, on this particular day in 1968, Charlie washed out of pilot training. Although Charlie know a lot about the Air Force, and Aviation Meteorology, and Aerodynamics, and lots of other things we had to learn, Charlie just couldn't fly.
The day Charlie washed out we all performed terribly. Including me, and I went on to become Distinguished Graduate. We were all thinking about poor Charlie, when we should have been thinking about our flying.
Our Section Commander, a grizzled old Major who had been an IP for over ten years, called a special meeting of all the students.
“You all did really shitty today. And that's just not acceptable. I know you all feel bad about Captain Higgins, but that's the breaks. He may have been a great guy, and maybe even a great leader, but he was a shitty pilot. If you were on his wing in combat he could get you killed. So, if you want to feel bad for him, you do it on your own time.”
“When you're flying a million-dollar Air Force aircraft, you can't afford the luxury of anything other than total concentration and commitment to your mission. There will come a time in your career when your best friend will get shot down off your wing, and you'll need to be able to put it out of your mind and get on with the mission. If you can't do that, you can join Captain Higgins and get the hell out of pilot training.”
So we learned to compartmentalize. We learned to focus. We learned to put everything out of our minds except the mission.
There would be time for me to grieve for Vince. I would be his Summary Courts Officer. There would be time for me to cry, in the solitude of my room, or in the shower, or in the steam room at the base gym. Places no one would see me.
But, right now, all that mattered was getting my bombs on target, looking out for threats, and completing the mission.
42
May 10, 1972
The previous night, the squadron Scheduling Officer had gone up to each of us, individually, at the Officer's Club, where we gathered pretty much every night.
“There will be a mass briefing at 0400 tomorrow, Wing Headquarters. It's a Special.”
I'd heard about Specials. There had been some Specials a few months earlier, before I had arrived, for high-prior
ity SARs. There had even been a Special for a single-ship mission into Pack Three, to implant sensors for the Igloo White Program.
This sounded like it was going to be something important, and I had a hard time getting to sleep. I set my alarm clock for 0230, shut my eyes, and at some point drifted off.
When the alarm woke me, for a minute I had forgotten that I was alone in the room.
“Vince. Time to wake up”.
Then I remembered. Vince was gone. Focus, Hamfist, focus.
I went to the O'Club for breakfast, ate quickly, and walked to Wing Headquarters. About half of the guys were already in place in the mass briefing room, and there was nervous chatter as we all waited to see what was in store. Finally it was 0400.
“Wing, atten-hut!”
The Wing Commander entered the room, escorted by a Major from the Intel Department.
“Take your seats, gentlemen,” the Wing Commander said, “Today, we are initiating Operation Linebacker, an aerial bombardment campaign against North Vietnam. Our wing will be conducting the bombing, with 2000-pound Mark 84 Laser Guided Bombs. Each of our sixteen flight leads will have target illumination gear. Major Wright will now brief the targets.”
A tall, thin Major stood at the front of the room, as a map of downtown Hanoi was projected on the large screen. There were sixteen red triangles on the map, designating the targets for each flight. A Lieutenant from Intel was passing out lineup cards, the small cardboard sheets that contained all of our strike information, such as target coordinates, strike frequency, Time Over Target, refueling information, and aircraft tail numbers. There were sixteen sets of lineup cards, one for each flight.
Actually, there was another set of lineup cards. The ground spare pilot was issued sixteen lineup cards. If any airplane aborted, the ground spare would fill in for him. I was scheduled to be the ground spare.
The Major started out his briefing with a time hack, and then covered every target in detail, including run-in direction and TOT. This strike of sixteen four-ships was going to be a highly orchestrated event. If any flight was early, or late, to the target, the whole thing could turn into a giant fur-ball.
After the mass briefing, we returned to our squadron for individual flight briefings. As the ground spare, I briefed with Maple Flight, led by our Squadron Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Wiley.
At the appointed time, I went out to my aircraft with my WSO, Pete Peterson, and we preflighted the airplane and bombs. This was the first time I'd carried Mk-84Ls. Huge, impressive bombs, with a swiveling laser seeker head.
I cranked up and taxied over to the holding pad on the far side of the runway. I would have my bombs armed right before takeoff if I was going to launch. So there I sat, holding the brakes, while all sixteen four-ships taxied out, armed up, and took off.
Holding the brakes for over an hour was tough, really tough. Even at Idle power, the F-4 wanted to move forward. It was like a prize fighter anxious to get into the ring.
When all of the strike aircraft had taken off, it was a lonely feeling. I taxied back to the parking revetment, shut down, and went back to the squadron.
The Squadron Duty Officer, Pete Peterson and I sat in the building and waited. We waited for our brothers to return.
43
May 10, 1972
We didn't have to wait very long. An entire sortie from Ubon to Hanoi and back only lasted a little over two hours. Takeoff, hit the tanker, ingress the target, drop bombs, egress the target, refuel, RTB. So much to do in so little time.
We could tell the guys were back before they had even entered the building. There was loud talking, faster than normal. Nervous energy filled the room, and it was like there was electricity in the air. After everybody had gone to Life Support to hang up their parachute harnesses and put their helmets on the cleaning rack, everyone headed to the O’Club.
Pete and I followed them to the bar, feeling like total outsiders. There were stories, lots of stories. Everyone telling about the SAMs, the triple-A, the MiGs they saw. Yes, they saw MiGs.
Springs Springer was passing out River Rat applications to all the pilots who had flown on the mission. The River Rats, formally known as the Red River Valley Fighter Pilots Association, was a fraternal group open only to crewmembers who had flown over Pack Six. Having a River Rat patch on your flight suit was a major status symbol. Springs passed out a patch to everyone who completed his River Rat application.
Someone put a quarter in the juke box and selected record B-6. As soon as the music started playing, everyone stopped talking.
A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile...
We all listened to American Pie, and, when the refrain sounded, everyone joined in.
This will be the day that I die, this will be the day that I die.
Fortunately for all of us, not today.
44
May 11, 1972
This was day two of Linebacker, and I would get to fly. My WSO was Johnnie Johnson, a lanky Lieutenant from Georgia who had been on the Linebacker mission the previous day, so he was considered an “old head”. I had flown a few sorties with Johnnie, and I liked having him as my back-seater. Nothing rattled him.
The morning briefing started with a change to the Rules of Engagement.
“The ROEs are changed now,” stated the Wing Commander. “Yesterday, we had an F-4 shoot at another F-4. Thank God he missed. But we can't have any more of that.”
“Effective immediately,” he continued, “any camouflaged airplane is off limits. I don't care if it's a MiG with Ho Chi Minh's picture on the tail, if it's camouflaged, it's off limits. Any questions?”
No one had any questions. Besides, this ROE was overkill. Everyone knew that MiGs were silver. Always silver. Not a problem.
The target for our flight, Dingus Flight, was the Bac Mai Airfield. We were each carrying two Mk-84Ls, 2000-pound laser guided bombs, and our lead was our Squadron Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Wiley. I was Dingus Two, in an F-4E.
It was fairly customary for the FNG to be Number Two in the formation. He would be right next to Lead, and Lead could keep an eye on him and try to help keep him out of trouble. Being Number Two was a comforting feeling, kind of like having an older brother put his arm around your shoulder.
We departed as the sun rose, the last flight to take off, joined up and headed north to refuel on Green anchor. I was tucked in securely on Lead's right wing. We took on our fuel, then silently flew alongside the tanker to the drop-off point, periodically cycling back into the pre-contact position to top off. Unlike the last time I had refueled, when I was at RTU, all of our refueling was done in total radio silence.
We dropped off the tanker, spread out to tactical formation with 1500 feet spacing, and ingressed the target area. There were fifteen strike flights ahead of us, and as soon as we switched over to strike frequency, there was total pandemonium on UHF.
For some reason, probably because of my apprehension, it reminded me of Hell Night at my high school fraternity. On Hell Night, all of us pledges were blindfolded and hooked together with a rope tied around each of our waists as we blindly stumbled along, pulled by the upperclassmen to our punishment.
The paddling had started. I could hear the whack of the paddles as they hit the pledges ahead of me, and I could hear the upperclassmen yelling and the pledges screaming out. I hadn't been hit yet, but the sound of the impending beating scared the shit out of me. In some respects, the anticipation was worse than the paddling itself.
Now, inbound to Hanoi, I was hearing sounds I'd never heard before, the frantic calls of the flights ahead of us. The sounds gave me chills.
“Maple Flight, SAM, SAM, Break right!”
“Walnut Two, move it around! Triple-A has you bracketed!”
“Elm Three is hit! Bailing out!”
Then the high-to-low sound of a beeper on Guard. A bit later, a transmission on Guard, barely comprehensible due to wind noise.
“Elm Three Al
pha has a good chute. I think my arm is broken.”
More SAM calls. More triple-A calls. MiG calls. A lot of transmissions garbled, as one radio call blanked out another.
Then, perhaps 5000 feet above us, a MiG-21 flew left to right just ahead of us. It was silver, and looked exactly like a Revell model airplane. I have no idea what he was doing. He wasn't in an engagement with anyone. He was just flying along, straight and level. Easy pickings for someone.
All I could think was, “Arm the missiles, raise the nose, and blow that son of a bitch out of the sky,” but I maintained my position. My job was to stay in formation. Our job was to get the bombs on Bac Mai Airfield.
I had been totally unprepared for what to expect Hanoi to look like. I suppose I thought it would be a large city with a lot of vertical development. But it was flat, no tall buildings at all. We were already over Hanoi and I didn't even know it.
“Dingus Flight, arm 'em up.”
I reached down and raised the Master Arm switch on the lower instrument panel. Lead rocked his wings, to bring us into close fingertip formation for the delivery. I started easing over to the left to get into position.
Just then Johnnie, unflappable Johnnie, was screaming on the intercom.
“We got a SAM at four o'clock! Break right! BREAK RIGHT!”
When unshakeable Johnnie has a voice with a higher octave than the aural AOA tone, I know he's serious. I broke right, looking for the SAM.
“I don't see it, Johnnie.”
“It's coming right at us! BREAK RIGHT! HARDER!”
I pulled harder on the pole, turning hard right with the aural AOA sounding a steady tone.
“Okay, it's past us,” he said. “Let's get back into formation.”
I turned back to the left, and my formation was gone. While I had been breaking right, they were rolling in to the left. Off to my left, I saw the remains of a large orange airburst.
