by G. E. Nolly
“Maple Two, this is Lead. Just put the light on the star and you'll do fine.”
Putting the “light on the star” was short-hand for lining up the wingtip light of the lead airplane with the star painted on his fuselage, which would put the wingman in proper close formation, with three feet wingtip separation. In other words, just fly formation, Maple Two, and you won't need a goddam attitude indicator.
The Major didn't want to give up without a fight.
“Maple Lead, I really think I should air abort.”
“Light on the star, Two, and maintain radio silence.”
As luck would have it, the weather ship that was sent to the target area an hour ahead of us had bad news. The entire Hanoi area was undercast, and we would not be able to attack. The primary mission was a weather cancel, and we all ended up diverting to different targets in Laos as single ships. And Maple Two got his wish – without an attitude reference he couldn't drop his bombs, so he returned to base unexpended. Another mission he didn't complete.
Our target was in NKP's Area of Operations. We made our rendezvous with our FAC, Nail 56. He was in an OV-10, and was a Pave Nail, which meant he had laser illumination gear onboard.
Apparently Nail 56 had already put in quite a few airstrikes. He was totally out of willie pete rockets.
“Maple four,” he transmitted, “do you have me in sight?”
He was just to the north of me, at about 8000 feet, headed east.
“Affirmative,” I answered.
“Okay, off my left wing is a river. You'll notice a bend in the river that looks like a set of tits. The target is in the cleavage. Just aim for the cleavage and I'll guide the bombs the rest of the way. I want you to make your run-in from south to north, with a break to the east. You're cleared in hot.”
I was in position to make an immediate run-in, and pulled up for a high release. To get the bombs to guide properly, they needed to be released from 20,000 feet, with a ton of smash, preferably 500 knots. That meant I needed to pull up to well above 25,000 feet.
I kept the tits in sight as I pulled up high, rolled into a 120-degree bank and pulled my nose through into a 30-degree dive. The pipper was tracking perfectly to the cleavage. I reached 500 knots right at 20,000 feet, with the pipper directly on target. I was using a ballistic mills setting, which meant that even if there was a laser failure, I would have a good bomb. It might not be perfect, but a 2000-pound bomb can do a lot of damage even if it's not a direct hit. I pressed the pickle button, the bomb release button on the hand grip of the control stick.
“Pickle, pickle, pickle,” I transmitted. That was the signal for Nail 56 to turn on his laser.
I pulled off to the right, then banked left and looked at the target to see my bomb impact. Nothing. Not a ripple in the water. Not a kick-up of dust. Nothing. What could have happened?
“Awesome bomb! Great job, Maple!” yelled the FAC.
I looked back at the target, and still didn't see anything. Then I looked further to the north, probably two klicks or more, a full mile, and saw where the bomb had hit. It had impacted at the cleavage of another river that looked like tits. The 20,000-foot release, the 500 knots, and the good laser illumination had dragged my bomb all the way to the correct target. A full mile away.
On that mission I learned that a lot of smash and altitude on a laser guided bomb is like money in the bank.
And I also learned that, when you've been away from home long enough, every bend in the river looks like tits.
48
July 2, 1972
After the flight on June 29th, Lieutenant Colonel Wiley had gone over to Major Waller's airplane, which had landed an hour earlier. He'd climbed up into the cockpit and looked around.
The circuit breaker for the attitude indicator was popped – or pulled. He put power on the airplane and reset the circuit breaker, and the attitude indicator immediately erected. It seemed pretty clear that Major Waller had pulled the circuit breaker to give himself an air abort. But Lieutenant Colonel Wiley didn't immediately take any action.
He coordinated with the Maintenance folks to make sure he, Lieutenant Colonel Wiley, was assigned the same aircraft for the next two days. He wanted to personally fly it to see if the attitude indicator circuit breaker would pop.
It didn't.
For over a week there had been a request by Seventh Air Force, sent to every squadron, for a field grade officer to serve at Headquarters in Saigon, to help run the war as a staff officer. Every Squadron Commander had the same quandary. Should we send Seventh Air Force a really great pilot, who knew the targets and tactics? A great, experienced pilot could really help the war effort. But, at the same time, that same great pilot would be an incredible asset to the squadron mission. Maybe provide the kind of on-scene leadership that would save lives in combat.
In the end, it wasn't a tough choice at all for our Squadron Commander. Major Waller was not only not a combat asset to our squadron, he was an impediment. He counted against the squadron's manning level, but he didn't fly combat missions. That meant that every other pilot had to fly more combat missions, to pick up his slack.
Within a week, Major Waller was on his way to Saigon to serve on the Seventh Air Force staff. The irony wasn't lost on any of us. He would be in a staff job, would probably have lots of visibility with senior officers, and would probably make Lieutenant Colonel below the zone.
It was just like what Miles Miller had mentioned a few years earlier at DaNang, when Numb-nuts had gotten promoted: fuck up and move up.
49
July 3, 1972
The SAM exploded directly alongside Number Three. It was close enough to shake my airplane, and loud enough for me to hear.
I quickly checked my telelight panel. There were no warning lights. My element lead, Number Three, was amazingly still flying, but had dozens of holes in his aircraft. The plane was pissing fuel, oil and hydraulic fluid all over the sky, making a white mist as the liquids vaporized into the thin air.
We continued heading east to get feet wet, and stayed in spread formation once we were over Haiphong Harbor. Lead came up on the radio.
“Four, give Three a damage check.”
“Roger.”
I maneuvered my airplane under Number Three, and around each side of him.
“Number Three is losing a lot of fluids from numerous holes. No fires,” I said.
“Be advised,” number three transmitted, “Brushy Three has lost the Utility Hydraulic System.”
The Utility Hydraulic System powered the refueling door that opened the hatch on top of the aircraft to allow the aerial refueling boom to connect to the aircraft. Without being able to open the refueling door, Number Three would not be able to refuel. He would need to land, quickly, before he lost all of his remaining fuel.
“Brushy Three,” lead transmitted, “you are cleared out of the formation to RTB to DaNang. Brushy Four will escort you.”
DaNang was the closest friendly base that could handle an F-4. I checked my fuel gauges, and I could see there was no problem for me to make it to DaNang without air-to-air refueling. The big question was: with fuel pissing out of his aircraft continuously, could Brushy Three make it?
50
July 3, 1972
I was really worried about Number Three making it to DaNang. He was still leaking fluids, although at a slower rate than earlier.
Brushy Three was leading our two-ship formation, and sounded totally calm on the radio. We went to post-strike frequency, then went over to DaNang Approach frequency, and he declared a fuel emergency and advised them that he would need to make an Approach End Barrier Engagement. He would need to do an AEBE because his hydraulic system was totally shot, so he would have no nose wheel steering or brakes. And, of course, with no Utility Hydraulic System, his engine would auto-accelerate once he was on the ground.
I flew chase position on Brushy Three all the way down final approach. Because of his loss of hydraulics, he had to make a no-flap ap
proach, and had to blow his landing gear down with the emergency pneumatic system. He made a perfect landing and AEBE on Runway 35 Right. I executed a go-around and pulled a left closed pattern for the only open runway, Runway 35 Left.
As I turned final, I performed one last fuel check and saw that I was really tight on fuel. I was totally amazed that Brushy Three had made it all the way to DaNang, considering the damage his airplane had sustained.
After I landed, my WSO, Cat Katlin, and I went to the Intel debriefing room, then met up with the crew of Brushy Three at the Crew Break Room. They looked relieved. Really relieved.
The Crew Break Room had sandwiches, drinks and dessert set out on a large table, and on one side of the room were the typical flight planning charts and documents normally found at Base Ops. There was a Major in charge of the operation, and he advised me that my aircraft was being refueled and would be available for a flight back to Ubon whenever I was ready. And he told me I would be leading a two-ship flight.
Since I was not officially designated a Flight Lead, I was a bit puzzled.
“I'll be your wingman today.”
I turned around to see who was talking to me, and saw a tall Major.
“I'm Dick Handler,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” I wasn't about to ask him how he got that nickname. “I'm Hamfist Hancock. I'm glad to be the lead, sir, but how come you're not flying lead today?”
“I'm going to be solo. So it will be easier all around if you lead. Let's head out to the airplanes, and I'll show you why I'm solo.”
We finished our sandwiches, and headed out to the flight line. The Major's plane was in the revetment next to mine. We went over to his bird.
“That's my battle damage,” he remarked, pointing to a small hole in the rear canopy. “I can't fully pressurize, so we'll have to stay below 20,000 feet.”
“No problem, sir. What happened to your back-seater?” I had the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I already knew the answer.
“We were putting in a string of sensors for Igloo White, ingressing the target area on the deck, perhaps 30 feet above the ground. We were going fast, close to supersonic, jinking all the time. There was no way anyone could track us with ground fire.”
“Right after our release, I heard a small arms round hit our aircraft, and then I couldn't hear my WSO on hot mike. At first I thought maybe we had taken a hit that damaged our interphone, but I declared an emergency and RTB'd to DaNang as fast as I could. I asked for an ambulance to meet the aircraft, and I shut down as soon as I exited the runway.”
“It turned out the small arms round was my WSO’s golden BB,” he continued. “It got him right through the heart.”
He seemed to be having a hard time holding back tears.
“Are you okay to fly, sir?” I asked.
“Yeah, I'll be okay, as long as you lead, and all I need to do is put the light on the star.”
“You got it, sir. We'll check in on Ground frequency in five minutes.”
During my previous tour at DaNang, and on this tour at Ubon, we had often talked about the so-called “golden BB”, the bullet with an your name on it, when your number is up. I used to make wise-ass jokes about it.
“Yeah, but what if my back-seater's number is up?”
Now I knew the answer.
51
July 4, 1972
We had a total of six AN/AVQ-10 Pave Knife pods at Ubon. These were really incredibly pieces of technology. The Pave Knife pod had a gyro-stabilized laser designator that allowed the WSO in the back seat of the lead airplane to illuminate the target while the aircraft was maneuvering. Even if the airplane temporarily blanked out the view of the target through its maneuvering, the cross-hairs on the WSO's scope would still be on the target when it came back into view.
The other way to illuminate the target with a guidance laser was with the Pave Way, also called the Zot Box. It was a hand-held device, about the size of a shoe box, that had a laser designator. The WSO would hold the Zot Box and keep it pointed at the target while the bombs fell. The Pave Nail FACs, in OV-10s, also used the Zot Box to designate targets. Regardless of the laser designator in use, if the target was illuminated, the bombs would hit.
The Pave Knife pod looked a lot like an external fuel tank to someone not trained in aircraft recognition. Unless you knew exactly what to look for, you would be hard-pressed to know which F-4 had a Pave Knife pod.
On this day, although I wasn't flying, it became really clear to me that the bad guys had spies on the ground at Ubon. The lead aircraft of one of the flights from another squadron at Ubon was carrying a Pave Knife pod on a Pack Six mission.
His target was near Kep Airfield. As his flight entered the target area, more than a dozen SAMs were fired at his aircraft. Only at his aircraft.
He was hit and headed out to sea. Shortly after getting feet wet, he lost all of his hydraulics and his flight controls failed. He and his back-seater bailed out over the ocean and were fairly quickly picked up by a nearby Navy ship.
Now we only had five Pave Knife pods.
The next day there was a story circulating around Ubon – I don't know whether it was true or not – that Navy frogmen had been sent to the wreckage on the ocean floor, to recover sensitive electronics from the Pave Knife pod. When they found the wreckage, the story went, they got into an underwater engagement – dogfight – with Russian frogmen who had also been dispatched to get pieces of the pod.
It sure made a great story.
52
July 10, 1972
This was going to be a really great mission. Lieutenant Colonel Wiley was our flight lead, and we were fragged for a flight deep into North Vietnam to attack some bridges on the northwest railroad, a rail artery that ran from China to Hanoi. As usual, I was number four.
We were going to take off at maximum gross weight, with full fuel plus two Mark 84L 2000-pound bombs per airplane. With external fuel tanks plus the large frontal area of the bombs and our ever-present AIM-7 Sidewinder missiles, each airplane had a really high drag index. That, plus the high ambient temperature, meant we would use most of the available runway for the takeoff roll.
“If you don't fly your airplane exactly right on takeoff, you won't turn into a pumpkin,” quipped Lieutenant Colonel Wiley, “but you might turn into a marshmallow.”
Lieutenant Colonel Wiley had a way of injecting a little humor into our briefings that helped dissipate our pre-launch jitters. We all laughed, nervous laughter, really. He was kidding, but he wasn't kidding.
After a thorough preflight briefing, we all headed to the latrine for that last, essential pit stop. The latrine in the squadron was a three-holer, not nearly sufficient for all the pilots to use for a pre-mission dump. As a result, every flight lead tried to finish his briefing as quickly as he could, so his pilots could get a good place in line for the latrine.
After that essential detour, I headed out to my airplane with my WSO, Tommy Thompson. I preflighted the airplane while Tommy preflighted the bombs and missiles, and we strapped in. I checked my watch, and, at exactly the appointed time, we started engines.
We checked in on Ground frequency and taxied in formation to the quick check/arming area. The Maintenance Sergeant checked over our airplanes and we were all good to go. Then the arming crew pulled our pins and it was our turn to take the runway.
The runway at Ubon was not level. There was an uphill slope at the beginning of the runway, and a downhill slope at the end. The middle of the runway was the high point, and it was a normal occurrence that an airplane on takeoff would disappear from view after cresting the hill at mid-field.
We lined up in trail formation on the runway and performed our pre-takeoff checks. Then Lead started rolling. I hacked my clock. We were using 15 second spacing for the takeoffs. Right as Number Two started rolling, Lead crested the hill at the midpoint of the runway and disappeared from view, out of sight on the last half of the runway. Fifteen sec
onds later, Number Two disappeared from sight over the hill and Number Three started his takeoff roll.
Just as Number Three started rolling, Number Two came on the radio.
“Abort, abort, abort! Maple Lead has aborted and is on fire. Two is aborting.”
“Maple Three, abort, abort, abort.”
I echoed the call. “Maple Four, abort, abort, abort.”
Number Three was stopped on the runway ahead of me, and I held my position. Somewhere, out of view, were Maple Lead and Maple Two. Then I saw the smoke rising from the far end of the runway. And then, after about five minutes, came the explosions.
First, the ejection seats cooked off. Then, the 2000-pound bombs exploded, both of them, along with the AIM-7s. Finally, a massive conflagration engulfed Lead's airplane.
Ubon had only one runway, and had a curved taxiway that could not be used for takeoffs or landings. The field was closed, and our mission was cancelled. It took about 45 minutes to de-conflict ground traffic and get all of the airplanes recovered to their revetments. During the whole time, none of us knew the status of the crew of Maple Lead.
As it turned out, Lieutenant Colonel Wiley had been prescient. At precisely the worst possible time on takeoff, his left main landing gear tire disintegrated. He was doing 165 knots, too slow to fly, too damned fast to abort without using the departure end barrier.
He lowered his tail hook and snagged the barrier, but shrapnel from the burst tire had punctured his wing fuel tank, and the left side of his aircraft caught fire. While he shut down the engines, his WSO, Zoomie Powell, unstrapped and went out of the plane over the right side. Zoomie quickly ran the hundred or so yards to a drainage ditch, and hunkered down.
Zoomie was a small, wiry Second Lieutenant, a 1970 graduate of the Air Force Academy. He had bad eyes, and couldn't get into pilot training, so he became a navigator. He was at the top of his Nav class, and scored an F-4 back seat assignment. He'd arrived at Ubon about the same time I did. When Zoomie looked back from the ditch, he expected to see Lieutenant Colonel Wiley close on his tail.
