by G. E. Nolly
Thirty seconds could seem like a lifetime. There would be plenty of time for the gomers to see you, acquire you as a target, and fire their triple-A or heat-seeking SA-7 missiles, the same missile that had shot me down three years earlier.
About the only way to protect yourself on the delivery was to make the ingress at treetop level and then pop up to 1000 feet at the last possible second. At least that way the gomers would have less reaction time. And then, right after the delivery, you had to either climb like a bat out of hell, or hit the deck one more time.
I had opted for the latter. As soon as the last sensor had left the airplane, I lit minimum burner, pushed over and headed for the treetops. My altimeter read “zero’, and my radar altimeter, when I looked at it, which wasn’t often, read 10 feet. I was flying strictly by outside references, headed to the coast to get feet wet as quickly as I could.
And then I felt the airplane start to pitch down, ever so slightly. I pulled back, gently, on the stick, and the airplane started pitching up. It went through several of these slow oscillations, and I gradually increased my altitude to about 50 feet. Suddenly, I saw a small black object flick past my aircraft so fast I almost didn’t see it. It had been a bird. If I had collided with it, my plane would have vaporized.
Finally we were feet wet, and I pointed the plane skyward and exited the threat envelope. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what had caused the aircraft to porpoise when I was down low.
“Were you on the controls with me when we were down in the weeds?” I asked my WSO.
“No way, Hamfist. If we got in a fighting match on the controls at that altitude, it would have been all over.”
Then it occurred to me what had happened. I remembered the aeronautics lesson at RTU where they had talked about Mach Tuck. I had been operating in the transonic region, and had been experiencing Mach Tuck, at 10 feet above the ground! As the airplane accelerated, we got Mach Tuck. The drag of the SUU-40 dispenser was so high, that we couldn’t remain supersonic for very long, and the aircraft decelerated. That was what caused the pitch up.
Flying transonic at that altitude was a really stupid thing to do, for several reasons. First, obviously, was Mach Tuck. Just as important, the potential for bird strikes. And finally, I had been operating in excess of the speed limit of the SUU-40 dispenser. Real dumb on all three counts.
I had another opportunity to get a MiG, a real one this time. I was scheduled to be Card Three, the element lead for Card Flight. We were fragged as Quick Reaction Force.
The QRF crews would preflight their airplanes, then sit around the squadron until the klaxon went off. That's what we did. We had been briefed that we may be needed for a pop-up SAR if the opportunity presented itself. Even though the Wing Commander had said there would be no SARs in North Vietnam, there was the possibility it might occur, if conditions were just right. That's why we were on the QRF.
The klaxon went off, and we sprinted to our planes. Quick start, check-in, taxi and takeoff. Five, maybe six minutes had transpired between klaxon and gear up.
We were carrying CBU-24s and Mark-82s. Perfect munitions for a SAR. As we headed north, we refueled on Green anchor and switched over to strike frequency. Apparently, someone had heard a beeper in the Hanoi area, and we were being sent in to provide air cover if a SAR was launched. We set up a racetrack over Thud Ridge and waited.
After a while, we needed to refuel, and headed back to Green Anchor. We ended up doing this orbit-refuel-orbit dance several times. We didn't hear any beepers on Guard. Just silence.
But then, Disco, the Airborne Warning And Control System aircraft, came up on strike frequency. AWACS aircraft had sophisticated equipment, as well as linguists, on board. They knew whenever a MiG took off, and they frequently knew who was flying it. They would give enemy aircraft – bandit – locations relative to downtown Hanoi, called “bulls-eye”.
“Card flight, bandits, bull’s-eye 280 for 15, headed north.”
Our formation turned to face the bandits. I saw the missile one of the MiGs had fired before I saw the MiGs. It came toward us and harmlessly detonated well short of our position. But, fortunately, the missile smoke trail helped direct my eyes toward the MiGs.
The MiGs were now maneuvering, and Lead called for us to jettison our bombs and arm up our missiles. I reached over to the left sidewall Missile Status panel, turned the selector to Left Wing and pressed the PUSH TO JETTISON button, then turned it to the Right Wing position and pressed again. Now I had a clean wing. I reached down and moved my Master Arm switch to ARM.
We were in a hard turn, in spread formation, when Lead lost sight of the MiGs.
“Card Lead has lost sight of the target. Card Three, do you have the target in sight?”
“Affirmative,” I answered.
“Roger, Card Three, you have the lead.”
This was what I had fantasized about for years. I was finally leading a four-ship formation in a dogfight over North Vietnam. This time I was going to get my MiG. I performed a high-speed yo-yo, and closed near a firing position. No lock-on yet, but any second.
And then, the MiGs disappeared into the sun.
It was the oldest trick in the book, used ever since World War One. I had lost the MiGs in the sun.
There is an old expression fighter pilots learn.
“If you lose sight of your enemy, don't worry. Just wait a few seconds and look at your six o'clock.”
If I had been single-ship, I might have stayed in the fight. Fuck it, better a MiG at six o'clock than no MiG at all. But not when I have three wingmen depending on me to make the right decision. I did a quarter-roll and disengaged.
“Card Three has lost the target. Card One, you have the lead.”
We headed for home base. We had jettisoned our bombs, and couldn't do anyone any good now. We had flown for almost six hours, and hadn't accomplished a fucking thing. We sure hadn't helped anyone on a SAR.
And, once again, I had blown my chance to get a MiG.
67
December 30, 1972
There was no Special this day. We were launched on a dumb bomb mission over South Vietnam, near the DMZ.
Guard frequency was constantly cluttered with calls from survivors who had been shot down during the previous several days, and I turned off the Guard receiver just to be able to communicate on strike frequency. The other aircraft in our formation, Redtop Flight, did the same thing. I found out shortly that turning off Guard hadn't been a very good idea.
As a nice change, I was Number Two. We were working with an OV-10 FAC, and had set up a left wheel over the target. Unlike a typical airstrike with a FAC, where the target is somewhat concealed, our target today was sticking out like a sore thumb. It was a massive POL storage area north of Quang Tri that had belonged to the friendlies. POL was the acronym for Petroleum, Oil, Lubricant. In other words, it was fuel storage.
The ARVN, the South Vietnamese Army, was in the process of a frantic retreat from the advancing NVA, the North Vietnamese Army. Sorry, my mistake. Not a retreat, a retrograde advance. Our job was to bomb the POL to prevent it from falling into enemy hands.
Tha FAC didn't even need to mark the target. He simply described it, and we started our attack. Lead had just pulled off target, and I was rolling in for my delivery. Suddenly, the ground beneath my aircraft erupted in a series of massive explosions, spread over a huge area that encompassed much more than just our target. And I saw bombs, a lot of bombs, falling past my aircraft.
I rolled wings level and looked overhead. There, well above me, was a line of B-52s in trail formation, about a mile apart. And I could see bombs falling down toward my aircraft. Small bombs that got larger and appeared to move further apart as they descended above me. It was reminiscent of looking up during a light drizzle, when you can see the individual raindrops, slowly appearing to spread further apart.
There was no way to jink to avoid the bombs. I could just as easily have jinked into a bomb as away from it. I immedia
tely thought of another of the motivational movies I had seen at the Academy, the movie that contained inflight footage of a high-altitude bomb run where one of the B-24s had gotten out of position. A bomb from an airplane above him had gone right through his wing, knocking him out of the sky. Then I thought about what Boss Boston had told me when I was an FNG at DaNang – it's a big sky – and hoped it was still true. It would be bad enough to be shot down by the gomers. It would really be a bitch to be knocked down by a B-52.
Redtop Lead was screaming on the radio.
“Redtop Flight, exit the target area to the west. We'll rejoin at angels 15. Head west immediately!”
We all got the hell out of Dodge as fast as we could. We rejoined well west of the target area. All of us except Lead were unexpended, and we switched over to Hillsboro frequency and got a target and FAC in Laos to work with. None of us had very good bombs. I think we were all pretty shook up.
In retrospect, turning off our Guard receivers had been a really bad idea. Before every Arc Light B-52 strike, there was a warning on Guard five minutes before the strike, giving the target location and TOT. It was the FAC's responsibility to know about any nearby airstrikes, but he probably had Guard punched off also.
We all learned a lot on that mission.
68
January 2, 1973
This mission, Confine Flight, was another dumb bomb mission, this time to a target in Laos. I was Number Two in the flight, and we were working with a Covey FAC, Covey 114.
As soon as we made our rendezvous, I knew where we were. Precisely. I instantly recognized the white cliffs of Delta 43, the target area where I had gotten shot down the first time during my FAC tour out of DaNang. The target area where I had gotten in a life-or-death duel with a 9-level gunner and won.
I was ecstatic! I wanted to get on the radio and say, “Hey, Covey, I was a Covey here three years ago. I killed a 9-level gun here!”
But I didn't. Flight discipline required that I keep my mouth shut unless there was an operational requirement to transmit. Maybe someday, at some sort of FAC reunion, I would swap war stories. But today, I only said, “Two's in from the east.”
Our target was two tanks, completely out in the open. We had 12 Mk-82s on each airplane, and lead killed the east-most tank. I rolled in and pickled off four bombs. Correction, I selected four bombs for release.
After my delivery, I rolled into a sharp right bank to see my bombs hit. My first bomb hit about twenty meters short of the target, directly on the run-in line. The second bomb hit ten meters short. Then there was a pause, and my last bomb hit ten meters long. I had a hung bomb, and the bomb that had hung was the one that would have been a perfect hit. Boy, was I pissed!
I re-homed my MER and came around for another run to see if the hung bomb would release. It did, and it landed directly on the tank.
The tanks were all killed, and we put the remainder of our bombs on some storage areas, and got a few good secondaries.
It was another really great mission.
69
January 9, 1973
I was launched as Wolf 32, teamed up with Fast FAC Wolf 31. The recent spate of Fast FACs being shot down had required a change of plans. Now, every Fast FAC would have a FAC escort. My job, basically, was to stay out of the way while Wolf 31 conducted airstrikes, and I would serve as the on-scene commander if and when Wolf 31 got shot down.
If Wolf 31 found a lucrative target and could not get any other air support, he was permitted to use my ordnance. The risk, though, was that he might employ all of my munitions and then get shot down, and I wouldn't have any ordnance to support his SAR.
On this mission, Wolf 31 found a lot of targets, and put in several sets of fighters. I orbited high and stayed out of everyone’s way, and when Wolf 31 went to the tanker to refuel, I went with him and topped off also.
When we went back to the area around Bat Lake, Wolf 31 found a truck speeding down a route segment. It wasn't worth calling for an entire four-ship of F-4s for a solitary truck, so he decided to put me in on the truck.
“Wolf 32, do you have that truck, or do I need to mark it?”
“I have the truck in sight,” I answered. I wasn't blind!
“Okay, 32, I want you to run in from north to south with one CBU-24. I'll be holding off to the east. You're cleared in hot.”
I armed up to drop just one CBU-24 and rolled in. I was a bit steep, and I released a little below the planned release point.
Okay, I released a lot below the planned release altitude. As I pulled off target, I rolled up and looked for the tell-tale flash indicating that the radar fuse in the CBU had opened the clam-shell case. No flash. Shit! I had released too low. The radar fuse on the CBU needed to see 4500 feet above ground to open the clam-shell. Now the CBU would hit unopened.
The ballistics for an unopened CBU clam-shell were totally different than the ballistics for a properly delivered CBU. The mills setting I had used for my bomb sight wouldn't even be close to correct. A totally wasted CBU.
Then an amazing thing happened. The unopened CBU scored a direct hit on the truck. Landed directly in the truck bed, and exploded like a 750-pound bomb. There were huge secondaries. Wolf 31 was ecstatic.
“Shit hot, Wolf 32! I told you to drop a CBU, but your Mark-82 was perfect. Absolutely perfect!”
I wasn't about to tell him that he had just witnessed the most incredible series of compensating errors of the entire war. I just let him think I drop really great bombs! I'd rather be lucky than good any day.
Right after the truck attack, two 37 mike mike guns opened up on us. Wolf 31 put me in on them with my CBUs and what he thought was the remainder of my Mark-82s. We killed both guns, and got seven secondary fires.
We hit the tanker one last time, and then RTB'd to Ubon.
I didn't correct Wolf 31 when he told all of the guys what great bombs I had.
70
January 13, 1973
This was a big day for me. I was Number Two in Godson Flight. Lead had a Pave Way Zot Box, and would illuminate our target, a pontoon bridge. I was carrying 2 Mk-84Ls. A pontoon bridge is as nitnoy as you can get. That's not the reason it was a big day.
This was my 100th mission over North Vietnam.
I had great bombs, we had no enemy reaction to speak of, and the war over the north was officially scheduled to end in two days. When I landed, I felt like a big weight had been lifted from my shoulders, kind of like the feeling I'd get every time I removed my heavy survival vest at the end of each mission. I had achieved one of my goals.
I think – but I can't prove – I was the last Air Force pilot to get 100 missions over the north. All flying north of the 20th parallel ended on January 15, 1973.
I had been lucky, really lucky.
71
January 17, 1973
There were a couple of interesting, unrelated events that occurred shortly after the war over the north ended. One happened the night after the bombing halt.
One of the F-4s from the night squadron had been launched to rendezvous with a Spector C-130 gunship over the Plain des Jarres, in Laos, to serve as an escort. The Specs often drew ground fire, and it helped to have a fighter overhead with some heavy ordnance if it was needed. Typically, the escort would orbit high above the gunship, and if anything opened up on the Spector, the fighter would roll in on them.
Hooking up with the Spector consisted of getting refueled on Green anchor while heading north, then doing a 45-degree left heading change at tanker drop-off, which would aim the aircraft directly at the PDJ. Then, at the appropriate time, after comparing radial and DME from a known TACAN station, the F-4 would find the Spector.
On this particular night, the F-4 pilot was probably pretty tired, and he made a mistake. Given the right, actually, wrong, circumstances, I suppose I could have done it myself.
Instead of turning 45 degrees left, the pilot turned 45 degrees right. That took him directly over Hanoi. Not a shot was fired. The gomers were proba
bly wondering what the fuck is this guy doing? The WSO apparently didn't pick up the error either. Not until the pilot spoke.
“The moon sure is pretty reflecting off the water.”
“WHAT WATER?! THERE'S NO FUCKING WATER IN THE PLAIN DES JARRES!”
That's when the crew realized where they were. By this time, the gomers probably figured that this crew would be in deeper shit when they landed than anything they could possibly do to them.
So, no shots were fired, the crew turned around and RTBd, and, other than bruised egos, no harm done.
The second event involved our squadron scheduler, Cobra Corbin. Cobra was a really sharp Captain. He had completed all of his Professional Military Education, his PME. A lot of us considered PME just so much busy-work, but Cobra was really into it. He had completed Squadron Officer School and Air Command and Staff School by correspondence while he was at Ubon. He had great Officer Effectiveness Reports. He was a great pilot. He had great military bearing. He was so sharp that he had just been selected as Junior Officer of the Year. Truly a real honor. Hell, he even beat me for the Junior Officer of the Year Award!
Well, on this daytime flight, Cobra was flying as a fast FAC, Wolf 51, on a mission over Laos. His escort was Wolf 52. It was a slow day, and he hadn’t found any targets. Hillsboro called him and advised him that there was a report of a beeper in the Hanoi area. They wanted him to fly over Hanoi and see if he could raise any survivors on the radio.
Although there was a bombing halt over North Vietnam, aircraft could still fly there if directed, as was this case. Cobra and his wingman headed north.
When they got over Hanoi, there was no enemy reaction, and the entire area was undercast. Cobra lit his burner a few times, to try to attract the attention of any survivor who might be on the ground. Nobody came up on the radio. Then Cobra got a bright idea.
