Royal’s reverberating tones faded, and the chatter and the withdrawal progressed. “Pintail—Harpoon.”
“OK, Laredo, keep your eyes open. We got two up there at eleven o’clock.”
“That’s a four-ship flight.”
“OK, got them just below those clouds.” Their external fuel tanks were empty and now could only slow them down when they needed speed, so he said, “Let’s get rid of the tanks,” and they jettisoned them. Laredo had found the Migs, no thanks to the warning system.
“Laredo—this is Pintail. We’re clearing the area. Get moving. You’re all by yourself.”
Laredo knew that he was low on fuel and the last one in the box. This was not the time to attempt to become a Mig hero. The Migs had not spotted him and he had pickled his empty tanks to reduce drag and speed his exit to fight another day. “Rog, Pintail, Laredo’s QK. We’re heading for the Red.”
“Laredo—Ozark.”
“Roger, Ozark.”
“What’s the good word?”
“Roger, you can forget it. It’s solid, about five thousand feet, solid as far as you can see.”
“Where did you work?”
“I, ah, came up to the Ridge. Couldn’t get across the Ridge. It’s mostly enshrouded so I came south to Phu Tho and Viet Tri and it’s still solid all the way.” The entire series of transmissions had been clear and without interruption, and we were now satisfied that the first inbound flight knew the score, freeing us to move to another channel once we passed the word to the commander of the second part of the strike force who was still on the way in behind us. A small task— but then the radio exploded again.
“Rolleyes, go manual. Rolleyes, go manual.”
“Relieves three—”
“One o’clock low—”
“Muskrat, flight manual—”
”—I’ll be turning to zero two.”
“Pintail three, can you contact the other force?”
“Pintail, why don’t you try and get contact through Royal?”
“Say again.”
Don had finally had all the noise he could use. “Pintail three, go to channel seven and see if you can pass the word to somebody. I’m going to manual frequency.”
I was most happy to accept this little chore and came back with “OK, will do, I’ll go to seven. Meet you on manual.” The channel changer clicked through its paces and the silence was golden. Now if I could only get Lincoln to talk to me, “Lincoln—Pintail. Hello, Lincoln—this is Pintail.”
“Pintail—Lincoln. Go ahead.”
“Roger, Lincoln—Pintail. It’s negative, negative, negative. No dice. We’re on the way out.” He rogered and we went home. It had been a crummy day and a crummy mission, and I had a headache when I crawled out of that beauty that evening.-
We sure telegraphed our punches. There were not all that many targets in that area, and it did not take too many smarts to figure out about where the force was headed, especially when we headed them there day after day, made them fly up to the target before making the go or no-go decision oh weather we knew was not acceptable, turned over the target and then came back the next day to try again. The pressure was on to get this complex, and when we got into that configuration, it was amazing how the simple basic portents of warfare slipped by the boards to be replaced by determination to accomplish what we had been directed to accomplish.
In the situation over there, the bosses were fighting several problems. The first has been discussed around many a table and is simply the target restriction problem. There are places that, in my opinion, should have been hit long ago. Some were more sensitive than others, but the hard-core targets were like little prizes dangled on a string in our face. When one of the fringe targets would be released, the eagerness to get to it immediately approached a panic. Unless the commanders could control the universe and set the elements aside in order to destroy a specified rotten plum, they seemed to feel that it was a personal insult and that the operators in the field were purposefully failing to cooperate. While it might have been an insult at some level of the maze, it was not so intended on the part of the operators. I know I never felt that my boss in sunny Honolulu showed any degree of incompetence by his demonstrated inability to translate the sunny skies of Lahina to the gruesome plains of the Red River delta, but the press became something almost personal and there I do argue with the directions we received.
Common sense and in fact military sense, often fell by the wayside, and the fact that Hanoi was not going to move during the next few days seemed lost to decision-making view as did the fact that we had waited a long time for these targets and could afford to wait a few more minutes to do the job right. Those doing the job felt that it would have paid better dividends to mix up the signals a bit and that if we had 1 feint and battle impossible weather parameters, it would at least have been wise to mix up the feints. We were all making a dry run if it looked like we had a chance, but i faced with the same weather odds the next day, we wanted t feint irt a different direction or go someplace else completely and come back a day or two later. In our restricted and over-supervised environment, the pressure would not allow that approach to the problem.
Additional pressure was generated by the fact that were different services and different command elements participating in a limited geographical area and competing for a limited number of worthwhile targets. There is bound to be a degree of competition under these circumstances, and I believe this competition is both healthy and productive as long as common sense prevails. There was plenty of action for everyone who could fly an airplane up there, and there were more than enough defenses to go around. I have never reached the level of command in this business to gain the unhealthy degree of competitiveness that generates bitterness and drives out good sense. Such attitudes do exist and they are most harmful, but fortunately, they are above the operating level, and most Navy and Air Force crew members of my ilk benefit from the exchange of tactical knowledge and doctrine that goes on at the aircraft operating level. It seems that the poor attitudes are directly proportional to the distance from the cockpit control stick, multiplied by the number of years, if ever, since the individual has been shot at in real anger.
We had a good program going wherein we would run monthly exchange visits with our Navy buddies. They would gather a group of four or five aviators in positions like group or squadron commander and pile them into their Cod, a small transport aircraft, and launch from the ship to recover at one of our fighter bases. We would then spend a number of days or hours yakking about what we were doing and how we were doing it and the exchange would be both enjoyable and refreshing. A couple of weeks later, a group of our people would visit the ship and have a similar interchange of ideas, and we were able to keep going both ways a constant flow of operator talk that helped all of us. One of my favorite Navy fliers, Dutch, was so enthusiastic when he visited us that he was reluctant to leave at the appointed time. He was torn between more discussion and the once-in-six-months opportunity to take a day off and enjoy a much needed rest in Bangkok. We agreed fhat you can only push yourself so hard before you become less than productive, and that a day’s air-conditioned sleep in a posh Bangkok hotel could be followed by a continuation of our discussion on the ship on the next trip. His exec brought the Cod back on the next cycle, and I met him when he landed. “Dutch got bagged,” he announced with deflating certainty. “He was leading the outfit, and they fired two SAMs at them as they approached the beach. He took them down and told the guys to watch out, there would probably be more on the way. There were, and the next one was a direct hit on Dutch.” That hurt as badly as if it had been one of my own squadron or fight mates. He and I both admitted freely that there was no corner on ideas and that neither one of us had all the answers. There is no friction at the operating level.
The day after that particular dry run to Hanoi, I noticed that Don was getting nervous; we all were. There are many things that eat at you when you sit on a series of hot
ones as long as we had been on this package. But by nature, Don was jumpy at times and he was jumpy as we were directed to the primary target again. I can still recall his statement as we entered the small squadron briefing room for our flight huddle after the big wing briefing: “Anyone who is not completely terrified doesn’t understand the problem.” We called our signals in the normal tense atmosphere, and you could feel the spiders twitch, you could see them twitching on the other guys, and so many things became unimportant.
Everybody knew the flight briefing by heart, and you talked about things you would rather forget. Like, “If one of us gets shot down, the other guy in the element try and cover him as well as you can and see if you can spot the chute impact. The other element go high and start screaming for the Rescap people. High element conserve fuel and we will cycle off the tankers as necessary. Let’s not leave singles Capping alone in rough country. That’s the plan for the way in and the way out. If one of us gets knocked down in the Hanoi area— forget it. We all agree there is nothing we can do for each other then, and there is no sense losing more machines and people. Agree? OK, see you in the personal equipment room in ten minutes.”
While maps, charts and target photos were folded and rammed into kneepads to form some semblance of order, there was a dash for a quick cup of coffee or a soda pop and a swing by the John. It was a long trip at best. Leaving the John, I became painfully aware that someone was violently ill in one of the closed stalls. That horrible retching choke set my bravado back a few steps. My second impulse was to shout out and see if any of my guys was having trouble. But who goes around sticking his head into John stalls asking who’s throwing up and why? I dismissed the thought and strode to the personal equipment room. I have often wondered who it was.
The personal equipment room was air-conditioned. All the pilots’ gear was carefully stored, checked and cared for there. We wore a cotton flying suit and boots that came pretty close to hunting boots. The first step as you entered the room was to remove anything identifying or personal such as rings, wallets and the like. Once you were clean, you started lashing yourself into the fifty pounds of gear that you hung on yourself. First came the anti-G suit that resembled a pair of zippered chaps and also served as backup flotation gear should you want to blow it up in the water. It was covered with pockets, all of which were stuffed with survival items, and flares, knives and the like were sewn on all areas not served with a pocket. I personally wore my pistol and ammo on a holster belt, and this was strapped on next and lashed to my right leg with rawhide to be sure it stayed out of the way. The mesh survival vest came next, and it was loaded with myriad goodies should they be needed. We found out from our people who had gone down and been recovered that the adrenaline exercise created an almost uncontrollable thirst and people had been known to leave good cover in a wild search for water. We found the best water containers were plastic baby bottles and carried two full ones in the vest. The big item for our war was the survival radio, and it was also in the vest. Like the parachute, it had a beeper capability. The beeper is the most ghastly-sounding little device known to man. It broadcasts a signal of distress like nothing else you have ever heard, a harsh, high-pitched “A-RAAAH, A-RAAAH” that keeps on and on until it about drives you out of your skull. Many of the guys checked them in the personal equipment room before each flight. I didn’t. It didn’t fit into my emotional scheme at that particular stage and I couldn’t stand the sound of it. All you needed then was a back parachute, a cumbersome hard helmet, a kneepad full of junk, a book bag full of standardized normal and emergency procedures and a crane to lift you into the personal equipment truck that took you to the aircraft. You didn’t really need all the standardized checklists too badly, but if you ever busted an aircraft without having them on board, the really big guys would hang you.
We got to the machines plenty early so we could look them over and strap in at leisure. I personally spent minimum time with this operation as generally anything my crew chief had not found was not likely to expose itself to me. I asked him if it was ready to go and if he said yes, I assumed he was right. I walked around the bird, kicked the bombs and the tires and shook the tanks, just because it seemed to be the thing to do. I could manage this with five minutes to spare and that was the time I liked to walk back to the blast deflectors and have a cigarette, all by myself. By that time I was tired of talking to humans and I knew I was about to embark on several tough hours. I liked to take my head out of gear and talk to the really big man, and watch the flight line and the sky go by for a few seconds. Then it was grind out the butt, zip the survival vest and stride up to the ladder. It was time to go to work. The hardest part of the mission was already over.
The next thirty minutes was just plain hot. You sweated so badly that sometimes you could hardly see. The flight line was organized confusion as one flight after the other hit the starter button and filled the air with the stench and smoke of the black-powder cartridge starter that spun the engine through its initial starting revolutions. The noise was deafening and one of our problems was protecting the ears of our pilots and ground crews. Most of the pilots ignored the problem, especially after they had been around for a few years, and that is why most of us have some degree of hearing loss.
The ritual of properly adjusting the helmet and personal gear takes a few minutes and each pilot has his own idiosyncrasies about strapping in. It took me a few moments to adjust the skullcap that I wore under my custom-built Lombard helmet, but this guaranteed me no hot spots or pressure points, which can drive you to distraction and can, in fact, cause lack of proper attention to the job, and even accidents. A sweatband across the forehead partially blocks the sweat from your eyes, but the sweat can still fill up your ears and make you feel like you’re underwater. Next came my super sunglasses which a doctor friend of mine built for me to take me down past twenty-twenty to perfect vision and depth perception. (My buddy, SAM, could have used a pair of these. It got to be a joke to see who would steer the number three colonel in the wing to his tanker rendezvous, since SAM was just not seeing the tankers as fast as some of the young sports. SAM decided to shake the young troops and called the tanker outfit prior to one mission and cross-checked the voice call sign of his tanker against the painted Air Force serial numbers of the craft. As they approached rendezvous, one of the flight members gaily called out a tanker at eleven o’clock and prepared to steer the colonel to the tanker. SAM rogered with “Yeah, I see him. His tail number looks like 72534,” while still some 20 miles distant from letters 10 inches high. Several minutes later when they pulled up alongside tanker number 72534, SAM was one up on his young sports.)
Once the helmet was on, the roar of the other starting machines was cut out, replaced by the high sidetone from the crew chief’s plug-in face mike connected to the belly of the aircraft so he could talk to you during the start and pretax! checks. We had quite a ritual, and ran through a number of checks that sent him scurrying from one end of the machine to the other. It took ten minutes from engine crank until you actually started to move. When you had checked all flight members and the spare on the radio and had received tower instructions, you flung your arms out of the cockpit and the chiefs helpers pulled the chocks as the chief used hand signals to move you out of the cramped parking area and turn you toward the taxiway. Once he had you around the corner, he stepped smartly back and threw you the sharpest salute you have ever seen. There was no baloney in the way that highball was rendered and returned. Those troopers knew the score and they knew full well that this might be the last time they would see you or their personal machine that they had sweated over so long and hard. One of the many sad aspects of losing a guy was the look of complete bewilderment on the face of the chief whose bird didn’t return. They really sweat out their work and their vehicle and this salute said, Go get ’em, boss—and bring my bird back.
Once we dropped off the tankers and headed into the hot area, Don, who was Kingpin three, and I, as Kingpin lead, knew tha
t the weather was still not looking so hot; in fact, it looked rotten, but you had to go all the way—no easy outs. We had a little radio problem getting Don onto the strike frequency as we set up the bombs and got ready to go to work, but this in itself did not seem unusual and when he came up on frequency, I assumed all was OK. As the attack progressed, you could feel tension and you could hear tension in each curt voice and each crisp command. As we crossed the Red, SAM warnings already garbaged up the radio. I wondered if they were for the Navy guys and thought they must be since we were the first Air Force ones in for the day. Mig warnings came on top of SAM warnings and I mused, What’s it going to be—a SAM day or a Mig day? It sounded like a little of both. There was nothing I could do about that, anyway, so I paid attention to leading, and there was Thud Ridge, but just barely. Only one point of the northernmost peak showed, and it was three-quarters covered with those rotten clouds.
SAM was not to be our big problem that day, although he was active. Trouble was spelled Mig, and the first ones to verify that were our SAM hunters as they swung off to the side of the main force and started searching.
’Two bogies one o’clock Flamingo,” announced the number three man in the specialized flight.
“Rog, got ’em,” came from the leader.
As I turned the force around the northern corner of Thud Ridge, I knew the stinking weather was about to beat us again, and I knew that at least one of my flights was already being forced to divide their attention between their main job and the harassing Migs.
“You got bogies at nine o’clock now.”
It sounded like Flamingo might be in the market for some help now that he had them on both sides of his flight, but he had disappeared into the murk and cloud underneath, and we were not really in position to do much for him at the instant. He would call soon if he really needed help.
Thud Ridge Page 7
