As he continued his search he found something he wasn’t looking for. It seems that the day before one of the reconnaissance pilots from another wing had crashed and had been given up as lost, captured, killed or who knows what. While searching for Finch one and Finch two, Gordo suddenly heard a beeper, maneuvered his aircraft to locate the beeper and found, to everyone’s surprise and amazement, the pilot who had gone down the day before. He had been sitting coolly in the jungle, waiting for possible rescue but certainly not expecting it under the horrible weather conditions prevailing that day. Spotting the downed pilot from the day before, Gordo alerted the search and rescue forces and called for more Rescap plus Spad and chopper support to come in and get the pilot out. While he was orbiting, pinpointing the position and calling on the radio to advise the rescue controllers of the situation, SAM again sought him out, and he was faced with the same situation all over again. He again went down to the deck through the withering hail of fire, outma-neuvered the SAM, came back up out of the ground fire and found himself still flying, with still more to do.
Now his fuel was exhausted again, so he climbed back through the weather and returned again to the refueling area and took on another load of fuel. He resumed his coverage where he had spotted the downed pilot, only to find the weather still worse than it had been before. He searched eagerly for the two pilots who had been clobbered that day while he directed rescue operations for the pilot he had found from the day before, and he was constantly plagued with weather and defensive conditions that would shake the staun-chest of pilots. He stayed until his fuel was almost gone, and having successfully directed the slower-moving rescue forces into the area, he once again withdrew to the tanker. The rescuers were able to pick up the reconnaissance pilot safely and bring him back. As Gordo squirmed and wiggled in the cockpit, he took on yet another load of fuel and returned to home base seven hours after he took off, ten hours after he briefed, eleven hours after he got up. You might say that he had put in a demanding day, and had demonstrated a tenacious attitude for a soft-spoken, efficient and truly brave young gentleman.
As Gordo approached the one hundred mission mark, he again demonstrated the bravado and plain guts that he possessed. He received a second Silver Star shortly after his first, again for heroism demonstrated in the Hanoi area. His promotion to lieutenant colonel came through about this time and his continued success as he directed his squadron’s operation was most pleasant to behold. On the occasion of his second Silver Star, he was flying in the number three position of his flight, acting as element leader while he checked a newer pilot out on the complicated task of leading a strike flight into the Hanoi area. We made haste slowly with our new folks, taking the ones we felt would make good flight leaders up the steps gradually^ The finishing school for flight leaders was always a downtown strike with a highly experienced leader flying in the number three position. If he was able to satisfy the old-timer, with his prejudices and his personal likes and dislikes, the new leader was ready to be turned loose on his own to lead in the North.
The particular flight that Gordo assigned himself to that day had the mission of flak suppression along the route the strike flights followed into the Hanoi area. Flak suppression is a most demanding mission in many ways, yet it gives you more latitude and freedom of movement than other assignments within the strike force. You are not looking for a precise pinpoint target as much as you are looking for an area of intense ground fire, and there is absolutely no problem in finding that in the ring around the delta capital. They light up for you like the Fourth of July and the problem is not one of finding a place to bomb, but of determining which site is most likely to harass the strike aircraft coming after you, and then doing your utmost to eliminate it. There are obvious drawbacks to this particular facet of the operation in that before you can bomb you have to be sure that you have singled out the most fearsome of the many sites you place under surveillance. We have found through bitter experience that the only way to do this is to expose yourself to the full might of the guns and then duel with them in an attempt to destroy them. To accomplish this properly the flak suppression flight must climb to altitude directly over the target and manage their power, airspeed and position in a manner that allows them to look, evaluate, strike and still get out of the area in one piece. This sometimes involves hanging in an inverted position for several seconds while all the guns get the chance to light up. It may be only seconds but when you are in that particular position the seconds seem like hours. The flak suppressors get a great deal of satisfaction when they defeat the guns and allow the remainder of the force to accomplish their mission. They also get a great deal of defensive activity and are highly vulnerable for an extended time period.
Gordo did an outstanding job, as usual, and positioned his aircraft perfectly to draw maximum ground fire. As he prepared to roll in and drop his bombs he was abruptly presented with three SAM launch warnings, but he continued his attack and lined up on his selected site. At this time he was frantically advised by other members of the force that the three SAMs had progressed through the warning stage and had launched, and were headed directly for him. The advice from his fellows was strictly academic as he had already spotted the three SAMs and knew they were looking for him and for him alone. They were tracking and they had accelerated. Here again we have the fighter pilot making the split-second decision as to what to do. Does he toggle his bombs and concentrate on evading the SAMs and saving his neck or does he press the attack to neutralize the flak and thus protect the approach of the strike force now pressing into the target area and insure a better chance of success for the strike? With a man like Gordo, no real decision-making process was required. He pressed on. He hurled his aircraft toward the barking guns and directly through the formation of three SAMs that climbed rapidly and approached him from a head-on attack position in their chase to destroy his aircraft. Down he went, right through a flight of three supersonic missiles with his name written all over them. He beat the missiles and he dropped his bombs directly on a large flak site that immediately closed shop and lost all interest in the approaching fighters.
His flight leader had not been quite so fortunate and had taken a severe hit as he hung over the largest flak site in his zone of responsibility. The balance between getting the gunners to expose their full position and overexposing yourself is a very fine one. The leader called out the old familiar alert that he had been hit on his run and was in trouble and Gordo immediately diverted all of his attention to protecting a fellow flight member in distress. As his leader struggled to maintain control of his aircraft and grasped for precious altitude, his problems were further compounded as the rapacious Mig-21’s, waiting, looking and hoping to pick off a straggler, spotted the sick bird. The lead Mig-21 pressed his attack on the obviously crippled Thud. It took Gordo only seconds to spot his limping leader and to assess the completely vulnerable position he was in.
The leader could not maneuver, he could barely remain airborne and he had to scratch for altitude and distance in the hope of getting himself and his machine into a more favorable area should he have to bail out. As he climbed he entered ever deeper into the area of sky where the Mig’s performance envelope increasingly surpassed his own. But, as in so many cases up North, there was no choice. He was forced to fly slower than he needed to, he climbed higher than he desired and he limited his maneuvering almost completely as he attempted to nurse his impotent machine toward relative safety. Gordo spotted the Mig formation, stroked the burner and fearlessly waded into the middle of the fray. Those following were alerted to the situation and would have helped, but distance and speed made them merely observers. They hastily advised Gordo that the next two Mig-21’s, hanging on the perch and waiting, had spotted him, had correctly assessed the fact that he was bent on saving his leader, and had initiated pursuit in an attempt to knock him off their comrade’s tail.
The Migs had it all going for them as regards numbers, altitude and maneuverability. The possibil
ity of Gordo’s surviving the scissors he now found himself between was not great. There could have been no censure of a decision on Gordo’s part to disengage; in fact, the course of action he was pursuing would seem to almost certainly invite heat-seeking missiles up his own tail pipe. But Gordo calmly acknowledged the warnings and pressed to the aid of his stricken comrade. The lead Mig was forced to maneuver and slow down to position himself for the final kill on the stricken leader. With full burner, Gordo was able to close from the Mig’s rear, and as soon as he reached firing range he unleashed a heavy burst of fire from his Vulcan cannon. His two pursuers were rapidly closing to lethal missile range on him and the event would be decided within the next few seconds. The lead 21 driver was not as dedicated to his task as was the Thud driver, and as the 20-millimeter slugs ripped through the air around him, he chose to disengage and immediately split from the scene. This made Gordo’s odds a bit better and left him with only two superior performing aircraft on his tail and in firing position. He racked his beast into an immediate and violent series of evasive maneuvers that even he cannot describe to this day. Who knows where he went or what strain the Thud survived, but it was enough to throw his pursuers off course and to cause them to overshoot both himself and the handicapped leader. The Migs promptly decided that they had more than they had bargained for, and they disengaged and exited before this crazy American Thud driver could further compromise their position or their sanctuary. With the leeches off his tail, Gordo rolled his aircraft upside down, spotted his crippled lead behind and underneath him, executed a split S and rolled his aircraft up and onto the leader’s wing to escort him safely out of the area and back home.
So this was my new administrative assistant, my exec-—this dedicated combat tiger was about to slip behind a big desk and help me shuffle the papers, and help he did as he was in on everything. He used to irritate me a bit because he worked so long and so hard and carried the complete dedication he had demonstrated in the air into his administrative tasks. I used to order him to close shop and get out of the building at eight or nine o’clock at night and he always beat me to work in the morning. He did more to streamline the administrative effort, the intricacies of serving three separate headquarters, and the cumbersome command structure, than any individual I have ever known.
He did everything from monitoring the recurring headache of housing 5,000 men on the base to wet-nursing the cocktail parties and the hundreds;—literally—of visitors who floated through the Thailand circuit. The instant experts who were constantly with us were one of the larger problems in balancing time and effort. If it had not been for Gordo’s abilities, I personally would not have had an opportunity to balance my time between flying or leading and maintaining my supervisory position as Mister Vice. He was constantly worrying over me about smoking too much and not getting the proper rest, constantly advising me on which problems needed my attention and which were so nit noy they could be overlooked.
When Gordo left, he got the job he wanted. He is now working at Nellis Air Force Base for my most esteemed friend, Col. Chester L. Van Etten, who has painted the name “John Black,” his old fighter radio call sign, on so many of his fighter aircraft that he himself is known to many as John Black. I am sure they make a number one team and continue to do a number one job. However, Gordo was not happy when he left. Shortly before, a new policy was established by our Air Force personnel folks offering regular commissions to some people who were currently on active duty in a reserve-officer status. Once again they managed to miss Gordo’s bracket and he is highly representative of a fine group we have in the business who are not regular officers.
You see, Gordo is a reserve. As a reserve he will be kicked out of the Air Force in less than two years. When he reaches twenty years of commissioned service, this superior gentleman, who should have demonstrated to the satisfaction of all concerned his merit as a leader and a hero, will be unceremoniously booted out to make room for a nonflying ROTC second lieutenant who will in all probability accept a commission in the regular force, play with it for a couple of years and then resign.
We have only so many spaces, so the book says. I will never argue with the fact that young talent is necessary. I will argue the point that we need Gordo Atkinson in this business just as long as he wants to stay, and we need the other capable reserve folks just like him. To dismiss them arbitrarily on a time and space basis makes little sense.
While we grew in combat effectiveness as a well-organized and cohesive unit, we also grew as a physical plant, and if this base was so superior to the others in the country, a logical question would be who was responsible. One man was responsible and that was Lt. Col. Max E. Crandall. The first time I saw Max was a few years ago when he was first checking in at Takhli. He had just arrived and was in a temporary sack in one of the colonel-type trailers and as I had just ferried a bird into Takhli for the wing’s use, I was also bumming a sack for the night. I was most happy to see large numbers of my friends whom I had not seen for some time and did not really spend too much time in the trailer except to note that I shared it with what appeared to be a grumpy old lieutenant colonel. We introduced ourselves briefly and Max advised me that he was just checking in as civil engineer for the wing. Since the place was still a complete quagmire, full of mosquitoes, snakes and jungle, I wished him lots of luck and wrote him off as a crotchety older civil engineer type who would probably leave after a year of nonproductive sitting.
How wrong I was. Max had previously served in the European area and had built the base at Sidi Slamain. He was a bachelor and a glutton for work who apparently took one look at this mess and decided that with his talent and with the things that were available to him, and with the things that he had learned in Africa, both good and bad, this poor excuse for an air base was his personal challenge. His challenge was to make this piece of jungle into the finest base in Southeast Asia. He set forth with this as his goal and he succeeded.
Max was a scrounger, a good scrounger who could come up with materials and get jobs done when nobody else could make the grade. He knew his business inside and out, and he knew which corners needed to be cut at which time. He reminded me of a good motorcycle racer—he operated always right on the verge of losing control. He would be so close to sticking his own neck out past the point of retrieval, yet he was always a winner. That is the way to race motorcycles and that is the way to build bases under wartime conditions. We were investigated and we had people point the finger at Max for doing things in an unorthodox manner when he should have surveyed the situation and sat on his thumb for a few months. But these were all Monday morning quarterbacks who did not have the gumption to do the job that needed doing. Max did the job and he never got himself or his commanders in trouble. You could ask Max for the moon and tell him that it was operationally necessary for the troops who were flying and fighting the war and Max would spare no effort to get the job done—first class. He could come up with the impossible in the middle of the Thai jungle, and he did just that quite frequently.
Max was no spring chicken and he worked so hard that he finally collapsed with pneumonia. We were all most concerned and made certain that the flight surgeon had him properly doped up and put to bed in his trailer. However, a day later Max, the walking-pneumonia case, was right back on the job, refusing to be put down, refusing to quit.
Usually there is a running battle between the fighter pilots and the civil engineers—no matter how good things are the pilots don’t feel the engineers are supporting them well enough. This was not the case at Takhli, and I have never seen a bunch of fighter drivers so sold on a support manager as they were on Max. Everybody on the base sweated like mad when the old man had to go over to Clark Air Base in the Philippines for an operation, with the possibility of malignancy hanging in the background. You would have thought that each of our pilots had bagged his twenty-fifth Mig when word came back that all was well. He infected his own troops with such enthusiasm that long after he left the base the
y were still carrying on as they knew he wanted them to.
The original hot and overcrowded hootches that Max had inherited were now obsolete. He had replaced them with a vastly expanded complex of clean, airy attractive quarters that blended the native Thai talent and teakwood with American know-how on rain protection, drainage and sanitation. Each of our aircrews flying combat had a spot in an air-conditioned building, and the pilot who flight-planned, briefed and flew to Hanoi from two in the morning until two in the afternoon could now collapse under a cooler and sleep in the afternoon heat before rising to start the cycle again. He built a command center where we could think and move with some semblance of order, and we had an air base that looked like an air base should. He provided the facilities we needed to do the combat job better.
Thud Ridge Page 15
