Thud Ridge

by Jacksel Markham Broughton

  Their SAM and Mig defenses were not hampered by being divided between the two targets lying one on top of the other, and they had excellent area defense. They had positioned their SAMs in such a manner that they could cover our ingress to the target area of Thai Nguyen from any angle and protect both the yards and the mill. They had the benefit of lots of practice in tracking us as we came down Thud Ridge; and because they knew we would avoid both the Mig sanctuaries at Phuc Yen and Kep and the magic inner circles at Hanoi and Haiphong, they were able to look at us all the way in and have a fan- shot whenever the missile gear indicated conditions to be favorable.

  The Migs were also in a favorable posture since they were based on-both sides of the Ridge—at Phuc Yen to the west and Kep to the east. I have often marveled at the Migs’ amazing lack of success. I know airplanes very well and my three years of leading the USAF demonstration team, The Thunderbirds, did nothing to dim my perception of relative maximum performance capability among different aircraft. I have fought with the Migs in two wars now—be they declared, recognized, popular or not—and I have yet to see any general indication that the Mig drivers we have faced thus far are using the maximum skill or technical capability available to them. I don’t think you will find a truly professional fighter pilot who would not sell his front seat in hell to be a Mig squadron commander in the face of an American fighter-bomber attack, should such a transformation be possible in our world of reality. Please remember I am only speaking professionally and am not expressing any desire to go the rice and fish route. I am simply saying that they could murder us if they did the job properly.

  They don’t go first class and our guys are both good and dedicated. I guess that is the difference. I have had a batch of them on my tail when they have had a better aircraft that could go faster, turn better, and outaccelerate me. I have been on the low end of odds as high as 16 to 2—and that’s pretty lousy. (In this particular case of the poor odds, they hung me up for twenty-three minutes, an almost unheard-of time period for aerial combat even in the early Korea days when this occurred. They didn’t scratch me, only because their cannon couldn’t hit the round side of a broad.) I have had them come up from under my tail spewing red tracers that looked like a runaway Roman candle burst at the seams. Had those guns been properly harmonized, they would have nailed me without a doubt.

  They have still not learned their lessons well and I suspect they do not do their homework properly. With the advantages they have going for them, I am sure glad that the majority of those we have tangled with to date are not as clever in this game as our guys are. Anyone who reads the air-to-air results and feels that American technology has scored another victory over the competition of the world is sadly misled. We have been able to take advantage of their mistakes and they have not seen, or have ignored, or have been inept enough not to take advantage of, our mistakes. I scream caution at the top of my lungs that we have not yet met the first team of Mig drivers but I have failed to observe a flow of listeners to my door. As a matter of fact, it becomes less popular and less rewarding each day to scream about basic convictions in the conduct of any struggle between men and machines. I feel very strongly that our inability to talk of practicality or to accept the word of those who physically do the job is hurting us all the way from the drawing board to the battlefield. Is our level of incompetence so high that the doer can never be heard? Is it inconceivable that a captain could know something from practical experience that a general doesn’t know? I often wonder if Hannibal had any elephant drivers who tried to get the big message to him at the base of the Alps, but were swallowed up in a system that wanted to hear only good about itself.

  But Geeno’s problems were faster moving than Hannibal’s and the SAMs, the Migs and the flak were all zeroed in and waiting for him that bleak morning when he headed north for the last time—and he knew they were waiting. Like the rest of the Thud drivers, he never lacked a knowledge or appreciation of the forces aligned against him, but only a few flinched from the blanket of steel that waited, always active, always eager, never compromising. We had only four who couldn’t hack it, four only whose fear overcame them and dealt them the gravest defeat man can suffer—to surrender to the cowardice that made them quit in the face of the enemy while those they had lived with went forth to take their chances on dying or rotting away in prison in order to defend their supposed right to default on their brothers-in-arms and still go forth unblemished. This is wrong and our system is wrong to tolerate it. You try and change it if you will. I have already tried and been rebuffed. No matter what demands the leadership imposes, the combat soldier who falters and fails in the face of the enemy’s fire is an unspeakable wretch whose own insides must someday devour him.

  There is no telling what type may display the unpardonable sin of reneging under fire. Our four covered the spectrum. We had one who had been a professional fighter pilot for about ten years. He loved the travel, adventure and challenge of the peacetime forces. He liked his aircraft and thought well of her demonstrated prowess on the gunnery range with the practice bombs and shells. When the press of events called him to the day when the gunnery range fired back and airplanes exploded and people died, he crawled on his belly and surrendered his image of a man because he was afraid. Another was a bomber guy who got caught up in the personnel conversion to this different machine. He was out of his element, almost as far out of his element as those poor slobs who have been rotting in Hanoi for over two years, so he fell on his face and cried, “I can’t take it.” He had been professionally raised under a banner that unfortunately says “Peace Is Our Profession” and he wasn’t capable of transforming himself to the knowledge that war is our profession, as most of the rest of the bomber guys did. Our third failure was a lieutenant who almost cracked ,up earlier while pulling alert pad duty with nobody even shooting at him. Perhaps I should have spotted him then, but it took only a few lousy 37-millimeter shells, bursting woefully out of range, to surface this clever dodger in uniform. He decided that he would like to be a ground officer during the period of hostilities, and the last I heard he was getting away with it.

  Our fourth was our worst. He wears the U.S. Navy ring of an Annapolis graduate. I always knew the Navy was smart, but how they figured this clown out ten years ago and got him transferred to the Air Force is beyond me. He was the worst in that he knew better and had demonstrated the capability, under fire, to do the job. He quit around the halfway mark when he was approaching the stage where he would have been a real value to us. Among other things, he developed a fear of heights after ten years as a jet pilot. He learned all the rules and all the angles and he played them to the hilt. When all else failed him, he managed a hardship discharge. Hardship indeed, that this leech defaced the profession as long as he did.

  So do you suppose that Geeno was scared as he blasted off in the murk of a predawn departure from our own private piece of jungle? I suppose he was. Anyone who isn’t scared is an idiot. It is completely plausible and quite a scintillating experience to be able to translate this being scared into the most dynamic courage and a determination to get the job done properly. Geeno knew what his job was. He had to lead two wings of F-105’s to one of the nastiest targets in the North, and he and his three flight companions were to still the flak so the first Wave of strike aircraft could penetrate and get the job done.

  When you are in the spot of leading both wings and are also the flak suppression flight for your own wing, the first one in on the target, you can’t help feeling a tremendous sense of responsibility. In this situation, more than any other, you know that the responsibility for the whole tribe is in your lap. More than that, you know that the success or failure of the strike itself is your baby doll. No matter how well it is planned and no matter how many instant experts are sitting on the ground ready to advise on something they have never done, you have the ball. Your word is sought after in the confusion of the departure. You call the shots as men and machines struggle to the end of the ru
nway and fight to leave the arming area in proper order. Your burner light is the infallible signal to all concerned, “Yes, this is it, we’re really going,” and the degree of confidence, calm and expertise that you exude does more than you know to determine the results, and even the survival of your troops.

  This was brought home to me most clearly during a discussion with one of the docs who was working on a potential fear-of-flying case. Actually the guy had the fear, and it seemed like every time he moved he got exposed to something else to increase his fear, but he was a good man and he utilized every bit of smart and stamina he had, and while I am sure that he never beat the fear, he controlled it and stuck with the task. While trying to help this pilot, the doc was discussing the emotions of people faced daily with the violent loss of those they sweat next to and he said something to the effect that all rational men had a sense of fear. He said, “Don’t you think the colonels who lead you in this wing feel fear?”

  The pilot responded in amazement, “You mean they actually get scared too?” It’s what you do with the emotion that counts.

  Geeno picked up his specific responsibility for this Saturday morning mission the evening before. When the frag arrived there was always much interest in what we were doing the next day and a shuffle to see who would fill which spot. In a wing like ours where the leaders led, you always had to give the boss first crack at the next day’s work. Depending on who had to meet the visitors the next day—and there were almost always visitors—who had what meeting or what additional duty plans, the boss would decide on his availability and choice of mission time. Other things being equal, that 0200 wakeup was not too popular with those of us in the command bracket. It is great to be skimming along when the sun conies up, and you get the feeling that you are in the saddle on this new day and that you are running things and all will be good. You also get a feeling of accomplishment when you land early and know that before most people have stirred you have done a good job. And you get so tired you hurt. The primary duty jocks who have been flight planning most of the night could sneak away to the sack for a few hours, but the leaders always had something to make that move inappropriate, and the next thing you knew you had worked yourself out of daylight and into night. We all gave the continuing early schedule a try at one time or another, and we all managed to get falling-down sick doing it. So on this particular Friday afternoon, both the boss and I declined and the early one rotated to Geeno, the next squadron commander in line.

  Immediately after the stand-up briefing he gathered his flight leaders and his planners in the big briefing room and they started through the mass of detail necessary to select and chart the route for the next morning. Every detail of ingress and egress was probed and once the mission commander was satisfied with his plan of action, the selected individuals from each participating flight set to work to prepare the maps, charts and cruise data for their flight members. This particular planning session did not have to get too involved as most everyone knew the area and the target quite well. There was not too much freedom of choice on routes, and there was nothing new to say on defenses in that area. They were all still there and everyone would get to see all of them in the morning. Having put his charges to work there was little else for him to do.other than to make sure he knew each and every particular of the route he had selected as well as the details of the drill he would employ in marshaling and leading the next day.

  Very little went right in the morning. The first problem was getting enough aircraft in commission. After much hassling and .reconfiguration the last-minute efforts of the flight line people and the harried schedulers paid off and aircraft numbers, pilots, flight call signs and bombloads started to fall into place. It is most important that all the scheduled blocks be filled and that each flight performs as a flight of four. The maintenance troops are always hard pressed to get enough of the occasionally recalcitrant monsters all the way in commission, with all systems working. Should they fail to do so, which they seldom do even under the worst of time compressions, it results in more than a departure short one or two aircraft, worse than an effort launched with less than planned bomb coverage on target. It becomes an effort wherein one or more flights are no longer self-sustaining portions of the strike, since they cannot render mutual support between the elements of two. The offensive as well as the defensive plan is short one pair of eyes and one man and machine combination that fits perfectly into the jigsaw of mutual support. The flight short one man automatically becomes a pair plus a straggler, and Thai Nguyen who was no place for stragglers.

  This particular predawn scramble paid off and the full force was launched as planned. Geeno ran into weather on his refueling effort but managed to get the job done in style, and all his charges dropped off the tanker, and headed for Thud Ridge. As they approached the target area the weather they had experienced during refueling was still with them and by now had become a threat to the success of the mission. From the river on in, the area was covered with a middle layer of broken to overcast clouds. While a cloud layer of this kind is not in itself too difficult to penetrate, it makes a great difference in your tactics against the defenses and your actual run on the target. Whether you stayed above the clouds, went below them, or tried to hide inside them, you were in for trouble.

  If you stay on top on the way to the target you can look for Migs, but you cannot see the ground for that extra double check on your approach, nor can you see the SAMs as they kick up a boiling caldron of dust when they leap from their launch sites. If you can’t see them on the way up when they are relatively slow and straggling both to accelerate and to guide, you are in trouble, for by the time they come bursting up through the undercast, accelerated and guiding on course for you, your chances of evading them are slim. If you duck just under the clouds you have a better visual shot at the SAMs and better visual navigation, but you give both the SAM people and the ground gunners a perfect silhouette of your force against the cloud backdrop, at the same time telegraphing your exact altitude for both sighting and fuzing purposes. If you go far below the clouds, up goes the fuel consumption and up goes the exposure to smaller guns on the ground. About the only other piece of airspace available is inside the clouds themselves, and herding a large formation of heavily loaded machines through uncontrolled airspace that is full of turbulence and rocks, thundering blindly into and over an area where the defenders have no qualms about firing guns or SAMs into the clouds if they or their radar even think you are there, is not a generally approved tactic. Those who have inadvertently found themselves in this thrilling situation usually do their utmost to avoid a repeat

  Geeno was in the process of initiating a gradual descent to a position under the clouds that appeared to be the best compromise available under the conditions when SAM helped him to expedite both his decision and his descent. Three SAMs launched and headed directly for the lead flight like lumbering white telephone poles. It quite obviously does not take them too long to get out of that lumbering stage and the closer they get and the faster they go the more rapidly you must react. Geeno still had visual contact with the ground and was able to spot this flight of three en route toward his charges. He bellowed out the warning on the radio and took his flight down to the deck, under the approaching missiles. You can practice all you want and brief all you want, but when those things are pointed your way, the old adrenaline flows, the palms get sweaty and the voice gets squeaky. If you are worried about your circulation, a few rides in that area will convince you that the old pump is really putting out.

  The rest of the force had been well alerted by Geeno’s call and were able to watch the air show as he and his flight parried the SAMs and continued on toward the target. There was little doubt that the defenses were ready that morning and when you started getting tapped that far out you could bet the rest of the ride would be wild. In one way it sort of helps to have some successful action of that kind before you get right on the target, as it seems to act almost like a warm-up session before a
deadly ball game. As long as you win that first one you have some feeling of accomplishment along with the definite knowledge that the ball game is on. It does not do a thing for the radio chatter, however, and a lot of people immediately have a great number of important things that they just have to say right now. This was the worst possible time for a garbaged-up radio channel. You want the air clear for calls alerting the rest of the flights to the posture and actions of the defenses. There is no telling how many people and aircraft we have lost simply because some blabbermouth was making a worthless transmission that blocked out a warning call. It was a problem requiring constant attention and it was not uncommon to have to chew some guy out on the radio and tell him to shut up.

  Fortunately, the chatter died rapidly or Geeno would probably never have made it to the target. He was now definitely committed to an approach under the clouds and the countdown proceeded as the tick marks fell behind on the run-in line on his map and the exaggerated pencil mark alongside his course line said silently that two minutes from now all hell would break loose above the rail yards. This was where you liked everything smooth, so you could navigate perfectly and get the approach and roll-in that you wanted without slinging some poor wingman off by himself as the speed built toward maximum. But there were no smooth skies available at the two-minute marker that day. A second volley of three SAMs hurled clouds of dust and dirt on their masters and leaped eagerly toward the lead flight. Navigation be damned, you had to beat those SAMs or the navigation would be of no value, so Geeno sounded the alarm again and hauled all of his flights down to the treetops at breakneck speed. The maneuver was too much for the SAMs’ stubby little wings trying to accept their radar’s guidance, and two of them stumbled hopelessly, only to stall themselves out and tumble earthward, while their lone companion screeched ballistically skyward, ever accelerating, to explode in isolation at the end of its snow-white contrail. But the SAMs had accomplished one thing: they forced Geeno into a major decision at a time when he would just as soon have had nothing to think about but the mechanics of the attack. He had to decide whether he would blast that SAM site or continue as planned.