Why? Because we built this inferior system we now use out of what we had. For rescue aircraft, we took some old junkers that had been rotting in the boneyards in the Arizona sun and pressed them back into service. We tied things together with inadequate communications gear that was years behind the state of the art currently displayed for open purchase in store windows in downtown Tokyo. We wrapped it all up in a cumbersome command system of cross-checks that spelled terror to those who would act with decision on the spot, and we made sure that we had to communicate way up the line to ascertain that it was all right to attempt to save a few lives. Then we charged it all to the guys doing the job. We said we’ll make it work by the guts and dedication of the drivers.
A modern system would be expensive, and in truth, it would have had to have been in the mill several years ago to have helped that afternoon. It wouldn’t be used too often—so therefore it wouldn’t be too cost effective, would it? Cost effective to whom? I know several hundred guys who would give you all the back pay they may get to buy that type of rig, if they ever get out of the Hanoi Hilton in one piece. Every taxpayer we own is paying a pretty penny to try and replace the skilled veterans we have left to suffer alone. We could have built an adequate system in time for that Sunday,- or we could have it right now, but we don’t. If we start it now, it will be a few years before we have it perfected, and by then we may not need it. But perhaps we will need it. Perhaps you will need it, or I will need it, or your son or husband will need it. Of course, it’s a tough one to sell, but it should have been sold yesterday and it should be sold today, and it is not. You are automatically critical of our antiquated approach as you sit in unfriendly skies and watch talent and young hope dashed forever before your eyes. If you have any feel for the worth of man, it makes you want to vomit. And I almost did vomit, but from the bitter fuel fumes I was sucking in as my bird took on fuel from the tanker, and.as I left the tanker to return to the rescue area I strained rny ears and my mind to keep up with the drama taking place on the valley floor of Route Pack 6.
“Nomad, Nomad—this is Carbine.” The call established the first real contact between the rescue elements and the strike force now converted to rescue force.
“Nomad here. Go.”
“Rog, Nomad. Royal wants me to escort you into the area. What’s your position?”
While the prop job started the chore of establishing visual contact with the fighters, the SAM warnings interrupted their transmissions to remind us that we must be on our toes. Better SAM warnings than Mig warnings at this stage of the game. Even though we had plenty of cover for the slower machines, we did not want them interrupted or disturbed as they sought out the downed men. We knew pretty well where the nearest SAM was located and we were not overly concerned with him at that moment.
“Nomad—this is Royal. You have border clearance.” Great. The wheels had at least ground out one favorable decision. The prop guys could come up into the area but the choppers hadn’t moved yet. They should have been there long ago, but at least the Spads were finally on the way. They were not the only ones entering the area, as the control people had started diverting other strike and cover flights from their normal homeward route, and they were loading up on fuel and coming into the area both to help us with their numbers and to allow us a bit more freedom in shuttling in and out for our fuel. There was no shortage of machinery from the fighter end, but we were powerless to do anything to speed the pickup we all wanted so much. The rescue people were now in full control of the effort.
“Carbine—this is Royal. What’s your bingo time?” The control types had committed Carbine to escort on the way in, but knowing the appetite for fuel that a Thud displays at low altitude, they were planning ahead for escort relief.
“Stand by, got to figure one. Ahh, let’s see, appears to be about forty-five minutes, Royal.” That should be plenty of time to get together and move the Spads up to the area, but it is amazing how hard it can get to spot another aircraft at times. When you throw in a speed difference and a bit of haze and a bit of low altitude, it can get downright difficult, and Carbine and the Nomads were having their problems.
“Carbine—Royal. Did you copy Nomad?”
“Rog, I understand he is about thirty-five miles out, is that Roger?”
As the control and the two flight leaders worked together to effect a join-up, the radio spit out a grim indicator of things to come. “Royal—Oakland, we’ve got some swept-wings here. Do you have any Phantoms other than Wedge in the area?” It is not difficult to confuse the Migs and the Phantoms and that is a mistake nobody wants to make. “You say Wedge has gone out to refuel?” and everybody perked up a bit more, rechecked the gunsight and the missiles and peered into the haze that was increasing as the sun sank lower and lower. Time, light and visibility were going to be more of a factor than we had at first thought.
“SAM, medium intensity at two o’clock.” More company.
“Tomahawk—Royal. Did you copy?” Royal knew that Tomahawk, which had the primary responsibility for the low cover of the downed pilots, was the flight with the lowest full reserve and was thus the flight most vulnerable to any Mig attack.
“Tomahawk, say again.”
“Rog, Tomahawk. We have Migs approaching the area.”
“SAMs up to medium intensity,” came from the weasels.
“Royal—this is Carbine. I’m still trailing Nomad. Do you want me to press on?”
“Rog.”
“Carbine—this is Nomad. I’m at base plus three.”
This call should have told the altitude of the prop machines and it was passed in the accepted manner using a base altitude that changed from day to day, and was supposed to be passed to all pilots at briefing. By using it you could talk in the open about altitudes and still not tip your hand all the way to those listening on the other end of the line. “Whatever thatis,” came from the frontseat of Carbine lead.
“Do you have a base altitude?” Perhaps the Bear could earn his pay yet.
“They didn’t give us one today.” Good deal, one more problem, but not a significant one.
“Royal—Oakland. Royal—this is Oakland.”
“Go ahead, Oakland.”
“Rog, Royal, you can disregard those Mig warnings. Those are Phantoms in the area.” Maybe so, or maybe different people were looking at different aircraft, but the call did not portray the seriousness of the situation.
“Nomad, can you give me a short count?” came from Carbine as he attempted to use his direction-finding gear to get a good visual contact on the Spads, The Spads replied by holding down the mike button and counting forward to 5 and then backward to 1, and while they were doing that they augmented the beeper that was still cluttering up the air and making the radio almost useless. But the steer worked and Carbine came back with “OK, Nomad, we’re about your eight o’clock.”
During the radio transmission for the steer, Carbine’s Bear had been trying to get a word in edgewise to advise his comrades that SAM was up and looking at them, and though he was quite distant, he apparently was going to fling one into the area anyway. “YOU LISTENING??? We got a valid launch—take it down.”
“Launch light—look alive.™
“Nomad, you across the river yet?”
“Rog.”
“OK, if SAM comes he’ll come from eleven o’clock—now twelve—strong indication.”
Carbine lead took a look, but was forced to sort out his priorities. You can handle only so many things at once and the SAM launch was second in line as far as he was concerned at the moment. “Umm—yeah—mmmm—I don’t see SAM anyplace and I’ve got to look out here for those Nomads.” Thus the wild SAM failed to deter the effort.
As Carbine reentered the area with the Spads, it became important for him to establish the relative positions of the other flights. All too often pilots have become involved in one facet of a task, only to ignore the other fast-moving pieces of equipment in the same piece of sky, and disaster has bee
n the result.
“Tomahawk—Carbine.”
“Carbine—Tomahawk three.”
“Rog, what’s your altitude?”
“We’re at fifteen.”
“Carbine’s about twenty west and we’re trying to pick up the Spads.”
“Crown—this is Detroit. We’re at bingo fuel.” The Phantoms had been on Cap at a pretty reasonable altitude, but now they were running short on fuel and there was little else to do except release the top cover and try and get another flight to shuttle into their spot.
“OK, you’re released, to the tankers.” We had exposed a chink in our armor but we didn’t know it yet. There was no way we could know it from our position. You just have to rely on the guys controlling the situation to keep you covered while you charge around on the treetops.
“Nomad—Tomahawk. What’s your altitude?” Another smart flight leader was drawing himself a mental picture of the congestion and wanted to be sure he kept his charges where they belonged.
“Nomad, what’s your estimate to the target?”
I was having trouble reading Leo now. The combination of necessary radio chatter, the howling beeper and the fact that Leo was talking rather loudly with his mouth a bit too close to the emergency radio made him tough to understand, unless you were right over the top of him. I was not over him yet, but I was back from refueling to resume command of my force as Waco lead.
“Carbine, Carbine three, if you read, say again please.” I wanted to keep in touch with him for any necessary exchange of info and I was sure that a bit of chatter would be good for his spirits at the moment, but we were just not getting through as well as we should.
“This is Carbine lead. I’m almost in the target area and I have the Spads at my two o’clock position. Spads check at your eight o’clock.”
”—high SAM indication.” Sam still wanted to play, but we had no time for him now.
’Tomahawk, Royal wants to know how you stand on fuel.”
Nomad did not understand that it was not Leo’s beeper saturating the air, and once again Leer garbled as he tried to answer the call, “Carbine three, Carbine three, turn off your beeper.”
“Tomahawk three, four is approaching five thousand pounds.” Time for another flight to start thinking about the fuel problem. It is a great temptation to ignore it, but you just can’t. Anything we didn’t need was someone else down, out of fuel short of the tanker. For Tomahawk four it wouldn’t have made any difference.
“Nomad one, do you have Carbine?”
“Rog, Carbine, have you.”
“OK, I’m turning to the right now, down to about eighty or ninety degrees.” They were in visual contact and Carbine was intent on bringing the Spads right over the spot where Leo and his Bear were waiting.
“Tomahawk, you got Carbine?”
“Carbine—Tomahawk. Go.”
“Rog, Fm in the area and the Nomads are right behind me. We’re about fifteen miles out.”
’Tomahawk—Royal.”
“Go.”
“How are you doing on fuel?”
“I’m good for about another ten minutes.”
“OK, if you will point them out to Carbine and the Nomads, we will get you out of there.”
As all elements of the effort closed on the target area, the wayward beeper became more than ever a disruptive factor. It was difficult to relay proper instructions and you couldn’t tell if you were getting your message across. The ear-splitting screech shortened already short mental fuses and blocked out vital calls to different portions of the fleet at different times. It encouraged improper transmissions, and pilots recognizing a comrade’s voice tried to push their message across the radio by abandoning call signs, using first names and confusing others in the air. The next vital call was improperly given: the caller didn’t identify himself adequately, and what, happened in the next few minutes made it clear that the message didn’t get across to all of us.
“OK, we got bogies at three o’clock high.”
“Carbine three—this is Carbine one. We’re about ten miles out.” He was trying so hard to say, “OK, boss, hang on, we are almost there.” You could almost feel the transmission.
“Nomad—this is Carbine one. How about a short hold-down on the mike?” He was pretty sure he knew where everyone was, but you can’t take a chance when you are so close to getting the job done. He wanted to recheck positions with the directional gear.
“Nomad, Tomahawk is right over the area and I’ll show it to you.”
The lead Spad replied with a statement that seemed old hat to us at the instant but that later took a prominent place in our reconstruction of the puzzzle. “I’ve got a continuous parachute beeper and personal beeper.” This we had known for hours. “I’ve got a directional swing on a beacon just to the north of where we’re orbiting, Tomahawk.” Tomahawk knew he was directly over the spot where he had seen and talked to the downed crew. Like most of us, he didn’t even know Carbine four was down. He had no choice but to assume that the Spad had received a false swing on his indicator, and his job was to steer him to the proper place. That swing must have been on young Bob’s equipment, but where was he and how was he?
“Rog, he’s south of us about three miles—four miles.”
“This is Nomad. I’m over the plot but don’t have anybody in sight yet.”
“OK, Nomad—this is Tomahawk one transmitting for a steer. Tomahawk out.” The Spad was over the place he had plotted on the map from the coordinates he had been given, but it is difficult at best to give a really exact set of coordinates when you are bouncing around the sky taking care of the little goodies we had to take care of. In addition, the maps are tough to read exactly unless you have them spread out on a smooth table and have a nice set of map tools to work with. Thus, the Spad’s being over the plotted spot did not necessarily mean that he was over the exact piece of geography where we knew Leo and his Bear to be. The flight leads of both Carbine and Tomahawk were trying to get Nomad to keep them in sight and fly over the recognized spot on the ground.
“OK, Nomad one, how did you read?”
“Nomad one—this is Carbine. Have you in sight. The site is back at your six o’clock and if you’ll do a turn to the left—” The rest of his instructions were drowned in an especially loud beeper pulsation that seemed almost to reach up and deny the airwaves at the most crucial of moments.
“Tomahawk—this is Carbine. I’ve got you to sight. The Spads are off about your two o’clock—one o’clock. OK, I told him to start a left turn. OK, check at about your one o’clock—three o’clock Tomahawk.” Tomahawk’s wingman then spotted the Spads and called them out to his leader at the wingman’s eleven o’clock position. The instant he saw them Tomahawk started working them back over the spot.
“Tomahawk is rocking his wings, Nomad, do you see me? … OK, this is Tomahawk one. I’m inside~ef your circle, turn left—TURN LEFT!” Tomahawk was seized with the hopeless realization that Nomad did not have him and that they were so close yet so far from success, and he about rocked himself out of the sky as he hollered above the beeper, “Tomahawk rocking wings, DO YOU HAVE ME?” and his frustration spilled over as he answered his own question, “Ahhhh, he doesn’t see me.”
“OK, Tomahawk—Nomad here. Say again heading.”
“Head east, head east.”
“Nomad one, did you read?”
“Roger, Nomad one.”
“OK, Nomads, this is Carbine lead and you are right behind me and you are pretty well right in the area. I don’t have the chutes right now.” Over the hot mike Carbine’s Bear called two bogies at five o’clock going away, but at this instant this was not Carbine’s business and they were going away anyway.
“Nomad one, this is Nomad two. Do you want the choppers to come in?”
Of course we wanted the choppers to come in. They weren’t doing us any good on the south side of the border and we were talking to the crew and the Spads were not getting shot up. Why not bring
them in? That’s the name of the game and one of the orbiting Thud drivers voiced it with a hearty “YES” over the radio. But Nomad one felt differently and for some reason was reluctant to act.
“Nomad one here, let me locate the pilot first.”
I guess that call is the one that did Leo and his Bear in for sure, and the same pilot who had screamed “YES” now punched his mike button and sighed the bitter sigh of disbelief. Because Nomad one was running this portion of the show and those choppers to the south would not move without his OK, we lost this chapter of the war.
Another flight checked back into the area with “Royal— Neptune. What do you have for me?”
“Neptune—this is Royal, They said send everybody home. You’re one of those they said send home.” I have never figured that one out. Who were “they” and why were they sending fighters out of the area? The job was far from done and we needed all the help we could get. I could not figure that one, and I still can’t, but those of us in the Thuds had only a support role by that time and the decisions were not ours. Had they been, the story might have been different
“Tomahawk—this is Nomad. Will you locate the pilots, please.”
“Tomahawk—Carbine here. Will you fly directly over the spot so I can pick it back up, please? I’m at your twelve o’clock heading directly toward it.” And then Leo tried to get this Spad driver who controlled his future squared away. He started steering him in from the ground, but either he would not talk to Leo or he didn’t hear him.
Thud Ridge Page 21
