by Tom Wilson
As Lee watched, he realized that he might be about to die. Bitter bile rose and soured in his gorge and he had to fight down the puke that threatened. Sounds of his breathing seemed even louder than the roar of the jet engine.
They were close now, and across the river he could see the railroad tracks snaking into and out of the town. He looked intently to his two o'clock, to the edge of the town, and picked out the railroad siding. Smoke and dust obscured the far side of the siding where bombs had landed beyond the target, and another group exploded to the left, wide of the target. The last pilot in the flight announced that his bombs had hung up and wouldn't release. The siding, hardly visible through the heavy white blanket of flak, was undamaged.
Whiskey flight, which should have been next, had dropped its bombs to engage MiG's. It was Red Dog's turn! Lee caught his breath, and the lump in his chest grew until it seemed about to burst.
"THIS IS BIG EYE. BUSTER AT ALPHA GOLF THREE! I REPEAT. THIS IS BIG EYE. BUSTER AT ALPHA GOLF THREE!"
An airborne radar aircraft calling MiG's. He didn't have time to check the location.
Concentrate on the bombing problem, he chided himself, feeling calmer. He estimated the angle to the railroad siding to be twenty degrees. Slightly back and off to his right was the small, flat-topped hill they had been briefed to watch for. They should begin their climb to the perch, in order to properly set up for the dive-bomb attack. Something inside paralyzed him, making him pause again. He gulped a breath to clear his head.
"Red Dog is climbing," he radioed, his voice unsteady.
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
A hundred yards off his left wing, four flak bursts exploded in a symmetrical pattern. Lee pulled the control stick aft and to the right, then pushed the throttle forward. He held the throttle outboard in the afterburner detent, and the big turbojet engine roared its complaint as he was pulled upward in a steep climb.
Two fireballs streaked past his canopy, others swept upward in great arcs, and he knew the gunners were aiming for him. Four more dark bursts blossomed ahead. Sweat from his forehead stung his eyes as the altimeter rapidly indicated 9,000, then 10,000 feet.
An annoying squeal in the earphones of his helmet confused him. He looked about the cockpit, then settled on the radar warning equipment. A steady, bright-red light read LAUNCH, accompanied by a white light reading SAM.
"Red Dog lead, this is two! We've got SAMs at nine o'clock."
He heard the radio call, but for a moment did not comprehend. He realized then that the words had come from his wingman. He rolled to his left, trying to sight the missiles he'd been told looked like flying telephone poles.
He depressed his radio button, yelling hoarsely, "I don't see them!"
"They're at our seven o'clock now, Red Dog lead!" The wingman's voice was emphatic.
He rolled the aircraft over on its back and sharply nosed the big fighter into a steep dive, praying the missiles wouldn't be able to keep up.
Tiny Bechler
At first Tiny stuck like glue to his leader's side as they headed earthward into the maelstrom of flak. They were doing better than 650 knots and approaching 7,500 feet when he made his urgent radio call.
"Red Dog lead, this is two. The missiles passed behind us. We're well clear."
Colonel Lee did not respond.
"Lead, we better pull out!" Tiny Bechler cried as they dove through another thousand feet. A few more seconds and they wouldn't be able to recover! He eased back his throttle.
Again Red Dog lead did not respond, although Tiny saw the aircraft's nose rotate slightly upward. Not enough! The damned fool was going to kill them both!
"Red Dog two is pulling up and left!" Tiny called. He jinked left, pulling on the stick and dragging the throttle to idle, muttering, "Enough of that shit!" He tried to keep Red Dog lead in sight as his aircraft mushed toward the ground.
He was sinking fast! He slapped at the red jettison button and felt the aircraft grow lighter as the bombs released. Tiny watched with exasperating helplessness as flak puffed about him. He sank through 5,000 feet, continuing to settle toward the hamlet. His leader was below, blocked from vision as the nose of his aircraft continued to rotate upward.
Bechler made one more attempt on the radio, calling, "Pull out, lead!" as he passed through 4,000 feet, still sinking. The features of the town became distinct as he fell. Wooded structures and a few concrete buildings lined the narrow, earthen streets of the village. He saw muzzle flashes from small arms; he could even see the antlike humans who fired them. As the thrust of the engine finally began to push the jet into a recovery arc, the ants had grown limbs and tracers from small arms zipped angrily past his canopy.
Tiny cursed while circling back to altitude, periodically rocking his wings and looking hard for his leader's aircraft. He scanned the area of the village on the Red River. Smoke from the intense antiaircraft gunfire mixed with bomb smoke, creating a thick haze about the periphery of the village. He finally saw an aircraft, very low, beyond the town and all alone over the valley. It was no MiG. Unlike American jet engines, theirs were smokeless. This one trailed a wisp of smoke.
"Red Dog lead, this is Red Dog two, turn west! You are going in the wrong direction, Red Dog lead! Turn west!"
Red Dog lead turned sharply and began to climb.
Relieved, Tiny radioed in a calmer voice. "Red Dog two is at your ten o'clock, lead."
No response. Was lead's radio damaged?
He glanced inside the cockpit. The radar warning equipment was chattering, showing a couple of tracking AAA radars, but the SAM light was off. He reset his switches for GUNS-AIR, changed his sight, and selected boresight position on his radar in case he encountered MiG's. He double-checked. All switches properly set. He looked out again at Red Dog lead and saw that Lee was still climbing and that the smoke trail was blacker. Somewhere during the dive he'd been hit by the hail of shrapnel. He was burning!
"Red Dog lead, you're trailing smoke!" called Tiny, eyes glued to the Thud as it continued to climb.
Still no response.
Red Dogs three and four had scattered like quail during the SAM launch and the subsequent lack of directions from lead. Tiny snorted at their lack of air discipline, still staring at lead. Then he realized that Lee was setting up for a dive-bomb attack on the target!
The guy was in a burning airplane and he was still going to deliver his bombs? Jesus!
Red Dog lead was nosing over into a thirty degree dive attack on the rail siding. Tiny gaped, watching the flak concentrating about the lone Thud like a thick and furious white and gray cloud. Lee was in his dive, nearing release altitude!
He rooted in admiration. Bite 'em in the ass, Colonel!
The airplane exploded in an bright fireball. A direct hit had detonated the bombs while they were still on the aircraft.
Tiny felt numbed. Lee had shown he'd had balls. It was Tiny who had deserted his leader.
"Red Dog lead is down in the target area," he called in a leaden voice.
Another flight of F-105's dove at the rail siding. The blankets of flak looked more intense, if that was possible.
"Beaucoup flak down here!" someone yelled over the busy radio frequency. Number three in that flight was hit in the fuselage by shrapnel from a 57mm round, but his wingman checked him over on the way out and declared him flyable.
Someone called a single bogey north of the target. Tiny radioed that he was alone and orbiting north of the target, but he looked about carefully in case they'd seen something he had not. He felt alone and exposed. Hell, he was alone and exposed.
After one more good look back toward his leader, Red Dog two turned west and fell in a couple of miles behind another flight on their way out of the target area. "Fucking dumb shits," Tiny muttered into his mask. "Assholes!" talking about no one in particular and everyone in general. And talking about himself especially.
After his intelligence debriefing at the command post, Tin
y learned that of the twenty-four aircraft sent out to bomb the siding at Yen Bai, only two had hit the target with their bombs. The twelve bombs from the two successful aircraft had done considerable damage. Captain Lewis's string of bombs had destroyed five boxcars on the siding. His wingman had damaged the loading platforms and the electrical and mechanical switching devices there. Intelligence reported an initial estimate that the yard and siding would be unusable for some forty-eight hours.
First Lt Tiny Belcher went straight to his hootch and stayed there that night, listening to sad Western music and brooding about the poor flight discipline he'd shown. He resolved that it would never happen again.
Lieutenant Colonel Lee was listed as MIA in the post-mission report to Headquarters, Seventh Air Force in Saigon. Jim Lee's unfinished letter was forwarded to his wife with the rest of his belongings. Col. B. J. Parker, the wing commander, wrote his sympathy to Elaine Lee, and advised her that Lee had been listed as missing in action, but that there was little hope he'd survived.
26/1800L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
The 355th Tactical Fighter Wing had seventy-one F-105 Thunderchief aircraft and seventy-nine fighter pilots. These were divided between three fighter squadrons, the 333rd, the 354th, and the 357th. From 1545 hours on November 25, until 1800 hours the next day, the 357th had no squadron commander assigned. It took that long for the wing commander to gain reluctant approval from his headquarters for the candidate of his choice.
Lt Col. Mack MacLendon
At the 355th TFW command post, Mack got the telephone call from the wing commander at 1806 hours; ten minutes later he had his desk cleared out and the contents in boxes. At 1820 he told the on-duty staff that the major would be taking over his duties as OIC of the command post. He got the major to help him by carrying a box, and they left the command post at 1829, walking and carrying their boxes and discussing the major's new duties.
At 1833 they entered the 357th Tactical Fighter Squadron building. A short-cropped, scowling, cherub-faced lieutenant who was the approximate height and shoulder-breadth of a standard doorway was manning the duty desk. The small room behind the duty desk was six-by-eight with Plexiglas schedules on the wall and a sturdy counter opening into the main room. Two captains and a lieutenant leaned over the counter arguing about the flying schedule.
Mack approached the desk and grunted to the group over the top of the box: "Where's the commander's office?"
The lieutenant waved a hand for him to wait until he was through with his debate.
Mack looked around, then mistakenly entered an office where a tech sergeant, reading glasses drooping on his nose, hunt-and-peck-typed on a report. Mack backed out, then found the adjacent door with the black plastic tag that read COMMANDER. At the same time one of the captains at the duty desk did a double take and peered closer at his rank.
"Squadron, ten-hut!" the captain bellowed.
"As you were." Mack juggled the box and opened the door wide, held it for the major, then followed him inside. After they'd placed their boxes beside the desk, the major waved a cheery hand and was off to take over his duties as chief of the command post.
The massive lieutenant was at the door, looking distressed. Mack motioned him inside.
"Sir, I didn't know you were . . . uh . . ."
"You the duty officer?"
"Yes, sir. Tonight and tomorrow morning."
"I'm Mack." He held out his hand, and the lieutenant awkwardly shook it.
"Tiny Bechler, sir."
"Got some coffee?"
"I'll brew a fresh pot. How do you take it, sir?"
"Has the last mission aircraft landed?"
"Yes, sir. We don't have any night sorties scheduled."
"Forget the coffee and get me a cold beer." He handed the lieutenant a quarter.
"Yes, sir!" He was off.
Mack sat at the no-frills metal desk and surveyed the office. Barren of ornamentation, except for black-framed eight-by-ten photos of President Johnson, Secretary of Defense McNamara, and Secretary of the Air Force Brown lined up from left to right behind him. The colors, an American flag and a blue and silver Air Force standard, were in holders on either side of him. A large 357th Tactical Fighter Squadron plaque and an aerial photo of the base adorned the opposite wall. The squadron emblem was a dragon with a long, forked red tongue. Polite people called them the dragon squadron. Others called them the clit-lickers. The unit had maintained a good reputation in war and peace since being formed some twenty-three years earlier. The window to his left looked out on the flight line and the long rows of camouflage-painted F-105 aircraft parked there. Twenty-four Thunderchiefs were assigned to the 357th, and the squadron tail-flash, the large, white letters painted on the tail, read RU.
On the desktop before him were a calendar and a day-old squadron roster. Mack glanced down the list, lined through Lt Col Lee, J.F., and substituted his own name.
He called out the admin sergeant's name. The serious-looking NCO he'd seen next door hurried in. He introduced himself and told him what he wanted done with the roster—to add the new name at the top and a legend at the bottom in a different type style. He intended to use the original squadron roster to keep score. He'd done the same when he'd assumed previous commands.
As the sergeant hurried off, Mack started putting his belongings away. He was positioning an age-worn, wooden desk plaque, with the name MACK MACLENDON ornately bracketed by carved F-84's, at the front of the desk when he realized someone was looking in.
A captain dressed in a Shade 1505, short-sleeve, khaki-colored Class-B uniform, hovered near the door, peering into the room.
"Help you?" Mack asked pleasantly.
"You're the new squadron commander, sir?"
"Yep. Brand new."
"I'm Captain Maisey, sir. Welcome to the 357th."
"Thank you."
The captain smiled, looking like he wanted to say more.
"Help you?" Mack repeated.
"I spoke with Colonel Lee yesterday morning, and he was going to make me his squadron exec. Keep track of the flying schedule, run admin, things like that."
"Yeah?" Mack put out his pen holder set, a present from his wife.
"I was just wondering if I could do the same for you, sir?"
"You fly Thuds?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long you been here?"
"Two weeks, sir."
"I've got an ops officer, an admin sergeant, and a first shirt assigned, so I won't be needing an exec." A minute later he looked up and saw that the captain was still there.
Captain Maisey swallowed. "I'd be glad to help any other way I can, sir."
There was one in every unit.
Mack continued unpacking. "What's the wing-loading advantage of a Thud over a MiG-21, Captain?"
Maisey looked ill at ease. "I . . . uh . . . I don't know, sir."
"How about the range of a SAM?"
"Thirty miles?"
"What's your crew chief's wife's name?"
The captain thought he had that one, so he promptly barked out his answer. "He's a staff sergeant and I don't fraternize with enlisted men, sir."
"How many nautical miles from Hanoi to the Gulf of Tonkin?"
"I . . . uh . . ."
"Approximately."
"Seventy-five?"
"You scored zero out of four. The MiG-21 has the wing-loading advantage by a hell of a long shot, a SAM's range is nineteen nautical miles, you ought to know your crew chief better than your brother, and it's fifty-three nautical miles from Hanoi to the coast. As a combat fighter pilot you've already got the most demanding job in the Air Force, so try to learn everything you can about it, then we'll worry about additional duties. Anything else?"
"No, sir."
"That's all."
The captain turned.
"One other thing, Captain Maisey."
"Yes, sir."
"Flying suits are the uniform of the day for my pilots, fatigues for my admin and maintenance peopl
e. Headquarter pukes have to wear Class-A's and Class-B's so we can tell them from the people who count. We only have to wear them to weddings, funerals, and when we get decorated by the headquarter pukes."
Lieutenant Bechler was behind the captain, holding a frosted beer bottle and trying hard not to grin.
"Yes, sir," the captain mumbled, and fled.
"Here's your beer, sir."
"Thanks, Tiny. Now bring me tomorrow's flying schedule."
"Yes, sir."
"Where's your beer?"
"I'm on duty, sir."
"The last airplane's down. Get a beer if you want one, then bring me the schedule."
"Yes, sir!"
Mack had finished unpacking the first box and was working on the second when Tiny returned, carrying a beer in one hand and the hand-printed schedule in the other.
"Sergeant Hill will type up the schedule as soon as you've approved it," Tiny said.
"When he's done changing the roster, and you're done getting hold of some people for me, you can both go to dinner. There's no morning combat missions for the squadron, so I won't be finished with the schedule until after the flight commanders' briefing in the morning."
"Flight commanders' briefing?"
"Get hold of the operations officer and tell him I'd like to see him ASAP, then tell the flight commanders we'll meet at oh-six-hundred hours here in my office."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks, Tiny." He finished unpacking.
Sergeant Hill came in and handed him the roster.
"Thanks, Sergeant." The roster was neatly done.
"Welcome to the squadron, sir."
"It's damned good to be here."
Fifteen minutes later, a grinning, boyish-looking lieutenant colonel pushed his head into the doorway. Johnny T. Polaski, the squadron operations officer. They had been stationed together in Germany, but Mack hadn't seen much of him since he'd gotten to Takhli three weeks before.
"Couldn't believe it when I heard you were taking over, Mack. Congratulations."
"Me, either. Hope I didn't move in your way."
