by Tom Wilson
"Not at all. I just made button colonel, and anyway, I'd much rather spend some time learning from a pro before I get my shot at it. Good to have you aboard, sir."
"Grab a beer and let's go over the squadron roster so you can let me know what the hell I've inherited here."
"I just happen to have brought one." Johnny T. took a drink from a fresh Coors bottle, then dragged up a chair and leaned over the desk, trying to read the roster upside down.
Mack surveyed the list.
"I know some of the people, but I haven't had the chance to see any of them in combat except Sam Hall, and that was a hundred years ago when we were flying F-84's in Korea."
"Sam's doing a fine job. Probably the best flight commander in the entire wing. He's a damned good leader of men."
"Always was. How are the other flight commanders?"
"Tops. Mike Ralston just came here after upgrading out of F-102's, but he'll be solid once he gets some stick time flying the Thud and a few combat missions behind him. Pete Crawford is a superb pilot and a good leader, and Swede Swendler is nearly as good. A couple weeks back, Swendler was put in for a Silver Star, and Seventh Air Force was so impressed with the write-up they're upgrading it to an Air Force Cross."
"What did he do?"
"He was leading a flight on a strike up near Hanoi, and three out of the four aircraft were shot all to hell by antiaircraft fire, including Swede's bird. He was nursemaiding the group back toward the border when two MiG's jumped them. Swede sent his flock on ahead, then did a hard turn and started to kick ass. Shot down one MiG and damaged the other one."
Mack was impressed. He looked at the list again. "How about the rest of the men?"
"Remember Benny Lewis from Spangdahlem, Germany? Benny has developed into one hell of a stick-and-rudder man. Next best would probably be Mike Murphy, but Jimbo Smith and Toki Takahara are also damned good. You're getting a good bunch of captains, Mack."
Mack rubbed his chin. "I just talked with a guy named Maisey. I wasn't impressed. I hadn't been here five minutes and he was already brownnosing for a job."
"Ken just got here himself. He's a naval academy grad, so he can't be all bad."
Johnny T. was also an Annapolis graduate, and Canoe-U grads stuck together. He continued. "I don't know what kind of stick he flies, but he's gung ho and trying to take on extra work."
"Let's put that on hold and give him the chance to learn about flying combat, okay?"
"You're the boss."
"I see Glenn Phillips is here."
"He's the best Wild Weasel pilot in the wing. You been here long enough to learn much about the Weasels?"
"A little. Supposed to keep the SAMs off our backs. I've flown ten missions with the other squadrons, and on all but four of them all the Weasel birds were either shot up or broke so we didn't have them along."
"You mean the one good airplane they've got left. The rest were either lost or so heavily damaged we can't put them back together. They've taken heavy losses. Down to one Weasel crew per squadron, with one good Weasel bird so they take turns flying."
Mack was reading the roster. "I see we've got two guys attached to the squadron for flying purposes."
"The wing commander and the wing weapons officer, a guy named Max Foley. Max has a good reputation. Colonel Parker's okay too, as long as you treat him like he's the world's greatest war hero and combat leader."
Mack grinned. "B. J.'s got sound judgment. He made me squadron commander, didn't he?"
"B. J. doesn't like being called B. J."
"I heard." Mack drained the last of his beer and suppressed a belch. It tasted as good as he felt.
"It's no picnic here, Mack, but I believe we're about to get things under control."
"Think so?"
"By themselves, the MiG's aren't bad, and neither are the guns. It's when you mix the two it starts making you nervous. When you add surface-to-air missiles that come up at you like striped-ass apes, it gets damned concerning. But we're getting a handle on things. You keep jinking and moving and the flak won't get you. You keep your eyes out, and your wits about you and you can handle the MiG's. SAMs are tough, but now we've got warning equipment that tells us when they've launched, and if you get a good visual on the SAMs in time, you can dodge them."
"You guys had a bad mission yesterday. What happened?"
"Yesterday should have been an easy counter towards the magic one hundred, but it just went sour. Sometimes it's like that, the easy ones are tough and the tough ones are easy."
Col B. J. Parker stuck his head in the door. "You two all that's here?"
Both men jumped to their feet.
"At ease." Parker spoke into his hand-held radio to tell the command post he'd be at the 357th squadron for a bit, then took a chair and leaned back.
B. J. was a short, plump man, with curly black hair and watery blue eyes. He was driven by ambition, and many who worked for him disliked him, for he was not charismatic and he did not easily generate admiration. But he was known to have a knack for picking the right men for the job, then generally staying out of their hair. The formula worked; they made him look good and he ran an effective wing. Mack felt he could work with him.
"You feel easy with the job, Mack?" the wing commander asked.
"Yes, sir. I was getting a rundown on the men from Colonel Polaski."
"I'll be brief, so you can get on with more important things, but I thought I'd better drop by and give you my standard spiel about what I expect out of my commanders."
Mack had received the briefing when he'd arrived to take over the command post, but B. J. had likely forgotten.
"I don't want you to forget that our purpose is to take as much of the load as possible off our ground forces in South Vietnam. We're not trying to win any kind of unconditional surrenders, like in World War Two. We wanted to do that, we'd nuke the bastards. We've got a limited war, with two primary objectives like we had in Korea.
"First, we're trying to put sufficient pressure on the North Vietnamese so they'll get the hell out of South Vietnam and give democracy a chance there. If nothing else, so long as we're bombing in their mother country, a lot of North Vietnamese have to remain up there to defend it and can't be down south making trouble. Second, we're trying to cut off the flow of supplies they're shipping south. It's damned difficult to conduct an interdiction campaign, considering all the restraints we have to operate under, but I expect you and your men to follow the rules. Understand?"
Mack nodded.
"There aren't many units doing the job. Nothing like the numbers we had in World War Two or even Korea. There's just Takhli and Korat flying F-105's, the guys at Ubon and Da Nang flying F-4's, and the Navy flying A-6's. Here at the 355th, we get more pack six missions than any of the others. Headquarters knows they can rely on us for the toughest missions, and they give them to us. We've got more bombs on target and more MiG kills than anyone else, and let's keep it that way."
"We'll do our part, Colonel."
B. J. Parker started down the home stretch of the briefing. "Mack, I command more than four thousand men. We have a detachment of KC-135 tankers and another of EB-66 aircraft. The Navy, the U.S. merchant marine fleet, Military Airlift Command, and a fleet of trucks carry hundreds of tons of fuel, weapons, and supplies here each week. Our country is paying millions of dollars for the right to maintain this base. All of that is for one reason, and that is so your men can put bombs on the target. I expect you to give them the proper guidance to do that." B. J. then told him he expected him to attend the Monday morning staff meetings, turn in reports and paperwork on time, keep his men in line, and always remember that he was there if Mack needed him.
"I'll remember."
B. J. got to his feet, done with his speech. The men stood also. He radioed the command post to tell them he was en route to his quarters, then excused himself and left.
Johnny T. heard the outer door close and shook his head slowly. "That's the third time I've heard it. I
sort of favor the part about the merchant marines and the truck drivers."
"Poor overworked bastards. Let's head over to the officer's club for some dinner."
CHAPTER TWO
Sunday, November 27th—0700 Local, Takhli Royal Thai Air Force Base, Thailand
Benny Lewis
The crudely constructed hootches were lined up behind the officer's club. Hootches for the pilots of the dragon squadron, the rocket squadron, and the pig squadron. Hootches for the EB-66 and KC-135 crews. Hootches for support officers.
They were long, wooden buildings. Inside each the tropical heat and red-brown dust was stirred by noisy fans on stands. Wooden shutters were propped open on the long sides of the hootches, and framed screens were fitted to the doors and windows in vain attempts to keep out assorted flying, crawling, and burrowing jungle insects. Twenty bunks to a hootch. Each two bunks arranged in a neat, eight-by-ten area separated from the next by freestanding metal lockers. Each hootch was guarded at night by a Thai soldier—for theft by the civilians working on base was common—and was kept clean by a hootch-boy. Most of the guards slept soundly at night. Most of the hootch boys were older than the officers who lived there.
The hootches had no running water. Showers and sanitary facilities were contained in other buildings behind them, one for each three hootches. Boardwalks of rough-hewn two-by-sixes ran along the backs of the hootches to the shower buildings. A long boardwalk ran along the front of the hootches, right to the club, where the men ate, drank, and socialized, and left to the flight line, where most of them worked. Networks of ditches ran alongside and underneath the boardwalks and wandered off in odd directions to carry torrents of monsoon rainwater away to canals the Thais called klongs.
Captain Benny Lewis ambled in the direction of the club, yawning lazily in the heat. His light complexion had grown a bronzed hue, and his blond hair was bleached by the merciless Thai sun. He had a pleasant, yet alert and confident air, and although he was not tall, was built as solid as a fireplug, with broad shoulders and a thick chest tapering to a narrow waist. He worked to stay in good condition; it also helped with his g-tolerance when he flew.
It had been a sleep-in morning with nothing scheduled, and he felt no remorse for lazing about the hootch until seven. There was plenty of time to eat breakfast, wander through the on-base Thai market, then figure something out for the afternoon. Days off were rare. More often some duty or other was assigned on nonflying days.
It was time to write his weekly letter. It had been a month since his last letter from home, but that was understandable: Bets had the kids to keep her busy. He composed his letter in his head. He mentioned the hot, humid weather, the interesting Thai marketplaces, the inexpensive black star sapphires and gold bracelets, the friendliness of the Thai people, and how it would be nice for them to visit Thailand together when the war was over. He added that he missed her and the kids and to take special care of yourself. Finally, he added footnotes for their four-year-old son, things like you're the man of the family until I get back, and for their two-year-old daughter, you're getting to be a big girl—watch out for those kindergarten fighter pilots—Ha! Ha! His letters were all about the same. He could write one, make a dozen copies, and send them out weekly.
Still, a warm feeling overcame him at the thought of his family.
Max Foley stepped out from the doorway of his trailer into the brilliant light, shading his eyes with both hands. He was a major, and field-grade officers lived in trailers rather than the hootches. Max, a skinny and angular man, fumbled to pull on a pair of wraparound, nonissue sunglasses then perched his blue cunt-cap squarely on his head. Max Foley was known for his quick, analytic mind, but this morning he was less than alert.
Benny high-balled a quick salute and smiled. "Breakfast?"
"Yeah." The sound emerged as a forced croak. Foley's face was so cut up from his morning shave he looked like he'd lost a fight with an angry lawn mower. Benny had been at Takhli longer and was better acclimated. He could drink and socialize until one in the morning, sleep, then get up at four-thirty, brief at four-forty-five, and be sufficiently alert to fly at six-fifteen. He was amazed at the amount of pickling and general abuse a human body could not only endure, but adapt to.
The two were silent as they plodded down the boardwalk, zippers of their flight suits pulled down to mid-chest to capture any slight wisp of breeze, losing the battle as sweat soaked the fabric at their armpits and crotches and ran down their chests and backs.
Benny wore a gray go-to-hell hat, the Aussie bush hat adopted by the fighter jocks in Southeast Asia, low on his forehead to shadow the sunlight. Both sides of the brim were snapped up into position. Captain's bars were pinned onto the front of the hat's crown, and hash marks were carefully penned on its right side to show the numbers of missions he'd flown over North Vietnam. About half were in red ink, reminders of the times he had flown across the Red River into pack six, the most heavily defended area on earth. Intelligence said there were more hostile SAMs, guns, and MiG's there than in any other area of equivalent size—anywhere.
They rounded the corner of the O' Club in time to watch Tiny Bechler park the dragon squadron's crew van near the front door. Tiny crawled out, shoving on the sliding door that squealed in protest as it moved along its rusty track. He shoved again, harder, and the door closed with a crash. "Damn thing's falling apart," he complained. That was Tiny's way. He bitched and put on a mean air that the other pilots generally ignored.
"You treat it like shit," said Benny congenially. "That's why it's falling apart." Max was still wincing in pain from the screeching sound of the door.
Tiny glared, mostly to project his asshole image, but his salute was crisp and proper. Benny and Max returned it, and the three entered the large dining room. A dozen men were eating breakfast, talking, and reading their Bangkok World and Stars & Stripes newspapers. The Bangkok papers were plump and had colored banners, so it must be Sunday. It was easy to lose track of such things. Tiny Bechler bought one at the counter and they proceeded to a table.
No Hab, the waitress, brought coffee and menus and hovered cheerfully at table-side for their orders. They surveyed the menu selections as if it mattered.
"Orange juice!" croaked Max.
No Hab looked intently at her pad and wrote furiously. She chewed gum and generally did a great imitation of the waitresses she had seen in vintage American movies.
Max smiled through his hangover fog. "And bacon and eggs."
"No hab bacon," she replied.
"Hash," he said.
"No hab hash."
"Ham."
"No hab ham."
"Shit!" Foley exclaimed.
"Hab," she joked.
"Sausage," he tried.
"No hab."
"Fuck," he exclaimed. "What do you have?"
No Hab giggled.
"Steak?"
"Chicken flied steak?"
"Yeah," he said in quiet triumph.
"No hab."
"S-O-S?" he tried.
"Hab S-O-S!" She scribbled and smiled, delighted.
The all ordered S-O-S, eggs and fried rice. Benny pulled the comics from Tiny's newspaper and started reading "Blondie."
Tiny lit a Camel and mused. He'd been quieter than usual lately, since the Yen Bai debacle. "You on the afternoon go, Major Foley?"
Foley grimaced. "No. I'm supervisor of flying this afternoon." SOF duty was assigned to field-grade officers, who would maintain a general vigil over the flying operation for the deputy commander for operations and wing commander.
Tiny's Camel torched and sizzled, emitting a sulfuric aroma. He stared at the foul-smelling cigarette with a secretive look that showed he knew something. "You're flying, Captain Lewis."
Benny pried his attention from Dagwood's antics and looked up. "I thought I was off."
"Colonel Mack called all the flight commanders into his office at oh-six-hundred and changed the afternoon schedule around. You're leading Falco
n flight on the afternoon go."
"I'll be damned." Benny thought for a moment. "How about Mike Ralston?" Ralston was new to the airplane and was considered somewhat of a ham-fisted pilot, but he was also a senior major, B-Flight commander, and Benny's immediate boss.
"You've replaced him on the schedule. Colonel Mack says rank doesn't make a damn when his people's asses are on the line."
"That is different," Benny said. As befit their rank and position, flight commanders normally led in the air as they did on the ground. The change could prove embarrassing.
Like most flying units, Takhli flew in a formation called the fluid four. There were "elements" of two aircraft, with two elements making up each four-ship flight. The flight leader and his wingman were the lead element. Number three was leader of the second element, and four was his wingman. Flight lead always flew in front, with his wingman flying on one side and the second element on the other. That way the leader could concern himself about managing the flight while the rest of the pilots kept a good lookout.
Senior pilots led both elements. The wingmen positions were filled by lower-ranking officers with less experience, such as Tiny Bechler, so they could learn the discipline and gain the experience they'd need to lead in the future.
"What do you think of your new squadron commander?" Max asked. Word had spread quickly.
"We were stationed together in Germany," Benny answered. "Colonel Mack's a good leader with a lot of fighter experience."
Lt Tiny Bechler was not noted for his subservience. He stabbed a forefinger toward Max Foley, who had pinned on major's leaves the month before. "I've been told he flies a good stick and he takes care of his people. Some of the guys weren't pulling their weight, just because they had the rank, and now they're gonna have to. Like Ralston."
Max grimaced with the pain of his hangover. "Major Ralston to you, Tiny. You've gotta learn to show respect."
"Fuck off." Tiny grinned to show he wasn't serious.
Benny regarded Tiny. "Mike Ralston is still learning the F-105 and some of the finer arts of flying and surviving in high-threat areas. Which, I may add, isn't all that easy."
