by Tom Wilson
"Let's get rid of the tanks, Kingfish." He jettisoned the external fuel tanks hanging beneath his inboard pylons. The aircraft was cleaned up for battle, without drag resistance from fuel tanks or bombs.
"Watch out for the second MiG, Kingfish lead," advised Colonel Mack.
"Eagle lead is off the target. Let's join up over the ridge west of the target, Eagles."
Benny was turning to keep the MiG at his eleven o'clock position. "Get up on the right wing, Kingfish two. I want a good lookout. Watch our rear quadrant."
"Roger, lead."
"Kingfish four," Benny called, "keep a good visual on our three to six o'clock, and don't let the second MiG sneak up from down low."
"Four!" came the immediate response.
"Kingfish, let's go into burner for a count of five." Benny held his throttle outboard until the afterburner kicked in. After five seconds of boost he pulled the throttle out of the A/B detent, his eyes fixed on the MiG-17. He scanned the sky momentarily, then glued back onto the MiG.
Benny keyed the radio. "Kingfish two, four? Still with me?"
Two.
"Four."
He was closing on an intercept point with the MiG. The radar refused to show range-to-target, and the MiG was beginning to jink and dive to add to the tracking problem. He judged the distance to be 4,000 feet and slowly closing. He continued on the intercept path.
"Lead, Kingfish four. I've got a visual on the second MiG. He's at four o'clock, coming in."
"Range?" asked Benny, holding his course.
"Five or six thousand feet and closing."
"Keep him in view. Tell me if you see a missile flash."
"I'd like to engage him, lead."
"Negative. Go burner, Kingfish."
He pointed the Thud directly at the MiG's position, then checked that the radar was on and caged at boresight to get accurate range for the attack. He was in burner again and the MiG loomed closer. He got his range readout: 1,200 feet and closing.
His range bar read 800 feet when he depressed the trigger and heard the gun growl. He led a bit at first, then walked the firehose of 20mm rounds down the length of the fuselage. The MiG shed chunks. A flash at the left-wing root of the MiG. A belch of smoke, then fire engulfed the aft fuselage of the silver aircraft. Benny pressed the trigger to a half-detent so the gun camera would capture the kill on film. Closing too fast! He swung up and left, then reversed back to watch.
The MiG pilot bailed out; his chute opened before the silver plane nosed over into its final dive. Benny felt a rush of exultation as he came out of afterburner. He searched the sky for a moment before getting a position on his two wingmen, several hundred feet back on either side.
"You still got the other MiG in sight, Kingfish four?"
"Roger, lead. He dropped back when we went into burner. He's at four o'clock, about two miles out now, turning east."
"You've got the lead, four." Kingfish four, a lieutenant who had never led a flight in peacetime—and certainly never in combat—turned hard to his right. It was Benny's practice to place the pilot with the best visual sighting into the lead during the initial maneuvering. He'd take lead back once they were established on the attack.
Benny's aircraft yawed violently, crabbing sideways through the sky. He fought the stick, kicking and holding in right rudder to ease the yaw. He remembered feeling the jolt over the target. The Thud was tough, and when the gauges had shown nothing amiss, he had thought it inconsequential. In the excitement of the MiG chase he had forgotten about being hit. His airspeed began to slacken, even though the throttle was forward. The other two aircraft were pulling ahead.
"This is Kingfish lead. Four, continue your attack. Two, drop back and check me over. I've got a problem."
Kingfish two throttled back, making a wide S-turn to bleed off airspeed. He finally settled into position off Benny's right wing, then slowly maneuvered around the Thud to examine it for battle damage.
The lieutenant was beneath Benny's fuselage when he made his assessment. "You've got some pretty hairy damage to your left wing, lead."
"What the hell do you mean by hairy?" Benny exploded, then calmed himself. "Be more specific, Kingfish two."
"There's a hole the size of a basketball completely through the wing, and part of your landing gear's blown away. The landing gear strut has, uh, wedged down through the mess. About four feet of bent metal from the underside of the wing has slipped down around the strut. It's like a speed brake."
"Yeah," Benny said. "I can feel it in the controls. The airplane's yawing like a bastard."
"I don't see fluid or anything coming out."
"Good. Now check my fuselage."
After a pause, "Looks okay."
"What's your fuel status, two?"
Kingfish two pulled farther away from Benny to total his fuel. "I've got more than forty-eight hundred pounds, Kingfish lead."
Benny had 4,200 pounds. He was in far worse shape, however, because of the drag of the metal hanging under the wing. He would continue to use fuel at a high rate, couldn't accelerate, and would be unable to maneuver due to the damaged aileron. His wingman could fly for fifty minutes or so, long enough to reach the tankers. Benny could only guess, but felt he probably had twenty minutes of fuel . . . or less.
He searched the sky ahead and tracked the flight path of Kingfish four, then saw a glint in the distance. The MiG-17 was still well out of range.
"Kingfish four, break off your pursuit. We're Bingo fuel. What's your fuel status?"
"I've got forty-six hundred pounds, Kingfish lead. Request permission for one pass on the MiG."
"Negative. Break it off. We're back at your five o'clock in a right turn. Let's get out of here."
"Roger, lead." Kingfish four sounded discouraged at being deprived of his kill.
Benny set up on a due westerly course, then carefully throttled back to 390 knots to conserve fuel. He held the rudder to the right and continued to fight the control stick. The ailerons would move only in jerks and spasms.
He reviewed his dilemma. Out over the badlands with a badly wounded bird and not enough fuel to make it to a tanker. He would have to bail out, and there was little chance of rescue unless he made it back past the Red River so helicopters would be able to reach him.
How far past the Red?
Forty miles, he quickly decided. Make it back forty miles or more beyond the Red River and find an unpopulated area. How far was he from the Red?
He fumbled with the map of his kneeboard, put his finger on the dog pecker, and switched his Doppler navigation system to the coordinates. It read 327 nautical miles. Damn! The navigation system was terrible in the best of times and was now grossly in error.
He peered at the map and estimated the Red River crossing to be fifty nautical miles away. That would take him seven or eight minutes.
Kingfish four was joining on his right wing.
"Kingfish lead, Falcon," Colonel Mack radioed. "Sounds like you've got a problem."
Benny relaxed a bit at the sound of MacLendon's steady voice. "My left wing's torn up, Falcon lead, creating a lot of drag. I'm using a lot of fuel."
"What's your fuel state?" asked Colonel Mack.
"Three thousand pounds and dropping fast."
The radio erupted with sound. "THIS IS BIG EYE. BUSHMAN AT ALPHA GOLF TWO! I REPEAT. BUSHMAN AT ALPHA GOLF TWO!"
Big Eye was an EC-121 aircraft with a powerful airborne radar and eavesdropping receivers. Bushman was today's codename for MiG's. Benny checked out the A-G-2 coordinates on his map. The MiG's were flying in the same general area as Kingfish.
"Kingfish, be on the lookout for MiG's," Benny called. "Keep your eyes open."
Think positive, he told himself. Better MiG's than SAMs. He knew he couldn't evade a surface-to-air missile with the wounded Thud, but logic told him the North Vietnamese wouldn't likely fly SAMs into the same area as the MiG's. And if MiG's showed up, the two lieutenants would keep them sufficiently occupied for him
to get away.
"Kingfish lead, Falcon lead," called Colonel Mack. "We're setting up for Res-CAP in case you need it. Two flights will continue outbound to refuel, and I'II hold for you with the other two flights at the dog pecker. I've alerted Red Crown to get rescue on the way."
"Roger, Hawk lead." Benny was starting to fight the controls.
The three F-105's of Kingfish flight crossed Thud Ridge at 11,000 feet. He checked his fuel status and felt alarm. He was down to 2,600 pounds.
"Come on, you bitch." Benny's right leg trembled from the exertion of constantly holding the rudder.
Kingfish two and four were a few hundred feet off each wing, jinking and turning and looking for the MiG's called by Big Eye. Benny computed again and began to feel more confident that he could make it to a safe area before running out of fuel.
As they crossed a stream called the Lo, halfway between Thud Ridge and the Red River, his altitude had dropped to 8,000 feet.
No MiG's so far, and no SAMs.
"Thank you, God," Benny whispered just before his radar warning equipment sounded. A two-ring Firecan, triple-A radar.
Three miles ahead muzzle flashes blinked from twenty or more gun positions placed about a small, man-made knoll, but he was unable to jink or maneuver due to the limited amount of control he had over the aircraft. Scattered groups of flak bursts began to walk across the sky, searching for the flight.
"Keep it moving around, Kingfish," he called for the benefit of the other two aircraft.
His altitude was 7,500 feet. Too low, but it would take too much fuel to climb higher.
They were approaching the Red River when a pattern of flak bursts exploded directly in his path, then just off his left wing. The aircraft lurched and shuddered violently. He fought the stick and rudders to remain upright, but by the time he brought it under control he was down to 6,000 feet.
"This is Kingfish lead. I just took another hit," Benny radioed, his voice shaking slightly.
More flak bursts, concentrating on him now that they had found his altitude and track. He pushed the throttle forward, fighting the controls to remain upright and on course.
"Kingfish lead, you are trailing smoke." He recognized Kingfish four's voice.
As they crossed the Red River, smoke began to trickle into the cockpit. Benny switched to one hundred percent oxygen.
"Kingfish two has bogeys at our ten o'clock!"
"I believe you're looking at us, Kingfish." It was Colonel Mack. "Falcon has you in sight. We'll be joining up."
Across the Red River the elevation of the terrain began to rise rapidly. Benny was forced to push in more throttle yet, using precious fuel in an attempt to climb as he approached a ridgeline.
"Kingfish lead, you're on fire. You've got flames at the rear of your fuselage. It doesn't look too bad yet, but it's growing."
"Kingfish, Falcon is a mile out and closing." Colonel Mack paused. "Get prepared to step out of that thing, Kingfish lead. Don't press it much longer."
The smoke was black, roiling about his feet and slowly rising, making it difficult to see the flight instruments.
"Kingfish lead, see if you can . . ." The radio went dead. Benny tried to transmit but heard no audio feedback indicating the radio was functioning.
Smoke was thick in the cockpit, stinging his eyes, making vision impossible. Benny reached down with his left hand to the handle at the side of his seat, found it, and sharply rotated it upward. The canopy was blown away, clearing the smoke.
He blinked his eyes rapidly to regain his vision and could see the green of a mountainside in his flight path. He pushed the throttle full forward and pulled on the stick. The dying F-105 skimmed over the mountain crest just yards above the treetops. Benny held the stick back and remained in full throttle, his eyes on the next mountainside, less than three miles distant.
His feet were hot on the rudder pedals; something was burning brightly down there.
"Hang on, damn you! Hang on a while longer!" he yelled to the airplane, which sluggishly began a slow climb.
The Thud was still climbing when the stick and rudder pedals were suddenly no longer connected to their control surfaces. The aircraft immediately went into a left roll.
The Thud continued to climb in a crazy pattern, the engine still roaring with life. He waited, the fire at his feet more intense, his boots so hot the nylon fabric was scorching. The world revolved as the aircraft continued its slow roll.
Benny waited out one more revolution. Then the big fighter started to pitch over. It was no longer flying when he pulled the ejection lever.
The others watched as Benny Lewis's ejection seat blasted from the F-105 by explosive charges under the seat. Lewis's arms and legs flailed in the airstream. Too often, ejection from the Thunderchief caused a compression fracture of the lower back due to the violence of the ejection explosion. They hoped his back and limbs were okay.
Even before Benny's parachute was fully opened, the burning F-105 began to come apart, falling to the earth in smouldering chunks.
"Weeep, weeep, weeep . . ."
They circled, eyes pinned on Lewis, watching intently until they thought they saw him move in the parachute, raise his arms to grip the risers, and pull himself upward.
"Weeep, weeep."
The beeper was shut off. Benny Lewis was alive.
27/1445L—Near Bac Ninh, DRV
Xuan Nha
Tran Van Ngo knew he had done well and that Tiger would receive credit for destroying yet another enemy fighter. It was his thirteenth in the months since taking command of the battalion. Xuan watched as Tran reached out from the engagement commander's seat, activating the switch to sound the all clear siren. A steady, wailing sound flooded through the van, crowded with both people and electronic equipment.
The van was constructed to accommodate the four personnel required for command van operations: the azimuth and elevation radar operators, the rocket control officer, and the range correlator, who was also engagement commander. Today Xuan Nha, Nicolaj Gregarian, and Lt Quang Hanh were also crowded inside, making the van tight-quartered and hot.
Maj Tran Van Ngo, commander of Tiger battalion, never allowed anyone else into the commander's seat when he was at either of his two firing batteries. Xuan Nha had done the same when he had been commander, yet a twinge of irritation passed over him as he noted the ease with which Tran Van Ngo handled his position.
The 23rd Rocket Battalion was assigned the code name Tiger in honor of the Tiger of Dien Bien Phu. Under Xuan Nha, the 23rd had been the first to shoot down an American aircraft in the war. Xuan wore the Red Star of Gallantry for leading them as they destroyed six aircraft in a single month. He had served as the first commander of Tiger Battalion; it was very special to him.
He longed to return to Tiger and destroy enemy aircraft with this wonderful, complex weapons system. He was the best. Better than Tran Van Ngo, better than Nicolaj Gregarian. Better because he possessed the four secrets of military success: intelligence, persistence, bravery, and ruthlessness. Few military men possessed all four characteristics in that perfect blend. Xuan Nha existed in harmony with his profession as a technical warrior.
His greatest weakness was his penchant for esteem. He gloried in the name Tiger of Dien Bien Phu, and in the respect that glowed from the eyes of superiors and subordinates.
The field phone rattled. Lieutenant Hanh, his baby face gleaming with perspiration, quickly answered, for Xuan Nha was awaiting Major Nguy's report from headquarters.
"It is the report, comrade Colonel."
Xuan took the radio-telephone as the others went outside to escape the unbearable heat. He spoke with Major Nguy for a few minutes before hanging up, face impassive.
He joined the men outside, where they waited in the shade of a sprawling banyan tree. They were impatient to hear how it had gone. Others were gathering: radar and communications technicians, rocket specialists, drivers from the transportation platoon, siting engineers, even the cooks and l
aborers. They were filthy in their stained field uniforms and smelled of grease, dirt, sweat, smoke, dust, and even rocket fuel. Xuan remembered the odors with nostalgia.
He needed no notes, for his memory was excellent, and he spoke in a low, even voice so the men had to crowd close and listen attentively. "Five, perhaps six aircraft were shot down. Three in the first attack, three in the second."
"Ha!" exclaimed several of the men. A rocket loader laughed exultantly. It was one of the finest days in memory.
"Artillery claims two positive kills and another probable one, seen descending and trailing smoke as it departed to the west. If their reports are accurate, the artillery company at Tuyen Quang shot down two American attackers."
"If!" cried out the exuberant one. There was competition between the artillery and rocket battery troops, who held that the guns could be operated by simpletons.
"One rocket kill in the first attack. Yours here at Tiger one, of course."
A swell of cheers.
"Happiness two battery destroyed an aircraft in the second attack."
Silence. The mobile battalions believed that the men assigned to the permanent sites around Hanoi were soft. They ridiculed their clean barracks, impeccable uniforms, and often-painted and polished systems. The men of the batteries of Tiger battalion were the proudest of them all; but perhaps also the most unkempt.
"Lieutenant Colonel Thao Phong is claiming a kill for his interceptors, but as we all know, fighter pilots lie."
There were laughs and wide grins.
Xuan's voice rose in volume. "But . . ." The men quickly grew silent, for Xuan Nha was sometimes unpredictable with his moods.
He dropped his voice again. "There was severe damage to the Yen Vien rail yards, where more than fifty carloads of weapons and supplies were located."
The boxcars had been waiting their turn to be hauled into the safety of Hanoi, presently glutted with Chinese and Soviet arms shipments.
The men waited pensively for Colonel Nha's verdict.
"First reports are that seventy artillery men and railroad personnel were killed in the attack. The reports are still arriving at headquarters from Yen Vien, and the final numbers will be much higher.
