by Tom Wilson
General Luc reached into his opened attaché case, paused dramatically, then tossed two new epaulets across the table to Xuan Nha. "You are promoted to colonel. General Tho has already informed Thao Phong, for he also has been promoted."
Xuan was stunned. "Thank you," he muttered, finding it difficult to share in his superiors' fun.
General Luc nodded gravely. "You are a good and loyal soldier, Xuan Nha. You will be placed in charge of all rocket and radar-guided artillery forces, and report directly to me."
"Tiger of Dien Bien Phu," said Colonel Trung pleasantly.
"Fornicator of small animals," said Thao Phong.
Xuan Nha increasingly relished the moment, smiling at his previous fears and wondering how he might tell Li Binh.
General Luc explained that Thao Phong would move from the air regiment at Phuc Yen airfield to Hanoi, to coordinate between the Army of National Defense and the Army Air Force. He and Xuan Nha would work closely together.
General Luc looked evenly at the newly promoted colonels. "Some do not believe you will succeed. You will have to prove yourselves through results."
Xuan smiled, now inundated with happiness. "We shall, comrade General."
"You will get to build the fence of steel you have talked about," said Trung, irony in his tone. Trung had continually discouraged him. But of course, Trung would never comprehend electron tubes, or that rockets traveling three times faster than a rifle bullet could be precisely guided.
But there was more, and Xuan Nha was startled by General Luc's next words. "The Russians have agreed to immediately provide seventy more MiG's, fifty new rocket batteries, and additional tracking radars and artillery."
"With one hundred twenty interceptors," exulted Thao Phong, "we will sweep the Americans from the skies!"
"There will be a price to pay the Russians for all of this," said General Luc.
Xuan and Thao Phong grew quieter, allowing General Luc to continue.
"Slowly, the Russians are gaining influence. Already they are supplying more weapons than the Chinese, and now we find we must construct our military around their use." He arched an eyebrow. "Neither of your new positions would be required if there were no such sophisticated weapons. Colonel Dimetriev and Major Gregarian urged us to take this action to better control the weapons."
"The face of warfare is changing," explained Xuan Nha.
Colonel Trung scowled. "Perhaps, but in the end it will always be the courage of the men manning their guns that drives the Americans away."
Xuan Nha disagreed. "Victory will take the expertise of technicians and the judgment of rocket battalion commanders. I would trade a hundred of your mindless gunners for one trained electronics technician."
Trung seemed unhappy.
Phong embellished on Xuan's statement. "I would exchange a thousand soldiers for a MiG, a pilot, and a well-trained jet mechanic. Now we will have more MiG's, and nothing shall stop us. We will defeat the Yankee air pirates."
General Luc shook his head at the fighter pilot. "No one can really beat the Americans. Not even the Russians or the Chinese. We should never believe we can succeed with only force of arms. If the Americans threaten us with their nuclear bombs or missiles, invade with their army, or use B-52 bombers to destroy Hanoi and Haiphong rather than often-empty jungles in the south, the Russians and Chinese will withdraw, leaving us to negotiate for peace. We would not go back to the hills to fight again, for that would mean losing everything we've gained since 1954."
The others listened silently.
"If we win this struggle, it will not be from military heroism or technical ability. It will be because the American politicians never develop the desire to win. That is the task of our diplomats and politicians, to prevent the Americans from getting that desire.
"Your task is to protect Hanoi, which General Giap often points out has been our political center since the beginning of our history. You must protect our vital industries, which the Enlightened One points to the pride. You must protect our supply lines from Haiphong and China to Hanoi, and then to our soldiers fighting in the south. You have both said you could stop the American fighters if you had the proper weapons. Now you have them. Now it is your turn to show us those were not just words."
30/2010L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Bear Stewart
Mal Stewart sat dangling his legs off the side of the bed in the crowded little room. He wore hospital garb and was staring through new issue sunglasses, trying to get Doc Roddenbush to listen to his side of things.
Col B. J. Parker, the wing commander, was there. So were Colonel Mack and his ops officer, Johnny T. Polaski. They took turns congratulating him for escaping from North Vietnam and criticizing him for arguing with Doc Roddenbush.
"I don't feel bad," the Bear tried again.
"You admitted yourself you ingested a lot of smoke," said Roddenbush, who was both the flight surgeon assigned to the Bear's squadron and the major in charge of the clinic. "You probably ingested chemicals we can't even imagine. Imagine if we put you back on flying status and you had some kind of reaction when you were flying."
"I don't get to fly the fucking airplane much of the time, Doc. I'm in the backseat." He was growing irritated, frustrated that the doc refused to listen.
Roddenbush raised a hand. "Rules are the same for navigators."
Bear tried to set him straight. "I'm not a fuckin' navigator," he growled.
"You're not?" Roddenbush looked puzzled, glancing down at Stewart's records, which plainly said NAVIGATOR in the rating column.
"I'm a . . ."
Colonel Mack turned from a conversation with Parker and Polaski. "Quit giving him a hard time, Bear. Just plan on going to the Philippines like he says."
The Bear knew he had lost his argument.
Doc Roddenbush bobbed his head. "They've got facilities at Clark to give you a proper checkup. And," he smiled, "they have female nurses."
Takhli was an all-male environment, with no American servicewomen assigned to the wing. Male medical technicians did work usually assigned to nurses, and male administrators did work done elsewhere by secretaries.
"They've got female nurses at Danang now," said Colonel Mack.
"That's right," said Johnny T., grinning. He was the youngest and most brash button colonel on base. "The guys there ordered five hundred pounds of nurses, and the Air Force sent both of them."
The Bear tried one last time, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn't hear. "Doc, I'm not sick. I swallowed some smoke, but after I got on the ground up there my system went into a reject mode and got rid of it. They checked me over at Udorn and could hardly find a trace of the crud."
"You ought to go."
"Hell, I'll probably catch the killer clap or something there."
"We can cure anything you get. We've got antibiotics so good they can restore virginity." Roddenbush laughed.
Colonel Parker broke off his conversation with Mack and Johnny T. and came closer. He squinted an eye and pointed with his portable radio. "Do as Doc Roddenbush says." B. J. held the antenna directly at him, like the barrel of a pistol. "Anyway, you don't have a pilot."
"He probably doesn't think he needs a pilot," joked Johnny T. "Believe me, Bear, you need one."
"How about Benny Lewis," retorted the Bear. "He went through Weasel training. We could team up when he gets back." Benny Lewis had been sent to the Clark hospital for a thorough checkup of his back.
Polaski tried reason. "Then you should go to the Philippines and try to talk him into it. You guys crunched the last flyable Weasel bird so there's nothing for you to do here until we get new airplanes."
"You keep arguing," said B. J. Parker, "and I'll charge you for losing the airplane. How long would it take to pay off three million on captain's pay?"
Colonel Mack joined in. "You're better off quitting while you're ahead, Bear."
The argument was definitely lost. The Bear activated his optimistic side and decided it was
n't all that bad. He might even discover yet another fertile area to cultivate the joys of his bachelorhood. He turned to Parker.
"Sir?"
The wing commander leaned toward him. He'd flown fighters for a long time and was typically hard of hearing.
"How long before we get new Weasel airplanes?"
"Two weeks, maybe less," he said. "I forwarded a priority message to PACAF telling them it's essential to our state of combat readiness that we get replacement Weasel aircraft and crews. This morning I received a message that there are ten F-models being modified at McClellan Field. A couple will go to Korat, but we'll get the majority since we've taken the worst losses."
Sam Hall entered the room, towering over the others. "This the Bear's den?" he asked, an easy grin playing across his ebony features.
The Bear leaned forward and held out his hand. "Thanks for keeping the gomers occupied while they picked me up, Sam."
"Anytime, Bear," drawled Sam Hall, engulfing the Bear's hand in his huge one and shaking it. "We sort of enjoyed it."
Colonel Parker again pointed his radio and squinted one watery blue eye to regain the Bear's undivided attention. "I've got to go and check out a problem on the flight line, but I want one thing understood before I leave. You will go to Clark, just as the doctors say."
"Yes, sir," said the Bear.
"And you will enjoy yourself."
"Understood, sir."
The O' Club
An hour later most of the squadron—the Bear was restricted to the medical clinic—convened in the club. Four lieutenant colonels, Mack, Polaski, and the commanders of the two other fighter squadrons were playing liars dice. Quarters were stacked up before them on the bar while Jimmy the bartender watched and tried to worm himself into the game.
"Jimmy," deadpanned Colonel Mack, "you can't gamble, because everything you own already belongs to Bear Stewart."
"I don't remember," said Jimmy, looking sly.
They ignored him, continuing their game.
At the opposite end of the bar, the two surviving Wild Weasel crews were talking about how they were the last of the eight crews that had been flying from Takhli just three months earlier, and that there were no airplanes left for them to fly.
Andy Schumacher said he was having maintenance try to repair one of the badly damaged birds.
Les Ries, as the only remaining Weasel major, spoke with new authority. "There's too much battle damage, Andy. Let's wait for the ones they're preparing back in the States."
"The strike guys are having to fly with no Weasels to protect them," said Andy, "and I don't like it."
"Neither do I," said Les Ries, "but maintenance says there's probability of structural damage to both of those birds."
There couldn't have been more difference between men and styles than between the two Wild Weasel pilots.
Les Ries worried about the tiniest details. When he felt sure of something little in the world could change his mind, and Les felt sure about most things. With Glenn Phillips out of the picture, Les was the ranking Wild Weasel, and felt he should be listened to, even if Andy Schumacher was in a different squadron.
Andy was an easygoing and mellow sort who often wore a lopsided smile. While he was not out to challenge the world, he was very protective of the strike force when he flew. The pilots in his squadron liked him out there in front, trying to protect them from SAMs.
Andy said, "We've got maintenance working on my old bird, Les. If they can put it together, we'll take a look and see if it's worth taking the chance." He grinned his infectious, friendly expression.
"I don't like it," said Les Ries in his forceful tone. "You ought to wait."
On many of the Wild Weasel crews, the front- and backseaters came to reflect each other's attitudes and preferences. Dan Janssen, who was Ries's bear, was assertive and sure. Larry Stark, who was Schumacher's, was quiet and reflective.
Janssen was speaking authoritatively about a new Weasel system being installed in the new birds back in the States. "It'll be able to correlate between two of the SAM radar's signals to tell us exactly which SAM site is firing," he was saying. "You guys wait on the new birds, and you'll be better off than putting together an outdated trash pile and trying to make it fly like an airplane."
Nearby, Tiny Bechler wagged his forefinger, a glass of scotch hidden in the massive fist from which the finger projected. He had consumed more whiskey than normal and was providing advice on many subjects. Sam Hall sat on the adjacent barstool, listening halfheartedly and approaching his own limit for intelligent conversation.
Sam stood almost six-five and weighted in at 235. Tiny was an inch shorter, but carried more weight. Both barely fit in the ejection seat of the F-105.
"You're my flight commander, Sam. You're supposed to listen to me and give me guidance." Tiny finished the drink and motioned to Pak, the assistant bartender, for another. "I say you're prejudiced."
"And I say you're a screwed-up lieutenant."
"You say you're not prejudiced against anyone?" Tiny asked slyly. "How about navigators? I'll damn well bet you're prejudiced against navigators."
"Bullshit."
"Would you want your sister to marry a navigator? C'mon now, Sam. A fat-ass navigator with glasses an inch thick, carrying a plotter and a big briefcase to his bomber every morning with egg dribbling down the front of his flight suit?"
"My sister's already married," Sam hedged, "to a farmer back in Alabama."
Two pilots from the pig squadron began to scuffle, yelling and creating such noise that Sam had to raise his voice to be heard. The 354th squadron commander looked up from his dice to see if his men were about to hurt one another. They were just being playful, so he returned to his game.
"So what are you getting at?" asked Sam.
Tiny Bechler stared at the clean glasses Jimmy and Pak had placed in neat rows on the long, narrow glass shelves. "I thought all navigators were a bunch of fat-asses, with no common sense or coordination. Then I got to know Mal Stewart, who's okay. He's ready to fight and die just about as well as we are."
Hall shook his head. "Bears go to navigator school, and then through some kind of electronics training. Anyway, the Bear volunteered for Weasels, knowing he'd be sent here and probably get shot down."
"That does take balls." Tiny thought about it and took a drink. "But how the hell would I keep up my image if I started liking navigators?"
"Before this thing's over, you'll respect a lot more people. Bomber pilots, trash haulers, chopper pilots. War's like that."
"Bomber pukes?"
"They start bombing up in pack six, and that may be what it's gonna take to win this thing, you'll be saying they're great guys. Then when peace comes, there'll start up a whole new set of prejudices."
Tiny shook his head in wonder to think he could ever respect people like that.
The two pilots from the pig squadron had reconciled their differences and waved for everyone to join in a song. The button colonels delayed their dice game and chimed in to sing "The Camel Song." Sam joined them.
Oh, the sexual life of the camel,
Is stranger than anyone thinks,
For in times of amorous passion,
He tries to make love to the sphinx.
Tiny sang along in his booming, pleasant bass.
Singing—toora lie, toora lie, toora lie
toora lie, toora lie—Ayyy!
And after a week on the desert,
He makes a mad dash for the sphinx
But—the—sphinx's posterior orifice,
Is clogged with the sands of the Nile,
Which accounts for the hump on the camel,
And—the sphinx's inscrutable smile!
The men cheered. Sam ordered drinks for himself and Tiny.
"Think Phillips is still alive?" Tiny asked.
"You're just full of hard questions," said Sam.
"If I got shot down, I don't think I'd let 'em take me alive. Hell, who knows if those guys'll e
ver be released?
Sam stared for a moment before he spoke. "You know who the last guy was who told me the same thing you just did? Glenn Phillips." Sam shook his head. "You get shot down, you don't know what you'll do."
CHAPTER SIX
Friday, December 2nd—1240 Local, People's Army HQ, Hanoi, DRV
Nicolaj Gregarian
Immediately upon his return from the mountains that morning Nicolaj had demanded that Polkovnik Dimetriev immediately arrange a meeting with senior North Vietnamese military officers. "Those who can make decisions," he had said.
When Anton Dimetriev had waffled, he'd said he would bring the matter to the attention of his general at PVO Strany; the chief Soviet adviser knew that Gregarian had influence there. The meeting had been arranged.
As the time for the meeting approached Gregarian became increasingly resolute.
Following his humiliation and close brush with death during the bombing, he had found purpose as never before. He hated the Americans, all Americans, with a newfound fervor.
As a child Nicolaj had been taught about the West's betrayal of their people. How they were decadent, tempting their workers with big homes and automobiles that in reality were available only to the rich. How these capitalists wished to expand their dominance until the entire world was their marketplace. How they were ruthless, not hesitating to use atomic weapons on their enemy in 1945.
He'd seen photographs of Appalachia and of Detroit slums. He'd read stories of the gangster bosses who ruled their cities, about the Mafia that ruled the bosses. He knew that they exploited black people and American Indians. The people cried out for justice, and Washington gave them oppression. Those things had impressed Nicolaj as a boy, but as he had matured he had steeped himself in technical studies and had become so interested in them that political dogma began to bore him.
He'd come to realize the hatred directed at the decadent westerners was mostly propaganda to keep the masses from getting excited about shortages of food and goods at the state stores. It wasn't that he didn't believe the photographs and proof offered by the political indoctrination officers; he just felt that it was overdone. He wasn't interested as long as the Americans and British and Western Europeans were kept away from the Mother Country. His rocket systems helped do that. He was a patriot, but he simply wasn't very excited about the rest of it.
