by Tom Wilson
"But sir?"
"You're dismissed, Major."
When Ries had left, B. J. tried to turn his attention to the funds allocation message.
It was strange, he thought, that so much was being done for morale and living conditions, but that so many pilots' lives could be squandered because of the lousy restrictions. But what could be done? In the course of his career, B. J. had seen the men who tried to fight the dragons in the system. The system always won—it had to win or the system itself would be threatened. He was no dragon-fighter. If he raised his voice he would be replaced in a heartbeat, and who the hell would listen to a washed-up colonel?
B. J. rose quickly, for he had to get out and clear his mind of rebellious thoughts. He went to the outer office and got his hat. "I'll be at the command post," he told the sergeant.
"Base commander at ten-hundred, sir," the sergeant reminded him.
"I'll remember," he said.
B. J. went outside and stood, letting the intense heat wash over him. His radio crackled. The first aircraft would be landing in two minutes.
He looked up at the cloudless sky, waited, then finally saw the first flight approaching in echelon at 350 knots. Needle-nosed, sleek, and clean. One by one the four aircraft pitched left, perfect in their five-second timing, to fly a tight arc. They were evenly spaced on the downwind leg, then dropped out of sight as they began their turn to final.
A good visual overhead pattern. He started to walk, arrived at the door of the command post, then turned to watch yet another flight arrive over the field. Another good pattern. Regular Thunderbirds, those guys.
Les Ries's complaints were forgotten. It was not that he didn't care, just that the Wild Weasel restriction was just one more they had to learn to live with. He had to concern himself with fighting a confusing and difficult war, and somehow get through it all with his wing and his career intact, while losing as few men and aircraft as possible.
He entered the command post to get the status report.
15/1310L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
The target was a barracks a few miles west of Hanoi. They had bombed the area once before, and it had been tough. Colonel Parker, the wing commander, was mission commander for this first strike to pack six in the new year.
Hit the barracks, he'd said, but for God's sake don't hit this white building. He'd pointed to a picture of the target area on the wall. The large building was marked with a red cross on top, and Seventh Air Force Intell said it was a new hospital.
Sam Hall, who was leading one of the first strike flights on target, had raised his hand, and Parker had recognized him.
The gomers probably have something in there, boss, he'd said. Sam questioned that it was really a hospital because of its location and lack of windows. Probably a warehouse for guns or SAMs or something, he'd said. He said he'd bet the barracks would be empty and the hospital/warehouse would be full of supplies.
Col. B. J. Parker said if someone made a mistake and hit the hospital he'd have his ass. No one doubted he meant it.
Benny Lewis
They were in the arming area at the end of the active runway, engines idling as the quick-check crew and the armorers scrambled carefully about the aircraft to check weapons and fuses and ensure that down-locks and Remove Before Flight pins had been pulled.
Last of all, the armorers pulled the pins that armed the bomb fuses. When armed, only a short length of wire attached to the pylon kept the weapons' timers and sensing transducers from activating and setting off the bombs. When the bomb dropped away the wire was pulled out. The times would start ticking and the sensors start sensing. The same procedure had been used since the first aerial bombs had been dropped from balloons.
Benny and the Bear were flying number 277. CAPT B LEWIS and CAPT M STEWART was painted in yellow block letters on their canopy sills. Tiny Bechler was their wingman. Dave Persons and Dutch Hansletter were flying as number three in the Weasel flight, and Willy Dortmeier was flying on their wing.
Benny sucked a drink from the tube to the ice-water bottle behind his seat, and looked over at Chaplain Black, who approached the side of Bechler's jet. The padres did their duty in the arming area, showing their presence to beef up morale. Poor attitudes were their enemies, and they searched them out and tried to defeat them wherever they might be. Captain Black, the Protestant chaplain, looked and acted like a B-movie rendition of a mortician. Benny wondered if he ever smiled.
The Bear's laugh came over the intercom from the backseat. "You hear about Lyle Watson and the two sisters?"
"What's that?" asked Benny.
"Last Monday we went downtown. He decided he'd try two, like I did that time in the Philippines."
"You bears trying to start a trend?"
"Anyway, he talks these two LBFMs into going with him for twelve bucks, because that's all he's got. Ever since, all he's done is bitch about it. Said there were the two of 'em laying there about as lively as two-by-fours, talking in Thai and giggling every time he tried to get it up. Not a tit or a good fuck between them, he says, and all he could think of the whole time was how they'd taken his last nickel. Then when he leaves, he realizes it's almost curfew time and he's got to find someone to borrow money from so he can get back to base. Finally he finds Sergeant Tiehl, who's down there in a pickup trying to find his assistant crew chief, and cons him out of a ride home."
"He's lucky."
"A couple days later he starts hurting. Every time he takes a piss he thinks he's gonna die. Yesterday he got guts enough to go to the clinic. Doc Smith takes one look, shakes his head, and tells him he's got a world's record case of gonorrhea. Killer-clap! Stuff that eats penicillin like candy."
"Jesus."
"A double dose, so to speak. Doc Smith joked with him about the two girls being the infamous clap-clap sisters, and told him he'd be lucky if it didn't fall off within a week. Just kidding, but now Lyle's scared to fly."
"Is he okay?" asked Benny.
"Doc Smith pumped him up with every kind of antibiotic imaginable. Says he couldn't catch a cold. Says his warts'll fall off." The Bear laughed. "But Lyle's scared. Says if he got shot down, he couldn't get more antibiotics and he'd die of terminal gonorrhea."
"You got a strange sense of humor, Bear." Benny had never had a venereal disease. He shuddered at the thought, then went back to memorizing the Shrike launch tables as they waited for the armorers to finish.
15/1420—Route Pack Six, North Vietnam
The Weasels approached the target area first, a dozen miles in front of Colonel Parker, who liked his Weasels well out before him. They got their first SAM launch from a mobile site set up in a new location on the east side of the Red River.
"Valid launch, ten o'clock," said the Bear, his voice starting to rise because there was a lot of radar activity.
Benny spotted the dust and smoke from the SAM launch, and then the first two missiles. He warned the strike force about the SAM site, advised Dave Persons to swing out wide with the second element, then told his wingman to prepare for some hard maneuvering.
Noses slightly down, they lit their afterburners to pick up speed and maneuvering energy. They waited until the first missile was close, almost until the markings on the thing were distinguishable, then Benny broke up and left.
The first SAM flashed by without detonating. Two others followed.
Benny reversed hard right, still nose-up but with his energy level still high. He glanced back and saw the missiles detonating high above them. The explosions were white, not the orange-black color they made when they were in thicker air closer to the earth.
"You're hot, Benny!" yelled the Bear.
"I've got a visual on the site," said Benny. He called, "Follow me in, Eagle flight, we're on the attack."
"Two!" said Tiny from their wing position.
"Eagle lead, three's also got a good visual on the site," called Dave Persons.
"Good man," Benny muttered as they were soaring to set up for delivery of t
heir CBUs. "Eagle three, you come in from the north. We'll deliver from the south," called Benny.
"Eagle three, wilco."
Benny nosed over and began his dive. He jinked twice, then steadied the aircraft and centered the pipper on a position short of the target. The camouflage was good, so he had to guess a little. The pipper was drifting upward smoothly, toward the offset release point.
"Valid launch, three o'clock," called the Bear, telling him more missiles were being fired at them. Benny ignored them and concentrated on his geometry problem.
He pickled a little high to get good dispersion of the bomblets, then broke away last from the heaviest concentrations of flak bursts.
A few seconds later, Benny dipped a wing and they looked back. CBUs winked and blinked, dancing brightly about the area. Nothing exploded.
"Damn," said Benny, thinking he'd missed.
Then the bright, orange burst of a SAM warhead exploding! A second missile went slithering across their view.
"Shit hot," yelled the Bear exuberantly.
Their aircraft bucked upward. They ignored the hit and stared as Tiny Bechler's bombs impacted and a van was blown apart. The camouflage netting was down, and they could see the SAM site clearly.
Dave Persons's CBUs sparkled. Another missile detonated, still on its launcher. Bombs from Willy Dortmeier's airplane completed the destruction.
"Scratch one SAM site," said Benny over the radio, unable to keep the rush of pride out of his tone.
The strike force was working on the target with their bombs. Colonel Parker's voice came calmly over the air, telling his flight to rejoin to the south.
"Whoo-ee, look-it that baby blow," called someone. Sam Hall's voice? Benny didn't have long to think about it.
"Eagle four is hit," came a lonesome call. Willy Dortmeier.
"Eagle four, you're trailing smoke," called Dave Persons.
"I got a tailpipe overheat light," called Eagle four.
"You better get outta that thing, four."
"I'II fly it back a little farther."
"You're burning. I can see the flame, four. Get out!"
"Just a little more."
Benny saw Dortmeier's Thud, trailing black smoke as he flew westward, trying to make it back across the Red River. The white flame at the bottom of the aircraft was burning brightly.
Benny called, "Eagle four, this is lead. Get out. You've got a magnesium fire going and it's hot."
"I'm almost to the river now. Just another few seconds."
They were too far south for that, thought Benny. He'd have to fly for thirty more miles to reach the hills, and there wasn't time.
"Get out, Eagle four. Now!"
"Just a . . ."
The airplane torched and blew apart, disintegrating into large chunks of metal. From the pieces a streaming parachute emerged. The chute opened.
"Weep, weep," cried the emergency beeper.
They circled the chute once. Benny couldn't tell if Willy was moving as he swung beneath the parachute, but the eerie sound of the beeper shut off.
"He turned off his beeper," called Dave. "Shall we set up a rescue attempt, lead?" Persons's voice was hopeful.
"Negative, three," replied Benny, "too many people down there. Our best bet is to leave him to them, not try to rile 'em or get 'em excited."
Benny waggled his wings while still in Willy Dortmeier's sight, to say good-bye, then turned back toward the strike, which was still in progress. They still had Shrike missiles, and there were a lot of threat radars on the air.
"Two-ring Firecan at three and another at ten. Fansong at eleven o'clock," growled the Bear over intercom, his voice having a rough edge to it. Benny remembered seeing him at the bar with Willy Dortmeier the night before.
"Let's get a Shrike off at the SAM," said Benny.
"Turn left five degrees," said the Bear, his voice returned to normal.
When they'd fired their Shrikes and the last strike bird was off the target, Benny saw two MiG's to the north coming toward them. He turned the flight hard right. They engaged afterburners, but the MiG's dove toward the ground and fled.
15/1525—Udorn RTAFB, Thailand
They missed the rendezvous with their tanker because Brigham, the ground radar at Udorn, had trouble giving them proper directions and couldn't join them up. Low on gas, the flight landed at Udorn.
They were on the ground, parked in the transient aircraft area and walking around the aircraft, when Benny saw the black smudge on the aft end of the fuselage.
"Felt it back there when we were coming off the target," said the Bear, eyeing the smudge.
"Me, too." Benny looked closer and found a small piece of shrapnel lodged in the metal skin and a couple of jagged holes.
The transient area crew chief said he'd look it over closely.
"Unless you find something wrong," said Benny, "we'll fly it on back to Takhli." The crew chief looked dubious.
He joined the Bear, and they walked over to Tiny's aircraft, which had been parked beside them. Tiny was still in the cockpit, pulling off his helmet. He complained, as he did about most things, that the helmet fit poorly, and now he briskly massaged his scalp before coming down the ladder.
"Good bombs, Tiny," said Benny. "We took the site out clean."
Tiny nodded, then shook his head sadly. "Too bad about Willy. He was a classmate at the academy."
"That's what he told me last night," said the Bear. "Said you were just as much of an asshole then as you are now."
Tiny grinned like he considered the remark a compliment, then remembered about Dortmeier and grimaced. "Willy was a good man."
"He said he just got married," the Bear said.
"He's a general's son and his wife's an NCO's kid," said Tiny. "Same girl he took to his high school prom over in Weisbaden, Germany."
"I didn't know you guys were friends," said the Bear.
"I guess I kind of thought he was a little weak, what with his father being a general and all. Maybe," said Tiny awkwardly, "I was wrong about him."
A blue Air Force pickup pulled up nearby, and two officers in flight suits got out to look over the wounded Weasel bird.
Dave Persons taxied into place beside Tiny's aircraft and shut down his engine. He gave them the thumbs-up, but looked wistful. No one liked losing a wingman.
The two officers, a major and a captain, were still looking over the Weasel Thud. "You fly that?" the major asked. He pointed at 277.
"Yeah," said Benny. He jabbed a thumb at the Bear. "With him."
"Weasels?"
"Yeah."
"Where's your wheelbarrow?" asked the captain.
Benny gave him a questioning look.
"To carry your balls in."
The crew chief came over from 277. "Better not chance flying it until we look it over closer, sir. Got some shrapnel in there. All kinds of hydraulic lines there, and there's fluid in the bay. Maybe nothing serious, but it shouldn't be flown until we know."
"Damn," said Benny.
"Sergeant Tiehl's going to be some pissed off when he finds out we hurt his bird," said the Bear.
"You guys want a ride?" asked the major. He wore an F-104 patch. Udorn's squadron of small, fast interceptors was assigned the mission of providing protection for various aircraft, such as the tankers, when they flew out over the Gulf of Tonkin, and for Big Eye, the airborne command post. The problem with the F-104's in Southeast Asia was that they couldn't carry many bombs and didn't have legs long enough to fly the lengthy missions over North Vietnam.
"Maintenance is sending a van," said Benny. "We've still got to debrief."
"We'll take you," said the major. "Want to hear how you guys do it and survive."
Benny rubbed his jaw. "We don't always do that," he said. "You notice we're flying a three-ship."
Dave Persons and Dutch Hansletter came over. "Something wrong?" asked Persons.
"Our bird took a hit. Looks like we'll be spending the night. You guys can refuel and g
o on back to Takhli."
Tiny looked dejected.
"What's wrong, Tiny?"
"I never spent the night here."
"Well, come on. We'll find a reason. Not often we get to lay some hurt on a SAM site like that. It's worth a bit of a celebration."
Persons and Hansletter returned to Takhli. Benny, the Bear, and Tiny Bechler spent most of the night at the club, talking with F-104, RF-101, and Sandy drivers. Not once did they pay for their own drinks.
16/1030L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Bear Stewart
The F-105F Wild Weasel aircraft carried a KA-71 strike camera embedded in its chin so the crews could make their own bomb damage assessment after each mission. The camera came on when the pickle button was depressed, clicking away and capturing the world before, beneath, and behind them in panoramic fish-eye views.
Before they landed at Takhli in 277, which the maintenance people at Udorn had examined and released for a one-time, straight-and-level flight home, Benny passed a message to the photo lab, asking the lab to quickly develop their 70mm film. The Bear's receivers had indicated launches of SAMs they hadn't seen, and he thought they might be on the film.
They went through a belabored maintenance debriefing, enduring Staff Sergeant Tiehl's critical questions and worried looks as he kept interrupting the debriefing team to ask questions. Jerry Tiehl was an exacting crew chief and a worry-wart about his airplane. The Bear tried to explain that 277 had done great things—had destroyed a SAM site and brought them home after taking a nasty flak hit—and while that mollified him some, Tiehl was still unhappy.
"You guys try to take better care of it up there, okay?"
When they had escaped the maintenance shack, and Sergeant Tiehl had hurried back to the wounded Thud, they proceeded to the command post. There they sat through yet another intelligence debriefing, giving the same answers to questions they'd been asked at Udorn.
When they had answered the stock questions about the shootdown of Willy Dortmeier, Lieutenant DeWalt queried them about the interceptors they'd seen.
"They were MiG-19's," said Benny.
DeWalt looked at him incredulously. "There aren't any MiG-19's in North Vietnam."
