by Tom Wilson
Benny didn't respond.
"Maybe it's none of my business."
"Sure glad you're here, Bear," he finally said. "This way my mother can stay back in the States and know someone's doing her worrying about who's right for me."
"Ungrateful wretch."
21/1925L—Ponderosa, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Bear Stewart
The end was in sight. They were flying well and he was confident that everything was under control. Whatever the North Vietnamese threw at them, they could handle. They were going to make it. He hadn't realized how uncertain he'd been. Perhaps because he'd been shot down. Perhaps because of all the friends he'd lost. All he knew now was a reasonable certainty that things were manageable.
The child in Julie's belly became even more special. He was going to be able to raise a son or a daughter, and there was so much to share. He'd never dreamed he could be so ridiculously excited about a single event. Julie would make a good mother, of that he was certain, and he was determined to be just as good as a father.
He'd sure as hell know what to tell the kid not to do, because he'd probably done about everything there was to do that was wrong. The kid would make mistakes too. Like his uncle Miles had once told him, a person who does things perfect all the time is a damn bore, and probably doesn't have an inch of fun. Maybe, the Bear thought, I can help the kid avoid the worst mistakes and learn from the others.
He hoped the kid had adventure in his life. Of course, he didn't want him having to go to war like this. Maybe there wouldn't be any more wars after this one. But if there was, he'd bet any kid of his and Julie's wouldn't know any better than to try to get into the middle of the thing out of love for his country.
So he just hoped there wouldn't be any more wars.
And as for Julie? He wrote to tell her what he thought.
Tuesday
March 21st
Dear Julie,
God but I miss you! I receive your letters, always cheerful and happy, and I read each one over again and again, because I can hear you speaking as I read. Did I tell you that you've got the world's sexiest voice?
Sorry I haven't written much lately, but things have been very busy. Benny and I've been flying a lot and we are giving them hell. After tomorrow, we'll only have ten missions to go before we're finished. We may get a few more tough ones, but we've proven we can take whatever they throw at us and give even better back. After the next five missions, we will get milk runs for our last five. Then the hundred mission party and we're on our way!
Benny is the best pilot and certainly one of the finest men I've ever known. That's a real tribute, because I don't pass out compliments freely. He's a real square, and such a straight shooter that he's almost obnoxious about it, but the guy turns into an artist in the airplane. On the ground we pal around a lot, and in the air we almost know what the other guy's thinking, and you need that sort of thing if you're flying in the places and doing the things we are.
Honey, if you ever need anything and I'm not around, call on Benny to help. That shows the kind of trust I've got in him, because you are the most dear thing in my life.
Most of the guys here are good. Facing almost impossible odds, they just keep on going and doing their jobs, and keeping their faith in America. I don't think the people back home are aware of the great trust the pilots here place in their country, or of their belief that the folks at home support them, regardless of the fact the papers tell us that some Americans are acting differently.
We're all doing our damndest.
(One hour later) Benny just came in and told me we are both going to be stationed at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, Nevada, when we leave here. I'll be teaching new Wild Weasel crews on their way over here to combat. Benny will take over a flight at the fighter weapons school and teach gunnery tactics. I went through Weasel training at Nellis before I came over here, and the flying there is great!
I think we should buy a house. Three bedrooms, because I'm really getting to like the idea of being a father. Of course you'll have something to say about that.
Benny also brought confirmation of our flights from here back to the States. We'll be landing at Travis Air Force Base (there in the Bay Area) at one p.m., your time.
If I sound like I'm getting anxious to see you again, you are right. I'll be very easy to pick out of the crowd at Travis because I've grown a great, bushy mustache (supposed to bring luck, and who knows). After we get to your place, if you get out of bed during the first twenty-four hours, it will be because I've failed to keep your attention, and I do not intend to let that happen in this lifetime.
Love,
Mal
25/1955L—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi, North Vietnam
Glenn Phillips
On Saturday they dumped another invalid into Glenn's room. With Pete Crawford and himself already in the small cell, that made it awfully cramped.
This one was a burn case, a Navy lieutenant whose face and forearms were scaling, his skin colored black and bright red. This time there was little Glenn could do.
Crawford helped him get the flier onto a bunk.
"You okay, buddy?" Crawford asked.
"Hurts like hell, but I'll make it. Guess I look pretty awful."
"I was born ugly. Just took you longer to get there."
They all introduced themselves, and Glenn tapped the lieutenant's name out to the captain in the adjoining cell.
"What's wrong with your arms?" the Navy lieutenant asked Crawford.
"I was a bad boy."
Crawford refused to bow to the guards when they came in. They'd beat him every time, and he'd finally do it, but he'd developed a reputation among the North Vietnamese guards as a resister and a thorn in their sides. His arms, already warped from the terrible time when he'd been tortured for trying to escape, were now permanently disabled. He couldn't straighten his elbows, and his shoulders jutted forward at awkward, uneven angles.
He continually talked about escaping. He spoke about the time that Red Williams and he had escaped, and the sense of freedom they'd savored. He hated captivity. They all despised the prison, but Crawford had a compulsion to try to get out.
"They treat you bad here, huh?" asked the lieutenant.
"Yes," said Glenn. He was the ranking man in the cell, the second-ranking man in the cell block. "But you've got to resist. Have they interrogated you yet?"
"No, sir. When I got here they just deloused me. I was in a lot of pain because the disinfectant they used hurt my burns, so I yelled a lot. They had me change into the prison uniform and just marched me here."
"Talk in a lower voice," cautioned Glenn. "They get all excited when they know we're talking to each other. Think we're inciting a rebellion or something."
Crawford scowled toward the door.
"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant to Phillips.
"Where'd you get shot down?" asked Glenn. Crawford was quiet during the questioning. Glenn was senior and doing his job.
"Over Thai Nguyen, sir. I think it was a SAM, but it could have been flak. The pilot made a right turn and we made it out a few miles. I bailed out and some soldiers captured me when I hit the ground. Didn't treat me too bad, 'cause I was burned and look like a lobster, I guess."
"What kind of airplane?"
"A-6 Intruder. I'm a Navy aviator. You'd call me a radar navigator in the Air Force."
"When they interrogate you, they'll already know your unit and your ship, but make them work to get the information. Keeps their attention from anything really classified."
"I'm supposed to give name, rank, and serial number only. That's all I'll give them, sir."
"They'll bend you and you'll talk. Just make them work for anything they get."
Crawford piped up. "The chickenfuckers can make a rock talk. They do it with ropes. Tie you up in positions you didn't know were possible."
Glenn hushed Crawford. "They may take him to another cell, because there's not enough room here. I want to get as muc
h information as I can in case they do."
"Yes, sir," said Crawford. They were both majors, but Glenn had him on date of rank, and rank meant a lot in the prison.
"What did you see when they were bringing you here?"
"I could see out the back of the truck. Thai Nguyen's a mess. Just rubble there. The smelters are a bunch of twisted steel."
"Outstanding."
"South of Thai Nguyen I saw what looked like a power plant, all caved in on one side. I don't think it's working. Looked deserted."
Glenn nodded. "There's a thermal plant there."
"Railroad overpass on the other side of the river is down onto the highway. There were a lot of guys working on it like ants. Guys with guns were treating them pretty mean."
Crawford spoke up. "I saw the same thing down south. Slavery is alive and well here. Would've made my great-granddaddy back in Tennessee happy."
"What else?" asked Glenn, mildly irritated at Crawford's interruption. He liked the skinny Southerner, but it was sometimes hard to quell his exuberance.
"There was an air strike while we were on the road. They were hitting the steel mill again, and it was your F-105's doing the bombing. I thought the soldiers were going to come unglued they were so afraid. They wrecked the truck I was riding in trying to get out of the way, just drove off the road and into a building. Then they herded me outta there quick. We hid in the building, which was a small warehouse or something with a lot of equipment in it."
"It all ties in," said Glenn. The information the prisoners had been receiving told them the war was going badly for the North Vietnamese. They'd also noticed a dramatic change in the morale of the guards.
"They won't be able to take it much longer," said Crawford. "Our guys are starting to sting the bastards."
That was the growing consensus of the prisoners.
"No," said Glenn. "It can't last much longer."
He'd used that argument lately to dissuade Crawford from another escape attempt. Pete thought he'd found a way to get out by digging the masonry loose on the transom above the cell door.
The next day the guards returned to the cell and reduced the number of prisoners there by taking Crawford away to an isolated detention cell. The last time Glenn saw Pete Crawford he was struggling with the guards, as he always did, and calling them chickenfuckers.
The day after that the guards took the Navy lieutenant and bent him. After a while he told them his unit and ship, which they already knew, and they were satisfied. When they brought him back to the cell Glenn tried to soothe and help him, but the proud Navy lieutenant cried for a long time.
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir, but it's not that. I broke. I would have told them anything they wanted me to."
A while later the lieutenant sat and Glenn gingerly tried to replace his shoulder's into their proper positions.
"I am an American fighting man." The lieutenant quoted the code of conduct. "When questioned, I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and date of birth."
Glenn broke in. "I will resist by all means available." He recited. "And we will, Lieutenant. But the code really rests with the ending. Remember? I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners, and I will trust in my God and the United States of America."
"Yes, sir."
"We won't be here much longer, not with our guys stinging them like they're doing. We know it. Even the guards know it. Just hang in there and keep your faith."
"I'll try, sir."
"The guards don't understand us and that makes them angry. They can't understand what it's like to be a free man, like you and me. They've never been free and they probably never will be. Even in here, locked up like this, we're free men and that makes us different from them. By God's grace we were born free in a wonderful country of free men. Even if we die here, we'll die as free men. You remember that."
30/1355L—North of Hanoi, Route Pack Six, North Vietnam
Bear Stewart
They were back to bombing a two-bit target. A twenty-four-aircraft strike force was bombing a small highway overpass seven miles north of Hanoi.
Benny and the Bear were flying mission ninety-five, the last tough one, and had opted to fly as number three in the Weasel flight, call sign Kingfish, with new guys Phil Yost and Billy Dreyer leading.
Yost and Dreyer were having trouble with the Weasel mission. The best indicator was that the lieutenants disliked flying on their wing, saying they were dangerously slow and didn't act like they knew what they were doing. Benny thought they needed more experience leading Weasel flights. The Bear, not so charitable, figured they were downright incompetent.
They hadn't split the flight because Benny wanted to stay close and make sure the other Weasel crew remained out of trouble.
Kingfish flight approached Thud Ridge from the west, ingressing twenty miles out in front of the force since they weren't splitting the Weasel flight or using the new tactic.
"SAMs at twelve, two, and three," muttered the Bear. "The one at twelve is across the ridge, probably at Thai Nguyen. The one at two looks like Lead one."
"A ghost?" They had destroyed Lead one on an earlier mission.
"They must have replaced it." The radar signal was at a different frequency, and wasn't tracking as smoothly as the previous one. A different SAM battery had been installed at the same location.
Sam Hall's distinctive voice radioed an errant wingman to get back into position! Sam was mission commander, leading Mallard flight, and like them was also flying his ninety-fifth mission. Before they'd gone to the airplanes, Sam had asked if they shouldn't pool their resources and throw one big hundred mission party together.
"Old Sam's gonna be his ornery self right up to the end," said Benny, as they listened to Sam chew ass again.
"Where's he gonna be stationed?" asked the Bear. He liked Sam and thought he was a good leader.
"F-4's at Davis Monthan. Tucson. He's going to be ops officer for the training unit there."
"He'll be good for 'em."
"What's happening out there? In case you've forgotten where we're flying."
"Not much. SAMs at twelve, three, and five o'clock. Powerful gun at one o'clock. They better watch out for the gun radar. I think it's smack in the target area."
Capt Phil Yost called the threats out over the radio, roughly as the Bear had said.
"He's jinking too hard," observed the Bear. "Flailing around the sky and slowing himself down, but he's still on a predictable course."
"I'll talk to him later," said Benny.
The Bear listened as the strike force encountered flak. No one was hit during the first flurries.
They had a valid SAM launch, and the Bear told Benny about it. They waited for a moment longer, for Yost to call it and take action.
"Come on, Phil," muttered Benny. "Tell us what to do."
After a couple more seconds, Benny called. "Kingfish lead, Kingfish three has a valid SAM launch at three o'clock."
The Bear had spotted the missiles as the first SAM's booster dropped away, splattering its liquid fire and impacting near a small village. The gomers didn't seem to care where the missile boosters landed as long as it wasn't in Hanoi or a big city. The second, then the third boosters dropped away.
Kingfish lead had not responded, but kept flying toward the ridge as if they were happy just jinking along and ignoring the world.
"Kingfish lead, three!" called Benny.
Long pause. "Roger, three."
"Let's prepare to evade SAMs, Kingfish flight," called Benny, now sounding concerned.
"This is Kingfish lead. We've, ah, got a SAM launch."
"No shit," fumed the Bear, watching the missiles arcing up and toward them.
Lead broke right suddenly.
"Kingfish lead, you're maneuvering too early," radioed Benny.
"Damn!" said the Bear. He continued watching. The missiles were now tracking them, not lead, who led his element away in a wild dive. The Bear confirmed that by u
sing his analysis scope. "The missiles are tracking us," he said quietly.
"Kingfish four, prepare to take it down." Benny put the nose slightly down and pushed his throttle forward.
"Four!" came Tiny's sharp response.
They broke upward at the proper time, sliced downward to evade the last missile, then climbed to set up for a dive-bomb attack on the site.
"Kingfish four, set up for a forty-five-degree dive."
"Four!"
Kingfish lead and two were nowhere in sight.
"Here we go again," said the Bear. "We got two Fansongs up, no threats."
"Roger."
They were attacking the smoke from a site two miles north of the Red River. The Bear tried to eyeball the site, but couldn't make it out down there. "You got a good visual on the site?"
"Not very good. I think it's near that road intersection down there."
The Bear couldn't tell which intersection he was talking about. He glanced back into the cockpit. "Strong tracking gun at twelve o'clock. He's close."
"The SAM radar on the air?"
"No. He shut down soon as the missiles went by us."
They pulled several g's as Benny rolled over, then pulled hard to enter the dive-bomb. Black flak bursts appeared around the Bear's cockpit.
The aircraft lurched.
"Shit," said Benny. "The bombs just dropped away, and it wasn't me that pickled them."
Benny radioed, "Kingfish four, three is breaking off the attack. Unless you see the site, abort your dive-bomb."
A pause. "Four is breaking off."
"There was a bunch of flak just as we rolled over," said the Bear. "I think that's what hit us." He could hear a whistling sound.
Benny pulled out high and to the right, heading toward the safety of the western mountains.
"I don't see anything. You see anything wrong out there?"
"No, but we went right through that flak." The Bear was looking out at the wings, then his eyes were drawn to the back of the canopy sill. "I got a big crack in my canopy," he said in amazement, wondering why he hadn't seen it at first glance.
"Kingfish three is off the target to the west. Come look us over, Kingfish four."
