by Tom Wilson
He watched the second A-1H drop down, nose toward the trees. Two 2.75-inch rockets spewed from the Sandy into the treeline.
A flight of Thuds formed a wheel, like they used on gunnery ranges, and descended in a twenty-degree dive. The Gatling guns sounded like buzz saws as each Thud strafed. He watched the treeline erupting and dancing. Trees and branches flew.
The Thuds pulled off.
"You hear anything down there, Bravo?" asked Sandy lead.
The Bear peered and listened. "Nothing, Sandy lead."
"Okay, I'm bringing in the Jolly Greens. You tell me if you hear anything. We'll be picking you up first."
The Bear thought he saw movement at the treeline, closer than before.
"Pick up Alpha first. He's hurting."
He turned down the radio volume, without telling Sandy lead about the green-uniformed soldier who stood 200 yards distant, peering up at the sky.
He fleetingly thought of crawling through the grass to the west, across the field. He knew he could do it without being seen by the soldiers.
Heart pounding, he settled down to wait. He couldn't forget the keening sounds Glenn had made. As he waited he unwrapped the ammunition pouches, then lined up the bullets so he could get to them quickly.
Benny Lewis
Benny couldn't hear much of the Bear's transmission because Sandy two was orbiting nearby.
When he lay very still the pain in his back was dull. When he moved it was excruciating and hardly bearable.
There was little doubt about what was wrong with him. Too often the explosive charges in a F-105 ejection seat would slam a little too hard and break the pilot's back. He had a friend who had been permanently paralyzed by one of the killer seats. Other friends had gotten compression fractures and had spent months flat on their backs. The Air Force was replacing the explosive charges with rockets, which were more gentle when they blew you out of the cockpit. They hadn't gotten to his in time.
He was right at the treeline, and wondered if that was smart. The gomers they'd seen and strafed had been moving in the trees, they'd said.
"Alpha, this is Bravo." The Bear's voice was low, and he spoke his words slowly.
"Roger."
"I got strong, tracking Firecans." The Bear's words were very distinct. "I'm gonna try to take them out. You keep quiet about it, okay? Take care of my wingman and the kid. No use to answer."
Sandy lead asked Bravo to repeat his transmission, but there was no response. Benny knew precisely what the Bear was talking about. He had detected big guns, very close by, and was going to slow them down. He felt an ache in his chest, then slowly and painfully stood up.
He heard a single pop.
He took the radio, leaving everything else behind, and walked out into the field. He traveled southward, toward the Bear. Gritting his teeth at the pain, falling to his knees once, and getting up. Going until he was a hundred yards out into the grassy meadow.
The grass was only three feet tall and didn't provide much concealment, but he didn't care. He saw a rock formation in the field, and crying out from the pain, went toward it. He had to rest.
"Jolly Green's five minutes out, Alpha," he heard.
"Roger, five minutes," he acknowledged, panting with exertion.
He arrived at the rocks. He looked hard for the Bear but couldn't see him.
He heard the chopper in the distance, and looked for it.
He heard two more popping sounds. Silence. Then the staccato sounds of first one, then multiple automatic weapons.
The chopper hove into view, still distant. A second chopper appeared, offset from the first but also headed his way.
"Give us smoke, Alpha," said the Jolly Green pilot.
Benny was staring southward. Saw nothing there. Looked back at the Jolly Green.
"Give us smoke, Alpha."
He got the orange smoke going. The lead chopper pilot didn't hesitate and altered course directly toward him.
Pop-pop-pop. Then more automatic weapons fire.
The radio crackled. "Mallard, this is Bravo. I've got a bunch of bad guys cornered and I need some help. Put some bombs on my position." Sounds of the chopper blades thwacked louder, drowning out the radio.
Jolly Green called again, his voice more urgent. "Alpha, this will be a fast pickup. Be ready!" The reel operator was lowering the device as the helicopter came straight for him.
Benny hobbled toward the chopper, waving the flare. He tossed it aside and reached for the pickup device. He was staring toward the south as they reeled him in, face tight with a frown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Saturday, April 1st—1655 Local, O' Club, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Sam Hall
The club was filling already, the guys here to wish him well for finishing his hundred missions.
Sam had come away from the airplane wet after enduring half the one magnum of champagne poured over his head by Tiny Bechler, and another by, of all people, a grinning Bud Lutz.
"If I don't pour it on you," Bud had said, "you'd probably drink the foul stuff."
But then Bud shook his hand warmly.
There was another reporter on base, the guest of some public relations officer at the higher headquarters, but when he'd asked to see Sam, Sam shunned him. After a perfunctory debriefing he went directly to his trailer, cleaned up, and came to the bar.
Once he arrived, he felt like a has-been. When the others went out to face the guns tomorrow, he'd be completing paperwork and preparing to leave. It was a crazy, sad feeling that he hadn't anticipated.
He'd already set it up with both bars, at the NCO club and the O' Club, that he was footing the bill tonight. It would cost him at least 300 dollars, they'd told him, and he'd gulped and told them his word stood.
"How does it feel, Sam?" asked Tiny Bechler, crowded in beside him.
"I don't know. Just sort of numb, I guess." It was still sinking in.
"I've only got forty-two missions to go myself."
"You'll be finished in no time. You're doing good, Tiny. Wherever you go, you let me know. Who knows, maybe you'll show up down at Tucson one of these days. I'd be proud to fly with you anytime."
"I'd like that." Sam knew that Tiny meant it.
Colonel Mack came in and found him. Sam stared at him, then grew a wide grin.
"It feels good, Mack."
Mack pointed at the red, white, and blue 100 Mission patch on his shoulder. "Those aren't easy to earn, Sam."
Sam thought about that. He thought about the Bear calling for the fighters to bomb him, and about the Sandy pilot who had gone down to take a closer look. The Sandy driver said the soldiers had him, and it looked like they were cutting him up with machetes.
The Sandies and Thuds had bombed and strafed and dropped everything they had left on the Bear's termite mound. When Sam left the scene, other fighters were arriving.
He thought about Crawford, Toki, Swede, Phillips, and Johnny T. Polaski and all the others. He remembered Mike Murphy's last radio call. I'll see you, babes. Maybe not, but by God, Mike and all the others would be remembered.
"No. It's not easy," said Sam. He nodded out at the rowdy group. "I'll miss them."
Pudge Holden called out, "Let's sing Sam a hymn!"
Oh, he climbed up on the steeple,
And pissed on all the people,
But they couldn't piss on himmmm.
Hymn, hymn—fuck himmmm.
Sam bowed grandly. "Thank you, and you may consider the compliment returned."
"May you break all three legs on the way home, Sam," yelled Tiny Bechler.
"Awwww. Just two legs, please. My wife'll kill me if I break the third one."
"Smile so we can see your teeth, Sam, the lights are getting low!" yelled Sloppy Watson.
"Awwww." Sam picked up a nearby beer and poured it over Sloppy's head. Sloppy sputtered and blew and laughed.
"Give us a speech!"
"Tell us the secret of the universe, Sam."
&
nbsp; "Speech!"
Sam Hall raised his hands, and the room quieted . . . somewhat quieted anyhow.
"Cut out the noise," someone yelled.
"I've only got one thing to say," said Sam.
They waited.
"Anyone who can't tap dance is queer!"
Everyone in the room began to tap dance wildly.
Someone started a song, and they stopped dancing. Most sang, but some just listened.
Sam Hall's great bass voice boomed. He thought about them all, the pilots and bears. The ones here and the ones who could not be. How lucky he was to have shared this time with them.
Throw a nickel on the grass,
and save a fighter pilot's ass,
Throw a nickel on the grass
and you'll be saved.
04/0750L—Reception Hall, Russian Embassy, Hanoi, DRV
Col. Feodor Dimetriev
Colonel Wu entered the large room and looked about at the new group of advisers. At least fifty of them milled around, wearing the short haircuts they got before coming to Southeast Asia and looking generally lost.
Colonel Dimetriev saw Wu and waved to get his attention.
Dimetriev nodded. "Good morning, Colonel," he said, careful to wear his social smile. "The new rank looks good on you."
Wu nodded stiffly in return.
"I would like to introduce you to Major Dmitriy Chernavin, who will be replacing Major Gregarian."
They shook hands.
"I apologize," said Chernavin, "for my Vietnamese is poor."
Dimetriev nudged Colonel Wu. "I told him how Colonel Xuan Nha dealt with Major Gregarian's problem, and told him if he was very nice to you . . ." He laughed loudly.
Colonel Wu shook his head, showing no trace of pleasantness. "I'm afraid the major and you must deal with those problems in your own ways. I've sent both women Gregarian was keeping to retraining camps. The Englishwoman was pregnant." He shook his head again.
"Oh, we don't approve of such debauchery, Colonel," said Dimetriev, suddenly careful and on the defensive. "A full report of Gregarian's behavior has been forwarded to PVO Strany Headquarters."
"I want to talk to you about the P-50 radar, the one that was at Wisdom. As you know, it was damaged, and we are left with only the old P-1 at Phuc Yen. Totally inadequate, Colonel."
Dimetriev felt offended that Wu so quickly had completely dropped all social niceties. "Later, perhaps."
"To my men in the field there may be no later, Colonel."
Dimetriev sighed.
Colonel Wu left abruptly, seeing General Luc at the other side of the room.
Colonel Trung saw Dimetriev and came over, then watched as Wu cornered General Luc.
"Impetuous," said Dimetriev with a frown.
"His promotion was a political necessity. His aunt . . ." Trung made a helpless sign.
"Ah yes, the formidable Madame Binh."
"Colonel Nha's wife."
"Tell me, is the colonel going to live?"
Trung nodded. "I believe so. He'll be very badly crippled, but I believe he'll live." His voice betrayed the dislike he felt for Xuan Nha.
"What could be his future? He lost an arm, didn't he?"
"And one eye. But I'm sure he will be useful in some capacity or other. Perhaps we'll need more beggars," he said, showing more spite.
Dimetriev joined him in a smile. The enemies of your friends . . . "Your Colonel Wu was talking about replacing the P-50 at Wisdom."
Colonel Trung shrugged. "Wisdom is no more. We'll need new rocket sites to replace the ones the Americans have been destroying, but nothing more."
03/1715L—Air Force Regional Hospital, Travis AFB, California
Benny Lewis
The room was white and antiseptic, a precise copy of the room at the Clark hospital. Benny was flat on his back, like they said they wanted him for the next couple of months. When other decisions were made, they'd likely put him into a traction harness, they said.
It wasn't the pain or discomfort that got to him. Whenever he indicated he was hurting they drugged him, no matter how much he argued. He hated the dreamy feeling that he wasn't in command of himself, so he complained very little about pain. It wasn't the lack of attention. Doctors and nurses had hovered about him since the helicopter had landed at Udorn and he'd been put aboard the med-evac aircraft. It was the thoughts he couldn't shake away that bothered him. Private thoughts no one could share.
They had called his parents and told them he was here, even though he told the nurses he didn't want them to, not yet. But they said it was standard procedure to notify the next of kin, and that the hospital administrators hadn't wanted to get into trouble. His parents would be at his bedside in an hour or two.
He didn't argue, just lay there thinking, miserable and wishing he could change what had happened.
He'd left the Bear there to face the enemy alone. He was angry at others: the president, the craven politicians, the dope-loving peaceniks, and even the fucking Communists. He knew it was their fault, but he couldn't escape his own guilty feeling that he should have done more.
A nurse came into the room, saying that he had visitors. A Miss Richardson and a Mrs. Stewart.
He started to say no, that he wasn't ready, but the two women came in.
"Don't let him move around," the nurse cautioned. She remained, but moved into the background.
Liz came to him, bent down, and looked close, eyes misty. "Hi," she said, trying to sound cheerful.
Emotions welled inside him. He moved up in the bed, but Liz held up her hand and shook her head, concerned and glancing at the nurse.
Julie stood at the foot of the bed. Her pregnancy was showing. What was she? Three and a half months along?
"Good to see you, Benny," Julie said.
He sighed, nodding his head. "You, too."
"You want me to go, I will," said Julie, eyes fixed on his.
"No." He most definitely did not want her to go.
"I'm happy you're back."
"What did they tell you about the Bear?" he asked.
"Officially, not much. They said he's listed as missing in action. That he might come up on a POW list. The colonel they sent to tell me about it said not to give up hope."
"I see." He didn't want to tell her.
"What do you think?" Julie asked, her whiskey voice low.
He looked at her. She gazed back without blinking, and he had to look away.
"You know, don't you," said Julie.
Liz was biting her lip, holding onto his arm, as if about to break into tears.
"Leave us alone, Liz. I've got to talk to Julie privately."
Liz looked hurt. "I'll come back in a while."
He shook his head. "No. I don't think so."
Liz drew back her hand, looking angry and upset and forgetting her sadness. She glanced at Julie.
"Go ahead, Liz. I'll call you later."
Liz left, her back straight and stiff. The nurse looked at them thoughtfully and followed her out, closing the door quietly behind herself.
Benny regarded Julie again. "The Bear tried to tell me about her. I didn't listen then, but I've had time to think about it. She's so busy looking for what she calls class and breeding she can't see the individual people she shares the world with."
"Mal Bear was good with things like that," Julie said.
They didn't discuss Liz further.
"Is there really any hope he's alive, Benny?"
"Maybe," he said, then he stopped short.
"I'm going to try to take them out," the Bear had said. Benny had thought a lot about that. The Bear wouldn't have quit until it was over. He'd even called the Thuds and asked them to bomb. All of that so Benny could escape.
He was tuned to the Bear, and knew he was dead. He hoped it was the strafing and the bombs that had finished him, the same that had taken out the soldiers. The enemy hadn't deserved to get him.
It had been the Bear and him against the SAMs, the MiG's, and t
he guns. He didn't know how to explain it to Julie. That a part of him was in a bomb-ravaged field in North Vietnam, and a part of the Bear was here, beginning to mend. Benny would go to his grave without anyone knowing, because there wasn't any way he could say it. But Julie had a right to know the other thing.
"I think," he finally said in the quiet of the room. He stopped and made himself stronger. "No, I know. He's dead, Julie."
"This morning I received two letters. One from Colonel Mack and another one from a man named Sam Hall. Mal Bear's friends. They said there wasn't any chance he'd survived." Julie stared at him, drew in a breath, shook her head for a few seconds, then quietly started to cry.
"He was a good warrior, maybe the best I've ever met," he said.
She stopped crying, still sniffing. "He said the same thing about you, and that he was lucky to be able to fly with you."
"We were a good team."
"He said he trusted you, and that if anything happened to him . . ." She started crying again.
That was good. The Bear deserved her tears. He would cry too, as soon as he learned how again.
Termite Hill, Route Pack Five, North Vietnam
Whenever fighter pilots from the bases in Thailand returned from missions in pack six with their bombs still aboard—because of hung bombs, bad weather, or whatever—they'd arm them up and drop them on Termite Hill.
At first the guys dropped the bombs in memory of some guy who'd been mutilated and killed on a termite mound down there. Then that was forgotten and it became one more superstition, like growing a mustache or wearing the same old cruddy pair of boots when you flew combat. It was considerably better luck to add another crater to Termite Hill than to bring your munitions home.
It was easy to find. The hillside and field had been denuded, the mountain bombed almost level, and the surrounding area was an eerie moonscape of deep craters.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
While Termite Hill is a work of fiction, the novel's setting is historically accurate. The descriptions of units, airbases, cities, and locales were as described. Many of the targets were struck on the dates mentioned, using tactics and weapons described in the novel. The fighter pilot songs are presented as they were, and are, sung.
This first novel in The Squadron series features a Wild Weasel team. During early 1967, the handful of Weasel pilots and bears at Takhli were the most highly decorated group in the war, earning two Medals of Honor, several Air Force Crosses, dozens of Silver Stars, scores of Distinguished Flying Crosses, and far too many Purple Hearts.
