Journey

by Norty Schwartz

  We started with academics, progressed to simulators, and finally got actual flight time. At first it’s pretty basic: takeoffs and landings and learning how to be safe. How to communicate with air traffic control and so on. Then, ultimately, we flew solo. Up until then I only had three or four hours of flying solo in the T-41, so soloing the 37 was a major big deal—a substantial milestone for me, as it was later on in the T-38.

  Schwartz personal collection

  Following our solos, we started to do more advanced maneuvers like formations and aerobatics—those same BFMs I’d experienced in that first orientation flight. Only now—just like Captain Maxwell had predicted—I’d be the one at the controls, and I’d be doing them solo.

  The 37 is a medium-performance airplane, with a ceiling of around 25,000 feet. The 38—at least in those days—was definitely considered a high-performance aircraft. Everything happens twice as fast in the 38, and it’s not nearly as forgiving as the 37. She’ll let you know in no uncertain terms if you’ve missed the mark. But you’re rewarded big-time by that performance.

  For me, I had to work to get the hang of both of these aircraft. I’ve seen some who are natural aviators and I envy them. They just look out of the aircraft and “feel” what to do, but it took quite some time for me to reach that point. Becoming proficient was a real challenge for me—but a fun one.

  We had a good class that worked our asses off during the week, then on weekends we’d let off steam waterskiing on Lake Armistead, where the beer flowed quite freely. Work hard, play hard—that defined the year. You put it all together and it was a very good one.

  It all culminated in graduation from pilot training. The ceremony was truly the highlight of the entire year. The graduation speaker was James Robinson “Robbie” Risner, who was a brigadier general at the time, a former Vietnam POW and double recipient of the Air Force Cross. The first was for extraordinary heroism in aerial combat, the second for extraordinary heroism and willpower in the face of the enemy during his time as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. He endured seven years of torture and mistreatment in North Vietnamese captivity, three of which were spent in solitary confinement. To receive my wings and the class academic award from this great man is one of those life moments that I will never forget.

  It must have felt incredible for a man of his stature to have such an indelible impact on so many young lives. Never in a million years would I have predicted that thirty-five years later, I would be the one standing at that podium, delivering the commencement address and pinning flight wings on more than thirty young pilots. But on April 24, 2009, that’s exactly what happened. Del Rio had changed in those thirty-five years, but the small-town sense of community was still a major feature. That close-knit sense of camaraderie is unforgettable.

  When I looked around the auditorium—standing in the exact spot that General Risner stood—a flood of memories came rushing back to me. I was hit by how very much more than flying I had picked up back then. I tried to put myself back in time—to the extent that I asked myself what I had learned over the course of the past thirty-five years that I really wish I’d had the benefit of knowing back then. This is what I came up with, the thoughts that I shared with the new graduate pilots:

  I learned that your professionalism and reputation start at the beginning of your career—not when you move up in rank, but right at the very beginning.

  I learned that you need to know your business, to be professional, and to understand the platforms which you operate.

  I learned that you have to be good at what you do and always stay trustworthy.

  If you’re not trusted, you can’t be effective. On the flip side, if you earn trust and credibility, then opportunities will undoubtedly come your way.

  * * *

  Thundering through Mach 2 she could track and engage enemy targets well beyond visual range, and when her twin GE J79 afterburners kicked in, she howled skyward with an astounding rate of climb that was almost unheard of at the time. As our principal interceptor, air superiority strike fighter, and reconnaissance platform, the F-4 Phantom held fifteen world records for in-flight performance, including those for both absolute altitude and absolute speed. Jam-packed with air-to-air missiles, air-to-ground missiles, and a vast array of bomb packages, the Phantom was our deadliest airborne threat, and like most of my graduating class, I was determined to score one of the few remaining F-4 pilot slots and exploit her immense capabilities to further our objectives in Southeast Asia.

  But our participation in Vietnam was winding down, and the reality was that only a select few in my graduating class would receive assignments beyond our own borders. While I would work my buns off in whatever assignment I was given, I really did feel that I could contribute most in some kind of overseas deployment—and never having ventured beyond our own shores, I knew I’d have fun too.

  Assignments were determined by a combination of officers’ preferences, aircraft availability, and training evaluations. While nothing in the Air Force is guaranteed, between the objective part of my class standing (academic and flight performance evaluations) and the leadership assessments, I didn’t find it an unreasonable hope that someday they’d be painting “Captain Norty Schwartz” on the polished titanium airframe beneath the canopy of my first advanced fighter jet.

  I wasted no time in filling out the appropriate request forms, then anxiously awaited the good word. It was probably only a few weeks before the notice arrived from the assignment “drop,” but it seemed like forever. I ripped open the envelope and saw that I had been slotted for a C-130 position in the Philippines.

  If the Phantom was the Ferrari of our fleet, then the 130 “Hercules” might be seen as the Mack Truck. Big, loud, and rugged, the Herc’s a noble, blue-collar, versatile machine that can take a beating. The high-winged, rear-ramp-loading four-engine aircraft are stable, light on the controls, and can take off and land almost anywhere that you can find a fairly flat three-thousand-foot-long stretch of land. You’re not going to find a better workhorse. On more than one occasion I’ve lost engines mid-flight, and while these are not situations that I’d look forward to repeating, the decrease in performance was not profound, and I did feel comfortably in control of the aircraft at all times—without any doubt that we’d be able to land safely.

  About a year after my arrival at Clark Air Base in the Philippines, the Israeli Air Force used four C-130s in the successful counterterrorist hostage rescue at Entebbe Airport in Uganda. The lead pilot was taught how to fly the C-130 by U.S. Air Force instructors at the same Little Rock AFB where I qualified in the aircraft. IAF Brigadier General Joshua Shani (a lieutenant colonel at the time) told how his takeoff from Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, was one of the heaviest in the history of this airplane, substantially exceeding the allowable maximum takeoff weight. Completely packed with the assault team, a Mercedes to be used in a ground deception, Land Rovers, and an additional paratrooper force, by the time he reached the end of the runway under maximum power, he was only two knots over stall speed when he had to lift off. Then, for the next 2,500 miles, he would lead the other three planes in formation under the radar, at about one hundred feet above the water for most of the trip, but occasionally dipping down further at places he deemed particularly dangerous—entirely in the dead of night and under strict radio silence.

  Missions like these were exactly what I’d be trained for later on when I transitioned to the special operations side of the business. So when people ask me if I was disappointed when I read about the Herc assignment instead of the F-4, I tell them, “Not only no, but hell no!” I was elated to be going overseas.

  I am by no means a natural pilot, and I probably would have made a fairly average fighter pilot. Sure, I would have tried hard—but to this day I still think I’m better suited for a crew airplane and there were none any finer than the Hercules.

  The Dalai Lama said: “Sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.”

  * * *
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br />   It certainly was in my case. By the time I retired I had accumulated over 4,400 flight hours in a variety of aircraft, and in no small way that’s due to a lesson I picked up early on from mentors like Mort Freedman, Al Navas, and Al Peck—legends who saw something special in me despite my many flaws—and maybe even from Dad, who had enough faith in me to spring $99 to buy my first three-piece suit so I could make a good impression in my Academy nomination interview.

  There are a number of things that you might not necessarily be a natural at so you have to bear down and work that much harder than the next guy to gain skills that allow you to compete.

  * * *

  For the next five months I immersed myself in soaking in everything I could about the mighty bird during my C-130 initial pilot training at Little Rock AFB, then I was off to my first overseas assignment: Clark Air Force Base on Luzon Island, about forty miles northwest of Manila in the Philippines, one of our main support bases for sorties into and out of Vietnam. And the great adventure began.

  Flying into Clark for the very first time, I was struck by how lush everything seemed to be, nothing like the gray, dreary shots I recalled from photographs. Sandwiched between Mount Pinatubo to the west and Mount Arayat to the east, the base was a booming metropolis of its own, at that time the largest U.S. Air Force base in the world outside of the U.S. mainland. Later on I would get a chance to explore the dense jungle foliage, rice terraces, and thatched huts that made this island so unique—but for now my sights were focused on the ramp, which was bustling with all types of military planes, plus a few passenger charters courtesy of Trans International and World Airways. The bulk revolved around the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing’s fleet of Phantoms—F-4Es and F-4Gs—and its aggressor squadron’s F-5Es. Up until now, Saigon had been relatively peaceful, but very few believed that calm would continue as the rapidly advancing communist forces made the fall of Saigon imminent. With it would come a massive explosion of evacuation missions. Clark’s two parallel runways would barely be able to accommodate the steady stream of Hercs, along with C-141s and the massive C-5s, among the largest aircraft in the world.

  With the war winding down, I suppose I wasn’t expecting such frenetic activity; certainly nothing like the more routine pace that I’d experienced at both Laughlin and Little Rock—but no complaints—I loved every second of it.

  My first two months were all about accumulating flight hours to get certified in theater. The idea was to get as much experience as possible, so my persistent requests to build hours were not only tolerated, they were encouraged. We flew regularly to Thailand, Korea, Japan, and of course all over the Philippines. Each one was more exciting than the last. These were tactical training missions designed to build proficiency in the special tactics we’d soon be using in combat. Before being cleared to fly actual combat missions, we had to demonstrate our piloting skills on a check flight. Mine took place on a sortie from Clark AFB in the Philippines to Utapao Air Base in Thailand, and while I wasn’t nervous, the adrenaline certainly flowed, particularly with my examiner standing right behind me. I was enthusiastically chomping on a stick of Juicy Fruit as I pulled up the button for “Hot Mic,” a standard procedure that kept the microphone live during takeoffs and landings. “Utapao tower, Sierra five-one-niner on final approach for runway one-eight, gear down,” I reported, shortly before making a respectable landing and shutting down the engines.

  I swiveled around to jump out of the seat when a big hand clamped down on my shoulder. It belonged to then Staff Sergeant Arne Suvatne, our well-seasoned loadmaster, who shared words of wisdom I will never forget: “Kid, we don’t chew gum on hot mic.” I suppose being forced to listen to my mastication was not a part of my flight crew’s job description (or that of all the air traffic controllers on the net). Message received, and it was one of many that I would receive from NCOs (noncommissioned officers, staff sergeant through chief master sergeant), the real backbone of the Air Force.

  It wasn’t much later that I was on a flight with Chick Anderson, the flight engineer on the very first C-130 ten-thousand-pound M-121 “Earthquake” bomb drop in Vietnam. Chick was another one of the folks that saw something special in me and maintained an interest over the years. He ended up retiring as a chief master sergeant and was one of the guys who helped me learn the airplane, get a sense of what it meant to be a crew commander, and how to lead NCOs. “Always remember where you came from,” he would tell me. Great advice that I would never forget.

  The best NCOs have a knack for spotting promising young officers and whipping them into shape, sharing their own tough love to mold the leaders of tomorrow. Some young hotshots discard their counsel, brandishing the gold bars on their epaulets as if they trump twenty-plus years of hard-earned NCO battle scars. They become defensive and resist the advice. Few of these will make it past captain. I have always found it humbling that these seasoned professionals cared enough to take the extra time to share their personal insights with me. Particularly since my next mission would take me into the heart of Vietnam.

  Good advice has no rank.

  * * *

  Captain Dave Antoon was one of our very best pilots, and I was fortunate to have him beside me one night in late April of 1975 when I was at the controls of his C-130 as it spiraled down over a hot war zone into Tan Son Nhut, South Vietnam. The Saigon airfield was crammed with thousands of South Vietnamese civilians awaiting our arrival so we could whisk them off to safety, only days before the airfield was bombed by VPAF pilots who had defected from the South—pretty exciting for my very first real-world mission.

  Dave was an expert aviator—so accomplished that our squadron leadership had enough confidence in him to take this young second lieutenant along with him in-country on this challenging evacuation mission. This was his second of two tours spent in Southeast Asia flying C-130s, including those missions in Cambodia where our country denied its participation.

  But now, South Vietnam’s demise was imminent. For two years the North Vietnamese had been methodically moving masses of Soviet armored vehicles, artillery, and surface-to-air missiles into the South, setting the scene for the major offensive that was about to ignite. This time it would bring an end to South Vietnam. The U.S. Air Force had flown 5.25 million sorties over South Vietnam, North Vietnam, northern and southern Laos, and Cambodia, and had lost over 2,200 aircraft.

  The initial discomfort I felt behind the yoke was a thing of the past. Sure, getting the hang of certain tactics was more challenging than others, but controlling the great behemoth was starting to become as much second nature to me as driving a car. It had better be. I had just been told that I’d be the one at the controls flying us in.

  * * *

  We suited up and reported in for our preflight briefs, where we learned the day’s code words, radio frequencies, and the latest weather conditions. Intel briefed us on the security situation. North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces now controlled over 60 percent of South Vietnam. Three NVA divisions were closing in on Saigon. There would be no time to refuel, and until we entered the relative safety of Tan Son Nhut’s security perimeter, we would be prime targets for the Soviet-made SA-7 Grail shoulder-fired, heat-seeking antiaircraft missiles that played a vital role in neutralizing the South Vietnamese Air Force in the final days of the war. Small arms fire would be a serious threat under 4,500 feet; AAA (antiaircraft artillery) batteries extended our zone of vulnerability.

  Even with the most thorough and accurate intel briefs, the reality was that we were flying into hot combat zones and at times it felt like our paint scheme was a giant iridescent bull’s-eye rather than our camo green. Our “spiral down” approach pattern was designed to mitigate the threat.

  Today’s aircrews have the benefit of “smart” countermeasures systems—elaborate sensors tied into onboard radar and missile warning receivers—computers that instantly analyze antiaircraft threats and automatically dispense the appropriate infrared and radio-frequency countermeasures, plus jammers, chaff,
and flares. At the press of a button, today’s AC-130 SPECTRE gunship can become an airborne fireworks display, dispensing hundreds of flares that emit blinding effervescent trails from both sides and its belly, each a potential target intended to divert incoming missiles away from the aircraft. But in 1975, our onboard suite of countermeasures was decidedly less sophisticated. We would position a loadmaster by the parachute doors with a flare gun, on the lookout for incoming missiles. He would scan the ground and fire the flares toward the flash and trailing smoke trail of any SAMs (surface-to-air missiles) he spotted homing in on us, then radio the cockpit to “Break left” or “Break right,” our cue to initiate a vigorous evasive maneuver by heavily banking at a sharp angle away from the flare (and terminal trajectory of the missile), while reducing speed so as to decrease the temperature signature of our engines and exhaust. In theory, the missile would be drawn to the two-thousand-plus degrees of the flare’s burning magnesium instead of our airplane, but I have no idea if it would have worked or not. Thankfully we never had to employ that tactic.

  * * *

  We took off from Clark and crossed the South China Sea without incident, but that was only the beginning. I’d rehearsed the combat “spiral” tactic throughout my prior two months at Clark as I became certified to fly in theater, but despite our realistic simulators and training flights, there’s no amount of simulation that can replicate actual battle conditions, where a miscue could earn one a posthumous ribbon instead of a reprimand.