4. Vietnam II (3 page)

19 January 1991

AIR ENGAGEMENT #10

USAF F-16s vs. VPAF MiG-25s

Major George Garfield

F-16 Fighting Falcon Pilot

“Bandits ten o’clock low.”  Lead announced breaking the boredom with thunderous words.

We were escorting F-111s on a bombing raid.

“Two,”

My eyes raced to the skies.  I saw nothing.

I stopped peering at the skies ahead and watched as my lead moved to wingtip distance.  Across the short stretch of air space that separated us I could make out his helmet and nervous hand signals in the cockpit.  His hands seemed frantic with energy and I saw the flush of excitement as he pointed.  I looked ahead of us, and squinted hard.  All I got for my efforts was an ache in my eyes. There was nothing but the glare of the setting sun descending down in the west.  There was nothing on radar.  His imagination had gotten away from him clearly. 

Then I saw them!

"They could be Navy planes headed in on a bombing run." he murmured through the radio.

Even as he spoke the words, however, I knew that he was simply whistling in the dark.  They were at the wrong altitude and wrong place.

“AWACs, Bolt 56 Flight, we are tracking two fighters north east of our position heading west.  Are they friendly?”  Lead called out to the command and control aircraft.

This was a formality that was set in place to prevent fratricide.  We both suspected what the answer would be.

“Negative, Bolt 56 Flight,”

So there was only one answer.  They were PAV fighters, and the Intel Officer’s words about the PAVs not being stupid were bearing fruit.  Our air attacks had damaged the Vietnamese command, control and communications.  Here were two PAV jets tearing out to do something drastic about it.

“Permission to engage,” Lead asked.

For a moment or two I took my eyes off the two dots on my radar display rushing up out of the surface clutter and glanced at the F-111 formation clawing toward the target.  Ice coated my heart, and my throat became dry and tight. 

“Permission granted.  Bolt 56 Flight cleared to engage.”

“AWACs, Bolt 56 Flight copies all.”

The wave of excitement vanished just as quickly as it came. A cold calmness swept over me.

The dots on the horizon were no longer dots.  They had grown and taken on definite shape and outlines.  As I expected they were MiGs hugging the deck hoping that the ground cover would protect them.  If they had seen us they gave no indication.

Lead moved to his position for the attack.

Few words were spoken between us.  There were no need for any.  This is what we trained for and training had become reflex.  We slammed straight at the center of the enemy formation as though it were only a single entity and we were bent on its immediate destruction.

When the missile lock sung out in my headset I opened fired and sliced an AIM-7 at the enemy MiG across the sky.  Lead did the same.

I never saw the impact of the missiles.  Just that there were two bandits on my radar and then there were none.

Senior Airman William Lydecker

E-3 SENTRY Weapons Director

The first dogfight of the day was between two F-16s and a pair of MiG-21s.  The MiGs engaged the F-16s and the American fighters shot them both down with AIM-7 missiles.

The command center was getting their information from somewhere else that day.  It was back to business as usual.  I suspected that headquarters at Hickam had worked out their communications problems and they were getting whatever they needed from satellites.

Just as I was thinking about the crazy phone patch the night prior I spotted a pair of MiG-21s pop up from near Old Saigon.  I looked for some blue air to send their way.

Our business today was killing.

And business was good.

AIR ENGAGEMENT #11

USAF F-15Cs vs. VPAF MiG-21s

Captain William Bell

F-15 Driver

West and I were guided to a pair of MiG-21s by AWACs.  The Vietnamese aircraft turned and engaged, surprising us.  West and I turned our F-15s into the fight and thus began the most dramatic dogfight of the war. 

We and the MiGs flew straight at each other’s throats.  West fired an AIM-7 and the lead MiG took it right in the face.  There was a massive midair explosion.  The MiG pilot must have died instantly and his fighter, or the wreckage from it, fell into the Central Highlands in a flaming mass of metal debris.

The other MiG gained a lock on West’s aircraft.  West and I went defensive with a dive to low altitude in order to clutter the PAV’s radar in order to break the lock-on.  Then West dropped flares to counter his adversary's MiG infra-red search-and-track.  It was unnecessary as the MiG disengaged after his wingman was shot down.  The MiG fled north.

We turned south.  The F-15 did not carry a lot of gas.  Maneuvering in a dogfight burnt it up at twice the usual rate.  We sought to rendezvous with a tanker.  A KC-135 over the gulf was happy to oblige.  We checked in, ran our checklists and moved to precontact with the tanker.

Surprising the shit out of us the now lone MiG reappeared.  As we made their way to the orbiting KC-135 the MiG showed up on our and AWACs radar at about the same time.

The MiG had feinted north and then reversed course chasing us.  We broke off from the tanker and turned to meet him again leading to a head on confrontation.  I could only hope that our fuel would hold out.

The MiG maneuvered and I lost visual.

“I lost sight of him.  Do you at least have him on radar?”

“Two,” I said indicating I did.

“Bell take him out.”  West ordered.

“Two,” I responded indicating my IFF could not verify he was not coalition.

“We know it’s him.  Engage!”  West ordered.

“Two,” I said reminding him of the rules of engagement.

“Fine,” West said knowing he was in the wrong.  “Have it your way.”

“Two,” I said trying to make him feel better.

Missing out on a kill was better than shooting down a Navy jet that decided not to communicate.  They often did so we had to be careful.  After all if the MiG attacked we could maneuver.

As if on cue the MiG sliced right through our formation.  Now visually identified positively as a MiG West turned left to get in firing position and the PAV matched his turn.  The maneuver brought all of us very close to the ground.  I was not comfortable with it at all, but I backed West’s play.  At last we both had him locked on and West was about to pickle an AIM-9 at him when the PAV tried to escape using a Split S maneuver.  This was some World War I dogfighting stuff.  They taught it during the first month of pilot training in every air force around the world.  It still worked if it was done right.

Unfortunately for the PAV pilot and fortunate for us he screwed it up.  We watched him fly his MiG-21 right into the ground.

Mission accomplished on MiG number two and we didn’t even have to fire a shot.

Did I feel bad about all these aircraft and pilots we shot down?  I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t.  Thing is these MiG-21s were relics from the North Vietnam Air Force that had bloodied us pretty bad in the sixties and seventies and caused a lot of fliers to become MIAs and POWs.  I had no problem doing the same to them.

We didn’t have to be in the AWACs or the command center to know that the air war was going well.  Pretty much one sided at that point.

What could go wrong?

Major Ben Arthur

F-16 Fighting Falcon Pilot

I took off shortly after noon and formed up with the rest of my group, led by our squadron commander Lieutenant Colonel Boone, as we hit the tankers.  There were a group of F-15s flying combat air patrol above us on the lookout for MiGs that day.  We were kicking ass in the air, but we still had to be prepared to protect our strike packages from enemy fighters.  There were also four F-111s out there searching for SAM sites.

We were part of the largest daylight bombing mission of the war.  It was called Package R and we were striking targets in and around downtown Hanoi.

Air refueling was critical to making these missions a success.  By the time the strike package was scheduled to land back in Thailand each aircraft would have refueled four times.  The tankers are airline type aircraft with big fuel tanks inside instead of passengers.  They could not get too close to enemy territory.  Typically they accompanied us to about 50 miles from the Laotian/Former North Vietnamese border and then they would stay on station to give us fuel on the way back out.

We all searched for a string of mountains the V1 pilots nicknamed Thud Ridge as we made our way north.  It had served as a visual landmark during the first Vietnam as they approached the target area.  None of us had been around for the first war and films of it are spotty.  The old gun cameras were awful and any surviving footage was in bad shape.  Supposedly it pointed right at Phuc Yen, which was lightly defended.  I think I spotted it a couple of times, but every peak here looked the same.  The landscape may have changed due to erosion.  Old Thud Ridge may be lost to history. 

We pressed on using GPS.

The F-111s went in first.  They used their jammers to confuse the tracking systems on the enemy SAM sites.

We would start taking AAA as the strike force crossed the Red River.  As soon as the enemy gunners saw us they opened fire.  We followed Boone’s lead and jinked our aircraft, commencing a series of random and unpredictable movements, in order to throw off the PAV gunners.  Other than flying high and moving fast, jinking was the only way to dodge the hail of bullets those PAVs put out.

Ten miles from the target we lit the afterburners and flew in at around 550 knots.  We began the bomb run at 12,000 feet.

The first two four ship flights flew in and dropped on target.  We came in late and at the wrong angle and in the process gained the attention of PAV anti-aircraft gunners.  The gunners threw up a wall of flak.  We had to punch through this to get to the target.

We dropped our ordinance.  Intel would later tell us that 20 of our 24 bombs went right through the roof of the hangar we were aiming for.  It decimated everything.  Then we rejoined the formation.

With bombs released on target, I formed up with my flight as they climbed up.  We were looking to get above 4,500 feet as quick as possible where we would statistically be safer from ground fire. 

“Missile three o’clock!”  Came over the radio.

SAMs were in the air.  A glance to my right and I could see three coming up out of the foliage after the formation.

Turning right into the missiles would be the best course of action.  Airmanship prevented that however as that would take the flight over a heavily defended power plant.  Instead we hugged the ground and pushed out of there at near supersonic speeds.

The maneuver almost worked.  The first missile shot up heading toward the stratosphere.  The second tried to chase us and collided with the ground.  Unfortunately, the third missile found a Wild Weasel.

“I’m hit.  I’m hit.”  I heard over the radio about the time that I thought we had made it out free and clear. 

“I think we can make it back to base.”  Came a moment later telling us it was not that bad.

We tried to climb back up, but we were really low and all of a sudden we were enveloped in tracer fire.  I heard the sound of pinging and knew metal had hit metal.  At least ten 57 millimeter rounds had punched through my fighter.  Pieces of one went right through the bottom of the cockpit between my legs and exited through the canopy.  Another few inches either way and I would have lost a leg, my balls or if it had gone straight through my asshole probably my life.

Red lights flashed on the cockpit indicators telling me that the engine had caught fire.  Almost immediately there was smoke in the cockpit.  It got thick quick and I was nearly blind.  I did an emergency decompression to clear the smoke.  It didn’t work.

I was still climbing when gauges started failing and more lights were coming on by the second.  My wingman joined up with me as I hit Mach 1.1 on the airspeed indicator.

“Missile left!  Missile left!”  I heard over the radio.  It seemed like things were about to get worse.  I was looking around for this missile while trying to deal with everything else.  There was nothing I could see.  Then I realized they were talking about me.

Pieces of my Falcon were falling off into the airstream.

My wingman must have figured that out about the same time because he started vouching for me.

“Negative!  That’s not a SAM!  That’s three!”  Four said.

Everything was dying and I was flying off the compass at this point.  All I wanted was to make it to the coast to our predetermined ejection area at that point.  I didn’t want to bail out over the water, there were a lot more things that could go wrong going into the drink, but there was a better chance the slow moving rescue guys could get to me.  The last thing I wanted to do was make them fight their way through hundreds of miles of enemy territory.  You always want to be rescued, but the last thing you want is for someone else to die trying to save your ass.

Flames were coming into the cockpit.  They were licking at my left boot.  I felt the rudder pedal melt under my foot.

One of the tires exploded blowing the gear doors open.  The other one fell into the jet stream and was ripped off.  It was loud and scary and I thought that the plane had broken in half.  It was nothing compared to the fuel tank exploding.  One of the underwing tanks, full of fuel from our last air refueling, blew and took part of the wing with it.

I fought to regain control of the aircraft.  I looked out the canopy and saw ground underneath me.  The plane came apart faster than I could keep it together.  There was no way I was going to make it to the water.  Seconds later the aircraft became uncontrollable.  It went into a spin and took me with it.  I applied the recovery technique and it did not respond. 

I tried it again. 

Nothing.

Out of options, I departed the aircraft at about 14,000 feet.

As I waited for my chute to open I was thankful that I at least made it close to the gulf where I had at least a chance of being rescued.  At 10,000 feet the mechanism triggered and my parachute opened.  The risers came out fast. I had not tucked my chin and they scraped the bottom of my chin up pretty bad.

The ground came up pretty fast and I was looking for villages and patrols.  The last thing I wanted was to make it this far and get captured by the PAVs.  There were several large open areas that I could have chosen for landing zones.  I passed them up because they were in sight of villages.  If civilians captured me it might be worse than PAV regulars.  Pulling hard on my risers I steered the chute to the most isolated area I could see.  There was a small field outlying the other, larger areas.  The best part about it was there was a ridgeline between my position and the nearest village.

I screwed up the landing and broke my elbow and two of my fingers.  That and two burnt feet were a small price to pay considering what I had just been through.

At least I was alive for now.  Whether or not that continued since I was deep inside Old North Vietnam.

I pulled out my survival radio and hoped someone was crazy enough to come and get me.