Thud Ridge (15 page)

We spent thirty to forty-five minutes each day going through, first of all, our schedule for the next day, how many of what aircraft hauled in how much freight and mail for the past day, our statistical results for the present day showing how many missions we were fragged for versus how many we flew; then we compared our statistics with those of our sister F-10S wing at Korat, the Avis wing. (Nobody can afford to be second statistically these days and if the figures aren't right, you figure them a different way.) We then went into the intelligence portion that covered, in quite some detail, the accomplishments of each flight launched during the past twenty-four hours, and then came a few appropriate comments from our intelligence officer on trends in the air war up North or pertinent points from the overall world situation. We next looked at some visual presentations plotting the primary targets for the next day and then the weather officer would get up on the platform and give us his WAG (wild ass guess) on the probabilities of getting into the target the following day. He covered the outlook in all target areas, in the refueling areas, and of course, gave a familiar TV-type outlook for our own homedrome plus the other fighter bases in the area. Next came a dozen or more statistical masterpieces in viewgraph form from the maintenance guy. These were designed to dazzle you with detail and prove that we never did anything wrong. The detail included all facets of the operation, past, present and forecast for the next day, and wound up with a statistical and numerical rundown on the nature and quantity of all of our on-hand aircraft spare parts and munitions. Then came the photo officer who spelled out how many feet of film went through how many of which type cameras, plus a breakout of which cameras worked, which did not work, and again a monthly percentage of success. Next to last on the program was the safety officer who harangued on ground, air and missile safety to include the detail of which Thai driver dented which contractor's fender on which truck. The temptation to editorialize during this phase must have been great, and coming as it did at the tail end of a long hard day, this pitch often went wide of the mark.

The finale came when the boss got up on the platform and discussed anything he wanted to discuss. He ranged from what had happened to future plans. Mostly we talked about visitors for the next day and how we would operate in spite of them. It was a good gimmick, and it sort of kept you up to speed on what was going on; however, I found that after listening to it every day for months it lost some of its effect, upon me at least. One thing that we did have on occasion that spiced up the stand-up was the presentation of awards to our aircrews and to our support folks.

We would usually have these at the start of our stand-up briefings and would try to get all of our people who had received awards through this exercise at one time or another. In order to present the awards properly, the citation was read from the platform and the senior officer present then pinned the specific award or decoration on the. recipient's chest. At these ceremonies, we presented such things as Air Medals, sometimes Distinguished Flying Crosses, Commendation Medals, certificates for outstanding performance and the like. DFCs and up were usually saved for one of our many visiting general officers and we asked them to hang them on the chests of the guys who had earned them. We had a particular award called the 13th Air Force Weil-Done Award. It was awarded to pilots who had been recommended by their commanders and whose recommendations had been approved by the 13th Air Force. They were for handling an aircraft emergency in an outstanding manner, usually highlighting the fact that they got the machine back where it belonged rather than parking it in the jungle, or parking themselves in the jungle. It was the closest the 13th Air Force ever got to combat aircraft or jungles. We presented these at the stand-up and a little plaque went along with the award. On one such evening, we presented this award to a very sharp and shiny young man whom I'll call Bob.

His citation said that Bob was number four in a four-ship strike flight that encountered very heavy flak and numerous Migs while attacking its target, and that during his run, he lost his utility hydraulic pressure that runs all sorts of equipment on the aircraft including the afterburner and the cannon. These are both quite essential elements in Mig country, and the loss of these systems makes you a poor match for a Mig. He was dramatically alerted to the lack of burner when he tried to engage it coming off the target in order to close up the flight spacing from his number four position. No burner light simply meant that he could not keep up with his faster-moving companions and that he was number one Mig bait. The Migs have an uncanny sense of knowing when you have a flight member in trouble and, as they so often did, they rose from their sanctuary and struck at this separated flight. While they somehow failed to position themselves properly for an easy attack on Bob's partially operative bird, they did wind up in good position for an attack on the rest of the flight and a workable, if less than optimum, pass on Bob.

Knowing that his buddies would sacrifice their own speed to attempt to get him back in the envelope of mutual coverage, and that this action would make them pigeons for the Migs that he could now see clearly and that the other flight members could not see too well, Bob determined that the course of action to save the flight lay directly in his lap. He coaxed the maximum speed out of his machine as he got rid of the tanks and all other external garbage that further slowed him down and, with a sick bird, he turned into and pressed an attack on the entire Mig flight. Since his cannon was nothing but excess ballast, he had no hope of shooting them down and he knew that his only hope was to scare them off. Scare them off he did, as he flew directly into the middle of them, scattering them all over the sky. All airplane drivers abhor the thought of a midair collision and the Mig pilots saw Bob as another one of those crazy Thud drivers trying to ram them. The ruse worked perfectly and the scattered Migs regrouped and went off to seek less aggressive playmates. The flight was able to recover their limping protector and they herded him back to the nearest airstrip where he accomplished a faultless recovery and landing with the systems he had left. Quite a combination of guts and skill.

Bob was certainly an impressive young fellow. He was a big guy and he flew with the same squadron I flew with. Here was a youngster in his early twenties, extremely clean-cut and healthy, a big strapping example of American manhood. He looked like the All-American Boy, and he flew extremely well. He was eager and most anxious to please, and on the several missions I had flown with him, I was most impressed by his professional manner and his approach to his job of flying combat. He acted far more mature than his years and had all the prospects of being a great combat leader.

He was particularly impressive on the evening when he received his Weil-Done award, as he was the kind of guy who matched the citation. All present were taken by his appearance and we knew we had ourselves a good boy. The next morning, Bob was flying number two in Crab flight and, with the rest of the troops, he loaded up with two 3,000-pounders and a center-line fuel tank and proceeded with his assigned task for the day, going to downtown Hanoi.

In the month that we had started moving closer toward downtown Hanoi, the defenses had become more intense, almost frantic. The flak was spread out all over the area, but there was plenty of it, and the Russians were providing the North Vietnamese with all the Sams they could launch. By now, with the Migs, Sams and guns well coordinated, the defense was probably as intense as the Northern forces could muster and the Migs were particularly active. They would orbit in a specific area and you would have to fight first through them and then through the Sams. The Migs would stay pretty well dispersed so as not to soak up the Sams, but there have been occasions when the Migs have not done their homework too well and have wound up right in the middle of their own ground fire.

Generally, however, you could see steady improvement in their defense coordination and as you moved down the Ridge you would go through a definite Mig area where the Sams, although they might be actively operating their radar, would not be firing. Once you broke through that quadrant, the Sams would start filling the air. The ground fire was always present during this phase and in the area of the target itself. As soon as you came back up off the target, you would usually find the Migs shunted in against you, and you would have to fight your way back out. The Migs found out that once we dropped our bombs, with the speed we had and the power that we had available, we were not too attractive playmates. The Migs were not too pleased when they found that by then we were really carrying a head of steam and that their aircraft could not compete with us down low. They found, to their sorrow I'm sure, that the unloaded Thud was more than a match for them at low altitude as long as we didn't try to turn with them, and our buddies in the F-4C Phantoms gave them fits at higher altitudes. They got a few, but although we got a lot more of them than they ever got of us, it is important to remember that there is a significant difference in Mig drivers and in Mig models. I can recall one go, coming up off a target along the Red River when I had the lead flak-suppression flight, that turned out quite well. We dropped our bombs and came racing back up to altitude, remembering the Migs we had experienced in the area all the way down the Ridge. The Avis wing was working over on the other side of the Ridge at the same time, and the Migs were pretty well mixed up with them also. The Migs had been orbiting out to the west of us as we bombed and, as I came zooming up off the target heading back to the north, my first view was a head-on pass from a Mig who did not appear to be too well coordinated or satisfied with his attack. He had failed to take my speed into consideration, and by the time he actually tried to line up on me, he had already lost the battle and was all for getting out of the pass. I didn't get an opportunity to shoot at him and the resultant head-on pass turned into nothing more than a near-collision that scared me and, if he had any sense, should have scared him. We went zipping past each other canopy to canopy with a closing speed well up in the 1200-knot range.

About this time, Paul, my number two guy, on my west side and a little high, came into my field of view quite clearly. He really caught my attention, as the first time I saw him after we came up off the target there was a Sam bursting directly behind his tail pipe. Fortunately, it was fired at a right angle to him as he passed, a most difficult shot, or he never would have made it. The thing burst just perfectly on his tail pipe and covered about half of his aircraft with that horrible ugly orange ball, and to my surprise, he came flying out of the side of the orange ball. Some of his equipment was not working properly, and knowing that the Sams had his range and elevation, he had no choice but to roll over and hit for the weeds. He had to get down behind the Ridge before they tapped him. This, of course, left me without a wingman, which is not the greatest feeling in the world. My element was coming up off the target and were to my east, but my left side was quite bare. Bending to the right, I noted that I was lined up to the west of the Ridge and pointed right at Phuc Yen; in fact, I was very nicely lined up with the hometown runways of these guys I was fighting with. The ground gunners were sure lighting up all around the airfield and I was able to do battle with them with my trusty Vulcan cannon. That's not the kind of duel you engage in for any lengthy time period and live to talk about it, but it is satisfying to be able to at least give them a shot in their own backyard. It would be much better to knock their whole ball park out completely, but I guess that would keep them from shooting at us and that wouldn't be fair—or something.

I spotted two Mig-17's in a very sloppy echelon that put them almost one behind the other. They were under me in a lazy turn to the west and south away from Phuc Yen. I still had a bag of speed and I had my cannon and a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile, which requires multiple switch actions to set up—it's not difficult, it's just time-consuming and at the instant I did not have the time. The four separate switch actions that you have to take to go from the bombing mode to the missile mode did not lend themselves to this situation. With one more hand, I could have utilized the missile but I just could not fumble fast enough on this particular pass to get it set up. I closed on the two Migs like mad and they stayed in their gentle turn and did not appear to see me. I thought, I'll go through my switching action and set up my missile—but if I do, I'll have to wiggle around a bit and delay, and they may see me in the interim and initiate a break. If they do, I can't touch them as they can turn so much tighter than I can. Or if I get the missile set up, the chances of it guiding are less than a hundred percent, and if it goes streaking across the sky, that will alert them and they will be off and running and I'll never get a crack at both of them. I thought I might get one of them with that missile, but I was greedy, I wanted them both. So I jammed the throttle forward and got inside their turn and was closing beautifully. It was an ideal gunnery pass, just as pretty as it could be.

I started to fire as I pressed to within a thousand feet of the second Mig and I was doing pretty well on him and he started rolling over and to the right like a sick fish. I figured, OK, I've got this guy, now I'll just keep pressing in and get the one up in front of him. About that time, the importance of the fact that I had no wingman to look around and protect me became painfully apparent. My element was now in pretty good position and John, my seeing-eye major flying number three, called me to break right immediately. It seems that another Mig had entered the scene from above and was moving into position above and inside of my turn and was about to have at me. I stayed as long as I figured I could, and then rolled down and under to the right and as I pulled through the maneuver, threw the third Mig off me and over the top of me.