by Tom Clancy
One morning he was at Mobile Control, a small glass house between the runways, where one watched students in the traffic pattern, making sure they don’t crash or land gear up. As it happened, Al Lamb, a captain like Horner, was also assigned to Mobile Control that morning. While he was there, he talked about his recent experience in Southeast Asia flying F-100 Wild Weasels, the new secret outfit designed to find and kill SAM sites. They were just starting up, he explained, and needed experienced pilots who were also volunteers. “I want in,” Horner told him.
About an hour later, Lamb finished his tour in Mobile and left. Soon after he himself was relieved from Mobile that morning, Horner got a call from Gary Willard, a lieutenant colonel, who was commander of the new Weasel school. “Al told me you’re a volunteer,” he said to Horner.
“That’s true,” Horner answered, and by 11:00 A.M. that day he had orders to report to the Weasel squadron for extra training. The Air Force forgot the cold eye they had previously cast on his attempts to return to combat. They placed great importance on the Weasel program.
★ Horner entered Wild Weasel training together with his good friends, Billy Sparks and Jim Hartney (White Fang), whose father, a major, had been Eddie Rickenbacker’s ops officer in World War I.18 He also went through the training with a cool, somber electronics warfare officer named Dino Regalli, who had been an EWO on spy missions flown out of the Middle East to eavesdrop on the Russians.
The training itself emphasized the obvious, that Weaseling is like making love to a porcupine: you approach them and do your thing very carefully.
Practically, it consisted of a great deal of classified classroom instruction on SAM radars, SAM operations and limitations, and tactics for approaching a SAM site, as well as in-flight training. The ATI black box that allowed Weasels to see where they were in the enemy radar-tracking radar beams was called the ER-142. The Weasels also had a set of antennas that allowed them to see where the radar was located on the ground, even if it was hidden from visual view. Using these electronics, they were trained in the modes and tactics of the SA-2 radar. They were also trained to use the Shrike radar homing missile and to outmaneuver the SA-2 Guideline missiles.
★ In the spring of 1967, Horner, now a Wild Weasel, returned to Korat, Thailand.
Between 1965 and 1967, the base had expanded, and the facilities were much improved. There was now a large, new, air-conditioned officers’ club with a swimming pool and all sorts of other amenities. (The 1965 club was being used to store soft drinks for the new BX.) There was also a two-story hospital and an air-conditioned church. The hooches were now two-man air-conditioned rooms in four-room suites. Each suite had a flush toilet and shower and a sitting area complete with refrigerator and chairs. Quite a change from the shacks where they lived and slept in 1965, and the rubber raft pool.
As a Wild Weasel, Horner flew both Wild Weasel missions and night radar bombing missions, a total of seventy in addition to the forty-one he’d flown in 1965.
The skies over Hanoi and Haiphong, meanwhile, and the surrounding Red River Delta, had become the most heavily defended real estate on earth. In the delta lowlands and the hills that ringed them had been placed more than 7,000 antiaircraft guns and as many as 180 well-camouflaged SAM launchers. By 1967, MiGs were also active, and doing surprisingly well against U.S. aircraft. At the start of the war, Air Force pilots had shot down four MiGs for every one of their own that was lost. Now the ratio was one to two. The Weasels and the ECM pods were badly needed.
A typical Weasel mission over Hanoi or Haiphong usually went something like this:
After takeoff, a pilot would proceed to the tanker in Thailand or over the Sea of China. After refueling, the package would form up. The Weasels would lead, followed by ingress MiG CAP F-4s, followed by twelve to sixteen bomb-laden F-105s, followed a little later (so they’d have fuel when the strikers were leaving the target area) by additional Wild Weasels and MiG CAP.
As he neared Little Thud Ridge, northeast of Hanoi, or Thud Ridge, running northwest of Hanoi parallel to the Red River, his MiG CAP would start down the ridge looking for any MiGs that might scramble, while the Weasels would fan out over the flats looking for SAM sites. (Pilots called it Dr. Pepper when a pilot was out on the flats with a SAM site at ten o’clock, two o’clock, and four o’clock locked onto him at the same time.) The Weasel’s job was to play chicken with the SAM operators, to “encourage” them to turn off their radars. So he often turned into the site and flew toward it. When the radar operator saw him coming at him, he had two choices: he could fire a SAM at him from the ring of missiles that he operated, or he could shut down his radar, which was in the middle of the ring. If he fired, the booster on the Guideline missile kicked up a lot of dust and clearly marked his site, so all the pilot had to do was to dodge the missile(s) he fired, and turn in and kill him. But more than likely he shut down and waited for help from a nearby site. When that site came up on the pilot’s electronics, he turned on him, and the dance went through another round. After a few minutes of this, the strike package had already gotten in and out and were back over the ridge. At that point, the egress Weasel flight would fly in to cover the pilot’s exit back up to the ridge and the MiG CAP F-4s would wait around in case any MiGs showed up.
Throughout all this, there might be a Weasel or striker shot down, and this added to all the confusion of radar signals going off in the pilot’s headset, of radio calls from his flight members about SAMs coming at him, of calls from the strikers trying to get their act together, of calls from the supporting command and control shouting out MiG warnings, of the constant junk chatter from the F-4s, and finally, of the ominous sound on guard channel of the beepers that are automatically activated when a pilot’s parachute is opened.
When he crossed the coastline or the Red River (there were few guns or SAMs west of the river), he was flooded with relief. He knew then that he was alive for at least one more day.
★ Though not everyone bought the ECM concept, the ECM pods were also proving their worth. The people at Ta Khli Base, for example, were suspicious of them and were still flying low-level tactics, even after two years of deadly lessons to the contrary. (For a time, Ta Khli was bereft of Wild Weasels, all of them from that base having been shot down; the Weasels from Korat had to take over some of their work until more could be sent from the States.)
However, the wing commander at Korat, Brigadier General Bill Chairasell, decided that losses at low level were too high and ordered his pilots to try out the new pods and fly the required four-ship pod formation. Each aircraft had to fly so many feet from each other and so many feet above or below his leader, so the four ships filled a box of airspace about 4,000 feet across by 1,000 feet long and 1,500 feet deep. Though using the pods and flying in this formation left the North Vietnamese radar operators unable to discern individual aircraft on their radarscopes, and gave them insufficient accuracy in their systems to hit anything with the missiles they shot, that didn’t stop them from trying. They sent up their missiles into the blobs on their screens. They came close, but they didn’t hit. And this meant some jittery moments for the pilots up there, cruising along at 15,000 to 20,000 feet above the ground in their rigid formation, feeling naked to the SAMs, sweating it out if their pods would really work or not, only finding out when the missile would fly harmlessly by. Not only did flying the pod formation require extreme discipline, but flying it was a pure act of faith; yet it worked. Soon, because of Bill Chairasell’s leadership and the use of pod formation and the Weasels, losses at Korat took a nosedive, and “There ain’t no way” became “There is a way.”
Did all of this make a real difference? In some ways, yes. Flying became safer for U.S. pilots. They had better targets—steel mills, bridges in Hanoi, SAM storage areas, and other targets in Hanoi and Haiphong. Later they had a few precision, laser-guided bombs, which also helped. Later still, Richard Nixon’s Linebacker II campaign late in 1972 sent B-52s over Hanoi, and mined Haiphong Harbor.
The B-52s put terror into the North Vietnamese as no previous U.S. effort had done, and gave notice to the Russians and Chinese that nothing in North Vietnam was immune to U.S. bombing.
But did any of this make a real difference? Obviously no.
LAST RITES
The war in Vietnam had many unexpected consequences, and many of them were surprisingly positive. Here, in his words, is how the war ended for Chuck Horner:
In 1974, I traveled to Saigon and Australia, by then a lieutenant colonel in the Pentagon. While there, I had studied the 1973 Middle East war in detail. Based on this experience and my experience in Vietnam, I had put together a briefing (containing lots of Israeli gunnery film) on air-to-air combat for presentation to Congress. This briefing led to an invitation to a fighter symposium in Australia. As a courtesy, I visited the Vietnam squadrons flying the F-5 to provide them an update.
Not much was going on in Vietnam in those days. The Vietcong, of course, had been wiped out during the Tet Offensive, and we had pretty much pulled out, though there were USAF units in Thailand that could defeat any major action. So the North Vietnamese just sat tight, concentrated on diplomacy, and waited for the United States to lose interest in the South Vietnamese.
While I was in Saigon, the VNAF officers I was meeting knew we had pulled out for good and they were on their own. Therefore, having taken lessons from us for the past several years, they were putting their faith in hardware: if they had more, they would be OK. So they spent their time with me begging for matériel, radars, aircraft, bombs, transport, etc. By then I was aware that they weren’t going to get most of what they were asking for. I also knew that the Congress had had enough of the war and that the next two squadrons of F-5Es scheduled to go to Vietnam were not going to be delivered. The Pentagon had already started action to use them in building an upgraded Aggressor squadrons force at Nellis.
One day, I was scheduled to drive out in an embassy car with a driver to Bien Hoa Airfield to brief the squadron there (the same briefing I’ d given the other VNAF squadrons), and a VNAF lieutenant colonel, Le Ba Hung, was assigned to escort me. Before I left for the air base, the escort officer called to ask if he could ride up in my car. I said sure, but was mildly surprised. Vietnamese officers normally didn’t grab a ride with an American. They liked to take their own cars. So by asking to ride with me, this Hung guy was giving up a little “ face.” He would have had more face if he had shown up at the squadron in his own car. Well, I went over to the VNAF side of the base. When he got in the car, he was wearing a flight suit, which was another surprise. “I’ve already heard your briefing,” he told me. “So I’m going to get in a mission while you brief the squadron.”
At once I liked this guy, which inspired me to ask him why he had decided to ride with me. He answered flat out that he’d had trouble finding gas for his jeep; and besides, any extra gas he could get, he used in his Ford Mustang convertible, which he used to haul around his French girlfriend. Now I really resonated with this guy. We were the same age, and he had been flying fighters since 1960. He had been shot down and Americans had rescued him. And when he was going through pilot training, he’d had an American girlfriend, but didn’t feel he could get married due to the nature of his job. Now he was the F-5E Tiger II project officer on the VNAF Air Staff.
At that point he asked me point blank, “Are we going to get those other two squadrons of F-5E aircraft?”
“Do you want the truth?” I answered. He nodded, so I said, “No.”
He looked down in disappointment, then asked me what I thought about that. As far as I could tell, I told him, the VNAF would not have to fight the MiGs. What his country needed, if North Vietnam invaded, was gas and artillery ammo. And he agreed . . . and surprised me again.
After I briefed the squadron, and he flew a combat sortie, we rode home together. In the car, he turned to me and asked what I thought of the squadron pilots. “They look awfully young and inexperienced,” I told him uncomfortably. I was sure he didn’t want to hear this. “Their appearance and their questions and comments don’t give me a lot of confidence. If I were you, I’ d be worried.”
Then he looked me right in the eye and said, “Nixon’s policy of Vietnamization won’t work. My squadrons can’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag. And no matter how much equipment you give us, no matter how many drunken alcoholic civilian technicians you send over to do the maintenance on the equipment you give us, we are going to lose the forthcoming war with North Vietnam.” Once that had a chance to sink in, he went on: “Go back to the United States and tell your bosses what you’ve seen. Tell them that we desperately need your airpower until we’ve had time to grow a competent military force.”
I promised I would do that. And I did.
When I got back to the Pentagon, I wrote a trip report that included what I had observed. It said, among other things, that the policy of Vietnamization was a sham and wasn’t working, and that we needed to somehow stay engaged in Vietnam. If nothing more, we had to at least threaten to use our airpower if North Vietnam invaded the south. That paper made it two levels above me before it came back down with orders to destroy it and never bring up the subject again.
Even to the end we refused to recognize the facts or tell the truth about Vietnam.
After Saigon fell, I asked the intelligence guys to find Hung. They located him a few days later in a hospital at Wake Island, suffering from exhaustion. I wrote him a letter, but didn’t have any further contact with him until later. During the last few days of the war, he’d flown day and night, winding up in charge of the VNAF when all the generals left the country. Finally, after his last F-5 mission, he taxied into Tan Son Nut, and there was no one left to park his aircraft. Just about then, the North Vietnamese soldiers were coming over the wall, but Nguyen Cao Ky, the flamboyant fighter pilot who headed the South Vietnamese Air Force (and was for a time prime minister), came by and picked him up in a helicopter. For a few hours they tried to rally the country; but when mortars started falling on the Joint General Staff compound, they climbed aboard Ky’s Huey and flew to a carrier. There Hung collapsed.
Later, I tracked him to the United States Indiantown Gap Refugee Center and drove up to see him, which delighted him. He introduced me to Chan, his oldest sister, his mother, and Chan’s four children, one of whom had been born on Guam and was therefore an American citizen. Chan’s husband, Coung, a lieutenant colonel in the Army, had been ordered to stay behind to surrender the Army while his generals booked with the refugees who came out on the C-141s. But Hung had been able to use his Air Force contacts to get Chan and the children out. He’d called Colonel Marty Mahrt, an old F-105 buddy of mine, and Marty had arranged for Chan, the mother, and the three children to be evacuated on the next flight.
Then Hung went over to Chan’s house and explained that she had to go, which was not what she wanted to hear. When Chan started crying and wailing, Hung took out his 9mm handgun and calmly told her that she had two choices. Either she, his mother, and the children would get on the airplane, or he would shoot them all and then kill himself. But he was not going to let them fall into the enemy hands. Chan knew Hung, and knew he meant it. So she packed a few things and they left for the airport.
En route, artillery fire sent them down in a ditch. But after it let up, they were able to make it to the airport, Hung and Marty were able to put them on a C-141, and Hung went back to trying to repel the invasion. To this day his Mustang convertible is probably parked in front of the squadron.
When I met them at Indiantown, I knew that they needed an American sponsor. (In order to leave the refugee center and settle in the United States, you either had to have a large amount of money showing you could support yourself, or else you needed an American sponsor, who could help you get settled—usually by giving you a job.) So when I asked Hung who was going to do that, he told me that he himself didn’t need any help, since he had lived in the United States while attending various schools over the years and
could easily find work and take care of himself. But it was going to be a problem for Chan and the others, because families who sponsored refugees wanted a family with a man in it who could earn money and help pay the expenses. “Okay, no problem,” I told him. “We’re on our way to Iowa for a vacation; but if no one comes forth in the meantime, they can come live with us.”
And so on our way back, we picked up Ba, the grandmother; Chan; Bich, a thirteen-year-old daughter who was a year older than my oldest daughter; Lingh and Que, nine- and eleven-year-old sons (my son, John, was ten); and Ain, the baby daughter, less than a year old. They lived with us for a year, and it was a wonderful experience. Every meal we ate rice with chopsticks. Mary Jo and Chan were like sisters. Ba took care of Ain and Nancy. The three boys roomed together and got along. Susan and Bich roomed together and acted like teenage sisters: they fought most of the time.
Hung, meanwhile, became the head manager at the Naval Academy Dining Room until the local mob ran him out of town because he tried to make them stop exploiting the Vietnamese who had replaced the Filipinos in the dining room. After Chan left us, she held good jobs and raised her family. Her oldest boy graduated from the Naval Academy with a degree in nuclear engineering. All the others excelled in school and are working citizens; Ain, the youngest, graduated from college and never received a grade below A in her life.