“It’s my ass, not yours. Besides, those cock suckers have it coming.”
Twenty-nine wooden river barges loaded with wood were tied to the river bank and covered with camouflage netting. Several other river boats were tied up to the docks and to trees along the river bank. Three river patrol boats could be seen working the river along the border.
On the river bank a small village sat under the trees. Intelligence reports from the field said that this is where the Hmong handed off the opium to the growing band of Lao and Cambodian river pirates. This was Pirate’s Pier. By midnight you’ll be a smoking hole in the jungle, Eddie thought, as he looked at the river on his radar.
Jake selected a cluster bomb, rolled over, and pulled into a steep dive. He centered his sights on the river barges, released the bomb, and pulled up.
As Jake’s wing man rolled over he saw the river side explode. He released one of his cluster bombs over the rest of the river barges and pulled up.
Eddie rolled over as several of the barges were starting to drift, but over half were sinking, afire, or gone. He also saw streams of tracers coming up from under the trees searching for the retreating Phantom. Eddie switched to two of his Mark 84 iron bombs and punched them loose over the village.
Eddie’s wing man followed Eddie down with two of his Mark 84’s while watching Eddie’s bombs explode in the village. His bombs hit in the village close to where Eddie’s hit. As he pulled off the target he saw tracers cross in front of him.
Jake told Eddie that he had a patrol boat firing on him from the river. Jake then rolled over and released his second cluster bomb on the dock where three river boats were tied up. As he pulled up someone called a missile launch and his wizzo popped flares.
“That’s a SAM-7. Came from that same patrol boat,” Eddie radioed.
Jake’s wing man rolled over in time to see Jake’s bomb hit the dock and roll two of the river boats over. The third was set adrift and left sinking in the river. The wing man released his cluster bomb on two boats tied to a tree and pulled up, popping flares.
Eddie rolled over and watched the bomb hit the first river boat, destroying it, and blow the top off the second, leaving it afire. He released his second cluster bomb on a small group of river barges, sinking two of them.
Eddie’s wing man dropped his second cluster bomb on the three river boats trying to get underway.
Weapons fire was now being received from all three river patrol boats and SA-7’s were being launched from the opposite river bank.
Jake rolled over and came down over the east bank of the river, the Cambodian side, where the SA-7’s had been launched from, and released two napalm bombs. As he pulled up over the river he received fire from the patrol boats and some heavy weapons fire from the west bank.
“I’ve got ‘em, One,” Jake’s wing man radioed and rolled over on a napalm run over the west bank where the heavy weapons fire came from. Only the three river patrol boats were firing now.
“What’s our fuel?” Jake radioed.
“Two, three minutes to bingo,” his wing man answered.
Eddie answered, “Five minutes to bingo.”
“Two, one minute to bingo,” Eddie’s wing man answered.
“Rog. Low fuel first on one cannon run, then we go home. Let’s get some gun boats.”
Eddie’s wing man rolled in over the river and fixed a gun boat in his sights. The patrol boat opened fire, but was unable to acquire the Phantom before the Phantom’s 20-mm cannon rounds tore through the small boat. The fuel tank exploded and men could be seen diving into the river as F-4 blasted past low over the river.
Jake’s wing man followed by just twenty seconds. He located a second patrol boat, caught it broadside, and cut it nearly in two before he blasted overhead. It sunk before Jake could get it in his gun sights.
Jake swung near the west bank of the river to sight in the third patrol boat. He had time for only a short but accurate burst of cannon fire that removed the pilot house and the forward guns.
As he passed between the boat and the river bank he received weapons fire from both the patrol boat and the bank. A lucky burst from a .51 caliber Dash-K smashed through the left side of his plane hitting his instrument panel, the rear cockpit, and his left engine. Machine gun fire from the boat ripped through his hydraulic control lines on the right side.
Jake felt the left engine flame out. The instrument panel was smoking and shooting sparks. He needed altitude to punch out and had just hauled back on the stick when the SA-7 missile slammed into the tail section just ahead of the right exhaust.
The Phantom nosed over, but Jake was able to get the nose up before it hit the water. The heavy plane flared about ten feet above the river, held that altitude for the few brief seconds Jake needed to blow off the canopy, and then it fell out of the sky for lack of flying speed.
Eddie was starting his rollover when he saw the tracer rounds hitting Jake’s plane. An instant later the SA-7 streaked from the rear of the patrol boat and there was an explosion at the rear of the Phantom. He watched in helpless horror as a fire flashed from the tail of the Phantom, it dropped to the river, leveled off, and then disappeared into the blackness.
“Jake went down,” Eddie said over the intercom; then he swung wide to line up on the river patrol boat.
“Yea, I saw it,” his wizzo said. He would make the radio report and give the location when they climbed back to altitude.
Eddie centered the patrol boat in his gun sights and squeezed the trigger before the boat could fire on him. A short burst of cannon fire and the boat quickly exploded.
Tracers leaped from the west bank and Eddie jinxed and climbed to altitude. He circled the river looking for signs of Jake’s plane, but even in the reflection of the moon on the water they were unable to see any trace of the plane or the crewmen. Calls made on GUARD went unanswered.
His wizzo finally asked, “Hey, pal. You checked our fuel lately?”
“Yea, I know.”
“If we don’t RTB (Return to Base) now, we’ll have to refuel on a dirt road.”
COLONEL SUWIT’S OFFICE
UBON RTAFB
Colonel Suwit was livid when he talked to the six crewmen in the debriefing. “Who authorized you to hit any targets in Laos?”
“Jake made the decision,” Eddie explained.
“I will pull the tapes to hear that for myself. And I’m told you had only one hundred pounds of fuel on board your plane at your later arrival.”
“I was looking for Jake.”
“That was not your assignment, either.”
“We have to know if they were able to get out.”
“There is no rescue mission authorized for downed crews on this operation. You know that.”
“We’ve got to try.”
“You must follow orders, Lieutenant. You failed to do that and now two men are dead and one aircraft is lost.”
Eddie stared at Colonel Suwit, but said nothing.
“The rest of you gentlemen are dismissed.”
The others walked out, leaving Eddie standing in front of Colonel Suwit.
“You disobeyed orders.”
“I followed the last order I was given by my commander.”
“You disobeyed orders. I’m recommending that Colonel Waldrop ground you.”
Eddie nodded and walked out without another word.
Eddie walked into the Projects Office and found Ray Metson sitting behind his desk.
“Jake went down on the river just north of Pirate’s Pier. Get a message to John Slaughter. He’s here,” Eddie pointed to the map, “at a place called Keystone Station. Over here is a Cambodian narc base with some of his people. Get them up the river to locate Jake and Chandale.”
“What about air rescue?” Ray asked.
“Not authorized on this mission.”
“Yea.” Eddie briefly explained the mission and what had happened.
SOUTHERN LAOS
23 February 1975
Big Jake struggled with his harness in the cold, watery blackness for what seemed like an eternity. He caught his breath, and then called to his wizzo. There was no answer and he saw no sign of him. Again, he called his name.
After several seconds, Jake heard a Phantom pass overhead. It snapped him back to reality and he realized that he was having trouble staying afloat. Come on, Jake, snap out of it, he told himself. You’ve got to think to stay alive. He pulled his boots off and hung them around his neck, and then spent the next ten minutes swimming to the west bank of the river.
He kept hearing the Phantom every few minutes as he struggled to the river bank, but after reaching land he did not hear it anymore. He checked his watch. It was just after midnight. “He’s out of fuel,” Jake said to himself out loud. “He should have been gone fifteen minutes ago.”
Jake pulled his wet boots back on and thought about his situation. Where am I? Six or seven miles up river from Pirate’s Pier and inside Laos. I’ve got a three-day ration of food, a 9-mm automatic with a total of thirty-six rounds of ammo, a survival knife, a survival kit with water purification tablets, and three pen flares. Map’s still in my pocket, he thought as he reached down and felt it. Damn! Survival radio is missing! Well, you’re alive and unhurt. Cold and wet. Yea, dumb as bird shit, too. But you’re alive and unhurt.
Suddenly Jake felt very tired. Acute depression was hitting him. He crawled up onto some rocks under a thick bush and cried himself to sleep.
Jake woke up with a start. It was daylight. He was still cold and wet, but now there was a heavy fog covering everything. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. There was something slimy stuck to him. LEECHES!
He quickly dug around and found some dry sticks, lit them with his small lighter, and pressed the burning stick against the leech. It came off, as did the one on the front side of his neck, the two on his legs, and the one on his left wrist.
Jake inspected all of his equipment and drank some water. He then went down to the river to see if he could see the plane or any sign of his wizzo. The river seemed higher and running faster than he remembered last night, but he could not see very far in the fog. Not much chance of linking up without a radio, he thought.
“How about some breakfast?” he said to himself out loud. “Sure, why not, stupid. The fog will hide you and the brush here is thick.”
Jake cut a pole about ten-foot long, attached a hook and fishing line from his survival kit; then, as an afterthought, hooked one of the leeches onto the hook. It took about twenty minutes, but he caught a nice size fish. He went back up on the rocks, built a small fire, and cooked his freshly cleaned fish. The fire also warmed his shivering body.
He cut a piece off the fish, tasted it, and then said, “Could use some salt and pepper. Maybe some ketchup, too.” He laughed and ate his fish. When he finished, he build up the fire again and dried his jacket and flight suit.
It was nearly 10:00 a.m. when he returned to the river to look for the plane again. The fog was gone, but the plane was still nowhere in sight.
He walked uphill through the thick brush, stopping once to cut a walking stick with his knife, until he reached a small footpath. The footpath ran parallel to the river and appeared to be well used. He pulled out his map and studied it. Sixty miles to the Thai border. And that’s over the mountains and across the Mekong. Shit! That’s two weeks of busting my ass humping those hills. Slaughter’s boys are just sixteen miles downriver. But that pirate village is square across my path. And they’re a bunch of pissed off mothers. Three days on foot along the river or two weeks humping hills through the brush. Damn, I’m too old for this shit.
Jake folded his map, looked down the path, and started walking south.
Just after noon Jake stopped and took a drink of water. The day was warming up some, but still was pleasant walking under the jungle-like canopy. There were few sounds and Jake was relaxed. Too relaxed. He was about to start walking when his worst fears were realized.
A man’s voice behind him said something in a sing-song language that he did not understand. “Shit!” he muttered under his breath. He let his walking stick fall to the ground and the voice said something else. Jake slowly turned his head and saw one man pointing an AK-47 at his back. The man talked faster when Jake looked at him and he motioned for Jake to face forward.
Only one, he thought. This man was small, only about five-foot-four and weighed about 120 pounds. He was an older man dressed in baggy blue pants, a blue jacket, and sandals. He had a hard look on his face and a small cigar in his mouth.
Jake looked forward, took one step with his right foot, and then stopped. He’s too far behind me, Jake thought. Wait. He’ll make a mistake.
The little man kept yelling at Jake, but Jake would not move. Finally, the little man moved forward and poked Jake in the lower back with the rifle barrel. When he did, Jake spun around to his left, pushed the rifle barrel aside with his left arm, and delivered a roundhouse kick to the man’s left temple, knocking him to the ground. Surprisingly, the rifle did not fire.
The man shook his head, looked up at Jake, and began to sit up, lifting the rifle. Jake stepped on the rifle with his left foot and delivered a kick with his right foot that would have made any football coach proud. His boot caught the man below the right cheekbone and snapped his head back to the left. The blow broke his neck. The body shook for several seconds, as if it were in convulsions, and then he died.
“Takes more than a gun, little man,” Jake said to the body.
Jake went through the man’s possessions and took four extra 30-round magazines for the AK-47, a cloth bag of rice, a GI canteen of water, and a necklace of five gold Buddhas. “He obviously wasn’t the right one,” Jake said, stuffing the necklace into his jacket pocket. He rolled the body off the trail before he walked on to the south.
Just before 3:00 p.m. Jake smelled burnt flesh in the air. Burnt human flesh is an acid smell that once it hits the nostrils it is never forgotten. He spent twenty minutes carefully working his way down toward the river through the brush. He cautiously pushed a branch aside and there it was.
The .51 caliber Dash-K still sat on its tripod mount facing the river. Probably the one that got me, Jake thought.
Twenty feet behind the gun a small wooden cart with rubber tires lay on its side. The tire on the top side was still burning. On top of the tire lay the upper half of a man’s body. The bottom half, from the waist down, was blown away. The fire had kept the body burning all night and all day.
Jake slowly walked past the cart, looking at the body, and then looked over the Dash-K. Not far away lay the body parts of two other men. The 20-mm rounds from the Phantom’s M61 nose gun were more devastating than he had realized. I wonder if anyone is coming to bury these guys, Jake wondered as he walked carefully back into the brush.
Jake crawled on his hands and knees through the thick brush, carefully watching for booby-traps and listening to the voices that sometimes came close to where he was. He kept moving south along the river. If he could get around the village, he could make it to John Slaughter’s camp down river.
By nightfall he was at the edge of the village, which was quiet with few fires burning. Men and women could be seen walking around the camp. The men were all armed. No use pushing my luck in the dark, he thought. He found an easy-to-climb tree, climbed up about thirty feet, and settled in between the limbs. He made himself as comfortable as he could and went to sleep. He was hungry, but food would have to wait. He planned on moving through the village around 4:00 a.m.
At 1:00 a.m., explosions and automatic weapons fire woke Jake from a sound sleep. Tracer rounds from what sounded like two M-60 machine guns were ricocheting through the village from the river. Ja
ke was coming down from his tree when he heard the sound of an approaching A-37 Dragonfly. Before he could get down a 500-pound iron bomb fell nearby and blew him out of the tree. He lost his AK-47 in the thick brush where he landed.
This was a bad idea, Jake thought, as he looked around desperately trying to find some cover in the darkness.
Suddenly three parachute flares ignited above the clearing, lighting the camp brighter than daylight. He forgot about the AK-47 and sprinted up the hillside away from the machine gun fire. The tracer rounds danced around him, kicking up dirt as he ran. He found a shallow ditch to dive into when a second A-37 approached. Its bombs did not hit as close as the first bombs had.
He got up when he heard an American voice nearby yelling, “Come on. This way!” He turned to see the man waving a woman in a dress into a bunker. Jake turned and ran into the bunker after them.
It was dark in the bunker, but he heard the woman’s frightened voice ask, “Is it safe here?” She had a French accent.
“It won’t last long. Only another minute or two,” Jake answered, trying to catch his breath.
They waited in silence for several more minutes until the attack ended.
The man then said, “Okay. Follow me.”
He held the woman’s hand and she held Jake’s hand as the man led them up the hillside in the darkness to a small hut in the brush. Once they stepped inside the man lit a gas lamp. Two Army warrant officers followed them inside and immediately leveled .45 automatic pistols at Jake.
“Who’s this?” one of them asked.
“A pilot, I’d say,” the American in civilian clothes answered.
Jake looked around, confused. Two Army warrant officers in flight suits were holding guns on him. An American in civilian clothes and a French woman - no, a Catholic nun - were in the middle of a hostile camp. What the hell is this? Jake thought, trying to sort it all out.
“Who are you?” the warrant officer asked.
“Major Thad Jacobs, United States Air Force.”
“Oh, yes. A squadron commander from a fighter outfit at Udorn,” the civilian said.
The Wrong Side of Honor Page 10