2S1 122 mm self-propelled artillery, similar to the one destroyed by Maj Goldie Haun on 2 May 1999 (Photo courtesy of FAS)
The drive south took about 10 minutes. I was concerned about staying well clear of Pristina with its SAMs, particularly since Magic had just announced that I had no SEAD support. Still, my concern did not preclude looking for targets to attack later. As I climbed out to the southeast, I searched the roads and hillside for any signs of military activity.
I was about four miles north of G-Town. To avoid confusion and save time, we called towns with difficult pronunciations by their first letter. Gnjilane became G-Town, Dakovica became D-Town, and Urosevac was U-Town. I noted a narrow, jagged valley with what appeared to be man-made diagonal cuts through the trees alongside the road. I put the binoculars on the cuts and picked out two tanks. I marked my map, and as I continued to the tanker, started to come up with a game plan. While we refueled, I contacted Magic and coordinated SEAD support for a hasty attack. Magic was able to get SEAD but only 20 minutes’ worth. By the time I got off the tanker and headed north, I realized I would have less than 10 minutes on station for the attack.
Valley four miles north of G-Town
I decided the best avenue of attack would be from the southeast. Due to the narrowness of the valley and the dirt revetments in which the tanks were hiding, the precision-guided Maverick seemed the best weapon. The attack went as planned, except for a small glitch. I had identified the tanks while looking from north to south. Approaching from the southeast, I misidentified the diagonal cutout and rolled in on an empty revetment. I recognized the mistake early and quickly came off target, climbing to the east to regain energy.
After aborting my first attack, I extended for another roll-in. This time I identified the correct cutout and tried to lock up the tank. Unfortunately, the Maverick locked onto a large dirt pile at the rear of the cutout, which was hotter than the tank. It was apparent the Maverick would not work against this target. The remaining options did not appear to have much chance for success. The narrowness of the valley and the protection of the cutouts meant a direct hit with Mk-82s would be required to kill the tanks—and that would be very difficult to accomplish. I didn’t have any available fighters with LGBs, and the only other option was to strafe the tanks. This was a riskier choice since I would have to dive to a much lower altitude to get in range.
I decided to let Andy drop two of his bombs to get their heads down, and I would follow up with a strafe pass. I was still low on energy and climbing to the north as Andy rolled in out of the northwest with a tailwind. His bombs landed just north of the tanks with no direct hits. From the radio traffic I knew my time was running out and this would be our last attack. I elected to strafe both targets on one pass, trying to get bullets on both tanks.
T-54/55 tank shot by Maj Goldie Haun on 7 June 1999, similar to tanks strafed on 2 May 1999 (USAF Photo)
As I (Lynx 11) rolled in for my strafe pass, I turned on my videotape to record the pass. My primary UHF radio was monitoring the NFL frequency. With lots of fighters working in NFL, the radio chatter was constant. I used my secondary Fox-Mike radio to talk to Andy (Lynx 12).
“Lynx 11’s in from the west, two-target strafe.”
“Magic, Lobo 51 will be Cactus, store in approximately three mike. Lobo 53 will be on station for 20 mike. Do you want to close the NFL or the NBA?” Lobo 51 was the flight lead for a four-ship of F-16CJs providing our SEAD. He was running low on fuel and would be departing Kosovo (code word Cactus) in three minutes. His second element, Lobo 53, had enough fuel to remain on station for an additional 20 minutes. Lobo wanted to know whether to close the western or eastern area.
“Magic, in this case, suggests to close the NBA.” All the other FACs and fighters were working targets in NFL. We were the only set of FACs in NBA.
In the meantime, the strafe pass had gone well, with Andy seeing hits on the target. “Lynx 11 en route to NFL now.” I had come off target and had begun the excruciatingly slow process of climbing back to altitude.
“Lynx, Bobcat 21. Where you coming into?” Bobcat 21 was a two-ship of A-10s led by Maj Lester Less, the FAC responsible for deconflicting NFL. He was also an embedded Sandy pilot whose job it was to handle the rescue of any downed pilots. I had known Lester for over nine years. We had flown A-10s together as lieutenants at RAF Bentwaters, England.
“Bobcat, Lynx 11. I need to coordinate with you, but I’d like to come in from the south.”
“Lynx, Bobcat 21. Yeah, OK, in from the south.”
“Lynx 11 copy that. Then, I’ll work to the south and to the east.” Andy and I began a discussion on our FM frequency.
“Lynx, Two is blind, just west of G-Town.” Andy had just lost sight of me, a very common occurrence. A good wingman covers his flight lead as he comes off target by focusing on the ground where the threats (AAA and MANPADS) are likely to be fired. A wingman that never goes “blind” is simply staring at his flight lead and is of no use.
“Lynx 11, copy. One is just west of G-Town climbing… OK! I just got hit! I’m turning to the south.” I never saw what hit me. As I looked up to find Andy, I felt an incredible jolt to the aircraft on the right side. The nose tried to roll off to the right, and I had to put in full left rudder to keep her from flipping over. I was struggling at this point just to keep the jet flying. Dropping the nose, I started a gradual descent to maintain airspeed. My master-caution panel was lit up like a Christmas tree, and I finally looked over my shoulder to see the engine cowling blown off and the fan blades frozen. Sunlight streamed through the engine inlet. I made sure I was still headed towards the Macedonian border and returned my focus to keeping the jet under control.
“Two copies. Two’s blind, egressing south.”
“OK, two, I need you to come towards south.”
“Lynx 12 is heading south.”
“OK, two, where’s your posit?”
“OK, two is southwest of G-Town at one six zero.”
“OK, copy that. I’m at one four zero descending…. I am trailing you. I need you to 90 right.” I asked Andy where he was and he informed me he was southwest of Gnjilane at 16,000 feet, while I was at 14,000 feet. I could see Andy about two miles in front of me, and I told him to turn 90 degrees right to get me visual. I felt better having the jet under control and my wingman in sight. However, the severity of the situation had not yet sunk in. I was flying a battle-damaged jet in the heart of the AAA and MANPADS envelope and descending over a heavily defended section of Kosovo. If anything, I was mad—really mad that someone had had the audacity to shoot me. I was also determined that there was no way I was going to eject over Kosovo. I didn’t think I’d be able to land the jet, especially since it was difficult maintaining level flight and impossible to make right-hand turns, but I was not going to be on Serbian TV that night and neither were the remains of my A-10. I would nurse the jet into Macedonia before I ejected.
“Bobcat, Lynx 11. Break, break.” Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. I wanted Lester (Bobcat 21) to head towards me in case I did have to punch out in bad-guy land, so he could orchestrate the rescue. Thankfully, the jet was hanging in there. The right-engine gauges were showing a severe engine overtemp without producing any thrust. I shut down the engine, and it cooled quickly once the fuel flow was shut off. Gauges for the left engine looked good. Days later, I would find out that the left engine had been severely damaged from ingesting pieces of the right engine and the missile. I had to fly in a one-degree descent to maintain airspeed. Very slow and with no energy available to react to another missile launch, I was a wounded bird.
“Bobcat 21, Go ahead.”
“Lynx 11. OK, Bobcat. I’ve been hit. My right engine has been taken out. I’m single engine. I’m currently south of G-Town, and I’m headed towards Skopje. I’ve got the right engine… looks like the whole engine cowling got hit… and I’ve got no right hydraulics. I’ve got a wingman with me, and I’m headed towards Skopje. Currently I’m ab
out five miles from the border.” I was not afraid, but the adrenalin rush had me excited. Time was distorted, and my world had slowed to a snail’s pace. Between keeping the jet aloft and talking on the radios, I clearly pictured myself hugging my kids. I just knew I was going to make it out of Kosovo.
“Lynx, Bobcat 21. Are you still up?”
“Lynx 11, that’s affirmative. I’m staying up this freq currently. I am losing altitude, but I think that now I might be able to make it across the border.” As I spoke on the radio I had the sensation that this was not really happening to me. I must have been watching some other poor fighter pilot struggling to stay airborne. I had to help him as best I could to get out of these dire circumstances.
“Bobcat 21, understand you are single engine and you’ve got a hydraulic system out?”
“Lynx 11, that’s affirmative. I’ve got the right hydraulic system out.… OK, I feel fairly confident that I’ll make it across the border, not sure if I can land. I’m going to set up for Skopje though.” By then I could see the border just a couple of miles in front of me. I figured even if the left engine quit, I could still glide to Macedonia. My mind now started to think about what I would do with the jet once I got past the border. The situation was looking better—the left engine was working well and I was getting used to handling the jet. As I descended to lower altitude, she started to perform better, and I began to think I might be able to land her.
“Lynx 12, are you visual? Come right… Look at your right three o’clock.”
“Two’s visual, falling into wedge.”
“Lynx 11, OK. I want you to stay high wedge.”
“Two’s high wedge. Your six is clear.” I finally got Andy’s eyes onto me just about the time we crossed the border. My mind now turned to how to make a controlled descent for a safe landing at Skopje, some 9,000 feet below. I had Andy come in to give me a battle-damage check. He saw nothing wrong with the jet, except the damage to the right engine.
I proceeded with a controllability check to determine whether I could land the jet and found that I had three problems. First, I could not make right turns into the bad engine. Second, I lowered the gear and received stall indications just below maximum landing speed. This meant I was going to have to land fast. Third, the Skopje airfield was oriented north-south and I was five miles north of the field and much too high to land. I was not sure whether the left engine had enough thrust to go around if I screwed up the approach. I wanted to take my time and do it right the first time. I elected to set myself up for a left-teardrop approach to land from the south. This option gave me the advantage of staying in lefthand turns for the approach and allowed me to gradually lose altitude. Finally, since the wind was coming from the north, I could land with a headwind, which would help decrease my ground speed and landing distance.
The tower at Skopje was very helpful, diverting two heavy aircraft on approach as I started my teardrop turn to final. The jet was flying well in the left turn, and my next concern was what would happen when I rolled level on final approach. I adjusted the pattern to roll out just over the approach-end lights (a normal circling approach would have had me roll out one mile before touchdown). On final I felt the nose start to yaw to the right, and I countered by pulling the power on my left engine to idle. The reduction in thrust on the left side reduced the right yaw, and I began to glide to the runway. I did not flare the jet but “planted” the landing, touching down firmly just below maximum landing speed.
Skopje was a good, long runway, but I was going pretty fast and wanted to get the jet stopped. I aerobraked the damaged Hog as much as I could and finally put the nose down at around 120 knots. Because my speed brakes were inoperative, I relied only on my wheel brakes to slow me down. I waited until 100 knots to touch the brakes and was relieved to come to a full stop with 2,000 feet of runway to spare. Now that I had reached terra firma, I wanted out of the jet as soon as possible. I automatically ran through the bold-face procedure—the ones pilots commit to memory—for “emergency ground egress” to shut down the remaining engine and exit the aircraft. I ran to the side of the runway, turned, and looked at my battered jet.
Damaged jet at Skopje (USAF Photo)
Several NATO countries used the Skopje airfield. First, a group of Dutch soldiers came up to see how I was doing. Next, a French officer who managed the airfield showed up. They didn’t have any emergency personnel or vehicles, so I ended up having to go back to the jet to “safe up” the remaining munitions and pin the gear. Quarter-sized holes peppered the Hog’s right flaps and the tail fins of one of my AIM-9 air-to-air missiles. I got back in the cockpit and rode the brakes as they towed my jet off the runway.
Thankfully, a group of US soldiers from Task Force Able Sentry soon arrived in a couple of humvees. Up to this point I had not seen any civilians or press. The last thing I wanted was my jet on CNN or on the front page of newspapers. I tried unsuccessfully to have the A-10 put out of view in a nearby hangar. The soldiers provided security for the jet, put a tarp over my right engine, and drove me a couple of miles to their headquarters. I called my squadron at Gioia and gave a mission report, which included an update on the condition of the jet.
My biggest concern at this point was getting back to the squadron. When I asked about the next flight leaving Skopje, I was told there wouldn’t be one for at least a couple of days. The US soldiers treated me great and took me over to the chow hall. I found myself famished as I sat down next to a big-screen TV. After a while, I realized everyone in the chow hall was watching the TV intently with big smiles. I looked to the TV to see three Army POWs—captured the month before while performing a routine border patrol—being released to Rev. Jesse Jackson in Belgrade. I was eating with members of their company.
When I got back to the headquarters, I found out an Army C-12 was being diverted to Ramstein AB, Germany, to take the ex-POWs’ commanders to see their soldiers. They offered me a seat, and I gladly accepted. I thought that it would be a lot easier to get back to Gioia del Colle from Ramstein, where cargo aircraft were constantly departing for Italy. I also didn’t want to spend anymore time in Macedonia than I had to, and, more importantly, Ramstein was only a one-and-one-half-hour drive from my home base at Spangdahlem. The five-hour C-12 flight from Skopje to Ramstein felt even longer than my previous flight over Kosovo as I reflew the mission over and over in my head. When I landed at Ramstein, I rushed to base operations and called the squadron at Gioia. My commander, Lt Col Kimos Haave, informed me that a C-130 departing at 0100 that night would bring me directly to Gioia—I then called my wife Bonnie. It was 8 P.M., and she had just gotten home from church. I told her to put the kids in the van and meet me at the Ramstein Passenger Terminal as soon as she could. At base operations, I was greeted by a group of three Air Force Materiel Command officers who needed to know the extent of the damage to the jet. I briefed them as best I could before heading to the passenger terminal.
When my family arrived at Ramstein, I got to hold my sleeping two-year-old daughter and watch my six-year-old boy play with the toys in the family lounge. I hadn’t seen them for over 80 days. My jaw and teeth still ached from the violent impact of the missile, but I didn’t want to worry them and didn’t know what I could tell them. So I told Bonnie I had had some engine trouble and landed in Skopje, which she accepted as routine. The Lord had heard me over Kosovo, and 14 hours after I had been hit, I had my children in my arms. I held my wife’s hand and talked to her for two hours until the C-130 was ready. She talked excitedly about the rescue of the downed F-16 pilot that day and the release of the POWs, completely unaware of how narrowly I had escaped both fates. Before my C-130 departed, I kissed my wife and sleepy kids and sent them home, not knowing when I’d see them again.
Maj Goldie Haun and aircraft 967 less than 30 days after being hit and landing at Skopje (Photo courtesy of author)
I entered the squadron at Gioia del Colle 24 hours after I had stepped to fly and wanted to get back into the air as soon as
possible. The next day, some 48 hours after being hit, I was back in the cockpit. This time I didn’t strafe but dropped CBUs. That, however, is another story.
Last Day to Fly—Last Chance to Die
1st Lt Mike “Scud” Curley
It was 9 June 1999, a standard (beautiful) day in Italy and forecasted to be gorgeous in Kosovo. Many of us knew the end was near because we were told Milosevic was going to accept NATO’s demands and today would be the last “offensive” day of the air campaign. I was excited because I was flying with Maj James “Jimbo” MacCauley, one of the two pilots from Moody to join us at Gioia del Colle. It was always interesting to fly with folks from another squadron to see if their tactics, or thoughts on the way things should be done, were any different from those of my own squadron mates. He had also flown during Operation Desert Storm and was one of the more experienced pilots with us.
The day, as usual, started off with signing off numerous battle staff directives (BSD) that most pilots dreaded reading because most did not apply to us. It was just one more thing we had to squish in while we were half-asleep before the flight briefing at “o’ dark 30.” Finally we finished our daily planning routine and started our flight briefing.
A-10s over Kosovo Page 14