A-10s over Kosovo

by Christopher E. Haave Kimos

  As the strikers departed, I decided we had just enough gas to allow my wingman to try a Maverick attack on the target. I had him try passes from several directions, but the trees prevented him from getting a good lock-on with his missile seeker. We were now bingo and had to depart the area. It was a long, quiet flight home—my most frustrating sortie of the war. We had started with one of the best targets we had seen in a long time and ended up with only the possibility of having damaged one tank.

  There were numerous failures. Two different weapons systems had failed on my jet and I had failed to have striker flight track the three tanks as they headed off to the northeast while I attacked the APC. Nevertheless, the biggest failure of all was a process that required us to wait more than 40 minutes for approval to attack a lucrative target located far away from any civilians or buildings. The ROEs that had helped us for much of the war had now—for mostly political reasons—been turned against us. On this day they really bit us.

  Humor in the Midst of Controlled Chaos

  Maj Pete “Bro” Brotherton

  Humor is important. It makes us happy and rejuvenates the mind. We worked hard during the war’s 70-plus days, and our minds and bodies were tired. I saw and heard several things that now might seem insignificant, but at the time they were quite funny. One such event, which struck me as very symbolic, said, “This is a team effort; we will make this war work.”

  A normal sortie profile includes taking off, flying to a tanker and refueling, working in Kosovo for about 45 minutes, taking a 45-minute round-trip flight to a tanker for more fuel, and then working another 45 minutes in Kosovo before going home. Although we often used the same tanker track for both refuelings, we might refuel from two different tankers. It was also normal for us to launch on every mission with all the tanker call signs and air-refueling track frequencies, so that we would have the information if it became necessary to switch to a different tanker while in flight. The tankers launched each day with the call sign and the amount of fuel they planned to off-load to each of their scheduled receivers. This enabled them to manage their fuel and deal with unexpected events. The plan was rather simple, flexible, and usually worked well. Occasionally, however, the refueling tracks became little more than controlled chaos.

  On a rather stormy day about halfway through the conflict, my wingman and I were flying an AFAC mission in Kosovo using the call sign Ford 11. As I hooked up to our tanker at the beginning of the mission, I was told by its crew that, even though they were supposed to refuel us again during our second visit to the track, they would not have the fuel to do so. Most pilots like to take on a few extra pounds of fuel when the weather is bad; it seemed that today, because of those extra pounds, our tanker would come up short. The tanker pilot said that he was coordinating with the CAOC for a replacement tanker. I was not concerned since this was not the first time this sort of thing had happened. We took our gas and headed north to Kosovo.

  We had some luck: the weather over Kosovo was better than that over Macedonia, where the tanker tracks were located. Eventually we had to depart Kosovo to meet our second tanker. We noticed more radio chatter than usual as we checked in with the area controller. This was to be expected with bad weather, but today the controller was also hard to hear. After trying for several minutes, I was able to get one good exchange with the controller. He said that my new tanker’s call sign was Esso 73 and that I would refuel on my original track. That was the last successful contact I had with the controller. That meant we could not have him give us vectors to the tanker, which created a problem since the A-10 does not have an air-to-air radar and the visibility prevented my acquiring the tanker visually. My only other method for finding the tanker was to use my radio’s direction-finding capability. That required my being in radio contact with the tanker. While en route to the track I tried all the frequencies but could not contact the tanker. We were now about to enter the track, and our remaining fuel dictated that we either start taking on fuel in the next few minutes or turn for home.

  I entered the tanker track and found some clear air in the western end. The tanker pilots had a fair amount of discretion with regard to where they flew in the large tracks—the good ones tried to stay out of the clouds. Lucky for us, most tanker crews were good. As we were about to turn for home, I saw a tanker fly out of a wall of clouds on a heading that I could intercept. We turned to intercept it and started calling again on all frequencies for the track. Normally we didn’t talk to the tankers prior to refueling, but we were always on the same frequency and knew each other’s call sign. While we were still a mile or two from the tanker, it started a turn towards us, which helped my rejoin geometry and kept us from reentering the clouds before we could join on its wing. We were still about a half mile from the tanker and closing when I saw its flaps come down and the refueling boom lower. This was a good sign. I slid behind the tanker and stabilized next to the boom. From there I could see the boom operator settle into position.

  Once connected to the tanker, I was able to talk to the crew on the intercom system. I felt a bit silly but asked, “Hi fellas, are you Esso 73?” As luck would have it, they were, and they asked if I was Ford 11. I guessed they had not received any help from the controllers either. This little exchange made me laugh. In spite of all our planning, our ability to continue with the rest of our mission came down to my plugging into the first passing tanker I saw and asking if it was ours. I then asked the most important question: “Do you have enough gas for two A-10s?” But as I was asking, I looked down and saw that they were already pumping, bringing out an even bigger grin. These guys knew why we were there, how important it was, and got right to it. This was how a war should be run. I had a smile the rest of the day. I took just enough gas to stay above my turn-for-home fuel. I then asked for, received, and passed the tanker’s radio frequency to my wingman. I cleared him to drop down and fill up. When he finished, I got back on the boom and took the rest of my gas. It may not sound like much now, but I chuckled about it all the way back to the border. In peacetime, I rarely got near a tanker unless I had talked to the controller, he had cleared me, and I had checked in with the tanker. On this day, the tanker crew didn’t care that we weren’t talking to them or even who we were. They had a job, and they did it. This war—like all others—was a team effort by all the little guys at the bottom—the ones who made happen those things that the people at the top talked about.

  Their Last Gathering

  Maj Pete “Bro” Brotherton

  Late one afternoon in mid-May, I flew an AFAC mission in southeastern Kosovo. Thunderstorms had built up in the area east of Urosevac where I had planned to spend my second push for the day, so I took my wingman further east into the Serbian Kumanovo Valley. On the whole we spent less time in that valley than we did in Kosovo. Old Milo had been preparing a layered defense within the valley in reaction to the possibility of an invasion. We thought an invasion was unlikely, but if he was willing to provide us targets, we were willing to provide him with incoming ordnance. The AFACs who flew there usually had good luck.

  As we entered the valley from the south, I started looking in and around the fortifications at the southern end of the generally north-south valley. The Serbs had done more work since the last time I had visited. During my previous trip, I had stayed at the northern end of the valley near Vranje. My plan was to start in the south, head north, and search for targets as we went. The sun was getting low, and the shadows being cast by the valley’s western mountains on its southwestern floor were growing. Because the northern half of the valley was oriented northeast-southwest, the shadows up there would not cover the valley floor as quickly as they did in the south. We had plenty of fuel but would be able to stay only as long as we could see targets in the dusk. By working our way northeast, we could use the last bit of available sunlight.

  Dawn and dusk, while the sky is bright and the ground dark, are tactically the worst times of the day for a fighter to strike a ground target. The darkn
ess on the ground reduces the effectiveness of the Mk-1 eyeball, and many night-vision devices are not operable because of the bright light at altitude. Unfortunately, the folks on the ground have no trouble seeing an approaching fighter. These factors usually result in high risk and little success for those who attack targets under these conditions. We flew anyway to keep up the pressure on the Serbs. My wingman and I continued searching up the valley. We stopped once down south to check out a square object up against a house, but it was too hard to identify (ID) in the shadows. I decided to go directly to Vranje since there was still some light on the ground there.

  We checked out an area about eight miles west of Vranje where I had found some targets several weeks before. Finding nothing there, we moved in closer to the city and spotted movement northwest of the city. I decided to investigate and could not believe what I saw once I arrived overhead. It was the largest gathering of nonrefugees I had seen during the war. On the darkening landscape I counted well over a dozen military vehicles, at least five of which were APCs, and 75 to 100 troops in three clusters. They were only about a mile out of town in a large field that had been chewed up by the vehicles. My first inclination while I circled overhead was to start bombing immediately. Then I saw some green vehicles parked in the area of the APCs that I could not positively identify as military. I did not want to make a mistake with a group this large. I needed help.

  I knew there were some Navy F-14 AFACs working just west of us in Kosovo. Ten years ago, I would have laughed at the thought of the Navy using F-14 Tomcats as AFACs, but then—10 years ago—the A-10 was also headed for the boneyard. The Navy upgraded the F-14 when it was assigned the AFAC mission. The fighter had acquired a low-light-capable reconnaissance pod whose capability I now needed. I switched to the eastern-Kosovo working frequency, called the call sign fragged for that time slot, and got a quick response. They agreed to help when I asked if they had time to look at a target and learned that they were not having any luck finding targets where they were. I passed the target coordinates in a format they could use, and they were on the way.

  None of our pilots had worked with the Navy F-14 AFACs before the war and were a bit leery of them the first few times they appeared in Kosovo. We soon discovered that while they did not have much experience with the AFAC mission, they weren’t bad. A few had yet to master the requisite skills, but most were doing fine—and some were quite good. I recognized the voice of one of their better AFACs in the jets headed our way. I deconflicted our flight paths, briefed him on the target below, and told him what I needed. The shadows now covered most of the valley floor. With this lighting I would normally head home—but this target was too good to pass up. From our orbit overhead, I was able to talk the Tomcat crew’s eyes onto the targets below. He confirmed that it looked like lots of troops and APCs but was also unsure of the few green vehicles. He decided to make a diving pass near the target to give their pod a closer look. I maneuvered my flight into a position to cover the F-14s as they made their run.

  The Tomcats completed the pass and rather excitedly stated they had good pictures of the APCs and confirmed that the few green vehicles were also military. They said there appeared to be more troops in the gathering than first thought. We were running out of both daylight and fuel as I coordinated with the F-14 lead. My wingman and I would make three passes each and then leave the rest to them. He agreed, and they set up an orbit north of us. We made all of our attacks from the south because of some clouds that had entered the area. With the F-14 flight covering us, I reduced the usual attack spacing between my wingman and me. We coordinated our targets and each made two quick Maverick attacks on the APCs. On our third and final pass we each dropped our four 500 lb bombs, offsetting the impact points of our four-bomb sticks so we could cover as much of the area as possible. Anyone dumb enough not to have fled after our four Maverick attacks would not be pleased with the 500 pounders. They were set to explode 15 feet above the ground, and their blast and fragmentation kill mechanisms made them deadly weapons against troops and soft-skinned vehicles.

  After our last pass we departed the area for home. The F-14 lead told us that, although our attacks had been right on target, there were still plenty left for his flight to attack. As we departed he was calling over the F/A-18 strikers he was supposed to work with so they could deliver even more ordnance to the area. It was too dark when we left for me to make a valid damage assessment, but I would come back in the next day or so. When I did I was amazed at what I saw. The Navy must have really worked that area over that night—it was a mess—pieces of military vehicles everywhere. I visited the area in the weeks that followed and could see where the Serbs had attempted to clean up the damage, but the ground still bore witness to the beating it had taken. I was puzzled: why, during combat, would anyone without air superiority gather so many troops together in daylight. In war, stupidity rarely fails to get its reward.

  The Truck I Couldn’t Forget

  Capt Ron “Stu” Stuewe

  I have several memories of my time in Kosovo. Most are good; some I would rather forget, but all of them are slowly losing their details with the passage of time. Still, one of my most vivid memories involves nothing more than a simple truck.

  Maj John “Scratch” Regan, our 74th EFS commander, was on my wing. We had flown some rather effective sorties together during the preceding couple of days. On this particular occasion we had both dropped our bombs on some meager targets earlier in the mission. I say meager because we had direct hits with two tons of Mk-82s with limited secondaries. We were patrolling the western side of the province, just west of Dakovica (D-Town) when Scratch called over the FM radio that he saw a mover. Even during the waning period of OAF, we occasionally saw movers on the roads.

  An interesting thing happened during the opening days of the conflict that had a direct impact on our ability to interdict movers. ABCCC had heard someone’s description of a convoy of assumed military vehicles that included a white car. ABCCC then said—in the clear over a nonsecure radio—that, in effect, we couldn’t hit any white vehicle. As a consequence, during the next few days it appeared that every can of white paint in Kosovo was used on any vehicle that could move.

  It didn’t take Scratch long to talk my eyes onto the mover. It was immediately apparent that this target was different—big, green, and fast moving. More specifically, it was heading deeper into bad-guy land. I made one low pass behind the mover, and even before I grabbed my 15-power binos, I could tell it was a big truck. With the optics I could clearly see it was a green deuce-and-a-half truck with an open back end covered by a solid-brown object. I couldn’t quite make out what was in the back, but I figured it was just a dirty-brown tarp. I immediately brought the nose of my airplane back up to stay behind the truck and to gain back some altitude.

  My next move is one that I will regret for quite a while—I called ABCCC for clearance to strike this target. There were rules about what we could and couldn’t attack, and, unfortunately, trucks weren’t approved. ABCCC’s initial reply was to “stand by.” So there I was, carving a lazy figure eight at about 14,000 feet behind this truck with Scratch slightly high and behind me. I was all set to roll in from behind, lock a Maverick onto this truck, and blow it to smithereens. A Maverick costs several times more than a truck, and it was certainly not the most cost-effective weapon choice in this situation. However, it would be most spectacular and have the highest kill probability—and the guy driving this truck deserved it.

  I was appalled that someone would have the audacity to drive his truck at 80 miles per hour down an open highway in the middle of the day. At the time I was merely shocked; in retrospect I am almost disgusted. I now think about all of the FACs from an earlier time—the Mistys, the Nails, the Coveys. Those guys flying the Ho Chi Minh Trail in their F-100s, O-2s, and OV-10s just hoping to catch a glimpse of a truck through triple-canopy jungle. There I was watching—just watching—this Serb drive down the road like some teenager trying to see how
fast his dad’s pickup will go.

  While I waited several long minutes for approval, the truck made it into D-Town and began winding through some of the lesser streets (the ones without the rubble of destroyed homes). Simultaneously, a voice came over the strike frequency and asked if I could positively identify my target as “armor.” Laughingly, I again explained that it was a truck, a military truck, a deuce-and-a-half truck! Immediately, I was informed, “Do not, I repeat, do not strike that target.” This was followed 25 seconds later by another voice telling me not to engage the target. Reluctantly, I broke off the attack.