A-10s over Kosovo

by Christopher E. Haave Kimos

  I pushed forward on the stick, nosed over slightly, and overlaid the gun symbology on the radar van. Suddenly I wasn’t flying an A-10 anymore. I was in a Jug or Spitfire, strafing steam locomotives in occupied France—that’s exactly what it felt like. I put my index finger on the trigger, and caught my breath slightly. In that one instant in time I thought to myself, “Oh my God, you’re about to long-range STRAFE a real live target!” I lined up my airplane to rip the now large van from one side to the other. All my training and long days of hard work had seemed to build to this one split second. The adrenaline, the ecstasy, the remorse, the fear, and the exaltation of everything in my life seemed encapsulated in the moment I pulled the trigger.

  Now I’ve shot close to 100,000 rounds through the GAU-8 gun without any problem—except for this one particular time. The gun spun up, and the familiar rumbling of the aircraft accompanied it—but something was missing. A fraction of a second later I realized that no bullets were coming from the aircraft. This was accompanied shortly by a “gun unsafe” warning light in the cockpit. I pulled off target and, even with my finger off the trigger, the gun continued to rotate. My wingman and I yanked our jets hard to the left. We were low as hell and we both dropped flares like crazy. I then made one of the worst radio calls of my life: “One’s runaway gun.”

  At that moment Dice, my then number-three man, descended below the weather. Seeing red streaks around my element’s aircraft, he called out that we were taking AAA. I then began to jink, while trying to “safe” my gun and talk Dice onto the target. Unfortunately, my erroneous “runaway gun” radio call had focused Dice’s concentration more on the nose of my aircraft and getting out of my way than looking for the target. At this point he radioed that it was only our flares and not AAA that he had seen. Needless to say, the attack had turned into a chocolate mess. All four aircraft were within spitting distance of the target, we were looking at each other, and nobody was clearing for any threats. I quickly gathered the four of us together and climbed above the weather.

  My wingman was low, real low, on gas, so we climbed to the optimum altitude and slowed to the best airspeed to conserve our fuel and extend our range—we “skyhooked” back to Gioia. I left Dice as the on-scene commander because he had the best situational awareness from going below the weather and seeing where the target should be. Over the next 45 minutes, the remaining three two-ships (seven and eight had returned from the tanker) made three more attacks on the target. Two of them were prosecuted from a low-altitude run-in 100 feet above the water. Unfortunately, due to an inability to acquire the radar, they both were unsuccessful. During the climb out for their skyhook back to Gioia, Joe Bro was able to look through a break in the clouds to see where the van had been parked and noticed the dirt tracks it had left when it drove off.

  Explosive-ordnance-disposal personnel SSgt Mike Werner and A1C Joe Deslaurieurs preparing to “safe” a GAU-8 that jammed during a combat mission over Kosovo by using a C-4 explosive charge to “render safe” the stuck 30 mm rounds (USAF Photo by TSgt Blake Borsic)

  When we got back, I told everyone about the sortie and the lack of results. “Flat Face mania” seemed to grip the squadron. Completely irrational, I had almost convinced Larry Card to hop in a jet, join on my wing, and go back with me to kill that radar right then and there. Everyone shared our disappointment.

  The next day Scratch and Dirt went looking for the priority target. The now-familiar midlevel deck of clouds was again present and forced them to drop down through the clouds, which bottomed out at 4,000 feet. The Serbs, having finally decided to defend their radar, shot a manpads missile right between the two-ship of Hogs. Scratch and Dirt defeated the missile and climbed back through the clouds. When Scratch’s mission report made it to the bigwigs, the listed altitude of 4,000 feet raised more than a few eyebrows. Scratch, Dirt, and I were called into the squadron commander’s office that afternoon. Scratch and Dirt, along with Colonel Thompson, our group commander, had the pleasure of seeing the three-star about breaking the minimum altitudes described in his ROEs.

  The trials and tribulations I faced while trying to attack the Flat Face radar taught me some very important lessons. I learned a great deal about the capability and limitations of weapons, tactics, and the effects of weather. I gained a new understanding of mission-essential tasking versus mission requirements. I came to appreciate the occasional discrepancy between tactical leadership and the “can do,” “type A” mentality of our typical attack pilot. Finally, I learned what air combat really is. It’s not just strategic bombing from 20,000 feet using munitions aided by Global Positioning System (GPS) and delivered against targets whose coordinates had been carefully measured. I now know what it’s like to belly up to the table, look the bad guy square in the eye, and be confident that I have the ability, the constitution, and the fortitude to shoot him.

  Attack on Montenegro

  1st Lt Johnny “CBU” Hamilton

  My most memorable sortie had an unsuccessful ending. It started one day when our squadron was tasked to plan an attack on a radar site in the Yugoslav province of Montenegro. The target was a long-range search radar used to track inbound and outbound NATO aircraft. Allied forces had finally pinpointed its location and decided it was time for the radar to go.

  I was working in the mission-planning cell (MPC) when short-notice attack orders came down. I would not be a member of the attack force. However, with the exception of the actual flight brief, I was involved with every other aspect of the planning, which called for a four-ship of A-10s to attack at night using CBU-87s, Mavericks, and 30 mm guns. They were to depart Gioia, flying the standard route to Kosovo, and try to employ some tactical deception. The daily operational routine was to fly to a tanker before going into Kosovo, and the Yugoslavs knew it. At about the halfway point, the four-ship made a rapid descent over the Adriatic Sea but kept talking to the NAEW as if they were still cruising at altitude and proceeding to the tanker. The NAEW crew members participated in our deception plan and continued talking and vectoring the imaginary Hogs towards the tanker, even though they were nowhere near the normal routes. This was all an attempt to confuse the Yugoslavs in case they were listening to our radio transmissions and throw them off in case they had not been able to track the A-10s on radar. Unfortunately, the weather was extremely bad, and they were not able to engage the target successfully.

  Lt Johnny Hamilton shows rock star Joan Jett the Maverick missile (USAF Photo by TSgt Blake Borsic)

  Three days later I was flying on the wing of Capt Stu Stuewe on an AFAC sortie in Kosovo. After our two vul periods, we were returning home, and we flew very close to the radar site. We were at high altitude, but the clear weather allowed us look into the area where we expected the radar to be located. At this point, an otherwise routine sortie became interesting. Stu was one of the pilots involved in the first night attack against the radar. He still had the target map with him and, because I had been involved with the planning, I remembered the radar’s geographic area and its location in relation to the road that paralleled the coast. Stu immediately located the radar and began coordinating for an impromptu attack clearance. He was able to get approval for the three other returning Hog two-ships to support the attack. Just as Stu had been involved on the first attack, it happened that the other three flight leads had been part of that original four-ship. We had the original four players leading four wingmen with their additional firepower.

  We were ready to go after taking about 15 minutes to organize the fighters and get approval for the attack. Our attack force of four two-ships started off in trail at medium altitude with about two miles of separation between the elements. We were trying to attack the radar site quickly, and only Stu had put his eyes on the target. I had seen the target area but had not been able to pull out the binoculars and positively ID its location. The plan was for Stu to hit the target with a Maverick, and then the others would queue off the smoke and flames to find it. My job was to cover for the two
of us—looking around for any threats to the formation. As we descended, Stu tried to lock up the target with an IIR Maverick. Because of poor thermal contrast with the surrounding area, the seeker would not lock on to just the vehicle. I was flying with extended spacing off Stu’s right wing as we crossed over the coast, flew inland, and rapidly approached the target. My duty was to continuously look for threats to the formation by searching the arc from my right side, through the nose, and on towards my 10 o’clock position to keep Stu in sight. This constant search pattern never allowed me to look for the target. We were two to three miles from the target when Stu radioed that he was switching to guns because the Mav wouldn’t lock-on. I started to sense a ground rush now because I hadn’t flown this low since the war started. The adrenaline rush was almost unbearable. The flight pressed in. Stu steadied his crosshairs and pulled the trigger. “Runaway gun! One’s runaway gun!” is all we heard on the radio. The Gatling gun on Stu’s jet had malfunctioned. It had spun up but fired no bullets.

  He immediately pulled up and banked hard to the left, egressing over the water. As I heard this I looked out front, curious about the call and expecting to see the gun firing uncontrollably, but in the heat and excitement of the moment, Stu made an incorrect call.

  As I looked out in front of Stu’s jet, I saw a group of vehicles off the side of the road, and then I saw Stew aggressively turn towards the sea. Since my job was to cover for the flight, I also turned west and egressed with flares. We were both jinking over the water now at less than 1,000 feet AGL. I looked back over my shoulder at the target for any threat reaction. There were no missiles or gun flashes, but I could see the second two-ship running towards the target.

  Unfortunately, they never got eyes on the radar, so they aborted their pass. The same thing happened to the remaining two-ships. Because Stu’s jet malfunctioned and I was low on fuel, we were not able to reattack the target. The other Hogs were able to loiter for a little longer but never acquired the radar.

  I often wonder if I should have hit those vehicles I saw at the last minute. I could have called “contact” and requested clearance to fire. This would have at least marked the target for the remaining Hogs. My job, however, was to clear. With Stu egressing, who would clear for me if I focused on the target? Still, I wish I could have killed that thing!

  The Hogs did kill the radar on a subsequent sortie. Capt Joe Bro Brosious finally got it—he strafed it until it wasn’t anymore! This was just one more example of the variety of missions the A-10 can fly. Even though it was designed to provide CAS for the Army, it has repeatedly been used successfully in other roles. Hogs have attacked and destroyed radar sites and communication facilities, and have suppressed enemy air defenses—an ability we demonstrated against SA-6 sites in Kosovo. These missions make the Warthog such an exciting plane to fly—I wouldn’t trade it for anything!

  A Monkey and a Giraffe

  Capt Joe S. “Joe Bro” Brosious

  “Do you need me to drive?” I yelled from the backseat. I continued, “If you kill us going to work today, I will make sure that you never fly again.” I was a scheduler, so this was a credible threat.

  In retrospect, the drive to work was the most dangerous thing we did on a daily basis during OAF. The Italians had a knack for turning two lanes of traffic into three, and, depending on which of us was driving, things could get pretty sporty. It was around 0500 when I was rudely awakened by the stunt driving of the lieutenant behind the wheel. The drive to the squadron was the last quiet moment I could expect to have when flying a morning sortie. Everyone was usually too tired (or too tense) to talk, and the ride left a lot of time for reflection—or sleeping, as the case had been that morning. Now we at least had something to keep us all awake, and we spent the rest of our commute expressing displeasure with our young chauffeur’s driving abilities. A person normally develops a very thick skin working in a fighter squadron. The ability of a pilot to give someone grief for stupid remarks or actions is almost as highly respected by the pilot’s fellow aviators as is his ability to fly the plane. Indeed, it has truly been raised to an art form—a by-product of putting 30 type-A personalities together in the same workplace. It helped take our minds off the three million other things we were supposed to get accomplished during the day besides flying.

  Morning sorties were always hectic. We had to get up at four in the morning—arriving at the squadron any earlier was not a rational option. A point of diminishing returns occurs when an alarm clock is set any earlier than around four in the morning (I used to think it was around 0600, but the Air Force recalibrated me). Getting up at 0400 is not something a normal human being should do on a regular basis.

  No matter how early we arrived, we were always behind. There was never enough time to wade through all of the information thrown at us during the morning intelligence brief. We had to be very selective about what actions and thoughts we let occupy those precious two hours before takeoff. Mission planning had become a three-step process that was reflected in a series of three questions I asked myself before every sortie: What’s out there trying to kill me? What am I trying to kill? How do I accomplish my mission without getting into trouble? The last question seemed like a no-brainer, but it was one of our biggest concerns and something we had to concentrate on during our pre-mission planning. Information about every airborne flight was continuously transmitted to the CAOC and played on the big screen. “Big Brother” was watching, and nobody wanted to highlight himself. Just a week before, two of our squadron majors were ordered to the CAOC to explain an apparent ROE deviation, and they received a tongue-lashing of epic proportions. We all knew that any one of us could have been called up there and nobody wanted to make that trip.

  I was scheduled to fly this particular morning with Capt Michael L. “Smokey” Matesick. I was the only one who called him Smokey. The nickname stems from an antiskid brake-system check that Mike had performed at the request of our maintenance personnel. They asked for volunteers one night when we were sitting CSAR alert, and Smokey, being the youngest, got to volunteer. They had spent the last six hours fixing the brakes and needed them checked. All they wanted was for Smokey to taxi the jet above 25 knots, slam on the brakes, and see that the antiskid engaged. Well that is just what he did. However, out on the runway after he checked the brakes the first time, he realized he still had about 8,000 feet of runway remaining—plenty of room to really check the brakes. After the third test, and as he was pulling off the runway, the Italians in the tower shouted on the UHF radio, “A-10 on taxiway, you smokey!” Sure enough, Mike had severely overheated the brakes and sat there on the taxiway in disbelief as both main-gear tires went flat. If anything made me laugh harder during the war, I don’t remember it. Maintenance was not amused.

  I liked flying with Smokey—probably more than flying with anyone else. We had flown together enough to know what to expect from each other, and I had good luck finding targets with him. I can’t really say I believe in luck or fate—I think people make their own. Strangely, however, I did feel that if I flew with a certain person, I was probably going to get shot at, or if I flew with another particular person it would likely be a slow day. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy on my part, but I’ll bet that most flight leads would admit that they had a lucky wingman.

  I got my standard large cup of coffee, and then Smokey and I sat down for our intel brief. Four months into the war, we had a pretty good picture of what was out there and where people had been lucky or unlucky. Intel briefed on an unlocated SA-6 somewhere in Kosovo and SAN-4s off the coast of Montenegro—as they had been the entire war. We were mainly interested in what had happened the day before. Who had been shot at? Where did they find targets? With this information we had the ability to make our plan of attack. Included in our mission planning materials was a list of about 50 targets (some days more, some days fewer). Our first job was to look at the list and guess which ones were valid and which were bogus: 20 tanks just outside of Prizren (most
likely bogus), 200 infantry with vehicles (probably bogus). We decided on a handful of targets that looked promising and rank-ordered them. One interesting target, with imagery, was two tanks parked next to a tree line. The picture, from a British Harrier, looked too good to be true. We assumed they were decoys, but they were a possible dump target if it turned into a slow day. I briefed about 30 minutes on flight contracts and other required items, and then we were out the door to fly.

  The mornings stopped being hectic when we finally got airborne. I hated waking up at 0400, but there is nothing better than taking off at sunrise and being the first flight into the area of operations (AO). We hit the tanker inbound, refueled, and made our way across the border. We were slotted as an air-strike control (aka AFAC) sortie working in the western half of Kosovo, using Swine 91 as our call sign. We were more like “killer scouts” running down through a suspected target list. We searched each set of coordinates with handheld binoculars for any sign of the Serbian military. While scrutinizing our third target, I struck gold.

  Two artillery pieces were backed against a tree line overlooking the border town of Zur. Closer investigation revealed what looked like a deuce-and-a-half truck parked nearby with the cargo cover pulled off. Smokey didn’t have the target but was more than happy to provide cover while I rolled in with an IIR Maverick air-to-ground missile. I was unable to break out the artillery pieces due to poor thermal contrast, but the truck showed up beautifully in my cockpit picture. I locked on and hammered down on the pickle button. My Maverick came off like a freight train, but then just as suddenly it pointed vertical and went blitzing off towards some unknown, unsuspecting piece of dirt.