by Ed Cobleigh
"Confirm armament switches set," to remind me to get my shit together.
I flip the red guard up and raise the large toggle switch labeled "master arm" to the "on" position. My action is rewarded by green lights appearing over the three stations holding the bombs.
Now, verbal commands from the ground site are streaming constantly into my earphones. I am totally focused on the heading indicator in front of me on the instrument panel, trying to fly smoothly. The projected descent path of the bombs is profoundly and instantly affected by changes in heading. Small adjustments in the direction of our flight path produce large differences in the forward-projected impact point of the string of bombs. Minor errors in altitude and airspeed are not as important; the Sky Spot computer can cope with these.
The night air is smooth and small corrections are possible if I am careful with the stick and rudder pedals. The Sky Spot operator sees this unusual degree of flying precision on his display and starts giving commands in half-degree increments of compass heading.
"Come right one-half. Hold. Right another half. Good heading."
We are close to the release point. The operator, who is located somewhere north of Da Nang in South Vietnam, advises,
"Stand by for pickle on my mark. Ready, ready, pickle!"
I have trained Jack (that didn't take too many bananas) to hit his pickle button in the rear cockpit on the radio command, even as I do the same in the front seat. Hopefully this helps eliminate some of my reaction time and serves as a backup if my button is inoperative. Jack says the real reason is when the war crimes trials are conducted, he will be in the dock along with me.
No matter which one of us releases the ordnance, we feel a short, staccato series of jolts as the bombs are ejected to fall invisibly into the thin night air below. I roll the aircraft into a left bank and start a turn back toward Laos; beyond it lays the sanctuary of our home base. The Sky Spot operator confirms we have made a good bomb run and thanks us for making his Christmas Eve a special one.
I can't help but look below, down to the DMZ. The Vietnamese monsoon blows from the southeast, out of the South China Sea, this time of year. The wind sweeps heavy clouds and rain from over the ocean and piles the rotten weather up against the low lying Anan Mountains of the panhandle. A thick layer of ragged gray fluff. covers the DMZ like dirty sea foam blown onto the shore. I see it illuminated by the milky moon shining from over Thailand far to the west.
'We won't be able to see the bomb detonation flashes through this murk beneath us. Six thousand pounds of cast steel and high explosive has disappeared into the dirty fog of war below.
Tonight, we used a nuclear weapon scoring system to deliver conventional bombs in an unconventional war hopefully blowing the living shit out of a lucrative military target hiding in a demilitarized zone. We need irony bombs, not iron ones.
I wonder where those twelve bombs actually hit. The chances are good that we snuffed dozens of sleeping jungle monkeys instead of (or maybe in addition to) a few North Vietnamese military truck drivers. Coldly, I feel more pity for the unsuspecting simians than I do for the sentient humans. The apes didn't sign up for the war. Presumably the North Vietnamese people accepted the risk of death when they started this conflict back in the 1940s. Oh well, I'm sure the monkeys will be happy in primate heaven.
Yikes!
Better make that monkey heaven. I still might have a slight mathematical chance of reaching Valhalla myself. If the Elysian Fields are open to all primates, I would hate to run into a very pissed-off troop of monkeys. They might just be interested in meeting the human being who violently terminated their rainy season slumber. On the other hand, I feel confident that there is little danger of contacting any North Vietnamese troops in any blessed hereafter. It's not that I feel the North Vietnamese are godless Communists (although that's what they profess to be) and are thus ineligible for the Kingdom of God. Rather, I have bought into the relentless mental conditioning telling me they are unworthy of the pity and sympathy afforded to the humans who are not on our side in this ineptly fought war.
For most of this century, the enemy of the moment has been dehumanized by caricatures and insulting nicknames. We fought the Krauts, the Huns, the Bosche, the Jerries, the Nips, the Japs, the Chinks, and the Gooks. The list goes on and on, today and tonight. Maybe those Huns or Zips of yesteryear had mothers and wives that loved them as well. The North Vietnamese have feelings and relatives too, but that doesn't matter this time either. Pinning a demeaning label across the enemy's face facilitates remorseless killing. The image I have in my head of the "Bad Guys" allows me to sleep soundly at night. Or, as is the more usual case, in the daytime after a night mission.
Intellectually, l know the other side is populated with real people. But I also know that they care not a bit that I have loving parents, upstanding brothers, and easy girlfriends, nor that I hope to have a wife and kids someday. They would cheerfully kill me, then pick up their rice bowls and chopsticks and dig in with nary second thought. I wonder what racially motivated nickname they use for us Americans?
Another useful rationalization for the carnage I hope we caused tonight is the apparent lack of regard the government of North Vietnam has for its own citizens. Why should I fret about killing large numbers of Vietnamese when the regime in Hanoi doesn't seem to care either? Does that make me as evil as they are?
"Uncle" Ho Chi Minh is reputed to have said, "You will kill ten of our men, and we will kill one of yours, and in the end it will be you who tires of it first. Then we will win." Uncle Ho's carefully polished avuncular image is somewhat tarnished by his willingness to sacrifice his countrymen in large numbers for the sake of his geopolitical goals.
It seems that the rulers of the North themselves equate ten Vietnamese lives with one American's existence. By all accounts, the North Vietnamese and Vietcong ground troops are dedicated and brave to the point of foolhardiness. They seem to have accepted their role as political cannon fodder. Perhaps they have no choice, no way to opt out. There are no Vietnamese draft dodgers in Hanoi, Stockholm, or Vancouver.
The generals of the North seem to be willing to burn up legions of their own soldiers, throwing them recklessly against the combined firepower of the United States of America. I have heard the phrase, "Life is cheap in Asia." The wasteful military tactics the North are willing to use seems to validate that concept. They lost tens of thousands of regular North Vietnamese troops in the futile siege of Khe Sanh, an insignificant valley valued only as a killing ground. It was truly as the Bard said, "A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing."
Maybe the problem isn't with Asian culture, but with absolutist governments and dictatorships. Globally, the mind masters and the unchallenged demigods of brutal regimes have been responsible for some of the century's most useless massacres. The Somme, Iwo Jima, Stalingrad, Hamburger Hill, Khe Sanh, the list is long of human sea attacks ordered by despots which resulted in crashing waves of the dead. At Stalingrad, two brutal, uncaring dictatorships strove to out kill each other. That WWII battle was fought between the Bad Guys and the Even Worse Guys.
Somehow, against all data and logic, I believe history justifies us being here. We have to stop the madness. It's why Jack and I tonight wakened the Phantom beast to life and flight, then we unleashed its iron bomb fury on the heads of hapless peasant soldiers. Is there any cause on Earth worth defiling a Christmas Eve in this obscene manner? Yes, there is. We have to end the modern era of evil dictators. We have to purge them from the globe, be they Vietnamese Communists, Japanese Imperialists, Russian Marxists, or Nazis. They are the ones who live in their bombproof bunkers. They who control their people with naked force, or brutal ideology, or bogus religion must be stopped. We have to make it impossible for psychopaths to send their citizens into hopeless, winless battles, writing them off in their millions.
Back home in the good ol' USA, things are a mess, with draft riots, protests, and wholesale civil disobedience. Guys a
re burning their draft cards chanting, "Not me, not this time." No one says that in Hanoi, no one said that in Tokyo, Berlin, Peking, or Moscow. Those pitiful North Vietnamese troopers have no option but to go and to be brave in the face of a messy death.
We are fighting for the right of free men and women to say no, to tell their rulers to get fucked, to suffer the consequences of protest, and yet keep on living. Maybe, just maybe, if we can do our job here in Southeast Asia and elsewhere, others will understand the benefits of a free society. With our actions, we can make possible a world where more people can change their rulers' minds and/or they can change their rulers.
If this nirvana happens, I will be able to afford the mental luxury of considering the current Bad Guys as the humans they have been all along and not as faceless ciphers whose deaths aren't allowed to trouble my sleep. But there are miles to go before I sleep, as some poet once said.
I point the nose of the aircraft west across Laos and toward Thailand while I tidy up the cockpit. Once we re-cross the Mekong, I flip the last missile switch to the "safe" position.
Jack has been even quieter than usual throughout tonight's flight. Before he can check out with Alley Cat, I ask,
"What would you say to us finding a tanker, getting some gas, and looking for Santa Claus?"
Jack replies, "OK by me; what else do we have to do tonight?"
I know exactly what he means by that comment and he knows I made my suggestion for the same reason. This is a night to stay airborne for sentimental reasons if for none other.
The navigator calls the indomitable Bruce in Alley Cat and reports a successful, if less than exciting, Sky Spot drop and asks if there is any extra gas available tonight. There is only one possible reason we would want some extra fuel at this time of night with all our ordnance expended and the weather good. The snarky tone of Bruce's reply in my earphones strongly indicates he knows the rest of tonight's mission includes some serious goofing off. Despite what he thinks of our misuse of the taxpayer's expensive fuel, Bruce finds us a tanker and relays to Jack its call sign, position, and radio frequency.
In short order Jack contacts the orbiting KC-135, finds the tanker on his trusty radar set, and gives me vectors to steer for an intercept.
The tanker crew knows Satan Flight isn't on the official schedule to offload fuel tonight. But, hell, what do they care? As soon as they have passed away all their gas, they get to go home to their base in far southern Thailand. It is rumored the Sultans of SAC have decreed that a pleasure dome be built beside the Gulf of Siam.
The magnificent SAC Officers' Club will have laid on a splendiferous Christmas party, no doubt. They'll probably have a bountiful buffet, live music, Thai dancing girls in costume, and a decorated evergreen tree flown in from the States on a relief tanker. If the tanker crew hurries, they might get to their home away from home in time to partake of some Christmas cheer.
As I carefully slide my jet under the tail of the KC-135 to make contact, I see the crew hasn't forgotten us lowly fighter pilots on this joyous occasion. The darkened boom operator's window in the aft belly of the tanker is outlined with red-and-green Christmas lights. I have seen Playboy pinups, current football scores (received in real time on the tanker's shortwave radio from Omaha), and various obscene messages in the Boomer's window, but this yuletide decoration is a first. I'm truly touched.
We take on 5,000 pounds of JP-4 in midair without incident and the boom operator retracts the boom from the receptacle on the spine of our Phantom, breaking contact. As I edge both throttles back to drift out from under the KC-135, I glance down at my heading indicator. We are pointed directly at the tanker's base; they are headed for home.
While the tanker quickly recedes off into the night sky, the copilot comes on the radio with a parting shot.
"Satan, you-all be careful now, you hear? Don't go be shooting down ol' Santa. You'll be in a heap of trouble, boy."
Great. A tanker crew from the Alabama Air National Guard.
I push my mike button before Jack does and reply.
"Pinch a few girls on the ass for us tonight at the bar. We'll be up here defending freedom."
That gets a double click on the radio and a "Roger. Wilco, Satan" as the Confederate Air Force tanker changes frequencies.
Without a real plan other than to stay airborne, I turn the Phantom back to the northwest and establish the jet at 20,000 feet and 350 knots. With no clouds and few reference points on the ground, the speed is invisible.
Back in the States, even in the most rural areas, a clear night like tonight showcases a ground network of brightly lit towns shining in the dark like luminescent spider webs. Each glowing pattern of streets is linked to its neighbors by roads marked by the red and white lights of moving vehicles. The whole web system shines with points of multicolored electricity resembling dew droplets on a web catching light from an invisible nighttime sun. America at night is incredibly beautiful from the air.
Northeast Thailand is very different, with only scattered lights clumped together here and there indicating the locations of small towns. There is no sense of visible organization, only the unlinked glow of isolated bare electric bulbs and solitary propane lanterns. Yet Thailand is densely populated; we are flying over crowds of people living in the farms and villages below. Tonight, the Thai Buddhists are asleep in the dark; most are unaware and uncaring that it is Christmas Eve for two lonely aviators passing silently overhead at 20,000 feet.
Back at our base, Christmas is barely acknowledged by officialdom. The "'Wolf Pack" wing flies combat softies around the clock every day of the year. National or religious holidays don't fit into this schedule. The Chaplain has a midnight service for the observant few, the chow halls will serve turkey dinners with all the trimmings tomorrow and there will be a few homemade Christmas trees displayed in the living quarters and barracks, but that's about it. The policy seems to be, "If we don't make too much of Christmas, the guys won't miss it too much."
But, they do. The Officers' Club will be jammed tonight with a river of booze flowing like water in the Mekong. The scene will be one of war stories, slightly forced laughter, endless kidding, and passes made at the barmaids. The subject of Christmas won't be mentioned much. But it will be at the back of everyone's mind as they attempt to suppress the memories of what and whom they miss. If you can't be with the ones you miss, make do with the ones you're with. No female, Thai or Round Eye, will sleep by herself tonight unless she really wants to be alone.
Drinking in good company is one of life's great pleasures, but not tonight, not on this night. The wee hour darkness envelops our Phantom like a comfort blanket. Jack and I are each lost in our own private thoughts as we wander aimlessly high above dark, somnolent Thailand.
Our Phantom, which was so beastlike on the ground, has changed its spots. Fresh from delivering death and destruction, the jet is now a benign and agile time machine. It moves us over the sleeping land like a wraith, drifting in the night and for a time, stopping the clock.
I keep the instrument lights turned up, creating a reassuring environment. During most combat missions, I extinguish the glowing red lights, blacking out the cockpit to preserve my night vision. Tonight I need the light. With its pointed nose and swept-back wings, none of the structure of the F-4 is easily visible from inside the cockpit at night. This gives me the eerie sensation of being a disembodied spirit floating over the battlefield, as if I were flying effortlessly in the dark without an aircraft.
The feeling is completely different now with red-glowing instruments and backlit control panels on both sides and in front of me. The former invisible beast is now a willing servant, enveloping and protecting. A jet's cockpit at night is one of the coolest places I can imagine to inhabit. I remember being thrilled by the experience for the first time learning to fly over west Texas. Then, and now, a cockpit magically generates a feeling of isolation from the world. As long as there is fuel in the jet, I can't be bothered by the mundane things that happe
n on the ground.
Too soon our contraband gas is exhausted. It is time to go back to what passes for home these days. Jack hasn't said one word since we left the tanker. Some things don't need speech to be understood and shared.
I tell my navigator, "Secure your map case and hang on."
Hopefully he won't think I've lost control of the jet, only my senses. I push both throttles forward to their first stop and the airspeed begins to build. Slight back pressure on the control stick raises the nose to ten degrees above the hazy horizon. Stopping the nose at ten degrees, I lean the stick far left, feeding in right rudder when the jet begins to roll. As the wings approach ninety degrees of left bank, I add more right, or top, rudder and start relaxing the back pressure on the stick. Continuing to roll, I bleed off the rudder input and start the stick forward, taking the Gs off the airplane.
As we float up out of our seats, I continue the roll until we are inverted. The scattered lights of rural Thailand have traded places with the stars and now appear to be over us, suspended over the top of the canopy.
I keep the stick leftward and as the roll nears the 270 degree point, I bring the back pressure back in, settling our butts gently back onto our ejection seats. At the same time I add left rudder, which is now top rudder. At the ninety-degree point, I blend out the left rudder and bring the stick back toward the cruise position. With the wings back to level, the nose is still on the distant horizon marking the line between the dark ground and the darker sky.
A slight touch of right stick stops the roll and I center the stick, retarding the throttles back to cruise power. The stars are now once more visible straight up and the scattered lights on the ground are back below us.
The classic slow roll appears easy and lazy, but it is difficult to perform smoothly and correctly. During stateside air shows done by the USAF air demonstration team, the "Thunderbirds" or their US Navy counterparts, the "Blue Angels" the solo pilot always does a slow roll directly in front of the crowd. The general public thinks the elegant roll is a throwaway line, a time killer until something more exciting happens in the air show. However, a successful performance of such a difficult maneuver always blows away the pilots in the crowd. They know how the stick and rudder must be coordinated with precision lest the roll gets sloppy. Manhandle the flight controls and a slow roll can result in a loss of control. It is seldom done at night.