“Fire three!” shouted Rebel-2 as he grabbed the yoke and turned a hard one-eighty.
I held my breath and waited for confirmation of a kill, and waited, and waited. A few seconds seemed like forever. My heart was pumping so fast I thought I’d never come down from the high. The Lady would get two more assists for sure, but we wanted a third.
“No third splash,” reported Rebel-1.
Suddenly everything seemed to become sedate. Now we could only wait for package egress. The chase would surely be the highlight of our day, yet it wasn’t the final bit of action we’d see. Before long, Gypsy was directing Paladin Leader against the elusive ghosts that seemed to be popping up with increasing frequency.
For us, the next one hundred and twenty minutes dragged by. When package egress finally started, though, our hearts were racing once more.
We left orbit that day with a lot to think about. Some had flashbacks of home. Some thought about tomorrow and war’s end that seemed so very distant. Others just reveled in the moment. The song that played out over ship’s PA as we headed back was Rebel Yell by Billy Idol. It seemed rather appropriate.
We all wished Rebel-2 had gotten that last splash, but as Paladin-3 had said, there’d be another day.
Thursday, 7 February 1991
Another terrorist attack—an American worker at Incirlik airbase was gunned down by terrorists opposed to the Persian Gulf War. He was shot four times in the chest and stomach. The Dev Sol, a terrorist group, claimed responsibility. They’d been planting bombs all over Turkey. They had assassinated an adviser to the Prime Minister. Then an American worker. The question was, who’s next?
A mortar shell was fired at No. 10 Downing Street. A few more feet, and they would’ve killed Britain’s Prime Minister.
Although I knew that security around the base was tight, I couldn’t help but wonder. I knew a lot of people were wondering what would happen next. Meanwhile, Saddam Hussein was calling for the Mother of all Battles.
I had a day off, and the unofficial word was that we were finally moving to different quarters. I really hoped so; everything I owned smelled like the pair of socks I wore yesterday.
The weather outside was warm and sunny. A lot of people were outside and I could hear music from a boom box.
Fabulous, the man of a thousand silk suits, was leaving. His retirement papers had finally come through. The orders had been held up for a couple of months. He was one very happy individual. He was on a plane headed for Germany in a couple of hours.
I knew I would miss Fabulous. I remember his telling me once that “One war is enough for any military career.” He’d been in Nam, two tours. He’d been decorated in Nam. I was glad that he was going home. He’d served his time. Yet I could only wonder when the rest of us would be going home, too.
I joined the gang outside playing hacky sack; it sounded like they were having a good time. Happy had been going on and on about the Wagon Wheel, an enlisted club that played mostly country music, and something about a game of “Dead Bug.” I thought I might find out what it was all about—and that’s what I set out to do.
At dusk, a small group of crew dogs saddled up and made the long trek to Tennessee Jim’s quarters across base. Happy, Cowboy, Bad Boy, and I found Jim and Chris already sauced. They’d been drinking since early afternoon. I didn’t blame them; sometimes there was a lot you just wanted to forget. We were going to barbecue hot dogs and hamburgers.
The rest of the crew started showing up after a few minutes. Charlotte and Sandy tagged along with Sparrow and Tammy. Ice was the last to arrive.
We ate burgers and hot dogs until we were bloated then played several rounds of the name game. Our beer of choice for the evening was Michelob—it was Crow’s favorite, and today was Crow’s birthday. Happy and Cowboy had toted along a case of Michelob dark, and Tennessee Jim had a refrigerator chuck-full of Michelob light.
Burgers and beer were fine, but our ultimate destination was the Wagon Wheel where Crow was buying the first round for everyone who showed.
The skyline was totally dark and the stars were out in full when we staggered to the Wagon Wheel with Happy leading the way. Most of the other crewmembers had gone on ahead of us; a few of us had stayed to watch TV. Tennessee Jim had a VCR in his room, of all things! We were all a bit envious of his private room. We’d watched the first hour of Firefox, and then headed out.
The Wagon Wheel was crowded when we arrived. We had to push our way inside. It didn’t take us long to find the group of crew dogs amidst the crowd; our guys and gals were the ones whooping and hollering near the bar. They’d commandeered a string of tables and set up camp.
As they spotted us, Crow and Bad Boy let out a whoop that rang in my ears. Crow had just ordered twenty-six tequilas and they were lined up on the table waiting. We were just in time. Lime in one hand, tequila in the other, we joined in.
“To Crow on his birthday!” we screamed.
The shot of tequila went down like a white-hot fuse.
“Another round,” yelled Crow. “Barkeep, a round of tequilas!”
The Wagon Wheel didn’t exactly have instant service. As a matter of fact, they didn’t have table service at all. PBJ and Thomas made the alcohol run. Crow still paid—thirty-nine bucks for twenty-six tequilas.
When tequilas were lined up in front of us again, we shouted out, “To Crow on his birthday!” just before we downed the shots.
That white-hot fuse ran down my throat again, and I needed something other than a lime to quench it. I slipped around the table and asked, “What you drinking, Crow?”
“Bacardi and Coke, triple.”
“Triple?” I asked. Crow wasn’t normally a big drinker.
“Rum with a splash of coke!” Crow smiled.
I grinned and left to order a triple rum and coke and a six-pack. I returned just in time for the infamous game of Dead Bug. I’d hardly settled into my chair, when Happy screamed out, “DEAD BUG!” in a shrill voice.
The twenty-plus crew dogs seated around the long string of tables dropped to the floor on their backs, their legs and arms flailing. Around us, the music quieted and the cacophony of voices came to a halt. The onlookers were just as amazed as I was. It was right about then that I realized there must be a catch to this game, so I dropped down onto my back like the rest of my fellow crew dogs, arms and legs flailing.
A few moments later everyone got off the floor and sat back in their chairs as if nothing had happened. The discord of music and voices returned.
“Last one down buys,” said Happy, patting me on the back.
“I didn’t know the rules,” I complained, but I bought the next round just the same: rules were rules. After I plopped down two twelve-packs of Bud on the center table, I cracked my first beer, drank it down about half way then screamed at the top of my lungs, “DEAD BUG!”
I was the first one to the floor this time and I’d discovered the secret of the game: if you call out before anyone else does, you’re easily the first one to the floor. Still, the game was much more than that; it was zany fun, crew-dog style. No one stopped to think about how stupid we looked as we lay on the floor, arms and legs flailing, but then drinking games weren’t meant to be intellectually stimulating.
I crawled back into my chair, turned to Happy and said proudly, “A bit slow to the floor, weren’t we, Happy?”
Friday, 8 February 1991
This was a day of headlines. Most of the news was grim. I wondered what damage the heavy winter storm had done in Germany. And if Katie was all right.
I hoped to be able to call her, another five-minute morale call. I could use the Turkish public telephones at the base rec center, but the prices were exorbitant—around $14.00 for a little plastic phone card that would let me make one five-minute phone call to Germany.
The official word had come: we were moving to different quarters. I couldn’t wait. The only bad thing was that we’d be flying when everyone else was making the move. We’d likely come ba
ck to find our belongings spread out on the ground at our new site. We were advised to pack our things before we went to fly.
That flight promised to be interesting, though. We were supposed to make sure we looked sharp. Sounded to me like they were expecting a “dog and pony” show.
Saturday, 9 February 1991
I had tried to talk to Katie on Friday, but the phone lines were tied up. I hoped to find some time to try again on Saturday. I missed her; I truly did.
I worried more about her than me. She was all alone there. I was the reason she was in Germany away from family and friends. I also knew how much she worried about me.
The only good thing about Friday’s flight was that after it, we moved to new quarters. I spent Saturday morning helping to set up beds. They’d moved us into billeting quarters, of all places. The rooms were small, and we enlisted folks were crammed in three to a room. Still, I felt as if I’d moved into a luxury suite of a palace.
The rooms had heaters! There was a sink in the room with hot and cold running water. Two rooms shared a common bathroom, which sported a shower. No more walking three blocks to stand in line to take a shower and then find out there’s no more hot water. We even had a television set.
With the heater cranked up, I got my first good night’s sleep in over three weeks. No one woke me up in the middle of the night by mistake; no one turned on the lights over my bed; no one slammed the door; and neither Chris nor Cowboy snored loud enough to shake the walls. I felt like I’d just come home from Mars. There was only one problem—I was not really home.
It wasn’t long before I was sitting in the briefing room once more, listening to Derrin.
“As you well know from the close call your crew had yesterday, there’s been a significant increase in SAM activity from these regions,” Derrin said. With his pointer, he drew several lines along the northern part of the map. “They’re forming kill rings and it’s going to be the mission of a group of F-111s to take them out. Another group will be going after POL storage areas, here and here.”
Derrin paused to take a swig from a jug of water.
“Buffs will be striking this key airfield here.” Derrin slapped the map hard with his pointer and wove the tip in a circle. “We took out most of the aircraft in hardened bunkers here yesterday. The Buffs will make sure they can’t use the runway or facilities for a while. So far, the Iraqis have been pretty quick to make repairs. But this should slow them down a bit.”
A lieutenant colonel stood to my right. He was with special operations. I noticed that Derrin’s last remark brought a grin.
“AAA has been thick, so watch your distances carefully. That’s about all I have for today. Have a safe flight.” There was something about the way Derrin said safe that made me want to cringe.
I knew today’s flight would be interesting. I also knew the special operations officer wasn’t in the briefing for nothing. He’d be going up with us for sure.
The AC’s brief was next. It was short and sweet and ended on the same note as always, a synchronization of watches.
“The time on my mark will be 16:02,” said Captain Sammy. “Ready.”
I double-checked my watch and prepared to adjust it if need be. The rest of the crew did the same.
“Mark, 16:02.”
I reset my watch; it was a few seconds off.
After Tennessee Jim’s final briefing, we settled down in the crew lounge. The TV was blaring. The USS Wisconsin was pulverizing the Iraqi coast with two-thousand-pound shells.
The special ops officer disappeared and we wouldn’t see him again until we boarded the plane. He seemed unduly nervous for some reason; perhaps he knew something we didn’t.
Briefly, I keyed into the news announcer’s voice. He was talking about the gigantic oil slick in the Persian Gulf. Northerly winds had held it up for about a week, but now it was on the move again.
I was on my way to the head when Jim called out, “Time to saddle up, boys and girls! The van just pulled up; let’s move it!”
By the time the Lady lifted off the runway, the sun was starting to set. With all the new activity in the area, Tennessee Jim directed a spotter aft right after takeoff. I’d have the watch until we turned on orbit, then Bad Boy would take over.
As I stared out the portside portal, clinging to the paratroop door, the special ops officer stared out the starboard portal. On the ground he had seemed unduly nervous; now he seemed akin to a caged tiger that wanted to be set free. As I looked down, I saw the air base grow smaller and smaller. Then for a time, as I looked on, we raced for the mountains; and the terrain beneath us was flat and clean.
Soon the snowcapped mountains were beneath us, extending ever downward, jagged black rocks beneath white caps. And soon after that, the mountains were gone and I was left staring out into a rolling landscape that looked deceivingly serene.
The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, and slowly the land below turned black and lifeless. The temperature in the far aft was icy cold. I could see whispers of white when I exhaled. I slipped on nomex gloves and fitted my winter flight jacket over the top of my survival vest.
I waited for the land to become darker still, and then I reached for a pair of night-vision goggles and switched them on. The landscape below folded out in shades of green.
I heard Bill announce that we were coming on orbit and that ETA to first-wave ingress was twelve mike. The dark landscape sprang to sudden life. In the NVG, I watched tiny fiery green objects lift from the earth by the thousands. It seemed that someone had just turned on all the lights of a city; only I knew it wasn’t a city, and those weren’t lights from someone’s kitchen. It was AAA.
“Pilot, Spotter, AAA’s coming up all over the place!”
“Roger that, Spotter. We see it; they’re giving us one hell of a light show tonight!”
We started to make a turn; I went to switch windows, and that’s when I slammed into Bad Boy. I don’t know how long he’d been standing behind me. His face was rather pale and his eyes were wide as saucers. I patted him on the back and handed him the NVG.
“Nice light show tonight!” I shouted above the roar of the engine. I unplugged my headset from the auxiliary cord and plugged Bad Boy up.
I walked forward into the mission compartment. I looked back just once to see Bad Boy standing there still as could be, face pale and eyes wide. I knew right then that this was his first time as Spotter at night. There was a tremendous difference between the day and the night light show, for only at night did the closeness of the threat seem so very real; and it was only at night that you could see just how much of the horizon it filled. It was raining AAA everywhere, as far as the eye could see.
In short order, the first wave came in screaming, low to the deck. Bad Boy called out their ingress as Tennessee Jim slammed the system into jam. We’d reached our window.
Below us, I knew the Iraqi AAA and SAM sites had lost their communications channels just when they needed them the most. I knew this because I’d targeted most of them and was quite proud of that fact—I was having a good day.
The first wave of fighters raced in-country, while a second wave marshaled outside and below radar range.
I heard Gypsy squawking in the background, and a few seconds later we began precautionary evasive actions. Only this time we didn’t dive, we climbed. Smoke trails had been seen by one of our CAP fighters—surface-to-air missiles had been launched. We had to gain altitude to save our necks.
For an instant, my eyes glazed over; and then I continued my search for new signals. I hoped the missiles had been fired blindly, and more importantly, not at us. Fighters could launch chaff and other countermeasures—we could only climb or dive. Yet I couldn’t help noticing the ticking by of the seconds on the tiny clock in the corner of my screen. From the ground to our altitude by way of a missile was only a few seconds, no more. I waited. Nothing.
The second wave had finished marshaling and they started to trickle in; the first wav
e had come in low. These boys were scraping treetops.
I continued to poke away at my keyboard and watch the displays. The next few minutes were critical. We had to make sure the enemy had no idea that second wave was coming in. They were less than a minute from the target area when the first wave kicked in afterburners and made crisp ninety-degree turns. And then both waves were converging on the same area, hell bent on total destruction.
So far, everything seemed to be going according to plan, for which we were all glad. I knew when the packages began their strike because suddenly everything I was watching sprang to life. Now, we’d have to work extra hard to make sure the packages made it out safely. With so many aircraft in-country it wouldn’t be an easy task, but we aimed to do it.
The minutes that followed were, as always, extremely tense. We knew the time the first fighter was due to head out; still, our breaths stifled with anticipation when the radios keyed.
Tennessee Jim keyed in on Private. “Stay at it; it’s almost over!”
True to form, we stayed at it just a few more minutes. Soon we’d be heading back to base and it would all be over. Then I heard words from the copilot that I’d relive in solitary moments late at night, “Smoke trail, one o’clock!”
Captain Sammy came up on Ship’s Hot and screamed into his mike, “Crew beginning evasive maneuvers!”
There was a heart-sized lump in my throat. My heart pounded in my ears. A few seconds later, I heard Gypsy advise that we move to the back of our orbit box. We did, no questions asked. Captain Sammy brought the Lady around hard. Gravity thrust me into my chair, my neck tensed under the strain, my arms, lead weights, wouldn’t move.
Moments earlier we had been played-out and more than ready for the end of the mission. Now we just wanted to feel the Lady level off; for if she did, hopefully it meant the sky was clear.
The wing dipped, my head bobbed, my stomach churned. Then suddenly I was slipping out of my seat as gravity reversed—we were falling or so it seemed. Immediately afterward, everything became smooth, as if we were floating. I noticed then that I could move my arms, and everything had stopped jumping—we had finally leveled off.
Baghdad or Bust Page 4