by Mark Berent
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
0830 Hours Local, 22 August 1966
Commando Sabre Planning Committee
Room 4D862, The Pentagon
Washington, DC
"I appreciate your coming in, Gentlemen, and I'll be brief. We have lost over thirty O-1E airplanes and 23 FAC pilots are dead or missing. The biggest shoot-down rate is in the DMZ, Route Pack 1 north of the DMZ, and Laos. The war is escalating and we cannot continue to send tiny backyard Cessnas into such places. Although we must stop the men and material going down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, we can not do it with slow FACs. To improve the survivability rate, the planners have come up with a new method, they call it Commando Sabre. It's a fast FAC concept." The general looked at his two staffers who were busily taking notes. His face and features were thin. His sparse hair was brown shot through with streaks of gray. He sat tall and straight behind his desk. He tried not to think of his son.
"I want you to set up and coordinate the support, the airplanes, and the orders. We will start with a planning group in the FAC School at Phan Rang. While they are setting up, I want an experienced F-100 pilot to learn the Trail and the guns so he can report to the group the level of ground fire such a mission would reasonably be expected to receive. He is to go out and deliberately entice the guns to shoot at him. He is to fly every day, day after day, in the same places and in the same way to see what guns he can bring up once they get used to him."
The two staffers looked at each other. "Sir, isn't all that exposure a little dangerous for just one pilot? Wouldn't you like us to schedule three or four?"
"One is sufficient. I have, in fact, just the man for the job. Once you get the program underway, notify him where and when he is to begin flying. Make a note that I want him to fly up North, over Hanoi. He would need this as a base point of reference for his summation of anti-aircraft fire. Here is his name, rank, serial number, and current unit of assignment. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes, Sir," the heavier of the two full colonel staffers said, "do you have any preferences for the other members of Commando Sabre?"
"No. Choose them as you see fit. If you have no further questions, you are clear to leave."
Outside in the hall, the two colonels looked at the name on the paper. The heavier one shook his head.
"I don't know who this guy Bannister is, but General Austin sure must have it in for him. There's nobody that can survive this one."
1530 Hours Local, 6 September 1966
Mobile Control for Runway 27
Bien Hoa Air Base, Republic of Vietnam
The underside of the thick cloud layer was so low, Court felt he could reach up and touch it. It was not a day conducive to safe flying below a thousand feet. A running cloud pack of lean and grey mongrel scuddogs sped over the antennas of the control unit, scratching themselves, then blew into ragged oblivion to reform further down the runway in furious haste. Court Bannister was in mobile control, a 6x8 glass-enclosed mini control tower mounted on wheels so it could be towed to the side of the approach end of the active runway.
The unit had to be manned by an experienced pilot during all times that F-100s were flying. This was on orders of a TAC reg that paid off almost daily as the man in mobile control assisted pilots with emergencies by calmly reading instructions from a handbook; or told them to take it around if their landing pattern was too dangerous; or frantically fired a flare and yelled into the radio if someone was on final approach without lowering their landing gear.
In bad weather there wasn't much the man in mobile control could do as all the landing airplanes made a straight-in approach controlled by GCA radar. An airplane would come plunging out of the clouds a half mile away, gear and flaps down, the pilot frantically searching for a glimpse of the runway as he got closer to the ground. Usually his pulse rate was in an inverse ratio to his altitude. High altitude, low pulse; low altitude, high pulse.
There could be two airplanes, one flying formation on the other. Both flying slow and nose high, with gear and flaps hanging, looking like two bush turkeys flapping and tossing their heads as they skim the jungle forest looking for a safe place to alight.
At the moment, Ramrod 44, First Lieutenant Donny Higgens was under GCA control as number one to land. He had been on a single ship Skyspot mission bombing a target in II Corps. The controller was still smiling over his non-standard check in of "Ramrod 44 QUACK." He was on course and on glide path for runway 27.
The rain drummed on the roof of the mobile control unit, Court yawned and wiped the moisture from the glass facing final approach. He had re-read the latest letter from Nancy Lewis. As were the other three he had received over the eight months since the Bien Hoa attack, it was cheery and full of humorous anecdotes. Her leg had healed quickly with barely a scar, she said, her only reference to her time with Court; and her trips were long but interesting. Sometimes they carried military dependents in place of G.I.s. Her letters were sunny and uncomplicated. Not once had she so much as hinted at anything stronger than kind feelings toward a G.I. serving in an overseas warzone. She had reached Court on the phone once from Tan Son Nhut, but had quickly demurred when he said he could come down there to see her.
He thought how quickly the time had passed since he had seen her. Now he had flown over 190 missions and had only three months remaining in his tour. The weeks and months that had passed since the Bien Hoa attack were marked by Court only in terms of missions flown as his sortie count rose to 50, then 75, then 150. His short-cropped hair had bleached almost white and he had lost more weight until he leveled off at 165, about 20 pounds underweight.
Each day had gone by in a blur of two and sometimes three missions. He felt so much at home in the big fighter that he felt almost naked when he had to climb out. Ground fire had picked up all over South Vietnam, particularly around Warzones C and D. He knew it had gotten rougher up North, as well.
He was startled out of his reverie by the strident shriek of the landline from Bien Hoa tower.
"Mobile," he answered.
"Sir, the plane on final, Ramrod 44, said he has an unsafe nose gear warning light."
Court acknowledged and switched his radio to GCA frequency and called Ramrod 44.
"Did you `push to test" the green bulb, 44?" he asked.
"Roger, Mobile, it checks okay."
"Alright, Donny, pull your emergency gear lowering lanyard." The T-handle attached to a 15-inch cable would be a last ditch attempt to unlock the door and provide a shot of hydraulic pressure to lower the nose gear. After a pause, Donny radioed back.
"No luck, Mobile. She's still up." When he heard that, Court told the Tower to scramble the crash crew.
"Fuel state?" Court transmitted. There was a pause.
"Four hundred pounds."
"Alright Donny, bring it on in. No time to go around and play. Don't drop the hook. Don't make an approach end engagement. Land normally. Hold the nose off as long as you can, then ease it down. Once it touches, pop your drag chute."
Court didn't want Donny to lower his hook and make an approach end engagement. The rapid deceleration would slam the nose down, maybe breaking the plane apart right at the cockpit. Easing the nose down on the rollout would minimize damage. There was nothing particularly dangerous about landing an F-100 without the nose gear in place. No panic, a little finesse, and an easy touch would do the job. He listened to the calm voice of the GCA controller.
"You are on glide slope, you are on glide path," GCA said. "Weather now is 800 overcast, 400 broken, 1 mile visibility in moderate rain, wind from 300 degrees at 15 knots gusting to 25. I understand negative nose gear. Crash crew is notified. Turn right heading 278, maintain rate of descent. You are cleared to land on runway 27. You need not acknowledge further transmissions." GCA released his microphone key for an instant in case Court or Donny had a transmission, then continued his patter bringing the plane to the threshold of the runway.
It was a one shot deal. Donny flew on, nose high, holding 175 knot
s airspeed and 500 feet per minute rate of descent. He broke out of the cloud layer at 250 feet above the ground.
"Runway in sight," he transmitted, fast but calm, and only slightly high-pitched. He had crabbed his plane five degrees to the right to compensate for the crosswind. Close to the ground he straightened it out and lowered a wing into the wind so as to not drift off the left side of the runway. It was tricky, at nearly 200 miles an hour, as the gusts buffeted and tossed the plane. With the gear and flaps down at the slow landing speed, it was not half as responsive to the control inputs as when flying fast and clean. With everything hanging, it wallowed in exaggerated motions. Immediately after touchdown, Donny held the nose off as long as he could then eased it down and pulled the drag chute handle.
The crash crew and the ambulance roared by mobile control chasing after the landing F-100. Court could see the plane decelerate rapidly as if jerked back by a string, because the cable attached the drag chute to the airplane at a point just under the rudder. The violent crosswind into the chute pushed it downwind tugging at the tail of Donny's F-100 causing the nose to weathervane into the wind. The wheels started hydroplaning on the rain water and the F-100 plunged across the runway and turned upside down in a ditch full of water.
Immediately the radio became a jumble of frantic voices and commands.
He's off the runway..."
"There is no fire, repeat, there is no fire..."
"...and under water...I can't see..."
"He's upside down..."
"...in the ditch."
"All right, knock it off. This is Fire Chief One. Shut up and stay off frequency. Only respond if I ask you something. I am on scene, and I want radio silence." The voice, unmistakably deep-South Negro, was measured and heavy with authority. There was instant silence.
"That's better. Base, you read?"
"Roger, Chief."
"Get the crane out here. We got an F-100 upside down. The cockpit is under water. Move."
"Moving, Chief."
Tower, you read?"
"Roger, Chief.
"Divert or hold all inbounds `til I tell you. Probably thirty minutes before we clear the runway."
"Copy, Chief."
In clear violation of the regulations, Court threw down the microphone and ran out of mobile into the soaking rain. He motioned an armorer's truck to pick him up and told the driver to take him to the crash site.
The armorer sped the pickup along the shoulder of the runway throwing up water like a speedboat. He began to slow as vehicles appeared in the murk. A crumpled fuel tank lay on one side of the runway.
"Over there," Court shouted, pointing to the rain-blurred shape of an F-100 that was upside down in a small lake of pooled rain water. The main landing gear and one underwing fuel tank protruded from the flat slab of wing and bottom fuselage. The rain thrummed on the hulk and splashed the water of the lake so heavily the airplane appeared to be floating. Several firemen, their heavy gear discarded, stood waist and shoulder-deep in the red-brown water. Their hair was plastered and streaming. They were bent and straining in the cockpit area. Suddenly two figures popped to the surface between them and the fuselage. One was Doc Russell, the other a small and wiry black man. The two stumbled through the pond to the shore. Doc Russell was coughing and spitting. He had what appeared to be a red grease pencil streak down the left side of his face.
"He's alive," the Chief shouted, "where's that crane?"
Court waded out and helped Doc Russell ashore. The mud sucked at his boots. The two stumbled and slipped as they climbed the greasy mud bank. They sat, side by side. Court saw the grease pencil mark was blood flowing from a slash on Doc Russell's left temple.
"He's alive, oh God, he's alive," the doc said. He pulled out a bandanna and wiped the watery blood from his face and head. "I squatted down there, underwater, in the mud, then wedged my shoulder and arm underneath. The canopy was crushed. When I cocked my arm up inside and felt his helmet, it moved. As I slid my hand up across his face and felt his hands pressed against his mask, he wriggled his fingers. At this point, he's got oxygen so he's still breathing. But I don't know for how long with the plane busted up like that. The oxygen tank could be ruptured or he could be badly hurt and pass out and drown." The doc drew a breath and looked at Court with sudden horror.
"His seat won't go off, will it?" he said, grabbing Court's arm. The vision of the ejection seat exploding Donny Higgens into crushed oblivion fleeted behind Court's eyes.
"No," he said, taking Doctor Russell's hand, "no chance." He didn't want to add that under the twisting movement when the crane lifted the plane, anything could happen.
Two of Doctor Russell's medics, wearing Army rain ponchos and carrying a third, came over. They both helped drape it around their doctor. The taller of the two, a staff sergeant, spoke.
"Come on, Doc, we'll fix you up in the ambulance."
"No, no. I've got to stay here. Just let me get my breath. I'm going back down there." The Doc's body seemed to be vibrating. His chubby Baby Huey face looked strained and ashen.
Court and the two medics looked at each other. Court put his arm around the Doc's shoulders.
"You don't have to. See, the crane is here." He pointed down the runway as the giant yellow crane lumbered into view through the rain like a prehistoric monster. The surging roar of the diesel engine grew louder, overpowering the constant drum of the rain. Court took the doc's arm to urge him to the ambulance.
"No, no," Doc Russell cried, tearing away, "I've got to be there." He splashed off through the muck toward the inverted airplane. Court jumped in and waded after him. As they arrived at the inverted plane, a man surfaced from near the cockpit area. His fatigues were soaking wet and mud slimy. It was Fred Maddux, the crew chief for the F-100.
"Oh, help him, help him," he shouted, "he's not moving."
"Get him out of here," the Fire Chief said, motioning one of his men to escort the distraught airman to the shore. "And you too, Sir, we need room." he said to Court. The crane was grumbling into position on the banks. "Doc, you can stay. The pilot might need you."
Court splashed ashore and stood with the two medics. The Wing Commander's jeep splashed up. Colonel Friedlander, stubby cigar clamped in his mouth, came up next to Court. He returned Court's salute with a wave of his hand. They watched the men detach the sling, and wrap the chains from the crane around each main landing gear. The men involved looked grim and determined as they moved with efficient haste. There was no consultation about how to raise the expensive F-100 without doing further damage. They needed to pull the plane up just enough to expose the cockpit and they needed to do it immediately. A nasal roar sounded from the diesel lifting engine. It spouted a plume of black smoke that was torn off and absorbed in the wind and rain. Following hand signals, the operator put a strain on the lines attached to the landing gear. As the forward section of the inverted F-100 emerged streaming water, the arms of Donny Higgens dangled lifelessly through the shattered canopy.
Doc Russell and two firemen crouched and slid under the battered cockpit. The fireman quickly undid Higgens' helmet and mask exposing his pale and lifeless face. His lips were blue. The Doc clamped an oxygen breather mask from a fireman's walk-around bottle to his mouth and nose. The two firemen motioned to a third who waded up with a pair of bolt cutters. He crouched down in an awkward bending position to cut the gas lines in the seat ejection system so that even if the charge fired, the propelling gases would be harmlessly vented.
As he withdrew his arms from over his head, he slipped backwards in the mud and instinctively threw his arms wide to regain his balance. The heavy head of the bolt cutters slammed into Doc Russell's mouth. Both Court and Jake Friedlander involuntarily groaned as they heard the smack of steel into teeth carried over the sound of the rain. The Doc's knees buckled slightly and he shook his head. He still held the mask to Higgens' face. The offending fireman thrashed up from the water begging the Doc to forgive him. Nodding his hea
d, the Doc gave him a wink; and bared his teeth in a broken red smile. The apologizing man's face looked aghast at what he had done.
The other two men told the Doc they were almost finished unstrapping and cutting Higgens away. He took the mask down and lurched to one side. The firemen cut the last strap holding the unconscious pilot and eased his body down through a slow motion somersault to the waiting arms of the Fire Chief who splashed ashore cradling the pilot to his chest. Doc Russell, his mouth dripping red gore, splashed and stumbled alongside holding the oxygen mask to Higgens' face.
The medics on the shore had a stretcher ready. Court and Friedlander stood aside as the Chief laid Higgens down on the canvas. Doc Russell lifted the mask and the taller medic, already kneeling, pinched Higgens' nose shut and started blowing air into his blue-lipped mouth. The Doc squatted back and clamped his fingers on Higgens' wrist to search for a pulse. It was the first chance he had to see if the pilot was still alive. He cocked his head, then nodded.
"We got a pulse," he said. Through his crushed lips it sounded more like "We oughtta ulse."
Court felt like cheering. Friedlander, working his lips, tried to roll his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. It was a pulpy mass so he spat it out. The standing medic gave the thumbs-up sign to the men at the airplane and the crane who had been standing frozen and poised at their tasks waiting to see how the pilot was faring. They broke into wide grins and went back to work.
The medic said something about the possibility of brain damage because no one knew how long the pilot had been without air. Friedlander and Court exchanged glances. After a few minutes, while Doc Russell was probing and examining his body for breaks or other damage, Donny Higgens fluttered open his eyes. They were unfocused and doubtful.
"Sally," he said, "is that you?"
After the ambulance departed with Higgens for the base hospital, Colonel Friedlander gave Court a lift in his jeep to the 531st. They walked in, Court holding the screen door open for the colonel. The pilots, grounded until the heavy rain passed, were grouped around the Ops counter waiting for news of Higgens. The early morning frags had been canceled one after the other as the rain storms persisted.
"Squadronnn, tench-HUT," someone shouted. The men popped to.
"At ease," Colonel Friedlander said, "Higgens will be all right." He looked around and spotted Demski. "Serge," he said, "let’s go someplace where we can talk." He turned to look at Bannister. "You," he said, "stick around." He and Demski walked out of the ops room to Demski's office. The pilots gathered around Court. The PE sergeant handed him a towel. Court told them the story. They howled as he finished with the quote, "Sally, is that you?" Old Smiggen-Higgens, old Duck Call Donny, had done it again.
A moment later, Court and Jack Ward were having a smoke from Ward's fresh pack and a quiet coffee when Bob Derham said Court was to report to Colonel Friedlander in Demski's office.
"Sit down, Court," Friedlander said to him as he walked in. In this case, Court decided, a salute would be inappropriate. Demski nodded. Friedlander reached for a cigar from his drenched flight suit. The slim rectangular pack was crushed and soggy. Court shook out a cigarette from the pack Ward had given him and offered it to the colonel.
"No thanks," Friedlander said, "never touch 'em." Demski handed him a cigar from a rectangular pack he kept in his drawer. They were the same brand as the colonel smoked. All the squadron COs kept them on hand knowing Jake Friedlander was impossible to communicate with unless he had a cigar in his mouth. He lit up with his own Zippo and blew great clouds into the air. Then he took the cigar from his mouth, examined the end, and tapped an ash into the ashtray on Demski's desk.
He and Demski stared at Court with fixed interest.
"Who have you pissed off lately?" the colonel asked.
Court's eyebrow's shot up. "No one that I know of." He paused. "Well, Major Rawson, I suppose."
"I don't think he is a factor in this. Anybody higher up?"
The only "higher up" Court knew was his Dad's cousin, Major General Albert Whisenand. He knew of no problems there. He hadn't mentioned this relationship to anyone in the USAF, and saw no reason to start now.
"No, Sir," he said.
"Look, Court," Serge Demski said, "we're not trying to be mysterious. It's just that an unusual by-name request came down for some hairy work up North and it has your name on it." Demski looked at Friedlander.
"What do you know about Project Commando Sabre?" Friedlander asked.
"Nothing, Sir," Court said.
Friedlander continued. "Commando Sabre is the code name for some gun trolling the Pentagon wants done in the high threat areas of North Vietnam and Laos."
"Sounds interesting," Court said, and grinned.
"Bannister," Friedlander said, his cigar leaving contrails as he waved it about, "usually a request comes in to the Wing saying `Nominate one pilot to perform duties as such and such.' We pick one depending on the qualifications required. You don't have any special qualifications or background for this job, Court, so maybe somebody who doesn't know much about fighter pilots thinks he is setting you up." He took a long pull on his cigar. "So, I feel the same way about this request as I did about that PIO guy asking for you to fly your brother, half-brother,” he corrected himself. “I don't like being told which of my guys is to do what. You don't have to leap at this until I get it checked out."
For a fleeting second, Court thought about it. Maybe he was being set up, and just maybe a hot-line patch to Whitey in the Pentagon would get him out of it. But that wasn't his way, and Court dismissed the thought before it developed further. He had made his decision to go balls out a long time before, before he earned his wings, before he even put on a blue suit. He had made that decision when he found himself slipping all too easily into the fatuous life of a rich man's son jetting from Hollywood to the Cote d'Azur. Although he didn't know the name of it at the time, his fighter pilot mentality had been surfacing even then. That mentality, that attitude, was what pushed him into always trying to go just a bit farther than the next guy, and then even a bit farther than he thought he was capable of.
"Colonel," Court began, "maybe somebody does think he's setting me up. I don't. I'm a fighter pilot, and this sounds like a great job. Let me have it."
"Thought you'd feel that way." Friedlander stood up and smiled. "Serge says he can spare you. Taxi up to Wing Headquarters and pick up the orders I already had cut on you. You're relieved of duty here to go TDY to Commando Sabre."
"Yes, Sir," Court said, and saluted.