Rolling Thunder

by Mark Berent

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  2215 Hours Local, 28 September 1966

  Tahkli Royal Thai Air Base

  Kingdom of Thailand

  The ATC captain led Court to his bunk in a large open bay barracks that had bunks separated by steel double-door lockers. Except for the glow from the shower room, the bay was blacked out. The occupants, company grade pilots not above the rank of captain, were asleep or reading by the dim glow of small bed lamps. When Court put down his B-4 bag and pitched his hat on the bunk, the ATC captain hissed and said never to do that, it was a bad omen. Do it and get shot down, was the super­stition, he said, just like the guy who had this bunk two days ago.

  "You mean he threw his hat on the bunk and got shot down?" Court whispered.

  "I don't know about the hat, but he did get shot down on an Alpha strike." Court knew Alphas were the roughest. He learned that Alpha was short for Six Alpha, the USAF half of Route Package Six. Six Alpha included Hanoi and the northwest railroad system, where flak was worse than Regensberg or the Romanian oil fields of WWII. He stared at the freshly-made up bunk, trying not to picture the man who had last slept there. He glanced at the locker. Taped inside the door was a large drawing of a seated nude with 100 numbered squares outlined on her body. The last box, lettered with the number 1, ended at her pubic region. Only 42 of the 100 boxes were penciled in. The pilot hadn't even been close.

  The captain said goodnight and walked quietly away between the rows of darkened lockers and bunks. Court sat on the edge of his bunk and slowly removed his boots. One thumped accidentally on the floor causing a muffled sleep-soaked voice from the other side of the locker to give a short cry. Court carefully rummaged in his B-4 bag. He set the alarm on a small Swiss travel clock in a leather case he had bought years before in Paris. He took out Le Mal Jaune and tried to immerse himself in the Frenchman's allegory of the Vietnam-France relationship. In the quietness, he made page notes and decided the French were driven out because of a lack of unity among the military and the people at home. He couldn't comprehend the story of French civilians spitting on their wounded soldiers when they returned from the Indochina War. He thought Lartéguy must have made that up. Such a thing certainly could not happen in America.

  He began to nod. Then just behind his eyes, a man in flight gear, whose face was concealed by shadows, stood silent and unmoving. Court saw in detail his worn G-suit, parachute, flight boots, and survival vest. He tried, but couldn't make out the face. The steady buzz of the air conditioners slid slowly into Court's mind replacing conscious thought with hypnotic humming until, unaware, Court fell into a fitful sleep. The book slipped to the floor.

  He awoke with a start when his alarm sounded a discrete bell. His mouth felt like an ashtray and his eyes were grainy and sore. He rooted around in his bag for his shaving kit and a fresh tee shirt. Twenty minutes later he walked into the Wing briefing room, blinking in the harsh light. His pants were soaked with dew from the knees down because he had cut across the unmowed athletic field separating Wing from the barracks instead of taking the long way around on the sidewalks. It was two minutes to three.

  He found Frederick and sat next to him. The force com­mander, an older lieutenant colonel with squint lines fanning from his eyes, told the assembled pilots that today's force of 16 Thuds, four flights of four, was going against the rail yards outside of the Thai Nguyen steel mill. Secondary and tertiary targets were further south in Pack One. The Wild Weasel pilots, those who flew the two-seater F-105Fs loaded with electronic gear controlled by the Bear in the back seat, who fired exotic weapons to suppress flak and SAMs, looked as uncon­cerned as subway riders. The renowned Weasels were known for the biggest balls in SEA. Few survived 100 missions.

  The lieutenant colonel was leading the four-ship Pintail F-105D flight, the other twelve airplanes were in Harpoon, Crab, and Waco flights. He briefed the TOT, routes, tanker callsigns, offload fuel amount from the airborne tanker, attack headings, and gave a rundown on the butterfly, the formation he wanted to use rolling in on the target. Using chalk on the board, he described how the four flights, each flying as a corner in a flat, one dimen­sional box pattern 2,000 feet on a side, would split with two flight rolling in on the rail yards from opposite headings. He stressed detailed memorization of the target area to preclude any confusion on target identi­fication and roll-in points. He answered a few questions about radio frequencies then returned to his seat in the front row and turned the stage over to the weather briefer, a heavy set master sergeant in fatigues.

  Using a pointer on the large four-by-eight pull-out aerial map of Thailand, Laos, and North Vietnam, the sergeant began his litany. "Weather in the refueling area will be broken layers between thirty and thirty-three thousand. Over the fence those layers will stay the same, but you will encounter early morning buildups imbedded in the scattered to broken cumulus ranging from eight to ten thousand. You will reach the target area just after first light where your visibility will be five plus miles opening up to ten as the sun burns off the haze. Winds at release altitude will be from 250 at ten, altimeter 29.66."

  Court heard a muttered "Yeah, sure" from several of the pilots. He knew winds over a target area were as predictable as the Army-Navy football score. The altimeter was reason­ably valid because actual measurements were sent from a weather recce F-4 and unnamed assets on the ground. The master sergeant concluded his briefing with the weather at the primary recovery base, Tahkli, and the other Thailand alternates of Korat, Udorn, and Ubon. He stepped down.

  A dark and vivid major from the Intelligence section briefed with quick motions and fast words. From the side opposite the weather maps, he pulled out a sliding map board with communist defenses neatly drawn on an acetate overlay. As he pointed to the locations he listed the amount and types of guns and SAMs along the ingress route, around the target, and covering the egress route. He said today's codename for MiGs was Steakhouse.

  Everybody laughed because when enemy planes were spotted, the cry was "MIGS, MIGS". Why fool around trying to remember a word to classify an event the enemy already knew about?

  He said the base altitude was 13,000 feet. He wrapped up his briefing with a reiteration of the safe bailout areas and the Rules of Engagement: don't fly within 30 miles of the Chinese border; 30 miles of Haiphong Harbor; 30 miles from Hanoi; and of course, you can't hit the MiG bases at Phuc Yen, Gia Lam, Kep, or Hoa Loc." He stopped and looked about apologetically. "Lastly, gentlemen, you are forbidden to hit the Thai Nguyen steel mill itself. You may only bomb the rail yard servicing the mill."

  "Isn't that the shits," a pilot muttered. "I hope somebody is writing all this down," said a second.

  The force commander wrapped up the briefing with a final word. He stood, hands on hips, facing his audience. "This is a JCS target today, gents. Let's take it out, but let's get everyone home. No pressing. No radio chatter. No MiG calls unless you're positive. Always, I mean always, use callsigns." He gave a half salute and said, "Go get 'em."

  Frederick turned in his seat to stare at Court.

  "Listen, movie pilot," he said, "I didn't ask for you, I don't want you, but I'm stuck with you. Somebody even sent over a two-seater from Itazuki to fly you in, otherwise you'd never get off the ground. We'd never put you in our own two-seaters. They're Weasel birds configured with enough elect­ronic crap for the Bear, the guy in back, to light up Times Square for a year. They go along to take out SAMs. It's damn near a kamikaze mission. Damn few Weasel pilots have made it to 100 missions yet." He shook his head. "So if the Itazuki bird wasn't here, you wouldn't fly." Without another word, Fred­erick got up and walked out of the briefing room. The other pilots grouped together to head toward their individual squadron briefing rooms. The darkness concealed the faces of those who were apprehensive.

  Court fell in step with Frederick who con­tinued the conversation as if it had never been interrupted.

  "I sniveled us the number three slot with Pintail, the force commander's flight today. We'll g
et off. You watch, though, some coward will find an excuse not to go. But I'll get you up there. I'll get you up where the big boys fly." He punched the night air with his free hand.

  Each flight had a fifth man, a spare, who was briefed with the rest, with an airplane loaded for the strike. The pilot would start the airplane, check in, arm, and taxi to the runway in the event someone had to abort at the last minute. In an extreme case, the man even took off to fly just short of the tankers as an airborne spare.

  Frederick and Court joined the members of Pintail flight to listen to the final briefing in the squadron building. When it was over, Frederick pulled Court aside for an individual brief about what he expected of his backseater. They both carried coffee mugs.

  "We may be going on a real double-pump mission; that's when your heart has to double pump to keep up with your adrenalin flow. You'll see a bunch of flak when we roll in. That's normal so don't pay any attention. Start staring at it and you'll scare yourself to death. Cinch up your seat belts. We might get a few negative G's when I maneuver and certainly a lot of positive G's when I pull off target. A lot of G's." He took a long swallow of coffee, gone cold, and continued.

  "If we take a hit, don't arbitrarily punch out. We'll talk it over. The Thud takes a lot of punishment. I'm familiar with this airplane, you're not. I'll tell you when to punch. If we're northeast of the Red river, we've got to either get back west almost to Laos, or east out over the South China Sea to be picked up by the Navy. The Air Force rescue helicopters can't make it into the Hanoi area. There's too much flak."

  Frederick led Court to the PE room where they started gathering their gear. He handed Court two baby bottles. "Fill these. Use them on the ground if we punch out. In the airplane, you've got a bottle and a hose to suck on in flight. If the crew chief is a nice guy, he'll have them filled with ice tea or lemonade. Don't let your canopy close on the hose or you'll dry out in an hour."

  Court put on his G-suit and survival vest, slipped into his parachute which, like the F-100, was not built into the ejection seat. He picked up his helmet bag and what the pilots called a purse, a flat kit made in the parachute shop to hold maps, and followed Frederick out the door. They stood with the other pilots waiting for the van to take them to the flight line. No one spoke. The humid cool air reminded Court of an icehouse. Muted humming from APUs firing up for the KC-135 tankers sounded from down the flight line. They made blowtorch hisses as they spat out compressed air for the tankers to start their engines.

  B-66s loaded with electronic warfare equipment had taken off earlier to get set up on station over eastern Laos to help flood enemy radar with false signals to mask the inbound Thuds.

  The van drove up to the pilots, the headlights illuminating them like deer in a field as it stopped. Each man automatically squinted and looked away to preserve his night vision. Equipment clanging and thumping as they moved, they climbed in and arranged themselves on the benches along each side.

  Court noticed the other pilots didn't have much to say to Frederick. Whether it was from dislike or inartic­ulation brought on by being around a living legend, Court couldn't tell. One pilot, Pintail Four, a lieutenant, chattered inanely about the low prices at Jimmie's Jeweler. His voice was thin and edged with nervousness. Court knew it was his eleventh mission, but his first in the Pack Six area. All new pilots usually flew their first ten missions in the relative safety of Pack One before being admitted into the fraternity of the men who flew beyond the Red River into the Hanoi and Haiphong areas, Route Pack Six Alpha. The Lieutenant's jumpiness is catching, Court thought, as he caught himself in a jaw-cracking nervous yawn.

  The van stopped at each of the four planes to let off the members of Pintail flight. There were no protected revetments at Tahkli. Rows of F-105s lined up like soldiers on flight line parade. Outside of minor and highly unsuccessful sapper attacks, no communists rocketed or mortared the Thud bases of Tahkli and Korat.

  Court felt mounting apprehension as he followed Frederick to their camouflaged two-seat F-105F. The crew chief, in fatigue pants and tee shirt, took Frederick's helmet up the long ladder to the cockpit. Frederick pulled the rolled up Form One from behind the ladder, found no previous maintenance write-ups, and began to preflight using his olive drab Boy Scout flashlight to illuminate dark crevices of the massive airplane. The 25-ton plane stood so tall they could walk under the wings to shake the fuel tanks and inspect the electronic jamming pods. They looked for hydraulic leaks in the aft section. They crouched under the belly of the giant bomber to check the fuses on the six 750-lb bombs strapped into their ejection racks.

  "See heeyah," Frederick said, holding his flashlight on the wires that extended from the rack into each bomb's fuze, "this ahming wiyah. I found them using the wrong size. Bombs hung up, didn’t release. Fixed naow." They checked the pitot tube, engine inlets, and various other items until Frederick pronounced the plane safe to fly.

  Both men stood still, their attention drawn to the runway where KC-135 tankers, each weighing a quarter of a million pounds, took off, one by one, sounding like runaway freight trains as they used every inch of the runway to get airborne. The noise of their shrieking engines seemed to vibrate the very ground. Ninety tons of their weight was fuel for the strike force.

  "By God, I couldn't do that," Frederick said. Court nodded, unseen, in the darkness. They turned back to their fighter.

  It was a long climb, about ten feet Court judged, from the flight line to the rear seat of the F-105. He settled down as the crew chief helped him strap in. He put on a sweatband, wondering why Hun jocks hadn't discovered that valuable idea, and pulled on his helmet. Frederick made an intercom check, got clearance from his crew chief; then punched the starter button to fire the over-sized shotgun cartridge that turned the engine over with a roar, venting acrid smoke into the night air. Court looked down into his cockpit and saw the throttle move to idle at 8 percent. The big J75 engine rumbled and whined into life as the gauges moved like tiny semaphores. Court went through the checks Frederick had told him to make. He paid particular attention to the Doppler radar so vital for navigation in the target area away from fixed Tacan stations.

  "Pintail check," the force commander transmitted, calling for check in. His flight and all the rest answered at machine gun speed.

  "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four"

  "Spare."

  "Harpoon."

  "Two."

  "Three."

  "Four."

  "Spare."

  And so on with Crab and Waco. Twenty airplanes had checked with their leader in under ten seconds. Any pilot who broke the sequence would buy a lot of beer that night… if he got back.

  The twenty airplanes taxied to the arming area, one after the other, twenty engines blowing gas that could tumble a man at 100 feet, struts chattering and walking back and forth under 26 tons of bombs and fuel and airplane. On reaching the arming area, each plane cocked left 45 degrees and braked to a stop. They formed a long symmetrical row in the harsh glare of the floods. Court saw the armorers and crew chiefs scurry from airplane to air­plane, checking, arming, pulling red safety streamers, and taking a last look. It was here a lowly corporal could signal a full colonel he was not going on this mission in that airplane.

  Two men in khaki 1505s walked together past the airplanes. They waved at each one, made blessing signs with their hands, and gave each a thumbs-up sign. "Chaplains," Frederick said, "Armenian, Baptist and Roman Catholic. They always come by when they know we're going on double-pumpers. I don't much go for that. Why ask God's help to go kill people?"

  "Maybe they're only asking for help to get us back safely," Court said. Frederick blew a puff of air into his mike.

  When the checks were completed, the F-105s taxied to the runway, lined up, and took off at eight second intervals. Court had no forward visibility from the rear cockpit, but he could see the glow of the blue and yellow afterburner flames on the grass along the sides of the concrete r
unway. Their airplane shook and shuddered in the buffeting jet exhausts of the ‘105s in front of them.

  When his turn came, Frederick ran it up, told Court the fluctuating oil pressure was normal for a Thud, and released the brakes. Court saw the throttle move outboard, but there was three seconds of waddling along the runway until the burner lit. When it did, he felt as if they had been rear-ended by a Mack truck. At the same time, Frederick flipped the switch to inject water into the flame tubes allowing more heat and 1,000 pounds more thrust. At 185 knots on the vertical tape speed indicator, Frederick raised the nose, at 195 they were airborne as the 7000 foot marker flashed by. In seconds, the water burned out, Frederick had the plane cleaned up, unplugged the burner at 350 knots, and told Court to take control and fly 018 degrees for a rendezvous with the tanker on Green anchor.

  Four minutes later they slid into formation with the other Pintail Thuds. Lead kept his navigation lights at Bright Steady as they flew in a loose five-man finger tip formation, Pintail Lead being the middle finger.

  Twenty five minutes and 140 miles later, Pintail Lead, Two, and Three, Frederick, had taken 1000 pounds of fuel each from Green tanker as an initial tap to test their systems. Due to a foul-up in his fuel system plumbing, Four couldn't receive and was directed to RTB by Pintail Lead. Pintail Four put his lights on Bright Flash and peeled away from the flight to quickly disappear in the night air. They heard him contact radar site Dora, which everyone called Dora Dora, to get a steer for Tahkli. "Good luck, Pintail," he transmitted before he changed his radio channel. His voice sounded relieved yet disappointed he was not logging another counter after getting all psyched up and coming so far on this one.

  "Pintail Spare, you are now Pintail Four."

  "Rodge," he transmitted and slid into position. When it was his turn, Frederick dropped into position under the tanker for his full load of fuel.

  "Depressurizing," he told Court over the intercom. Frederick opened a valve to the outside equalizing the cockpit pressure from 8000 feet to 13,000, the refueling altitude. One of the intakes for the air conditioning system was just aft of the receptacle and would suck in the fuel invariably spilled at disengage. When that happened, eye-stinging fuel vapor was drawn into the cockpit, so the pilots shut the system down during refueling. They would re-pressurize after disconnect.

  The boomer, lying prone in the aft fuselage under the tail of the giant tanker, looked out at the F-105 flying formation a few feet under and behind the giant tanker. He manipulated the controls that extended the telescopic boom, held it steady as Frederick eased his airplane up to the tip, then moved the control handle that operated vanes on the probe to fly the boom to the port in front of the cock­pit. He found it, plugged in and started pumping JP-4 fuel into the tanks of Pintail Three.