Rolling Thunder

by Mark Berent

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  2030 Hours Local, 12 December 1966

  Officers Club, Phan Rang Air Base

  Republic of Vietnam

  Colonel Donald Dunne was shocked at the sight of the first lieutenant dressed in a flight suit standing on top of a stool in front of the bar at the Phan Rang Officers Club. In further wide-eyed horror, the colonel saw that the lieutenant, to the accompaniment of claps and whistles from the pilots gathered around, was obviously about to raise his head into the rapidly revolving ceiling fan directly above him. His face looked blurry and loose. One of the pilots, with a Green Hornet patch on the left shoulder of his flight suit, had a stop watch.

  "Three and a half seconds last time, Parker. Another Scotch says you can't stop it any faster."

  Colonel Dunne, up from 7th Air Force for a few days to coordinate DOCB business with the FAC School, believed beyond doubt that the lieutenant's imminent action was sophomoric at best, and "conduct unbecoming" at worst.

  "You there, lieutenant, stop that."

  Toby Parker looked down. "Yes, SIR," he said, saluted smartly, and stuck his head in the fan. The flat side of the blade smacked off the back of his head and stopped in three revolutions, motor humming.

  "Best yet, Parker, two seconds," the pilot with the stop watch said in admiration.

  Parker lowered his head to allow the fan to resume spinning. "What else do you want me to stop, colonel?"

  Noting Parker's name, Colonel Dunne shook his head in disgust and walked out.

  Later, Toby Parker stood at the bar with three Green Hornet helicopter pilots from a USAF Special Operations Squadron. They, two lieutenants and a captain, had come to Phan Rang to give a class­ified briefing to selected FAC students in the Theater Indoctrination School about their mission which was to insert Army Special Forces into areas deep inside enemy territory and later, extract them. Toby was surprised to hear the Green Hornets, who flew UH-1F helicopters out of Duc Co, worked in Laos as well as North and South Vietnam. Their mission was so classified no one outside of those who provided direct support knew about it. Not all the FAC students at the school received their briefing, just those who would have Green Hornet missions in their tactical areas of responsibility.

  "Why in hell can't I fly with you guys?" Parker asked for the fourth time. He pushed fresh drinks in front of the pilots.

  "Goddamn it, Toby, we've told you why not a dozen times," one of the pilots said. "When we go out to insert or extract, every seat is filled, either going or coming. We don't have any space. Besides, we can't take anybody that's not trained for the mission."

  "You rotor heads give me a pain," Parker said, with a slack grin. "How in hell can I teach the mission here if I don't fly? I teach O-1s; I fly O-1s. I teach F-100s; I fly F-100s, or at least in them. So how about a hop with you guys?"

  The three pilots looked at each other. They knew about the good work he had done with the Three Corps Mike Force. "Tell you what," the captain said, "you make it up to Duc Co sometime and I'll at least get you airborne on a test hop." "Why don't I just ride back with you guys tomorrow?" Toby pressed.

  The captain hesitated for a minute. "Ok," he said, "but no sticking your head in the fan."

  2145 Hours Local, 12 December 1966

  Ram Inn, Squadron Hooch, 531st TFS

  Bien Hoa Air Base, Republic of Vietnam

  It was black outside, and raining. Cool, wet breezes swept through the hooch. Some of the new Beatle music was being aired over AFVN.

  "What's your sortie count now, Court?" Doc Russell asked Court Bannister as they stood up to the plywood bar at the Ram Inn. The Doc's upper lip was pulled up slightly on the right side because the split he received rescuing Higgens had not healed properly. He secretly hoped someone would tell him he looked like Bogart. So far, no one had. He just looked like Baby Huey with a split lip.

  "Over 250," Bannister said. He had flown missions in II, III, and IV Corps in support of U.S. troops, ARVN troops, and even, although only once, in support of some U.S. Marine ground troops. That mission was due to an aberrational but last-chance request by a marine ground FAG (Forward Air Guide) who, later, would be severely chewed by his battalion commander for calling in USAF air support. The Marines were so paranoically adamant about only using Marine Corps air although they would accept, from time to time, Navy air.

  "How is C Flight doing?" The Doc asked.

  "Nothing new," Court said. "We've taken a few hits. Nothing too serious. But everybody is pretty tired. Even Higgens hasn't made many duck calls lately."

  Rotation to the land of the Big PX combined with shoot-downs had caused attrition within the 531st. As a result, Court Bannister had become the commander of C Flight, one of the four flights within the squadron. Old Head Jack Ward had A Flight, second in line was B Flight. A new captain had taken over D Flight. Court had six pilots under his command, including Lieutenants Fairchild, Freeman, and now Higgens. Two FNG lieutenants, Vandenburgh and Howard, along with a Captain Putney he had made his assistant flight commander and was training as a successor, rounded out his roster.

  "I guess you're pretty short, then," the Doc said.

  "Ten days and a wake up."

  "Then off to Edwards for the Test Pilot School?"

  "No. The School doesn't begin until March. I'm posted to a Systems Command job in LA until then."

  "Yeah?" How come not to a fighter outfit?"

  "Since the Air Force sent me to ASU for a BSME they want their pound of flesh from me as an engineer. They think a good engineer is harder to find than a good fighter pilot."

  "Are you a good engineer?"

  "Hell, Doc, I don't know. Never practiced as one. Besides, it's probably management, anyhow. So I work in that slot until I go to Edwards, if I go to Edwards. The Board still hasn't approved my re-application." Court smiled. "Not that it will make any difference in my favor, but Paul Austin's dad heads the Board."

  0545 Hours Local, 13 December 1966

  Steel Tiger Sector

  Republic of Laos

  One slug from a spray of bullets went through Wolf's wrist as he lobbed his last grenade. The Nung next to him fell back dead with two bullets in his chest. The grenade bounced and exploded with a muffled roar, the fragments slowing the charge of the four green-clad NVA soldiers dodging and running through a clearing, firing steadily toward the fallen tree behind which Wolf and the dead man lay. Above them, a dead pilot swayed slowly in his harness as the freshening morning breeze tugged at his parachute. He had died sometime during the night from loss of blood through the flak holes in his legs.

  Wolf's eight man rescue team had been ambushed ten minutes earlier as they neared the site of the downed pilot. Now, five men were dead, and only Wolf, Menuez, and one other were alive. They didn't know it, but only four of the NVA remained effective after receiving the heavy counterfire the highly disciplined team had put out at the instant of ambush.

  Wolf, splattered by the blood and gore of the dead man lying next to him, struggled in his own blood to put his last magazine into his M-16. It slipped out of his hands and fell into the grass. The pain from his wrist felt like high voltage running up his arm into his brain. It was increasing. He knew he was going into shock. He summoned up the strength to shout to his sergeant.

  "Menuez, you okay? Where are you?"

  The Wolf lay back in the torn brush and tried with his left hand and teeth to wrap a sweat band around his wound. He could hear a rustling from the clearing, signaling the NVA were preparing their final charge. This whole mission was snake bit from the beginning, he thought to himself, feeling fuzzy and faint. Ten days ago they had inserted, seemingly undetected, into their zone just west of the Vietnamese border into Laos. Then their USAF Green Hornet helicopter flopped down into the trees just after liftoff in a blaze of .51 cal. Wolf and his team had instantly melted into the jungle away from the gun and towards the burning helicopter. They found only black­ened pygmies slowly assuming boxing poses in the red flames. They hurri
ed past. Their job was not to engage, it was to establish a pilot rescue net.

  "Menuez, Goddammit, answer me," the Wolf's voice was faint and absorbed by the brush. He wasn’t aware he had sworn. The grisly pendulum swayed over his head.

  On the second day their HF radios went out causing them to miss the scheduled contact times to learn where POWs or newly downed pilots might be hiding. All that remained for communications was an Urk-10 survival radio that Wolf had stuffed into his side pants pocket at the last minute. Then the weather had turned more sour than usual. Days on end of torrential downpours had begun to rot even their canvas Bata boots. Lastly, they heard an air battle high up and saw a stick figure in a parachute plummet into the jungle to the north in an area they had been specifically briefed was free of enemy movement.

  "Ahh, Menuez, Menuez, can you hear me?" Wolf was going out and he knew it. The steamy jungle was turning cold and dark. He blinked up at the pilot, dead in his harness before he fell into the jungle. "We tried son, we tried," the Wolf murmured, his last conscious act.

  Menuez, as he lay dying, had heard every one of Wolf's cries. He had tried to shout, to warn Wolf, but the air from his lungs bubbled out soundlessly through his throat that had been cleanly sliced from ear to ear. His eyes rolled as he made one last feeble attempt to raise his gun and shoot the man next to him. Buey Dan patted Menuez's hand and watched his eyes turn dusty as he died. He smiled as he wiped his blade and tucked it away. He knew he would soon have a stiletto. But he would have to act fast.

  "Lizard, Lizard, Lizard," he yelled in Vietnamese. He fired three shots in rapid succession from his rifle, paused, and fired two more. "Lizard, Lizard," he shouted again. The jungle fell silent. The advancing NVA lay still.

  "Anh tha'n la'n?" the squad leader called. He had been briefed a month earlier an encounter such as this might occur in his region. "Anh tha'n la'n?" "You, the Lizard?" he repeated and waited for the proper response from this legendary fighter.

  "Yes, I am the Lizard from Hanoi's lake," Buey Dan called back. "Stand up and show yourselves," he ordered.

  Reassured, the squad leader and his remaining men stood. "We must see to our wounded," he said.

  "Of course, do so," the Lizard commanded quietly. The NVA soldiers moved to their dead and wounded. The Lizard arose from the brush, stepped over Menuez's body, and walked through the grass, his M-16 hanging under his right arm, to where the lifeless Wolf Lochert lay in a welter of gore. With the muzzle of his gun he turned over the body next to Wolf and noted with satisfaction the Nung was quite dead.

  The Lizard slung his rifle behind his back, and knelt to take the stiletto he knew Wolf carried strapped to his leg, even in the jungle. His moment of blood revenge on the mui lo had arrived. All that remained was to insert the stiletto that had killed his son into the stomach of the already slain Wolf Lochert. The Lizard wished the stiletto could have been the instrument that caused the actual death of the mui lo, but that evidently was not destined. Ai, none-the-less, he would leave the stiletto in the dead man's stomach.

  He pulled up the bloodstained pant leg and Wolf Lochert opened his eyes.

  0600 Hours Local, 13 December 1966

  MAC Passenger Terminal

  Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

  Major General Albert G. "Whitey" Whisenand walked into the VIP lounge at precisely 0600 to be greeted by the MAC lieutenant in charge of the passen­ger roster for SAM (Special Air Missions) Flight 782 flying from Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland to Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Republic of Vietnam. Whitey had decided he needed first hand information from the troops in the field if he was to be worth anything from 12,000 miles away. He was scheduled on 782, a VC-135, for a quick trip to Vietnam.

  The VC-135, a Boeing 707 modified for the Air Force to carry both cargo and passen­gers, would be making the flight to Saigon by way of Hickam Air Force Base outside of Honolulu; Guam; and Clark Air Base in the Philippines. The regular round-the-world SAM flight providing U.S. embassy support did not go frequently enough or provide sufficient space for the many official travelers to and from Vietnam.

  Con­gress­men, senators, and investigating committees in addition to members of the military had begun to overload the SAM facilities with their relentless and increasing flow of traffic between Washington and Saigon, and return. The civilian members were glad of the overload because it meant they would get certificates of non-availability of government transpor­tation. Then they could avail themselves of first class civilian airline travel which was far preferable to the so-called VIP flights of the United States Air Force...unless of course Air Force One or Two was scheduled. In that case, the Congressmen would fall all over themselves finding excuses to be on board with the president or cabinet member scheduled to fly to Saigon.

  This morning, Whitey was the ranking military officer on board. With him on the passenger manifest were eleven officers, sixteen NCOs, and eight men in civilian dress. The next highest ranking officer to Whitey was a brigadier being assigned to MACV. The highest ranking civilian was a portly Congressman from Wisconsin who was on a fact finding tour to see if the latest request for more troops was justified.

  The Congressman had allotted three days for his trip; one day to visit four major bases to meet with the troops (his heads-up TWX had specif­ic­ally requested he meet with lads from Wisconsin since he had an election coming up in the fall); one day to tour Saigon and receive a one hour briefing from General Westmoreland; and one day to rest up, shop, and attend an embassy function in his honor. He took it so easy because he knew before he left the States that the report was strictly pro forma: LBJ had made up his mind to send more troops.

  The ranking NCO was an Army sergeant major who was also on a fact-finding trip to check increas­ing reports of money scams and black marketeering from the PXs and com­missaries that fell under Army Quartermaster Corps jurisdiction. Two of the men in civilian clothing were CID (Criminal Investigation Division) agents working with him.

  0615 Hours Local, 13 December 1966

  Steel Tiger Sector

  Republic of Laos

  A second after he saw Wolf Lochert's eyes flutter open, Buey Dan bent over him and pressed a hand to the American's mouth. "Shh," he said, staring into his face, "don't move." Although Lochert seemed to nod in comprehension, Buey Dan could see he was fading in and out of consciousness not fully aware of where he was.

  He sat back for a minute, his hand still on Lochert's mouth, and thought again of his son's ignominious death under the trees. He nodded slowly, his mind made up. He would wait. He would have to wait. It was necessary for the revolution that he wait. His actions today would prove beyond doubt his trustworthiness to the American enemy. He would someday kill Lochert under the same tree where his son had died. And he would do it with the same piece of steel that pierced his son's heart. Lochert's blood would mingle with that of his son in the same earth. He picked up the stiletto and concealed it in the rotted grass at the base of the fallen tree. Then he slowly and silently rolled away to the end of the log out of sight of Wolf. He stood up, unslung his rifle to rest casually under his right arm, and walked confidently to where the NVA soldiers were bandaging their wounded.

  "Does it go well?" he enquired politely.

  "Yes, Anh. But you killed six of our men," the squad leader said.

  "It was necessary," Buey Dan replied, and offered him a cigarette. "Take it," he said when he saw the squad leader hesitate. "Take it," he motioned back with his rifle, "They're all dead." The squad leader lit up, gratefully. They were never allowed to carry tobacco on patrol.

  "Where is your main force unit?" The Lizard asked.

  "Twelve or so kilometers north, Anh." The squad leader spoke more respectfully. "We were most fortunate to see the air pirate come down."

  "Do you have a radio?"

  "No, Anh."

  "When are you to return?"

  "In two days, Anh."

  Buey Dan shot the squad leader through the face then dr
opped to one knee and emptied his magazine into the remaining three men kneeling over their comrades. Quickly, he strode over and put one slug into the forehead of each of the wounded. "It was necessary for the liberation," he breathed to himself. He walked back to Lochert and took the Urk-10 survival radio from the American's rucksack and extended the antenna.

  "Hillsboro, Hillsboro," he transmitted on guard channel, "This is Bright Spot Three Alpha, Bright Spot Three Alpha. Do you hear me?" He made three more tries before he got an answer.

  "Bright Spot, Hillsboro, go."

  "Hillsboro, Bright Spot, Condition Fox, I say again, Condition Fox. One kilo india, one whiskey india. We need emergency Xray. Do you understand me?" Buey Dan's voice was strained but crisp. His diction was good but he knew his oriental accent was obvious.

  "Hey boss," the duty controller on board the Airborne Command, Control, and Communi­cation C-130 said to his senior, "we got some Viet calling for an emergency extrac­tion."

  The senior controller took over. He checked his code book and determined Condition Fox meant mission compro­mised hence of no further value. Xray meant emergency extraction ASAP. He knew any Bright Spot was an aircrew rescue team and that Three Alpha would be the callsign of the interpreter.

  "Bright Spot Three Alpha, authenticate Oscar November, repeat, authenticate Oscar November."

  On the ground Buey Dan hesitated. He had watched Wolf use the code wheel and thought he could do it. He found the code wheel in Wolf's upper pocket.

  "Golf Tango," he transmitted.

  "Roger, Bright Spot, confirmed. Stand by," the controller said and turned to his deputy. "What have we got for Steel Tiger?" he asked.

  The deputy had already anticipated the question and gotten a readout from Blue Chip. “We got a Green Hornet airborne on a test hop and two on Alert."

  "Is the test hop a full-up bird?"

  "Yessir."

  "Vector it over to Bright Spot, scramble the two birds on Alert, and get a couple of Sandy's and gunships for cover."

  0645 Hours Local, 13 December 1966

  UH-1F headed for Steel Tiger

  Republic of Laos

  "Parker, the fit just hit the shan," the Green Hornet pilot said on the intercom. "We just got diverted to an emergency pickup and we've got no time to take you back so sit down, strap in, and shut up."

  Toby had been standing between the pilot and copilot seats during the early morning test hop. He turned and sat down on the red canvas straps of a pull-down seat nearest the right door. The air was cool and calm, a light mist was just burning off the jungle canopy below as the sun gained height and strength. It looked, Toby thought, like an early spring morning in Virginia when soldier-mist rose from the Rappahannock River. Parker remembered the old legend that the mist was made of the souls of dead Civil War soldiers looking for their camp grounds. He shivered. For the first time in Vietnam, he shivered.

  Thirty minutes later they were orbiting over triple canopy jungle.

  "Bright Spot, Hornet 22, how copy?"

  "Hornet I hear you, I hear you. Come east 200 meters," Buey Dan transmitted over his hand held emergency radio. "East 200 meters."

  The Hornet pilot slid his helicopter 200 meters east. He noted the Vietnamese accent.

  "Bright Spot, put the American on the radio."

  "Negative, Green Hornet, one American Kilo India, other American Whiskey India. I am only the one to talk."

  The Hornet pilot requested and received authentication then asked, "What's the bad guy situation?"

  The pilot missed the irony when Buey Dan answered.

  "There is no problem here. I am next to a clearing. I will give you smoke." He pulled the ring on a smoke can and tossed it into the clearing. Yellow smoke billowed up.

  "I've got yellow," Green Hornet transmitted. Buey Dan confirmed it was his smoke. Two minutes later the UH-1F rested on its skids in the clearing, rotor downwash flattening the elephant grass into green waves.

  Parker jumped out to help the small Vietnamese trying to support a big Caucasian. Both men wore tiger suits. He ran toward them noticing the Vietnamese bend to pick up what looked like a thin knife from beneath a log and tuck it in his right Bata boot. Parker ran up and grabbed the American's arm and looked into his face.

  "Oh my God, Wolf," he yelled above the hissing whop-whop of the helicopter. He pulled his arm over his shoulder and with help from Buey Dan got him into the helicopter.

  Wolf cocked a dazed eye at his rescuer. He muttered in semi-conscious slurred speech, "What you doon, what you doon, flyboy?"

  0830 Hours Local, 15 December 1966

  Flight Line, Tan Son Nhut Air Base

  Republic of Vietnam

  After three stops, SAM 782 landed at Tan Son Nhut 37 hours out of Andrews later at 0830 local. (Vietnam was 13 hours ahead of Washington.) The passengers were rumpled and stiff. The chief steward requested they remain in their seats until the VIP departed. The Congressman from Wisconsin stood up and walked with a self-important air to the door and disappeared in a welter of immaculately dressed and pressed civilian and military aides. Whitey, to his surprise, was met by a three-star Army lieutenant general accompanied by a two-star USAF major general who Whitey knew to be the Director of Operations for 7th Air Force.

  What ensued was not pleasant. The Army general, tall and impressive with all the right ribbons and badges, extended General Westmoreland's compliments and a request, (command, actually) for a working luncheon with him to discuss General Whisenand's trip to Vietnam. He handed a schedule to Whitey, which, he explained, would amply fill his time in Vietnam with briefings and tours to the front lines to see how the real war was being fought.

  Without looking at the schedule, Whitey handed it back and spoke very precisely. "General, while I truly appreciate the interest from General Westmore­land, as well as the great personal efforts to which you have gone, I cannot remain here at Tan Son Nhut." Whitey smiled politely, saluted, and waited for the return salute.

  The MACV general stood a good three inches over Whitey's five foot ten. His sharp blue eyes, topped by bushy dark eyebrows, showed none of the previous geniality.

  "I am sorry to hear that, as I know General Westmoreland will be." His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer and asked the question Whitey had been expecting.

  "Exactly why, General," he asked with measured deliber­ation, "are you here in Vietnam?"

  "To reiterate my TWX, of which I'm sure you received a copy," Whitey began patiently, "I want to talk with the Blue Chip people in the 7th Air Force command post and with the fighter wing commanders about our heavy losses over North Vietnam and Laos."

  "I saw that TWX, of course," the Army general said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand, "but I have it from the best sources that you work directly for the president and he wants your report on the situation here. Although I can't imagine why," the general took in both Whitey and the USAF DO with a peevish glance, "the president would send an Air Force major general to check on an Army full general in charge of all operations, air and ground."

  Whitey held the general's gaze. "Your sources have misled you, Sir. I am not here to check on General Westmoreland. As your source may have told you, I am temp­orarily assigned to the NSC. It is within my duties to investigate, with a view toward improv­ing, Air Force activities in this war, particularly the losses. I think you can understand that."

  Still dubious, though not anxious to irritate a man working directly for the president, the Army general nodded. "Yes, I suppose I understand." He returned Whitey's salute and spun on his heel toward his staff car.

  When they were settled in the USAF staff car, the shaken Seventh Air Force DO apologized to Whitey for his loss of control of the situation.

  "It wasn't your fault," Whitey said. "You couldn't have anticipated their scheme to find out why I was here. What surprises me is the paranoid atmosphere I detected." Whitey turned to look at his fellow officer. "Is it that bad in the Air Force side of the house?"
/>
  The DO hesitated. That in itself was an answer for Whitey. "Look," the DO said, "as you know, I've got a four-star blue suit boss to keep happy. If he's not paranoid, then I'm not paranoid." Whitey nodded his head as if satisfied with the non-answer.

  Five minutes later the two Air Force generals walked into the briefing room of the USAF command post at Tan Son Nhut Air Base.

  0945 Hours Local, 15 December 1966

  Blue Chip Command Post

  Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Republic of Vietnam

  "You already know, General Whisenand," the briefing officer began, "that the Rolling Thunder Coordinating Committee is where requests are collated then nominated up through Seventh Air Force. There they go to CINCPAC, then to the JCS. You also probably know the Committee coordinates two things: the requests for strikes coming in, and the orders they receive to perform strikes going out.

  The people the Committee coordinates with are the Navy--who handle the aircraft from Task Force 77; the SAC ADVON (Advance Echelon from the Strategic Air Command); and Seventh Air Force which answers to CINCPACAF for all of North Viet­nam, except Pack One which is under the control of MACV. The target requests come in to the Committee from agents, photo intelligence, command requests, fighter wing requests, and so on. Strike orders going out come from the president after being passed down through the JCS to PACAF to us. The Committee then tasks the appropriate people, fighter and recce people for Pack Five and Six Alpha, SAC ADVON for B-52s and tankers, TF-77 for all the strikes in Route Pack Two, Three, Four, and Six Bravo. Seventh Air Force has its own authority through MACV for Pack One."

  "I am only too well aware of your command process," Whitey said. Privately, he was appalled at the tortuous path of the command structure. Even though COMUSMACV, an Army general, was on the scene, he had CINCPAC, a Navy admiral, between him and the Secretary of Defense.

  "What you may not be aware of, Sir," the briefer continued, "is the fact that we cannot, in any way, shape, or form, hit where and when we feel it is important and timely to do so. As a result, fleeting targets of opportunity, or even longstanding targets of strategic importance, are not taken out. Steel mills, railheads, power plants, and harbor facilities are allowed to stay in operation.” The briefer stopped to take a deep breath to control his obvious anger. He continued.

  "SAM sites under con­struction, MiG bases already in operation, and known gun sites cannot be hit when we think they should be. Those air defense type targets are off limits until we get orders to strike the odd steel mill or bridge from time to time. Only then we can go after the MiG bases and SAM sites on flak suppression missions to protect the strike force."

  "Gentlemen," Whitey said with genuine compassion in his voice, remembering his pleading with LBJ to allow the Navy to smash the 111 crated SAMs, "I am aware of what you can and cannot hit, as I am also aware that you cannot place priority, or even certainty of strike, on targets you recommend. What I want to know is this: under the current rules of engagement, are there any improvements in the system, bad as it is, that you think should be made?"

  "Yes, Sir. Smarter bombs and smarter pilots. Smarter bombs for our air-to-ground missions, and smarter pilots for our air-to-air missions. We need weapons that have built-in guidance systems instead of relying on the eyeballs of a pilot who is being shot at. And we need to release those weapons farther from the target to avoid prolonged exposure for the crew to the flak." He paused to see if Whitey had any questions. He didn't.

  "I'm serious, General, when I say we need smarter pilots. For years we have been too concerned with flying safety records rather than realistic fighter-versus-fighter training. The USAF ratio right now between our fighters and MiGs is only about 1.1 to 1. In Korea, we ran that up to 12 or 13 of theirs for one of ours. We're not even close now. We need better ACM training at the fighter school in Vegas."

  Whitey reviewed what he knew about ACM. Air Combat Maneuvering was the self-descriptive name for the advanced training a fighter pilot is supposed to receive to learn how best to shoot down enemy fighters. In the preceding years, flying safety consid­erations grad­ually ruled out realistic train­ing because of crashes, mostly in the early and mid fifties, caused by over-zealous fighter pilots and their instructors who really didn't understand the finer points of how to teach young fighter pilots how to be tigers--safe tigers. When the massive and frantic flying safety program took over, the tiger program became the pussy cat program. The net results were few crashes, an excellent flying safety record (wing commanders with bad records were fired), and unforgivable losses in fighter combat with MiGs in the sky over Hanoi. The Navy wasn't doing any better though Captain Frank Ault’s report would change that.

  Whitey nodded and kept his mouth shut. He felt like the most contemptible of men. Here he was, building hope in these men by the very fact that he, a two-star from Washington, was asking such pertinent questions. His presence promised changes that he was not at all sure he could even request, much less deliver.

  "Anything else?" he asked.

  "Just one, General," the DO said, "shut off the command link from the White House to us. We're tired of being fragged by civilians." They both laughed at the appropriateness of the double entendre.

  1030 Hours Local, 16 December 1966

  366th Tactical Fighter Wing

  Da Nang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam

  The next day, as a passenger in the Scatback T-39 placed at his disposal, Whitey landed at Da Nang Air Base for a briefing by the Commander of the F-4 wing. The outcome was the same as with the Seventh Air Force officers; Rules of Engagement and improper targeting were costing lives yet neither military nor political goals were attained. They also pleaded for more weapons.

  The Wing Commander invited Whitey to the Da Nang O’ Club for a late snack before his hop to Tahkli. En route to the flight line after sandwiches and coffee, the Wing Commander asked Whitey, in a more sarcastic than hopeful tone, if there were some secret plan devised way up in the ethereal mists to win this mess. From Whitey's lack of response the Wing Commander surmised, correctly, there were no changes contem­plated, no changes en route, and sure as hell no secret plan.

  Later, Whitey rode in the T-39 headed toward the F-105 base at Tahkli in Thailand. He had sent a back-channel message to the new wing commander, Colonel John Ralph, stating he desired no arrival honors and no off-base official functions (such as meeting with the Thai official who owned the place). What he did desire was a closed-door session with Ralph.

  Twenty minutes out from Tahkli, Whitey's pilot came back and told him they were picking up an escort. "Damn," Whitey thought to himself, "I said `no honors.'" He looked out to see a camouflaged F-105 flying close formation on the right wing. On the rudder were the letters RM showing it to be a Tahkli plane. Slipping in to fly the left wing, was a Navy A-4D Skyhawk with the NL identification of aircraft from the carrier Coral Sea. As it slid into place, about two feet from the T-39's wing, the pilot tossed off a smart salute at Whitey who returned it with a big grin. Navy Captain Jerry Paulson and USAF Colonel John Ralph, each trying to fly closer formation than the other, were his flying escorts. They tucked in so close the airflow from their wings disrupted the air under the T-39 causing the pilot to nervously ask on guard channel for the two escorts to spread it out a little, please. They flew smoothly for five minutes, then Whitey watched the two planes pull up and roll away and streak for Tahkli so the pilots could be on the ground to meet their former boss when he landed.

  It must be grand flying those big fighters, Whitey thought to himself. Remembrance and nostalgia to control an airplane swept over Whitey with an intensity he thought he had buried years ago. His eyes misted. His right hand formed a fist that beat softly on the arm rest. Ah God, if I could only fly one of those magnificent beasts in combat again.

  2030 Hours Local, 16 December 1966

  Commander's Quarters, 355th Tactical Fighter Wing

  Tahkli Royal Thai Air Force Base

  Kingdom of Thailand


  That night, Major General Whitey Whisenand met with Colonel John Ralph and Captain Jerry Paulson for barbecued steaks at Ralph's trailer. He brought along a fifth of Johnny Walker Red. They sat outside in the cooling dark while Ralph prepared the steaks on the flaming grill and Paulson made the drinks. They all wore Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts. Whitey noticed that Ralph was so thin his jowls had all but disappeared. The lines on his face were more pronoun­ced and etched deeper like long years of erosion on a steep hill. Jerry Paulson was tanned and wind-burned. Whitey thought the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes had doubled since their last meeting in the Pentagon so many months ago.

  The Scotch bottle was more than half empty by the time the steaks were ready. As they ate, the conversation was jocular and light, consisting mainly of the latest flying stories. Jerry Paulson said life as a CAG was demanding but gratifying; like trying to satisfy four nymphos simul­taneously. He said if all went well, he would get a deep draft command, maybe the Coral Sea itself, right on schedule. By unspoken agreement, they didn't talk about shootdowns. That would come once they were inside the trailer. They spoke, instead, of victories.

  Although Whitey knew of the three-MiG victory by Frederick and Bannister, he was delighted to hear the inside story of how the two pilots spun in one MiG by buzzing it. They laughed loud, and almost too long, as Ralph told the story. Whitey sensed the two men were suppressing something. Still chuckling, they went inside.

  The interior consisted of plastic furniture and linoleum flooring made slightly only more homey by the light woven rugs and two Papasan chairs Ralph had bought in the village. The hum and throb of the air conditioners gently rocked the trailer as if it were a small boat in light chop.

  "You know, or maybe you didn't," Whitey began, "that Court Bannister is my cousin's son. Without making any big thing of it, I'd like to know how he did. I heard he was TDY here for a few missions to research the fast FAC business. And of course I know about the MiGs. Just between us, how was he?"

  "He finished up and left for his F-100 unit at Bien Hoa just as I arrived," Ralph said, "so I really didn't get to know him. As to his abilities, our own home-grown terror, Ted Frederick, thinks Court is second only to himself. That's about the highest accolade you can get in this business."

  Whitey nodded, satisfied. He added more ice to his drink. "I hear we need better fighter training," he said to Ralph.

  "That we most assuredly do," John Ralph answered. "It's pretty bad when pilots of a single seat nuke bomber, like the F-105 was intended to be, shoot down as many MiGs per encounter as the F-4 jocks who have a backseater to help them out. That's not to say we've got better training. We don't. It just means at this particular time we have more experienced jocks in '105s than in F-4s. Certainly more so than the Avis Wing over at Korat. The whole situation could change in a month or two as old heads rotate in and out of Vietnam for both airplanes. But that's not answering your question. Overall, yes, we all need more realistic air-to-air work."

  Jerry Paulson poured fresh drinks. "Hey, right. It's the same with us in the Navy. However, I think we have a leg up on you guys in the Air Force. We have Captain Frank Ault doing a big study on the problem. He has assurances from the CNO that his recom­men­dations will be put into effect at our fighter school at Miramar." The three men discussed the immediate need for better training. Paulson made a new round of drinks.

  "How is your new job coming along, Boss?" he asked.

  "About the same way the war is coming along," Whitey replied.

  "What does that mean?" Ralph asked.

  "It means I haven't been given a clear-cut mission, I don't really know what the president expects of me, but I could be relieved of my position in a heartbeat for violating rules that aren't even thought up yet." Whitey surprised himself. He didn't mean to go off like that. That damn Scotch. "Enough of that. I'm here to listen to you guys."

  Paulson and Ralph exchanged glances. "You first," Paulson said. Taking a hefty belt of Scotch, the USAF colonel, the commander of the 5000-man F-105 fighter wing, stood up and started pacing the confines of the trailer like a restless tiger in a small cage. His expression was agitated.

  "It's like this," he started in a low voice that got louder, "I'm sending all these men out there to die and I don't know what the hell for." He smacked a fist into a palm. "Every day I sweat blood and watch those guys take those big bomb-loaded beasts snorting and bucking into the air for North Vietnam. Day after day they do it. And you know our losses are terrible. Every week we go against North Vietnam we, the Air Force and the Navy, lose half a dozen airplanes and nearly as many pilots. Yet our guys keep going back as ordered. Now I know how the Aussies felt at Gallipoli. Let me tell you, boss, our guys are just magnifi­cent." He stopped and glared out the window over the door. "I don't know how they do it. I don't know how they do it," he repeated in a louder voice, smacking his fist repeatedly into his palm.

  "We have such magnificent guys and...why are we killing them?" He spun around to face Whitey. His eyes were blazing. "I ask you, Goddammit, WHY ARE WE KILLING THEM? WHO IS THE MISERABLE SON OF A BITCH IN WASHINGTON THAT'S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS MESS?" He turned to the wall and slammed his fist into the paneling so hard it cracked through to the insulation. He pulled back and absently rubbed his knuckles while making a visible effort to regain his composure.

  "You know it's not you I'm talking about in Washington, General," he said quietly.

  "Yes, I know," Whitey said. "I also know you don't just watch your men flying those missions. You are out there flying just as much as they are. You're not supposed to, you know. You're supposed to spend more time running this Wing. I know," he said holding up his hand before Ralph could speak, "you're going to tell me you can't run a fighter wing from behind a desk."

  "That's exactly right, General Whisenand. I've got a great big staff and an exec and a vice-commander to handle the paper­work. I'm here to command these pilots. To me that means I'm out front leading. Now if the United States Air Force thinks that's the wrong way to go about it, then I'm in the wrong service."

  "John," Whitey said, "you know that I agree with your philosophy. You also know with that kind of an attitude, you probably won't ever be on the promotion list to general."

  Colonel John Ralph looked at Major General Whisenand. "Whitey," he said with a twisted smile on his face, "you think I give more than one third of a fifth of a fuck about a down-line BG list? It's the here and now, with these men, that I'm living. Besides," he broke into a big grin and waved his Scotch, "who says I'm going to be alive when the list comes out, anyway?"

  Whitey dutifully laughed and looked fondly at John Ralph. You could, he believed, divide the combat wing commanders into three categories: those who wanted to make general, those who wanted to make Ace, and those who wanted to protect their pilots. The truly exceptional ones wanted to do all three in reverse order. Normally, however, accom­p­lishing the mission would be the prime motivator. Yet, as the commanders soon realized, there was no clear cut mission other than what was teletyped in on the daily frag order.

  Whitey accepted another drink from Jerry Paulson. "Are you gentlemen trying to get me intoxicated?" Both Ralph and Paulson looked at Whitey in mock "Who, me?" horror. "Because if you are, don't try it. I'd put both of you away.” All three laughed, Paulson and Ralph shook their heads.

  Jerry Paulson leaned back in a Papasan chair. Whitey looked at him.

  "It's the same with you Navy guys, isn't it Jerry? The problems, I mean."

  "Yes Sir, it is. The Navy is having the same trouble. When I got the back-channel from John saying you were coming in, I decided to come here to talk about it with you. I'm not trying to bypass Navy channels, it's just that you are the only person I know who is intimately involved with the highest authority." Jerry Paulson pushed himself out of the deep chair and began unconsciously pacing the small confines as Ralph had. "Do the President and the SecDef know the Navy has lost over 100 planes in North and South
Vietnam these last two years yet supplies and troops are still going into South Vietnam? Do they know the Air Force has lost 280 planes in the same time, yet enemy attacks are increasing in the South? Do they know we, the Navy and the Air Force, have nearly 300 pilots as POWs in a captivity more brutal than the Japanese used in World War Two? And do they know in spite of our efforts and all those losses, we see the defenses in­creasing in North Vietnam? And what about the dead pilots of those 1,000 or so Army helicopters shot down in South Vietnam? Do the President and the SecDef know any of this? And if they do, does it mean anything to them?"

  1445 Hours Local, 17 December 1966

  T-39 En route to Tan Son Air Base

  Republic of Vietnam

  After another session at the Tahkli Thud wing, Whitey climbed on board the T-39 bound for Tan Son Nhut. He nursed a light hangover and a heavy sorrow. The rage of the men he had talked with, under the fighter pilot's can-do facade, was unlike anything he had ever experienced. In World War Two, the combatants, while suffering various de­grees of fatalism and enthusiasm, none-the-less had believed in the cause they were fighting for, and in the overall decis­ions of their leaders.

  In Vietnam, he was seeing a series of local, wing-level commanders trying to fight the portion of the war they had been allotted without a sense of unity in some overall grand plan. And, at that, the portion of the war they had been allotted was mostly controlled tactically and strategically by unknown persons of dubious ability situated over the horizon in lofty offices more attuned to political than military realities.

  At higher command levels found at MACV, Whitey had the distinct impression harassment and fear were stalking the corridors. It would at least be understandable, if not countenanced, were it harassment by sporadic enemy fire or fear of combat; but it was worse than that. The harassment came from long hours trying to make sense of, and respond to, conflicting and unprofessional orders from Washington; the fear came from knowing the results were not right and never would be, and the consequences to both conscience and career were not pleasant to contemplate.

  He was dozing when the T-39 made its steep descent into Tan Son Nhut. He awoke with a start at the roaring sound made by speed brakes as the pilot extended them to slow the airplane to traffic pattern speed. As arranged with the DO, he was met without ceremony and taken to his previous VIP trailer. The interior decor was Howard Johnson Spanish, and cool. Whitey pulled the blackout shades, showered, and lay on the bed.

  He missed his wife Sal's soothing presence and her way of gently making him come to the point when he would explain his perceptions of events to her. He wanted to discuss with her what course he could take that would help the United States resolve this dilemma. In her practical manner, she would say "You don't mean the United States, you mean the United States government, don't you."

  "Yes," Whitey would say.

  "Because," she would continue, "the United States are the people; the Government is the leadership. You want to help our leaders to find a way out of this mess, don't you?"

  "Yes," Whitey would respond.

  "Well, it's simple then," Sal would say, "there is only one leader who really controls the prosecution of the war, and that's the president, so it's him you must assist, isn't it?"

  Yes, it was the president he must get to, Whitey knew. That would be like getting to a mammoth frozen in tons of ice and asking it to meow like a cat.

  The irony of it was that Whitey had both the mandate and the instrument to get to the president. The Man himself had asked for Whitey's assessment of the Vietnam War, and that was that. Yet the past actions of the Commander in Chief of the American Armed Forces seemed to indicate he wasn't about to act on any input from the military.

  He remembered a few days previous when he had been summoned to the Oval Office. Told to enter, he had walked in to hear LBJ, who never looked up, in the middle of a mono­logue to one of his aides.

  "...and the generals. Oh, they'd love the war, too. It's hard to be a military hero without a war. Heroes need battles and bombs and bullets in order to be heroic. That's why I'm so suspicious of the military. They're always so narrow in their appraisal of everything. They see everything in military terms."

  The president then had dismissed the aide, greeted Whitey with great charm, and had gone on about his business at his desk leaving Whitey to withdraw on his own with the idea that LBJ really wanted him to hear his thoughts about generals.

  In view of that, was it possible that the president's request for Whitey's input was just a sop to appease the military and to protect himself from criticism, if it came to that? Whitey sat straight up in the realization that maybe he was being had. His brain began to whirl with sudden alarming thoughts.

  Maybe he was being used as a cover against possible fallout from political repercussions when it came time to answer some hard questions as the president prepared to run for a second term. Maybe he was being used as a shield against current unrest from the JCS so the president could point to the assessments and say, "Look, I am getting your military views from General Whisenand here." Maybe he was being used as a patsy to help the president play off one of his internal political factions against the other for some obscure purpose. Maybe...maybe his position on the National Security Council was a sham to make the president look as if he had balanced input from the civilian and military members of his staff.

  Maybe he had no business being there at all.