by G. E. Nolly
“Thank you, sir,” I replied, “but I have a date with some PME, so I’ll pass.”
This wasn’t my first rodeo when it came to guys trying to get me to go whoring with them. At Ubon, there was normally a standard group of guys who would go to the massage parlors en masse pretty much every night for the famous Rub and Scrub, a great massage with a “happy ending” at one of the numerous massage parlors near the base. The Thai girls who worked at the parlors were beautiful, and a lot of the guys referred to them as LBFMs – Little Brown Fucking Machines. I’d had a Rub and Scrub the first time I went to NKP Air Base, in Thailand, after making an emergency landing in Laos, and it was a memorable experience.
But that was back before I was married. I was a married man when I was stationed at Ubon, and I left the massage parlor scene to the bachelors and the guys who called themselves “Class-B bachelors”. Every now and then one of the guys would try to get me to go to a Rub and Scrub with the group, and I’d just say I wasn’t interested. No harm, no foul. I’d been faithful to Sam ever since meeting her, and I planned to stay that way.
“Maybe you didn’t hear what I said, Captain,” Milner said, swaying as he poked his finger into my chest, “It’s a mandatory formation. You better be on that bus.”
He turned and staggered away before I could respond. I finished my Coke and returned to my room. Naturally, I didn’t go downtown with Milner and the gang. I harbored the hope that he was so drunk he wouldn’t remember our encounter.
No such luck.
6
April 22, 1973
It’s no fun being on the Ops Officer’s shit list. There are an unlimited number of ways the Ops Officer can make life miserable for a pilot, some obvious, some not so much.
I showed up at the squadron to fly a morning training mission. When I looked at the lineup on the large plastic board behind the duty desk that showed the day’s flying schedule, I saw my name crossed off in red grease pencil. I looked at the board to see if I had been reassigned to a different mission. I had. I was going to spend the day as RSO.
The Runway Supervisory Officer was the person who manned the Runway Supervisory Unit, a small trailer located alongside the runway at the approach end. It looked like the cab of a typical control tower, and was equipped with a console with radios that could be used to communicate with aircraft on tower frequency. The RSU also had a guarded switch that could be used to fire remote-control flares, to warn airplanes that they were not permitted to land. If the RSO saw an aircraft approaching without the landing gear extended, he was expected to call the aircraft on the radio, and follow up by firing a flare.
RSO was really a job suited for an enlisted troop. I’d heard that the Marines would use enlisted men to perform RSU duty. They would promise him a case of beer for every gear-up landing he prevented.
Having an RSO look over landing aircraft seemed like the pilots were being treated like children. It cost a minimum of one million dollars to train the pilot of an F-4. The pilots are mature, professional aviators. The checklist used for landing required that the pilot confirm landing gear extension. In addition, there was another crewmember in each F-4. It was extremely unlikely that an aircraft would land gear up. And the tower controllers visually checked each landing aircraft to ensure that the gear was down. But still, there were RSUs, and they needed to be manned.
Usually, the new Lieutenants on their first flying assignment performed RSO duty. It was a way of paying their dues.
And now, as a Captain with three flying assignments under my belt, two in combat, I was assigned RSO duty. It seemed pretty clear to me I was on the Ops Officer’s shit list, and I figured it couldn’t get much worse.
In about a month I would learn just how much worse it could get.
7
May 6, 1973
My AIM-9 hit the H-6 directly in his number one engine, and his left wing completely separated from the aircraft. I saw two crewmembers eject upward, and, about one second later, two crewmembers ejected downward as the aircraft started wildly tumbling. I saw no other survivors. As flight lead, at least temporarily, it was my responsibility to notify Taiwanese authorities.
“PyraMaid, Tiger flight has an enemy aircraft down and four survivors in the water at our present position.”
“Roger, Tiger flight. We’ll notify rescue.”
Just as I was about to respond, a missile, much larger than an AIM-9, went past my aircraft in the direction of my travel, directly below my right wing. I initially thought one of my AIM-7s had fired. Biff was now screaming in my headset, and I couldn’t tell if he was on hot mike or transmitting on UHF.
“We have a MiG at six o’clock!”
I looked in my mirror and saw a camouflaged MiG-19 behind and above me. It was the first time I had ever seen a blue and grey camouflage scheme. I got on the radio.
“Tiger flight, BREAK!”
Drip was on my left wing and broke hard left as I broke hard right. If we were lucky, the MiG would follow Drip, and I would be able to get on his tail and hose him with one of my missiles. If we weren’t lucky, he would follow me. Since Drip didn’t have any operational missiles, he couldn’t do our flight any good.
We weren’t lucky. The MiG was on my tail.
I immediately started a scissors maneuver to see what the MiG pilot was made of.
And I thought about the OODA loop.
8
May 6, 1973
Instantly, I remembered a conversation I’d had over breakfast at the Ubon Officers Club.
When I was at Ubon, a year earlier, I had heard about the OODA loop from Springs Springer, the squadron Weapons Officer, one of the most experienced F-4 jocks in the squadron. Springs had attended the USAF Fighter Weapons School at Nellis Air Force Base, in Las Vegas, and had been the Distinguished Graduate in his class. Fighter Weapons School is the PhD of fighter flying. Springs really knew his stuff.
“Springs,” I asked, “what’s the most important thing to do to win an engagement?”
Springs looked down at his plate and picked at his omelet.
“Eat a good breakfast.”
“What?” I was shocked. I thought he was going to tell me to keep the burner lit, perform some fancy maneuver that I would have trouble visualizing, or try a low-speed scissors.
“When I was at Nellis, I learned about the OODA loop, and I learned that the guy who has the fighter pilot’s breakfast is the guy who loses the fight.”
The mythical “fighter pilot’s breakfast” was purported to be a coke, a cigarette and a barf.
“You win the fight,” he continued, “by getting a good night’s sleep and having a good breakfast. That way, your brain is functioning at peak performance. You need your brain operating at its max capacity to Observe, Orient, Decide and Act. OODA. OODA was developed by John Boyd, a really great fighter pilot. John was known as ’40-second Boyd’, because he claimed he could win any engagement within 40 seconds, starting with his opponent behind him. He had a standing bet. And he never lost. He did it using his brain.”
“Did you ever fight him?” I asked.
“Yes. Once.”
“And…?”
“I thought I told you. He never lost a bet.”
I was grateful I’d had a good breakfast before this Dawn Patrol. Ever since my conversation with Springs, I’d made a concerted effort to get a good night’s sleep and eat a good breakfast. Sometimes the two were mutually exclusive, since I would need to get up about an hour earlier to get to the O'Club and eat without being rushed. But I always ate breakfast. Every day.
I lit the burner to pick up some smash and started a scissors maneuver, quickly rolling right, then left, then again reversing direction. After about six cycles, I performed a high-AOA vector roll, looking in my mirrors and over my shoulder to see the MiG pilot’s reaction. If he was unskilled, he would have been flushed out in front of me. Observe.
This MiG pilot was no beginner. He counter-rolled and stayed behind me. I unloaded to zero G�
�s and continued my scissors. I didn’t want him to get a tracking solution on me.
Use your brain, Hamfist, use your brain. Orient.
I discontinued the scissors and pulled up to vertical, using max burner. I knew he’d follow me. As soon as I was vertical, I started another scissors, this time going straight up. Decide.
I could see the MiG was not falling behind. If he had been falling behind, it would have meant his energy level was below mine, and I would have continued going straight up until he fell off. Then I would do a quick reversal and be on his tail headed downhill.
He was staying with me, headed uphill. Act.
I had studied the Vertical Rolling Scissors maneuver in RTU, but had never performed it in flight. Our instructor in class had been using his hands, “shooting down his watch”, trying to explain how the maneuver worked. We never got to try it in training, but I thought I had a good grasp of the concept. It was time to see if I could do it. I performed a vector roll in the vertical.
The MiG was out in front of me like he was shot out of a gun. Now I was on his tail, but he didn’t look flummoxed. He immediately pushed forward, performing a negative-G maneuver to head downhill. I rolled inverted and followed him down. He was outracing me, which was exactly what I wanted. I needed separation, for him to get within range for my AIM-9, and right now I was too close on his tail for my missiles to arm.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, we had sufficient separation, and I had a solid tone in my headset. I rechecked my switches and fired my second sidewinder. The missile guided perfectly and went directly into his tail. The MiG exploded in a giant fireball.
I didn’t see any ejection.
9
May 6, 1973
After the MiG-kill, Drip joined up on my left wing and transmitted, “Okay, Number Two, I have the lead.”
“Roger, you have the lead.” I put the light on the star, assuming standard fingertip position.
That was it. I was back to being a wingman as we returned to CCK. Other than the standard frequency changes, we flew back in radio silence.
When we checked in on CCK Tower frequency, the American controller transmitted, “Tiger Flight, you are cleared for a high-speed pass and closed pattern.”
Apparently word of my in-flight victories had somehow filtered back to the base. During the war, when airplanes returned to their bases after scoring aerial kills, either in South Vietnam or in Thailand, they would perform a high-speed pass and then pull up sharply into a closed traffic pattern. Sometimes even an aileron roll on initial.
Drip wasn’t interested in any of that. We flew a normal traffic pattern, a standard initial, followed by a five-second pitch-out to downwind, and in-trail landings. As we taxied toward the parking area, I saw a gathering of pilots standing around waiting for us. A couple guys were holding champagne bottles, and I saw one pilot with a can of spray paint and a stencil of a star. This was going to be really cool. It was obvious that it was my plane that had scored the victories, since Drip’s plane still had all its missiles.
Just as we approached the parking spot, I saw a Colonel walk up to the group of pilots and talk to them, and they rapidly dispersed. The Colonel was waiting for me when I shut down the engines. I hadn’t met this Colonel before, but I recognized him from his photo. He was Colonel Myers, the Acting Wing Commander for our detachment at CCK. The actual Wing Commander, a Brigadier General, was back at Kadena.
Sergeant Adams had a ladder up to the left side of the airplane as soon as my engines were shut down, and was instantly putting the pins in my ejection seat.
“I’m not sure what’s going on, Captain, but I want to be the first to congratulate you.”
“Thanks, Sarge. Any idea why the guys left the area?”
“Not really, sir. They were all gathering here to welcome you, and then Colonel Myers told them they had to leave. No idea why.”
I descended the ladder and saluted the Colonel.
“Captain Hancock,” he said sternly, “I know you believe that you scored an aerial victory…”
“Actually, sir,” I interrupted, “it’s two aerial victories.” I hadn’t intended to be rude, it just slipped out.
“I know you believe you scored two victories, but it never happened.”
“Sir, I don’t understand.”
His face softened. “I’m really sorry, Hamilton, but we simply cannot acknowledge what happened today. The Chinese have been itching to start an international incident, and we just can’t give them what they want. So this never happened. No celebrations, no victory laps, nothing special. I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
I saluted, he returned my salute, and I walked to the Life Support section to leave off my helmet and parachute harness.
So that was that. When I got to the squadron, a couple of the guys winked at me, but they were following orders by not talking about it. As far as we were all concerned, it never happened.
But I knew better, and that was all that really mattered to me. I didn’t need any PDA – Public Display of Affection – I had the satisfaction of knowing I had entered a life-and-death duel with a highly skilled enemy pilot, and I had prevailed. They couldn’t take that away from me.
10
May 8, 1973
Our squadron had been planning a joint dinner with the Taiwanese F-104 pilots for a few weeks. Our get-together had nothing to do with the activities from two days earlier, but the mood seemed decidedly more jovial than at our previous get-togethers.
In a completely unexpected move, the Taiwanese pilots had a rather formal ceremony and presented each of us with Taiwanese Air Force pilot wings. Because of Air Force regulations, we wouldn’t be authorized to wear them on our uniforms, but it was still a really nice touch.
For dinner, we were seated around large round tables with about ten of us at each table. A lazy susan adorned the center of every table, and the waiters brought one course of food after another, with each of us taking a small amount from the center with the serving chopsticks and putting it on our dishes. There must have been close to twenty courses.
Then it was time for toasts. I was sitting next to a Taiwanese Air Force Captain. He turned to me, raised his wine glass, and said, “Here’s to your mother. Gom-bay.” Gom-bay was the Chinese equivalent to “bottoms up”.
I raised my glass, responded, “Gom-bay,” and downed my drink.
The Captain was looking at me expectantly. Then I caught on. I took the wine bottle from the table, filled his glass, then mine, and raised my glass.
“Here’s to your mother. Gom-bay.”
Everyone at the table responded, “Gom-bay.”
We went around the table, making toasts. It turned out – big surprise – that everyone at the table had a mother and father. That came out to twenty drinks, not counting the sips of wine that had preceded the toasts. Naturally, I got shit-faced drunk.
The last thing I remember, I was leaving the dinner table with my arm around the shoulder of the Taiwanese Captain, yelling, “Just you and me against the field-graders.”
I woke up some time that night, on my bed in the BOQ. The light was on, the door was open, and I had no recollection of how I got there. I was fully dressed, lying on top of the sheets. There was vomit all over the front of my clothing.
I think it was mine.
11
May 12, 1973
Only two bad things can happen to a fighter pilot: he goes out to his airplane knowing he is taking his last flight in a fighter, or he goes out to his airplane not knowing he is taking his last flight in a fighter.
I had been working pretty hard at my additional duty, trying to get the shop up to speed. The previous Life Support Officer had DEROSed almost six months earlier, and the shop had been running pretty much on autopilot. And there were a lot of things falling through the cracks.
There were overdue inspections on helmets and oxygen masks. Harnesses weren’t being sent back to the parach
ute shop at the required inspection cycles. Crews weren’t receiving their annual instruction on how to don and remove the “poopy suits” we had to wear when we flew over water. The list went on endlessly. I was putting in a lot of time at the Life Support section.
I was also spending a lot of my free time in the evenings trying to finish the first of the three volumes that made up the Air Command and Staff College course. There would be a written exam, administered by the Education Office, at the end of each section, and there was a lot to learn. So, even though I wasn’t flying all that much, I still wasn’t finding time to get a lot of sleep.
And I felt like shit. I had a constant low-grade fever and a headache that wasn’t bad enough to see the Flight Surgeon about, but it was sure distracting. And the glands under my chin were constantly swollen and tender. I knew I needed to get more rest, but it seemed there just wasn’t time.
Sam was going to be arriving on base in two more days. She’d arranged for seven days of leave, and I’d made a reservation at the Grand Hotel in downtown Taichung. When I went there to check the hotel out the week prior, I was impressed with how clean and modern the place was. I was really looking forward to having some quality time with Sam. I’d gotten the Life Support shop up to speed enough that it could coast for a week without my constant supervision, and I was pretty well ahead on my ECI course. So all I had to do for the next week was fly and spend my free time with Sam.
On this day, I had a ride to the gunnery range at Ie Shima. It was a fairly long mission, just over four hours, and I brought two canteens of water and three piddle packs with me in my helmet bag. As large and roomy as the F-4 cockpit appeared, there weren’t a lot of places to put extra gear, since the entire cockpit consisted of switches, controls and indicators to operate every piece of equipment the airplane carried. When I was at Ubon I had discovered that I could secure the canteens and piddle packs, along with my helmet bag, on the left rear side of the cockpit, just next to the G-suit connector, and it would be out of the way.