by G. E. Nolly
“How soon do I need to leave?”
“Wheels up in four hours, one hour behind four F-4s from Lieutenant Colonel Scoville’s squadron.”
“Okay. I’ll be at Ops in three hours. Any idea how long I’ll be gone?”
“Probably about a week, but it could be longer. You never know.”
I put down the telephone receiver and thought back to a conversation I’d had with Major Withers, my Flight Commander, when I was on my first Vietnam tour, in 1969.
“Let me tell you about what it was like at Kadena a few years ago, flying F-105s. Kadena was a great base, in Okinawa, the poor man's Hawaii. Life was good. We had great flying, mostly weekends off, and all of us married guys had our families there, since it was an accompanied tour.”
“Sounds pretty nice.”
“It was. Then, one day, out of the blue, we had a no-notice squadron meeting, and we were told we would be leaving for Takhli Air Base, in Thailand, in 12 hours, for an indeterminate time period. Operation Rolling Thunder had just started, and we were going to be part of the initial effort to bomb North Vietnam into submission. I guess you know how that turned out.”
I nodded.
“I went from the squadron to my house on base to tell my wife I would be leaving for combat. I walked into our house and she was giving our daughter a bath. As soon as she saw me, standing there in my flight suit, she knew exactly what was happening. She scooped up my daughter from the bathtub, I think she was about three at the time, and said, 'Charlotte, Daddy has to go away for a little while. Give him a kiss goodbye.’ And then she helped me pack.”
“My wife is a real fighter pilot's wife,” he continued. “She was the squadron commander of our family the whole time I was away. Did everything. Even arranged to have the grass cut.”
I knew I could count on Sam to be that kind of fighter pilot’s wife. I went home to pack and tell Sam about my deployment.
She was giving Johnny a bath.
Funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same.
45
May 15, 1975
After I transported the maintenance crews to U-Tapao, I met up with Scooter and his crews. Scooter, Sam Johnson, one of his pilots and I went to dinner at the Officers Club. The WSOs had met up with some classmates from Navigator School, so they didn’t join us. The other two F-4 pilots who deployed with Scooter, Joe Josephson and Mongo Monahan, went off base for dinner. They had never been to Thailand, and I suspected they were looking for more than dinner when they went off base.
The next morning, Joe met up with us at breakfast at the O’Club. He looked terrible.
“What happened to you?” Scooter asked, “You look like shit.”
“I was up all night barfing my guts out,” he answered, “I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
“Are you okay to fly?”
“Yes sir. I’ll be okay as soon as I get hydrated.”
“Did Mongo eat at the same place?” Scooter looked really concerned.
“Yes sir.”
Scooter went over to the cashier’s desk and borrowed their telephone. I saw him dial a number and, after a short time, he hung up, dialed again and spoke to someone. When he returned to our table he looked crestfallen.
“Mongo’s in the base hospital. Severe food poisoning.”
He looked down at his plate, deep in thought. Then he turned to me.
“Hamfist, I don’t want to put pressure on you, but I need your help. Our Wing has been tasked with flying four aircraft in support of this mission. It’s important. And now we’re short one pilot. Do you think you can fill in for him?”
Does a bear shit in the woods? I tried to suppress a grin. After all, Mongo was sick.
“Yes, sir, I think I can. Although I’m not Combat Ready, I’ve flown a few range rides recently, and I feel really comfortable in the airplane.”
“Okay, then, we need to get you some life support equipment and put you on our flight orders. I’ve been advised we need to stand bye for further instructions. We may be flying today, maybe tomorrow. We just need to hang loose.”
After breakfast I went to the Life Support Section and tried on Mongo’s parachute harness. It wasn’t even remotely close to fitting me. Mongo was about six-two, two hundred twenty pounds. The Life Support technician adjusted the harness to fit me, and provided me with a loaner helmet, oxygen mask and CRU-60/P connector. I would need to use Mongo’s survival vest.
In the afternoon, we were told to assemble in the base theater. There were a lot of guys there, in flight suits. Obviously, this operation was going to be much larger than just a few F-4s. A Colonel was up on the stage.
“Gentlemen, I’m Colonel Myers, the mission commander. We’ve had our first casualties of this operation. Yesterday, a CH-53 with 18 Air Police and 5 crewmembers crashed on the way here from NKP.”
A map of a section of Cambodia was projected on the screen.
“Just to fill everyone in, two days ago an American-flag container ship was hijacked in international waters by the Khmer Rouge. The crew has been held hostage, and we believe they’re being held at Koh Tang Island, here.” He pointed at a spot on the map with a yardstick. “The rescue mission will launch at dawn tomorrow. It’s predominantly a Navy operation, but we will be providing important support. We will have a mission briefing at Wing Intel at 0400 hours.”
After dismissal, Scooter assembled the Kadena contingent in a corner of the O’Club bar.
“Guys,” he said, “I want everyone to stay on base tonight. I can’t take a chance on anyone getting sick again. We’ll meet for dinner here at 1700 hours, then off to the BOQ. We can plan on having breakfast together here at 0230 tomorrow morning.”
I was sharing a BOQ room with Sam Johnson, and he wouldn’t need to wake up early, since the T-39 was not being tasked for this day’s mission. I set my alarm, woke up, and went to the O’Club at 0215. I was finishing up my first cup of coffee when Scooter and the rest of the crew showed up. We ate breakfast pretty much in silence. I was thinking about the guys on the CH-53 who had died two days earlier. It was probably on everyone’s mind.
After breakfast, we all walked to Wing Intel, and joined the throng of other jocks in flight suits who had shown up early. Colonel Myers entered the room at exactly 0400. We all snapped to attention.
“At ease, gentlemen. Be seated. We’ll start with a time hack. The time is 0401…hack. Major Smith is passing out the attack packages. You will see your line-up cards, along with today’s Air Order of Battle. As you can see, the majority of strikes will be conducted by the Navy with aircraft from the Coral Sea. They will work over the port of Kampong Som and Ream Airfield. The Third Mar Div will be launching an assault on Koh Tang island at sunup.”
“Our A-7Ds” he looked toward the SLUF drivers – the SLUF was the abbreviation for Short Little Ugly Fucker, the A-7 – “will be delivering tear gas ordnance onto the Mayaguez, and the Marines in chem gear will board immediately after the delivery. The F-4s from Kadena will support the assault on Koh Tang with Mark-82s and CBU-24s.” He looked in our direction. “Nail 23, are you here?” He looked around and identified a young Lieutenant who had raised his hand. “He’ll be your FAC over the island. And you’ve seen the tankers on the ramp on the other side of the field. Their call sign will be Purple Anchor, and they’ll be available for any refueling you might need.”
“Now,” he continued, “Major Green will give the Intel briefing, and Lieutenant Westfall will brief you on the Weather.”
We received thorough briefings, although some of the information was spotty. The location of the hostages was still not definitely determined, but the best estimate was Koh Tang Island.
After the briefings, we went to Scooter’s BOQ room for a short briefing, then headed out to the flight line.
It was a strange feeling of deja vu to be strapping the Phantom back on for a combat mission. Will Winslow, a young Lieutenant, was my WSO. He was excited to be going into combat,
and seemed a little nervous. I felt like saying, “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll take care of you,” but thought better of it. It would take performance, not words, to show him I knew my stuff.
We took off just as the sun crested the horizon. I was in the Number Two position, on Scooter’s right wing. As we switched to strike frequency, it was apparent there was a lot going on. The Marines had already established a beach-head, and were taking heavy fire from the thick jungle. Nail 23 was already on scene, and gave us a target briefing.
“Spear Flight, your target is an enemy gun emplacement. I anticipate heavy reaction. Target elevation 20 feet, wind calm. We’ll start with your Mark -82s. I want you to run in from north to south, with a break to the east. I’ll be holding off to the west, over the friendlies. I’m in for the mark.”
He rolled in, fired his white phosphorous “willie pete” rocket, and pulled off to the west. White smoke blossomed up through the triple-canopy forest.
“Spear, hit my smoke. You’re cleared in hot.”
We were in a left wheel over the target, and Scooter was in position and rolled in.
“Lead’s in from the north.”
Scooter’s bombs were right on the smoke. I was next in position to roll in. I put the aircraft into a 135-degree left bank.
“Two’s in.”
“Roger, two, move your bombs ten meters north of Lead’s. That’s ten meters short.”
“Roger.”
As Lead pulled off target, I saw the tell-tale smoke trail of a Rocket Propelled Grenade.
“Lead,” I called, “move it around. RPG.”
I wanted Scooter to know about the RPG, but my call was pretty much useless. When an RPG is coming up from behind you, there’s no way to know which way to break. You might just as likely break into a threat as away from it.
“Stay heads-up to threats,” I said to my WSO. I could hear Will’s breathing quicken on the hot mike interphone.
I rolled out on my attack heading, and put the gun sight pipper in a position to track up to ten meters short of the smoke from Lead’s bombs. I had 8,000 feet to go to my release point. It looked like my pipper would track up to the aim point at the planned release altitude.
“Floaters, two o’clock!” Will yelled.
Floaters are tracers that are stationary in our field of view. I looked to my right two o’clock, and saw a trail of five orange golf balls in trail, getting brighter, but not appearing to move. I watched them for a one-second beat. They were not moving. Not a bit.
Fuck! I needed to get myself on a different delivery trajectory, to fly through a piece of the sky that the tracers would not occupy.
“Hang on, Will.”
I pulled hard on the pole to get on a different, steeper flight path. The golf balls moved downward. I pushed over, hard. My head hit the canopy. Thank God for that ballistic helmet. Now I needed to make some mental calculations, and I didn’t have a lot of time. I now had 4,000 feet to my original release altitude. But now I was steep. I was no longer in a 45-degree dive. More like 50 degrees. Steep equals long. If I release high, the bombs will hit short. So if I release high just a bit, it will offset the effect of the steeper than normal delivery, which would send the bombs long.
Time for the TLAR bombing system – That Looks About Right. I decided to use my original aim point and release about 400 feet high. Shit! More floaters, this time from the left. Quick jink to the left, toward the golf balls, then hard to the right, to let the pipper track back up to my aim point. Now 1,000 feet to go. RPG launching toward me. Fuck it – big sky.
I reached my adjusted release altitude, pickled off my bombs, pulled to the right, and made a quick roll inverted to see my bombs impact. Right on target. Ah, the beauty of compensating errors! I thought back to my weapons instructor in Fighter Lead-In training.
“Every year, somewhere, a fighter pilot reaches his parameters exactly. The rest of us compensate.”
On our third pass, Number Three took a small arms hit, and started pissing fuel out of his left wing. He needed to get back to base, and fast.
“Spear Three,” Scooter called, “Pigeons to home plate heading 340. Spear Four, escort Three back to base.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
Now there were just two of us in Spear flight to work over the target.
We made repeated passes with our Mark-82s, and then Nail put us in on another target with our CBUs. We hoped we had done some good for the Marines on the beach, but we just couldn’t tell. RNO – Results Not Observed. We couldn’t even tell where the RPGs and anti-aircraft artillery were coming from, so we couldn’t even kill the guns. They just appeared out of the triple-canopy jungle.
We were winchester – out of ordnance – and made one last orbit over the target while the FAC gave us our Bomb Damage Assessment. We were in the middle of copying BDA, when two RPGs arose from the jungle, both aimed directly at Lead.
Once again, I blurted out, “RPG!” on strike frequency, but it was too late.
Scooter took a hit in his left wing, and was immediately engulfed in flames. Fortunately, he managed to get several miles out to sea before bailing out.
46
May 15, 1975
It was not a sequenced ejection. Scooter’s WSO bailed out first, and about ten seconds later the front canopy separated and Scooter ejected. They both had good chutes, and I saw them each deploy their hard-shell seat survival kits and inflate their life rafts as they descended. They did it exactly by the book. Obviously, their Life Support training had paid off.
The WSO popped a smoke as soon as he got into his raft, and a chopper from the Coral Sea was on him almost immediately. I saw a PJ – Pararescue Jumper – lowered into the water to help him get into the horse collar hoist, and they started hauling him into the helicopter.
Scooter had landed about a mile away from his WSO. He appeared to be having a hard time getting into his life raft, and it looked like he may have been injured. Worse, there was a Khmer Rouge swift boat speeding toward him, and it looked like they would get to him before the WSO’s rescue was complete.
I was winchester, totally out of air-to-ground ammunition. If I had been in an F-4E I would have had an internal 20-millimeter cannon. But this airplane was an F-4C. A fucking antique. I needed to do something to keep those gomers from getting to Scooter.
I dove down to the water, probably less than 10 feet above the surface, and aimed right for the back of the swift boat. They were firing their .50-caliber machine gun at Scooter, and didn’t see me coming from behind them. As I got about 50 feet short of hitting the boat, almost Mach 1, I pulled up and lit my burners, directing the 900-plus degree exhaust right onto the swift boat. I was hoping to get some crispy critters. Instead, all I got was a mighty rocking of the swift boat, but it didn’t capsize. I had been going past the boat so fast the heat of the exhaust was too brief. They probably shit their pants, but no crispy critters. The boat kept powering toward Scooter. I needed to do something. Fast.
I pulled up to 7000 feet, swung around and entered a shallow dive, putting my pipper directly on the swift boat. They had swung their guns around and were now firing at me. I could see the muzzle flashes, and heard their rounds hitting my aircraft with a loud metallic clang. I pressed on.
“I’m hitting the Auto-Acq switch, now!” I said to Will, as I put my pipper on the swift boat and selected and armed my AIM-7. The Auto-Acq switch on the left side of the number one throttle allows the front-seater to automatically acquire a target and get a radar lock-on.
“We have a lock,” Will replied.
I fired my Sparrow and watched it guide directly into the swift boat. The 80-pound warhead totally vaporized those bastards. The explosion was so powerful I was concerned that the concussion might have injured Scooter, who was only about 100 yards away, but he waved to me as I did a low pass, and the chopper from the Coral Sea gave me call as soon as they picked him up, to tell me he was pretty much okay. He had a broken wrist, but was otherw
ise none the worse for wear.
When I was sure Scooter and his WSO were safe, I climbed up to altitude and performed a check for battle damage. No leaks, no inoperative systems, no injuries. I RTB’d to U-Tapao, landed without incident, and inspected my bird. There were holes in the leading edge of the right wing, and the leading edge slats were badly mangled, but otherwise no significant damage. Will and I waited for Scooter and his WSO, and after about two hours, they arrived, still damp. The WSO was fine, and Scooter had an elastic wrap on his wrist. We all accompanied him to the Flight Surgeon, and autographed his cast as soon as it dried.
As it turned out, the crew of the Mayaguez had never been on Koh Tang Island, and, in fact, they had already been released. After the tear gas attack on the Mayaguez, our marines re-took the ship, which had been abandoned. Faulty intel had gotten our jarheads into a pissing contest with the gomers on Koh Tang that resulted in 15 friendly KIA, plus three Marines who were inadvertently left on the beach during the extraction. Reports later filtered back that the gomers had executed them.
We felt like we had done our best, and I felt good about smoking the swift boat. But, with RNO on the BDA, and the unnecessary assault on Koh Tang, it felt like a pyrrhic victory.
47
June 2, 1975
This was an excellent day. Commando Domino officially ended. No more three-week rotations to CCK. The squadron jocks would finally be able to resume some semblance of normal lives. Colonel Wilson called for a flying stand-down, and he addressed everyone in the base theater.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I want to thank you for the terrific job you all did at CCK. You performed your mission with skill and professionalism. I’m proud of all of you.”
“Now I have some good news and some bad news.” He paused. “The good news is I don’t anticipate any more extended TDYs for the foreseeable future, although, as we saw last month, we can never tell when something unforeseen might come up. The bad news is that, now that you’re back home, we need to redouble our efforts to get ready for our upcoming ORI.”