So you do your best to hit the enemy where it hurts. For example, the North Vietnamese airfields were off-limits. Now, you tell me—you are a pilot over North Vietnam near Hanoi with your head on a swivel, with Red Crown screaming out MiG warnings and beepers going off as Air Force pilots are bailing out of their jets, and there is an enemy airfield sitting there off to the right of Thud Ridge waiting for you to drop some bombs on it, and the Big Bosses send your bosses messages saying, “Do not bomb that airfield”—and you think, You’ve got to be shitting me, and you wonder how to get close enough to miss your Fragged target in order to lay some ordnance on the airfield with a slightly long bomb.
What good did any of that do? I learned something. I learned that you cannot trust America. And I tell my Arab friends that as I point out to them that the once-upon-a-time capital of the last nation to put complete faith in American military might is now called Ho Chi Minh City.
NELLIS AFB—1965-1967
When Horner returned to the United States in August 1965, he and Roger Myhrum went back to Seymour Johnson, where they worked in the command post doing odd jobs and waiting for orders. The boredom of all this was enlivened one day in October, when a parade was held at Seymour Johnson, during the course of which Horner and Myhrum each received an Air Medal for attacking the fake SA-2 SAM site that fateful day in July. Horner was surprised; he hadn’t expected it. And he was proud: nobody else in his wing who’d entered the Air Force since the end of the Korean war over a decade earlier had one of those blue and yellow ribbons on his chest.14
For the next two years Horner volunteered every chance he could to return to the war, but was told by the TAC personnel assignments people that he was too valuable for that; his combat experience was needed to train the rapidly growing pipeline feeding replacement aircrews into the war. This meant a move to Nellis AFB as an instructor in the F-105 school, where they trained new and old pilots to fly the Thud in combat.
During the time Horner was an instructor at Nellis, nearly all the experienced F-105 pilots had been or were being cycled through the war. By late 1966, that pool had been used up; those in it had either completed their tours (the normal tour for an F-105 pilot being 100 sorties, about four months) or had been shot down and killed or captured (the F-105 had the dubious honor of leading the pack in this category). This meant that the turnover rate in the F-105 (which flew only over North Vietnam or Laos) was at best four months. And this meant TAC had a tremendous training load in order to qualify replacement pilots. Since the pipeline could not feed the vacancies, the Air Force impressed non-fighter pilots, trained them in quickie courses, and shipped them off to war and near-certain death or capture. The term “There ain’t no way” became common in the F-105 community about this time. It meant: “There’s no way to make it to 100 sorties in the F-105, because you are going to get shot down before you reach 100.”
Here is how the training at Nellis went:
An instructor was in a squadron with normally fifteen other instructors. Every six months he’d get a long-course class—second lieutenants just out of flying training with shiny new wings and shiny new attitudes, willing to learn. Every three months he’d get a short-course class—pilots who came from staff jobs or from flying other aircraft.
To both long and short, he’d teach classroom instruction on the systems in the F-105, as well as taking off and landing, flying in formation, and air-to-air and air-to-ground gunnery, weapons, and tactics. Even though these students were being sent off to Vietnam when they graduated, there was still considerable inertia in the Air Force, so he also taught nuclear weapons deliveries. But whenever he was teaching his students what they would actually use in war—bombing techniques, lookout procedures for MiGs and SAMs, and so on—he always made sure they got the message that this would be a test question administered in the sky over North Vietnam.
Predictably, Horner was best with pilots who were aggressive and quick to learn. If they were slow learners or incompetent, then he had no patience with them, and they suffered his verbal abuse. The long-course people, the real fighter pilots, were usually a joy to check out—a clean sheet of paper for what he could give them. All he had to do was tell them the function of the various switches and the unique aspects of the Thud.
However, the pilots who’d been flying heavies—the cannon fodder schooled in other ways of operating who were being packaged and sent off to war—resisted change and were difficult to teach. Though he could coax them through, and for the most part could make them safe in the Thuds, their minds did not move at the pace flying fighters required. They lacked good situational awareness. Most of them got by using checklists and rote procedures, but some—because they were behind the jet all the time—were dangerous. These he taught survival skills, such as: “Don’t worry about hitting the target with your bombs. Worry about hitting the target with your airplane. Someday you’ll get through all this and return to your C-118, where you are happiest.”
Just as the conduct of the war in Vietnam was riddled with insanities, so also was the training for it: thus, instructors weren’t allowed to wash anyone out of the program. While many pilots did not meet standards, they were graduated and sent off to war. However, in the case of those few who would clearly die if sent off to war in a Thud, instructors did their best to figure out ways to keep them from going.
Horner had a young heavy pilot who was so far behind the aircraft it was a sure thing that even if the enemy didn’t get him, he would kill himself. One day, Horner learned that the young pilot had had a growth removed from his forearm. That was the excuse he needed. He had him sent to the squadron flight surgeon for an examination, and there it was “discovered” that this pilot’s forearm was too weak to pull back on the stick of an F-105 and that he should be returned to transports. And so it came about . . . even though anyone who knows aircraft knows that pulling on the wheel of a transport requires a lot more strength than the hydraulically boosted controls of a modern fighter. Sometimes the only way to beat insanity is by canceling it out with another insanity.
★ All of this pointed up the deep flaws in the assignment of pilots into combat.
First, all military personnel sent to fight the war had to operate under an arcane accounting system that governed how long they would be exposed to combat. To CPAs and bean counters this made sense. To warriors this was madness. But it was the bean counters who were running the personnel system, and the personnel system was establishing the policy that drove the strategy.
Second, all pilots were to have an equal chance to gain combat experience, and no pilot was expected to spend more than one year in theater or 100 combat missions over North Vietnam. The constant injection into the F-4, F-100, and F-105 units of bomber and tanker pilots who were not experienced fighter pilots, but who were given a quickie checkout in fighter jets and sent to war, at least hurt and at times crippled the war effort. Often these people wound up in charge by virtue of their rank and tried to lead when they didn’t know what they were doing. Some proved out, but most just muddled around until they finished their 100 missions or were shot down.15
This policy was obviously wrong on several counts, starting with the assumption that all pilots were of equal ability when it came to fighting. It further encouraged unusual tensions and risk avoidance, as pilots tried to stay alive for their 100 missions or their year rather than concentrate on the job of defeating the enemy. (Pilots with 90 missions would really get edgy.) Thus, it removed the primary incentive of a pilot for doing his combat duties to the best of his abilities, the goal of winning.
At Korat, one of the pilots was shot down after about 88 missions. He survived, came back to the base, and wanted to finish his tour flying with the Wild Weasels.
The job of the Wild Weasels was to locate and destroy SAM sites; and it was the job of the number one and three pilots in a Weasel flight of four aircraft to do that. The number two and four pilots were not Weasels; and they flew ordinary F-105Ds with bombs. Their j
ob was to stick close and look out for MiGs while the other two were teasing the sites. If the one and three cornered a SAM site, two and four would drop regular bombs or CBUs on it.
This pilot figured that flying with the Weasels would be a soft touch, since the one and three often left their wingmen on the ridge in comparative safety, while they ventured out on the Red River valley floor to find the SAMs. They could maneuver a lot more aggressively if they didn’t have to take care of a wingman.
As luck would have it, though, on his first mission with the Weasels, this pilot had sixteen SA-2 missiles shot at him. They all missed, but when he returned to base he couldn’t even get drunk. His hands shook so much, he couldn’t hold a glass.
To his credit, he finished his 100 missions, but he became a dip bomber and was never again effective.
A dip bomber was a pilot who went in at 15,000 feet, rolled in over the target, and at 14,000 feet dropped his bombs so they were sure to hit somewhere on the surface of the earth. He then immediately started a climb until he could rejoin the rest of the flight, who’d gone down to much lower altitudes to try to hit the target, even though it meant getting shot at. There were a number of dip bombers at Korat. Some, like this one, evoked sympathy; some were the object of scorn.
It’s not hard to understand why pilots who’d been shot down became dip bombers. For a pilot the cockpit is an air-conditioned and familiar womb, but when he is about to go down and he blows the canopy, he’s jerked out of the womb into the real world of wind blast, noise, and if he’s flying at high speed, pain. The uncertainty as he floats down in his parachute quickly follows: Will I get rescued? Will I get injured when I hit the ground? Will I get captured by civilians and beaten to death with hoes and stones? Will I be captured by the army and spend the rest of my life getting tortured in jail? When your plane gets hit, you’re scared. Chuck Horner’s plane was never hit, but he has no doubt about how he would have reacted if it had been.
Why did the Air Force fall into this particular trap?
Partly for old-style ticket-punching reasons—to give every officer a chance for quality combat time in order to justify promotions. Worse, in Horner’s view, the Air Force felt that since the war offered an opportunity to renew the combat experience of the force, they wanted to offer that experience to as many pilots as possible. Since it really didn’t matter how good any of these pilots were, they could afford to send in the second team. In other words, playing the entire bench was more important than winning the game.
As far as Horner was concerned, the generals who led the Air Force should have resigned rather than put up with any of this.16 Instead, they should have found the best pilots, put them in fighters, and sent them off to war with the warning: “Don’t come home until you’ve won.” They’d have figured out how to win. If they’d extended that policy all up and down the military line—as was done during Desert Storm—they’d have had a solid chance of victory.
The Israelis have devised a system that allows an air force to put its best pilots into the best planes. It wouldn’t be at all difficult for the USAF to implement such a system. The Israeli Air Force has a ladder—a list naming the pilots: top of the ladder is the best and the bottom is the worst. The best pilots go to the best squadrons. There is also a ladder of squadrons: the best squadrons fly the top fighters, U.S.-made F-15s and F-16s. The next-best squadrons fly Mirages or F-4s, which are older fighters and cannot compete with the F-15s and F-16s. From time to time, the top of the ladder in the F-4 squadron will get orders to fly the F-16, and the bottom of the F-16 ladder will get orders to fly the F-4. Below the F-4s or Mirages are other, lesser aircraft, all the way down to multi-engine and helicopters. Conceivably, an F-15 pilot who loses his nerve or concentration could free-fall all the way down to being a chopper pilot.
American personnel types don’t like to hear about such a system, because it starts with the premise that some pilots are better than others, while the bureaucrats try to keep their own job simple by assuming that all pilots are round pegs for round holes, plug-and-play as the laws of supply and demand dictate.
WEASELING
Until the introduction into the war of the Wild Weasels and Electronic Counter Measures Pods (ECMs confused SAM radars), enemy SAMs had an easy time against U.S. jets. There was virtually no defense against them. The free ride ended in 1966, when the first combat Wild Weasel, a two-seat modified F-100F fighter, located an SA-2 site and killed it with rockets and cannon. This was the first confirmed kill of a SAM site. It meant the enemy manning them were no longer safe. When they went to work at their SAM site, they stood a chance of dying, just the same as the pilots they were shooting at.
Weaseling was fairly straightforward. A pilot teased and tempted the enemy enough to provoke him to try to kill the Weasel, and then the pilot dodged the bullets while he closed on the enemy’s camouflaged position and stuck a knife in his heart. (The camouflage—nets over the radar and missiles—was quite effective, especially when a pilot was going 600 knots in a jet and trying to see all around him at once, looking for MiGs and missiles from other sites and tracking gunfire.) For Weaseling to be successful, the Weasel pilots had to have much better information than the strike aircraft about where the SAM radar was looking and the status of the SAM operator’s attack on his target. Then, when SAMs were launched, the Weasels had to be able to see the best ways to maneuver in order to avoid being tracked or hit by them. In short, Weasel pilots needed better detection gear and better training than other strike pilots.
After a few months of Weasel attacks, the SAM radar operators were forced to limit their time on the air to just a few brief seconds, or else they would be located and killed. The combined effects of the Wild Weasels and the self-protection ECM Pods on the bombing aircraft meant that the SAM became a manageable threat. Now thousands of SAM missiles had to be fired before the enemy was able to knock one U.S. aircraft down. The growing in-effectiveness of the SAMs meant that attacking fighters could operate at medium altitude, out of the range of most of the AAA guns. The Weasels, by helping to solve the SAM problem, helped to solve the visually-aided-guns problem.
This success came at a price. Too many Wild Weasel aircraft and their crews were lost; the job was hazardous to your health.17
The inspiration for the Weasels came in 1965, shortly after the failed attempt to bomb the SAM site at the junction of the Black and Red rivers. After that failure, the Pentagon realized (to their credit) that it was time to take a hard look at electronic combat. The result was an acquisition process called QRP, for Quick Reaction Process, whereby the Pentagon sent queries out to industry about what could be done.
One suggestion was to mount electronic jamming pods under the wings of U.S. aircraft. The electronics in the pods put noise jamming on the SAM radarscopes, so the operators could not lock onto the target aircraft.
These pods led to a whole new way of flying bombing attacks. Instead of flying in at low level, where a pilot would be vulnerable to AAA, he’d come in at 15,000 or 20,000 feet in what was called a pod formation. When the North Vietnamese tried to make out what their radars were picking up, all they could see was a blob—not an individual aircraft they could lock onto and attack. The Air Force liked this idea and implemented it. Before long, the pods began to have a good effect over the skies of Vietnam.
A second response, meanwhile, came from a small company in California, Applied Technology Incorporated. ATI suggested a radar signal receiver mounted on an aircraft that would allow the aircraft to locate SAM radars on the ground, then tell the pilot the radar’s status—searching for a target, locking onto a potential target, preparing to fire, or just having fired a missile at a target—and it could tell the pilot if he was the target.
The Air Force also liked this idea, and ATI produced prototype black boxes for testing. Then they found a few experienced fighter pilots from TAC, such as Gary Willard and Al Lamb, and bomber EWOs (electronic weapons officers—the people who operate the black boxes)
from SAC, such as Jack Donovan. (Most bomber EWOs had never been near a fighter, but they were schooled both in the ways of SAMs and of the black boxes that helped bombers penetrate Russian SAM defenses.) These people flew the black boxes in two-seat F-100s at Eglin AFB, Florida, and proved that they could find radars whenever they were turned on, no matter how much they were camouflaged.
The next step came in 1966, when black box-equipped F-100s were deployed to Southeast Asia and sent into North Vietnam. Al Lamb and Jack Donovan, flying one of these F-100s, killed the first SA-2 site (with rockets and strafing; later Weasels used a mix of Shrike radar-homing missiles, 20mm cannon, cluster bombs, general-purpose bombs, and sometimes, high-velocity rockets). Unfortunately, the F-100s were slow and vulnerable when flying in the heavy defenses over North Vietnam and took too many losses. As a result, this initial cadre of Wild Weasels returned to Nellis, and ATI built even newer black boxes for F-105s, which greatly improved their radar detection system. Since F-105s had a crude heads-up display, ATI could install antennas on the nose of the aircraft, and a red dot was projected on the pilot’s gun sight that showed the location of the SAM radar on the ground. F-105s also carried more munitions, and they were faster and more survivable than the first F-100 Weasels.
★ At Nellis, meanwhile, Horner volunteered for a variety of test programs designed to introduce into the war the AT-37 Dragonfly (a T-37 jet trainer modified into an air-to-ground aircraft for counterinsurgency warfare; it was sold to several Third World nations) and F-5 Tiger Jet (a T-38 aircraft modified to act as a supersonic fighter; it was easy to fly and maintain, low in cost, and could be used by nations with small air forces; thousands of these aircraft are still flying today throughout the world). But he was turned down, just as he’d been turned down repeatedly for well over a year whenever he’d asked to return to Southeast Asia. He remained at Nellis.
Every Man a Tiger (1999) Page 14