After a couple of additional training flights, I started flying regular combat missions. During the summer of 1971, the 390th flew some close air support sorties in support of American troops in the field, but by the fall, the last U.S. combat ground troops were gone from Vietnam. (American air power and military advisors weren’t as fortunate, they remained until 1973.)
In the fall of 1968, Lyndon Johnson ended the Rolling Thunder bombing of North Vietnam, a campaign he began in early 1965. After Rolling Thunder, American strategy changed. No longer were we looking to destroy supplies headed to South Vietnam while they were still in North Vietnam. Instead, the materiel would be interdicted while moving on the Ho Chi Minh Trail in the Laotian panhandle.
Most of the combat missions I flew were over the Trail in the Laos panhandle, an area we knew as Steel Tiger. When I went to Da Nang initially, I wasn’t familiar with the world “interdiction,” but I would hear it constantly during my tour. The basic idea was to use armed forces to slow down or stop the flow of supplies and personnel needed by an enemy to continue hostilities. In other words, if you cut down on their food and ammunitions, they wouldn’t be able to continue fighting.
In retrospect, it wasn’t a great strategy. Instead of destroying the trucks and supplies while they were bunched together on a train from China or were begin unloaded at the port of Haiphong, the U.S. elected to wait until they were all spread out along the Trail and covered by a triple canopy jungle, making them difficult to locate and even harder to destroy.
Making matters worse, the North Vietnamese had begun improving the Ho Chi Minh Trail in 1959, and they’d never slowed down. By the time I arrived, twelve years later, they had developed a highly sophisticated network covering some twelve thousand miles, almost all of which was covered by a canopy of trees. There were underground oil pipelines, heavy road equipment, and thousands of permanent workers. Early in the war, porters carrying supplies on their back and men pushing loaded bicycles were used to move supplies; in some cases, elephants were pressed into service. By 1971, almost everything was moved by trucks, and these vehicles were our targets.
Most of the time, we worked with a Forward Air Controller (FAC) who flew in a lighter, slower aircraft at a lower altitude, looking for targets for the fighters to strike. The FAC often had a definite area of responsibility that he flew over regularly. Subtle changes in the terrain, unnoticed by most everyone else, would allow the FAC to detect suspicious activities.
Every sortie we flew was different, but there was a common pattern for all flights. Most of our missions were two-ship flights. The pilot of the lead aircraft, the flight leader, was responsible for planning, briefing, tactics, and all other aspects of the mission. His responsibility and authority were clear and distinct. I usually flew in the flight leader’s back seat, since I was the least experienced and least knowledgeable person in the flight. The wingman was sometimes a newer pilot, and was usually paired with a senior GIB.
Our flight would meet around two hours before the scheduled takeoff at the mission planning room at wing headquarters. The 366th Tactical Flight Wing lived, worked, and flew out of the southeast corner of the base, so everything was within convenient walking distance. Before heading to mission planning, I would leave my wallet and all other personal items in my room; I’d even strip the wing insignia off my flight suit. The only identification I carried was my dog tags. I guess the idea was that if you ejected from an F-4 and were captured, the communists would have to guess who you were and where you came from.
The mission planning room had long rows of tables with large, thick folders perched on top. The folders contained target information, such as maps, photos, FAC call signs, radio frequencies, and other data. The room was usually crowded with pilots and WSOs from the three squadrons of the 366th, all preparing for their missions. There was no idle chit-chat; very little conversation at all, in fact. The mission was drawing nearer, and everyone was concentrating on the task ahead. This was usually when we would learn exactly where we were going and precisely what target we were scheduled to hit. I would thumb through the target folder, look at the pictures, double check my maps, and write down any information I thought we might need.
I noticed one common trait of fighter pilots during my year at Da Nang; sort of an unwritten, unspoken rule. No one ever complained before a mission about where they were being sent. Everyone knew what was involved; it was understood that you flew where you were supposed to fly and you did your job, regardless of the target location. After the mission, you could bitch and moan, curse and complain to your heart’s content, but you never did so before the flight.
To give an example, I was never happy when I looked up the coordinates in mission planning and found out we were headed to the Mu Gia Pass area. Mu Gia was the main entry point from North Vietnam onto the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The North Vietnamese side of the pass had large caliber AAA as well as SAM sites. Mu Gia Pass wasn’t the real North Vietnam, like the men of Rolling Thunder experienced, but it was in the neighborhood, close enough for a frightened flight surgeon. My fear and anxiety levels would increase a couple of notches and my stomach would feel a little queasy, but I kept my mouth shut because the people around me did the same.
After we gathered our target info, we headed to the adjacent briefing room for a weather update. The room had a dais with a podium and several large maps covering the back wall. There were probably twenty or so folding chairs lined in semicircular rows facing the maps. The weatherman spoke for ten minutes or so, telling us the expected weather for takeoff, en route, over the target, and on landing. It was hard, straightforward, useful data, with none of the contrived enthusiasm that seems to be a part of the genetic makeup of today’s weatherman. The weather was very important; heavy clouds and low ceilings made everything that much riskier. As the weather went, so often went the mission.
The intelligence briefing followed the weather briefing. We heard a few words about the war in general, sort of a big picture glimpse, but mostly we focused on what had been going on in the areas where our wing flew. The intel officer would describe what areas were getting AAA. Usually, he would name names: “Jones and Smith from the 4th got heavy flak at Ban Karai for the third day in a row,” or, “Johnson and Roberts reported AAA near the catcher’s mitt this morning.” There was never a day off; someone was always getting shot at somewhere. The very worst news came when he reported that a plane had been shot down and the crew hadn’t been rescued.
By the time the intel briefing was over, I was usually beginning to question my judgment, wondering what the hell I was doing in a place where so many bad things could happen. My bowels shaky, my nerves on edge, and my hopes for a jolt of courage unanswered, at that stage I wouldn’t have been at all disappointed to have some mechanical problem with the plane and have to abort the mission.
After the briefings at wing headquarters, the four crewmembers of our flight would walk a few doors down to our squadron briefing room. Our flight leader would go over the details of our mission, including headings, radio frequencies, dive angles, number of passes, and direction to head if we were hit. He’d quiz us on emergency procedures; those were in a yellow loose ring notebook, and you were supposed to have them memorized. Finally, we’d get a time hack so that everyone was on an exact schedule.
After a final trip to the bathroom, the life support trailer was next. I’d put on my G-suit, survival vest, and parachute harness. I’d grab a couple of flasks of cool water from the refrigerator and store them in the bottom part of my G-suit. Everyone carried two radios; I always double-checked the charge and stuck an extra battery in my vest. Finally, I checked out and loaded a .38 revolver.
After life support, we walked to the flight line to pre-flight our aircraft. Since I was carrying an extra forty pounds of gear and the temperature was often over one hundred degrees, I was generally soaked with sweat by this time and was anxious to get in the air. These moments before takeoff were a time of great apprehension and antici
pation for everyone. We had briefed the mission, but every mission was different, a story waiting to be written. No one knew what was going to unfold over the next few hours.
The flight line was a different world. The camouflaged, shark-toothed Phantom, fully-loaded; the smell of exhaust and jet fuel permeating the air; the deafening noise of jet aircraft coming and going in a confined area; the crew chiefs hustling about, often stripped to the waist. The heat, noise, vibration, activity, and anticipation made the tension almost palpable.
My responsibilities were to pre-flight the ejection seats and the ordnance. I would run through the check of the front and back seats at least twice. I had developed some kind of preoccupation, almost a compulsion, with the ejection seat. Certain pins belonged at certain places and were removed at certain times. If everything didn’t check exactly, I called the crew at life support and had them come over and take a look.
Checking the ordnance was a simpler task; it would have been hard for me to foul things up. The bombs were off-loaded from a trolley onto the ejection racks by the munitions crew long before we arrived. Depending on the mission, we carried different types of weapons. A standard load was twelve MK-82 500-pound bombs, called “slicks” or “dumb bombs” (in contrast to the laser-guided “smart” bombs that came later in my tour). The bombs were long, green, and very menacing. The fusing of the bomb varied depending on the target. I’d push a little on each one to make sure it was secure on the ejector rack, and I’d also check to confirm the arming pin hadn’t been pulled. No one wanted a bomb hot until just before takeoff.
As for the rest of our armaments, we normally carried radar-guided Sparrow missiles tucked up under the fuselage, though on some missions heat-seeking Sidewinders were added. Both of these missiles were designed to be used in aerial combat. The F-4 E models also had a 20 mm nose gun that the F-4 D version lacked. Other additions could include an Electronic Counter Measures (ECM) pod and a six hundred gallon centerline fuel tank. It got to where the underside of a loaded Phantom sometimes looked like an over-decorated Christmas tree.
I always made a point to talk to the crew chief during pre-flight; he knew the plane a lot better than I did. “Are there any problems; is there anything I need to know?” I let him know that I wanted to learn from him, that I was proud to be flying in his airplane. These men performed the unheralded but indispensable tasks that kept the Phantoms in the air.
Next, I would climb up the yellow ladder and slip into the rear cockpit. I would hook up my G-suit, connect the oxygen, attach my harness to the ejection seat, and connect the radio. I felt like I was cutting my link to the earth, attaching myself to a rocket bound for outer space. For the first few minutes, I’d perform a series of built-in tests, making sure the navigation, radar, and weapons systems were working properly.
At the pre-arranged time, usually seven minutes or so before scheduled take-off, our flight would contact the command post at wing headquarters to let them know we were on schedule and had the current weather.
“Blue Bird, Gunfighter 42, dash 2.”
The command post would clear us to Da Nang Ground Control.
“Da Nang Ground, Gunfighter 42, taxi two Fox fours.”
Da Nang Ground would give us runway instruction, and we were ready to roll. The crew chief would snap to attention and salute, the pilot would return the salute, and we’d taxi out of the revetment, with the wingman following maybe a hundred yards behind the leader.
A quick stop at the arming pit allowed the arming crew to give the aircraft a final check. The arming pins were pulled from the ordnance and held aloft to show the Aircraft Commander. The leader of the arming crew would salute and give a thumbs-up, and we’d be cleared onto the runway for take-off.
Both aircraft would line up, then the Aircraft Commander of the lead plane would run up each engine to 85 percent of full military power (full engine thrust without the afterburners) before bringing it back to idle, one engine at a time. Both engines were then pushed to full military power and the brakes released.
The ground shook, the engines roared; the race was on. Down the runway the Phantom rolled, and when the pilot lit the afterburners, the aircraft seemed to jump, as if it had finally slipped its leash. Some four thousand feet down the runway, at around 170 miles per hour or so, the nose wheel would life off. The stick was held back and, at around 200 miles per hour, the aircraft was off the ground.
After takeoff we’d usually roll left and head toward the South China Sea. I’d look down at the fading buildings and countryside as we climbed quickly. Nothing was ever totally safe at Da Nang; there had been a few instances of ground fire directed at planes taking off and landing, so the idea was not to linger very long.
The second aircraft in the flight would roll thirty seconds after the first, after which the lead would ease back on the power and the second plane would fly a cutoff angle to rejoin. Each aircraft would make a brief inspection of the other plane to make sure there were no problems on takeoff.
Shortly after takeoff we’d contact Panama, Da Nang’s tactical radar control center located atop the nearby Monkey Mountain. Panama would vector us out of the area before turning us over to Hillsboro, the Airborne Battlefield Command and Control Center (ABCCC). Hillsboro, an airborne EC-130, ran the war in real time. Most of the time, our flight would head toward our scheduled rendezvous with the FAC, but occasionally we’d get airborne, contact Hillsboro, and find out that our target had changed. Hillsboro would give us the name and frequency of a new FAC to contact. Other times, during mission planning we’d have no information on a target whatsoever; simply instructions to contact Hillsboro once we were in the air.
Once our FAC had been confirmed, we’d change to another radio frequency to talk to the FAC (called “going tactical”). By this time we were often just fifteen minutes or so from the target. We’d tell the FAC who we were, what we were carrying, and how long we could spend over the target.
The FAC would give us a target brief, describing the target. Often it was a truck park, a POL (Petroleum, Oil, Lubricants) depot, a weapons cache, or a newly constructed road that needed to be cut. He would describe the location of any friendly forces (which were very rare over the Trail) or any bad guys (enemy troops, both Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars, were appropriately known as “bad guys.”) We’d get direction for run in, target altitude, and best escape route if hit. Most importantly, we’d get the FAC’s location. Once we spotted him, he’d rock his wings for visual confirmation.
Our flight would circle the target in a counter clockwise wheel pattern, with the two F4s at roughly opposite sides of the wheel holding around 12,000 feet. That’s high in the sky. The jungle from that altitude has a monotonous gray-green look, with just a few elevations and rivers for landmarks. There were no trails, no trucks, no sign of life. The targets have a sterile, featureless appearance from that altitude.
The FAC was flying much slower and a lot closer to the ground than we were. I would watch as he rolled inverted, pointed his nose toward the ground, and fired a Willie Pete (a white phosphorous rocket) before pulling out. A giant plume of smoke would gush out of the jungle canopy, easily visible from 12,000 feet, a solid point of reference on a bland green tableau.
“Gunfighter 42, place your bombs fifty meters east of my smoke.”
There was a certain way of delivering ordnance during my year in Vietnam. I don’t know if it was a written policy, a wing custom, a sacred formula, or what, but it rarely varied. The number of passes you made depended on your location. It was sort of a trouble pecking order, a hierarchy of danger. When we flew close air support, aiding troops in contact with the enemy, we normally made six passes, a couple of bombs at a time. The small arms fire you encountered in South Vietnam was less of a threat than the AAA you saw over the Trail. (In reality, when Americans or South Vietnamese troops were in danger, you flew at whatever altitude was required and made as many passes as necessary.)
Over the trail, we usually made
three or four passes. In the more dangerous spots, like Mu Gia Pass along the North Vietnamese border, two passes were the custom. The pilots who flew over North Vietnam in Rolling Thunder and Linebacker followed, for good reason, the “one pass and haul ass” rule. North Vietnam was the most heavily defended area in the war; the risk there was many times greater than in Laos.
Of course, nobody ever asked my opinion on the number of passes required for any particular mission. The flight leader told us at our briefing the number of passes we were going to make and that was the way it would be done, unless the FAC had a very compelling reason to change it.
Once cleared by the FAC, the lead aircraft was first in.
“Gunfighter 42 is in hot, FAC in sight.”
The FAC was usually holding off, well away from the target, but you had to be absolutely certain you knew his position.
Here’s where things get interesting. The pilot would roll the Phantom left, nearly inverted, pointing the nose of the plane at a spot just beyond the target. When you’re screaming toward the ground at a 45 degree angle, traveling over five hundred miles per hour, it feels like you’re going straight down, like you’ve gone over a cliff; the ground seems to be getting very close very quickly. I would call out the numbers as the altimeter rapidly unwound. The AC would then roll the aircraft upright, wings level, and track the target for five to ten seconds before punching the pickle button on his stick. The release of the bombs made a little rumble, sort of like you’ve run over a speed bump in a car. It was a reassuring feeling; it meant that everything worked and no extra passes were needed. Normally, the bombs came off at around seven thousand feet and the aircraft bottomed out around four thousand feet.
The wings level tracking time that happened just prior to pickle was always a little disconcerting to me. It was like getting in line for a firing squad; things seem to move in slow motion, as you become the perfect target for anti-aircraft fire. The pilots liked to claim that they only got paid for five seconds of tracking time; anything longer was wasted.
Racing Back to Vietnam Page 6