We were fortunate to be aircrew, but not that fortunate. The need for crew rest and quiet hours mandated that we be quartered separately. With the air campaign ongoing, flyers were, after all, the reason everyone was here. We went off to quarters that would be quieter, or so we hoped.
The three females in our group were the fortunate ones. They were a combat minority and as members of another minority here, aircrew, they were given exceptional treatment—not that any of them wanted it or asked for it. They were dropped off at billeting, where they had private quarters, showers, televisions, microwaves, phones, and all the other amenities of life. Afterward, the crew van driver took those remaining to our new home. Two converted, freestanding one-room buildings that had once served as professional military education (PME) classrooms. All the desks had been stacked on the sides of the room and cots had been set up in their places.
Our fellow crew dogs were pleased and not pleased to see us, especially as we crowded extra cots into the already overfilled quarters. Two twenty-by-forty-foot buildings stuffed with thirty cots each didn’t allow for much movement space. I barely got enough room to set up my cot so I wasn’t kicking another guy in the head. Who were we to complain, though? There was a set of working toilets in the outhouse set back from the two PME classrooms and running water. Cold running water, which we weren’t supposed to drink because it would most likely give us the shits, but at least it was working. Tent City didn’t always have working water.
The one-day delay meant there was a rotation of the crews already under way and it was a relief to hear that we weren’t going to be flying without being given time to sleep. It was 22:00 by the time the first of us new arrivals bedded down. We were told to expect an early alert and that we were on crew rest. “Get some sleep and soon,” was the advice, and we did.
Friday, 18 January 1991
I awoke to the beam a flashlight on my face. It was 01:00.
“Captain Wilson’s crew?” a voice called out. What if I wasn’t?
Let’s see, I’d gotten three hours of sleep, hadn’t eaten since an early lunch yesterday. Was I? “I guess so,” I finally replied after a moment of silence.
“Hey what’s up? Good to have you with us. You got in yesterday, huh?”
I recognized the voice as that of a friend of mine but didn’t say anything. At 01:00, even at home, I wasn’t normally conversational. His name was Albert, but we all called him Happy after one of the Seven Dwarves. He didn’t much like the nickname but there was an unwritten rule among crewers about the origin of nicknames: you can’t pick it; someone else has to give it. If the name sticks, you’re pretty much stuck with it. And so we called poor young Albert Happy—it was eerie the way the name fit him to perfection.
“Hey, man, I’ll come back in thirty to make sure you’re up. The step van will be out front at 02:00. You need all your flight gear and your chem gear. Don’t forget to sanitize; and hey, cheer up!” He went on for a time, but I was no longer listening; all I heard was that he’d come back in thirty to make sure I was up and that was good enough. I still thought that maybe if I faded off to sleep, I’d wake up at home in bed next to Katie.
I did get up eventually, but only because I forced myself to. Sanitizing meant removing the insignia from my flight suit, emptying the pictures and IDs out of my wallet. Leaving behind anything that the enemy could try to use against me if our plane went down and I survived the crash.
At 02:00 I was sitting in the back of a SWAT-type panel van, helmet bag clutched in one hand, a death grip on the A-bag in my other hand. Captain Willie, Craig, Robert, Todd, Allen, Thomas, and I waited while Happy climbed into the driver’s seat—it was 02:00 and he was already telling jokes. Craig, Robert, and Thomas were fellow crewers. Todd was the crew mission control supervisor. We called him PBJ because he always ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when he flew. Allen was one of the guys from England. Our pilot, copilot, Nav, Eng, and AMT were already at base ops.
At billeting, we picked up Charlotte—Charlotte, whose hair was blown dry. We razzed her no end about being housed in separate quarters only to find out that there was one whole crew that was also housed in billeting.
Base ops was a sight. There was a level of energy and intensity there that I’d never seen before. Happy, as our guide, walked us through the first few steps. Our first stop was intel to get our preflight intelligence briefing. Here we knew we would be briefed on the current situation of the battle, our theater of operations, and the mission. We didn’t know exactly what to expect. I braced myself for grim realities as the intel briefer began.
“Good morning. Most of you know me and the lieutenant although I do see one or two unfamiliar faces. I am Sergeant Derrin Lorenz. This is Lieutenant Henry Albright. I’ll be giving you your intelligence overview briefing and the L-T will go over mission specifics. You all look a little disoriented, so let’s take a moment to catch our breaths.
“Okay, first of all, I want to apologize for running through this so quickly, but we’re pushing the clock, combat crew. It’s wakeup call time. Your uniforms should be sanitized. If they aren’t, remove all insignia at this time. Remember to clean out your helmet bags and your wallets. Combat wallets should have only the bare essentials: dog tags, shot records, identification card, and little else. I know some of you have other items. You can leave them here and pick them up after the flight.
“On the desk behind you, you’ll find a number of interesting items. You’ll find a card depicting the articles of the code of conduct and the tap code. Take one, put it in your wallet. Getting shot down is a possibility, combat crew. We have nine aircrew members listed as MIA right now.
“Next, you’ll find evasion maps and blood chits. You need to sign out one of each before you leave this room. Pay particular attention to the search and rescue codes listed on the board at the front of the room. Memorize them or write them down on your hand if you have too.
“As you all know, in the pre-dawn hours on the morning of January the 17th, the United States of America and its coalition forces’ partners began offensive operations in the Persian Gulf. What you don’t know is exactly what has taken place since then and this is what I am about to tell you.”
Derrin paused to turn on an overhead projector.
“The Kuwaiti Theatre of Operations, 16 January. Take note of the placement of Iraqi forces, and of course the Republican Guard units. The next slide is more telling. The following scenario unfolded around 03:00 Baghdad time this morning. The massive strike force depicted here slowly made its way toward enemy territory. Their goals were 45 key strategic targets in and around Baghdad. The Baghdad electrical power grid was taken out in the first minutes after H-hour and the city fell to darkness. Command, control, communications, and intelligence (C3I) networks were another major objective.
“Many of these systems fell to precision bombing raids in the first minutes, effectively cutting off most of the primary means of communications to and from Baghdad. As you know, with the primary microwave and landline communication systems destroyed, the enemy will resort to radio comms usage, and this is where you come in. Disrupting, degrading, and denying enemy air and ground communications is vital to the success of our goals.
“By H-hour plus one, the Iraqi integrated air defense network has collapsed. Air Power, combat crew, there is nothing like it!”
Derrin paused, then switched off the projector while Lieutenant Albright moved to the fore. “Well, Derrin’s pretty much laid it all out for us, but what he hasn’t told you is the decisive role of Electronic Combat assets in all this. Our counterparts in the Gulf are doing one hell of a job. Without comms jammers, radar jammers, airborne command and control, and the rest of the gambit of EC assets, the tremendous success so far wouldn’t have been possible. Command Control and Communications Countermeasures is the name of the game, combat crew.”
Derrin turned the overhead projector back on and inserted a new transparency.
The LT continued, “Hi
ghlighted here is our theatre of operations, which is, of course, northern Iraq. Why northern Iraq, why not the KTO, I know some of you want to ask. But those of you who’ve done your homework understand why. These next slides will help you understand.
“Here you see the significant number of airfields in this region. There is a map similar to this one that’ll be in your mission kits, along with a listing of best-guess ground and air assets for each. Review these as soon as possible. The more you know, the better prepared you’ll be.
“Nonconventional warfare is a major threat. We expect to see the use of chemical, biological, and possibly even nuclear weapons before this thing is all over.
“Here you see the key installations suspected of these activities. Do you see anything that strikes you immediately? If the answer is no, you better take a long look again. Eradicating this nonconventional warfare threat will be one of our major goals.
“Next we’ll review expected ground and air threats. We’ll go through these slides kind of quick.”
The LT paused as Derrin put in a new slide. “The Soviet-made MiG-29 Fulcrum depicted here is one of the deadliest fighter jets in the Iraqi inventory. Others include the MiG-25, the MiG-23, the Mig-21, the Su-25, and the F-1 Mirage.” Derrin put in the appropriate slides.
“Expected ground threats. The Iraqis have a wide array of surface-to-air missiles, from hand-held stingers to the large SA-2 and SA-3 fixed sites. Anti-aircraft artillery ranges from short range 23 millimeter to long range 130 millimeter. We have seen a lot of SAM and AAA activity. AAA tends to be of the 57 millimeter variety.
“The critter you’re looking at here is a Soviet-made ZSU 23-4. This particular piece of artillery is being used extensively. Pilot and copilot, have your evasive maneuver plans prepared in advance. You will see it, so prepare for it.”
Derrin turned off the projector and the LT turned to the big map. “On the big map, you see your orbit box and those of other EC assets.” The lieutenant paused to take a swig from a liter bottle of water, then proceeded to tell us about the missions we would be supporting and their targets, finally concluding with, “You have a little less than one hour. Good luck, combat crew, I hope to see you all when you return!”
We left intel with our hearts racing a hundred miles an hour. Security police was our next stop. We were issued .38s and given eighteen rounds in three numbered clear plastic bags—bullets and guns were always accountable. These we put in the holsters of our survival vests.
The pilot gave a pre-mission brief. We reviewed emergency procedures and contingencies. Our mission crew commander briefed us on the packages we would be supporting—primarily a strike package of B-52s. The Buffs would be going against airfields and aircraft while a contingent of Strike Eagles and Falcons departing from Turkey also went in. Our job would be to jam enemy communications using every and any means at our disposal.
Two hours after we entered base ops, our entire crew of thirteen was crowded into the back of a single step van and rolling down a darkened Turkish road. The Gray Lady waited for us somewhere along a dark and lonely runway.
I was able to see around the cabin for brief moments. Maybe it was my journalistic instincts or maybe it was because I was so emotionally wrought that I rationalized things by separating myself from them, but it was as if I were on the outside looking in as my life passed before my eyes. I did feel rather gung ho and eaten up. I wouldn’t have admitted it, but I loved every minute.
This was, after all, why I had joined the Air Force. The military was a tradition in my family that stemmed from my grandfather on my mother’s side to my own father. My grandfather had served in the last great war. My father had served, and now it was my turn. During my childhood, which hadn’t been perfect, I’d heard it all. My father had told me stories of burying fallen comrades and much, much more. In a way, he had unknowingly prepared me for what I now faced.
So as I looked around, I saw the faces around me and understood their expressions. Captain Willie’s eyes read unknowing; it was a relatively new concept for him. PBJ, a master sergeant and our MCS, looked scared to death. Charlotte was feeling rather motherly, protective. Robert, loud and booming and never at a loss for words, was quiet and tense. And Allen, whom I didn’t know, was gritting his teeth.
The step van lurched to a halt and a few of us moved for the door. “FOD check,” called out Happy, “lighten up. I have to check the wheels and the undercarriage for foreign objects. You’ll know when we’re there.” This was his third day and he seemed the expert, so we all sort of listened. He reminded me of someone stuck in the seventies, listening to the sound of Saturday Night Fever playing over and over in his mind.
I’d find out real soon that in combat the people you thought you knew well you didn’t; those you knew hardly at all, you’d come to know a little better; and that everyone copes with stress in different ways. PBJ, our MCS who was scared to death, would turn out to be one hell of a guy and a good friend—it’d be just those first couple of days that we’d find it hard to resist the urge to strangle him.
With one final lurch, the van came to a halt. We could see the plane out the window now, so we knew we’d arrived. The ten-minute ride out to the flight line had seemed a lifetime, and for some it had been.
A sense of closeness to fate triggered something and everyone started talking. Then the crew van door was sliding open and Happy was yelling, “Everyone out!”
We piled out as soldiers going to war, heads held high, scurrying with our bags, our survival vests fitted, the .38s holstered within, to the plane.
Up the stairs through the crew entrance door we went, filing into our assigned seats. I was on Six, my home away from home, away from home. We began the usual preflight checks, the checks most of us had done a hundred times before, except it wasn’t the same. Our helmets would stay on for this flight. We wouldn’t switch to headset as we would have under normal conditions. The parachutes in our seats needed to be fitted; that wasn’t usual. The .38s in our holsters needed to be loaded; that wasn’t usual.
Our AMT, John, and the newlywed, Craig, fitted their chutes. They didn’t take them off for the entire flight. Those bottom straps are so snug they cut off the circulation to your privates after a time, and I could only imagine how that must have felt by wheels down.
Foam ear plugs stuffed into ears, aircrew helmets on, mikes in front of our mouths, and preflight checks completed, we strapped in. We were ready to go. The engines were roaring now and the front-end was finishing their checks.
“Crew attention to brief!” called out Captain Smily, the pilot.
I listened as he began a checklist I’d never heard before: the Before Combat Entry Checklist. That was about all it took for my thoughts to begin spiraling again. There was a song playing in my ears. “You’re headed down to Vietnam,” it rang and went on and on. I wasn’t the only one who hoped this wouldn’t be another Vietnam, but at the time no one knew what the future held. Now if we would have had our tarot cards spread out in front of us, maybe things would’ve been different. But they weren’t.
The pilot reviewed the communications plan and double-checked radio settings then began to review procedures for lookout and threat calls. “MCC, Pilot, you have your spotter selected back there yet?”
“It’ll be Four.” replied Captain Willie.
“Four listen up closely. The rest of you as well, your turn will come soon enough. This isn’t a drill, remember that; this is the real thing! I want everyone in the cockpit to be alert. Spotter, when we’re on stations, stay faced toward the environment. Follow standard radio procedures for call up and then quickly give your traffic or threat call. Our direction of travel is always, always twelve o’clock. Give the traffic’s position relative to ours and if possible, direction of travel, such as traffic at nine o’clock, low, moving to twelve o’clock. Be quick, I don’t want anyone tying up intercoms too long!
“If you’re making a threat call make it clear. Such as bogies at nine o’clo
ck. Bandit at three o’clock. Bogies are unknowns and possibly hostile. Don’t make a bandit call if it is not an enemy fighter that you see. But it is better to be safe than sorry.
“Crew, the briefing is complete. Interior and exterior lights checked. Radar altimeter is set. Co, you ready?” The rest of the front-end crew began to go through their checks, starting with the copilot.
Soon the pilot called out, “Crew, Before Takeoff Combat Entry Checks—Complete.”
That was our cue to give the thumbs up sign that we were ready for takeoff. “Pilot, MCC, mission crew ready for takeoff, sir!”
Interphone tweaked and the pilot called out the obvious, “Crew, we’re rolling!”
The Gray Lady rattled and hummed as we gained speed; then with a sluggish lurch, the wheels lifted from the runway. We were airborne. I gripped the armrests of my flight chair, eyes wide and staring straight ahead.
Once we reached our flight altitude, the system was brought up and we readied our positions. For me that meant logging onto the system when cleared and following a few other steps that I’d done a hundred times.
Private clicked and PBJ’s voice hissed into my headset, “There are flight meals around if any of you are as hungry as me.” Robert on One—we called him Bobby—unbuckled and attacked a nearby box of ready to eat meals (MREs), tossing them around to his fellow crewers.
MREs seemed to have improved tremendously since basic training or so I reckoned at the moment. I ate so fast that in a few minutes, nature was calling—that was another thing I hadn’t done since departing Germany besides eat. Yet the unwritten law among veteran crewers, and I was a veteran crewer, was: no shitting on the plane. There were a lot of unwritten laws among crewers. “MCS, Six, clear to the rear?”
Afterburners Page 5