Laredo flight was doing our dirty work on the SAMs for us that day and according to our plan for this one, they had swung off in an arc from the main force and were probing the sites we anticipated trouble from. “Hello, Pintail—Laredo,” indicated he probably had some news for us on something other than SAMs, as he seldom bothered with the introductory formalities when the telephone poles were flying.
“Laredo—Pintail. Go ahead.”
“Ah, Roger, we crossed the Red and I’m almost to the Ridge, and I’m on the tops of it, and I’m about five thousand, and it’s solid as far as I can see.” Laredo was doing good work, but he was not in a very healthy position at that time, and he was quite on his own. That would put him about in the backyard of the Mig-21’s at Phuc Yen. I wondered how thick the clouds were and if the 21’s had enough room to get off the ground underneath the overcast. Maybe they would try, and crash on takeoff. That was a comforting thought.
Don did not have to deliberate on his reply and came back with “Roger, we’ll press on down the Ridge anyway.” The reply took no thought as he had no freedom at this point. The normal fighter-pilot determination would take him to the point where he could see his target area and be sure that there was not some freak hole that would allow him to sneak the force in and get the job done. His good sense and good eyes could tell him that from several miles out, but under the current rules this was not good enough. We were under direct order to fly over the target itself before making the determination. Aside from being a tactical blunder, this was more than somewhat of an insult to those of us who were leading. The thought that the bosses would take a highly experienced senior officer who had volunteered to come over here and fight this mess, would put him in charge of two fighter wings and all the supporting effort, and then would insist that he drag the entire force through exposure that was unnecessary, just to be able to report that the leader had flown over a specific point, always galled me no end. I never hit a target that I would otherwise have aborted by flying my troops through worthless exposure periods, nor did I ever abort a target run where I had not made up my mind in advance of entering the susceptible circle. Oh well, as I said, the pressure was on.
Everyone knew we were going for a ride over the defenses, but just hearing the lead announce the fact again was calculated to raise the breathing rate and make the eyeballs a bit more efficient. “Five degrees right, Pintail,” lined us up quite nicely.
Immediately, a curt call announced, “I’ve got four bogies, ten o’clock low.” Another impetus to the eyeballs.
As Don rolled out from his correction, he seemed to track nicely down the desired path and for the moment at least we had solved the drift problem and were on course. I figured this knowledge would please him and verified our track with “Steady on, Pintail.” A quick “zip, zip” acknowledged that things were progressing satisfactorily. That zip was accomplished by a quick repeated depression of the mike button and it saved a transmission and kept the air clear for other calls. It shows how simply and efficiently you can communicate with those who understand a common mission. It is a sharp and brittle little sound that to me reeks of confidence and competence.
“Saturn check.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
We were no longer the only effort in the area; we could expect the radio chatter to get more intense. “Otter, we’ve got another SAM, three, four miles out at eleven o’clock.” Whoever they were, they were getting a rousing welcome. Nice guys, I was sure, but you couldn’t help but hope they soaked up all the SAM activity. Fat chance of that happening, as this was the time period when the Russian general accused the North Vietnamese of shooting their zillion-ruple missiles “like they were firecrackers.” The Thud drivers shared his concern if not his intent.
“Rog, Otter, check your gear for interference.”
“You’re OK. We’re going to climb a little higher here.” As busy as you may be, it is impossible to keep the mind’s artist from painting a picture of the game of hide-and-seek you know so well is going on in some other quadrant.
Our hunters were doing the same thing, and while they were not SAM-saturated, it was apparent that they had plenty of action. “Laredo, you got any guns>at twelve o’clock?”
“Rog, ah, four’s got guns. Four o’clock along the Ridge.”
“Three same.”
“Laredo’s got guns at nine, Phu Tho area.” That pretty well sealed the area from both sides and dispelled any doubt that they were looking at us from both sides of our ingress route.
Anybody’s problem becomes everybody’s problem about this time and the announcement “Three, it’s siphoning again” alerted us to the fact that a balky tank or a set of fuel control valves was giving one of our troops a problem. No sweat on that for right now. It was not the kind of problem that would break up a flight and leave us out of balance. Even one set of eyes or one unprotected flank of a flight would have been bad news at this point, to say nothing of the problems to be faced by the stragglers who might have to drop from the mutual protection of the force in the event of mechanical abort.
“OK, let me know when it stops.” Good comment. Worrying won’t fix it anyway.
“Wonder—this is Stewart. Clear down and behind.” Amazing how it all fits into the puzzle and how the calls tell you of actions you don’t see. The escorts and the support guys were together and were clearing each other from Migs and SAMs as they patrolled on the fringes of the action.
The. mind was brought quickly from the fringe to the center with “And—Laredo has a contact—well be staying low. SAMs up.”
“Pintail two has a three-ringer at about two o’clock,” brought it about as close to home as it could get. They were looking right down our horn, but Don wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
“Say again.”
“Pintail two has a three-ringer at two o’clock.” He heard right the first time.
“Roger. Pintail—Laredo. You under the stuff or on top?”
“Roger, we’re on top.”
The SAM activity caused all the leaders to recheck their charges and their position and the support boss called to his escort, “Stewart—this is Nash. How many chickens you got?” He couldn’t afford to get those sweptwing escorts mixed up with any Soviet-built types who might have wandered into the sky he was covering.
“I got four.”
“OK, we’re going to try and stay nice and close today.”
What a beautiful way to say, Get up here where you belong and sharpen up that formation, without being nasty to the escort you must depend upon.
“Pintail, lead steer eight degrees left.” I had to keep Don on course. “Steady on, the readout is three zero.” He was headed for the spot we wanted, and now had only 30 miles to go. You could already tell that the target weather was stinking.
“OK, Elmo one has negative Doppler.”
At least Don’s gear had quit far enough out so that I had plenty of time to recheck all the indications and establish a smooth entry, but Elmo, coming up behind us, found himself without the proper steering gear and had to switch responsibility in a hurry. It would be sheer ecstasy to have a navigational support manager who resists progress riding along in a two-seater at a time like that so he could bite holes in the seat and see how important the little things that make a fighter go can become.
“Rog, Elmo three here, thirty right.” Good thing he had recognized the failure and called when he did as the size of the correction indicated that he had already passed his turn point.
As we thundered down the Ridge, we accelerated even with that big ugly bombload under us, moving and looking, and the support guy announced, “Stewart is at thirty-six thousand.” I thought that must be a comfortable place to be, especially with another flight covering your rear end.
Then Laredo updated the SAM picture with “Laredo’s got a high indication,” and I changed my mind and decided I would not care to be sitting up there waiting to s
ee if SAM could accelerate all the way out to the point that I could not see him as he reached for me. Those guys earned their money.
“Four o’clock” pointed to the SAM’s location and then the friendly supporters got the talking disease and began to garbage up the air just when we needed it clear.
“Rog, I’m at thirty-three.”
“Laredo’s got another high one at eleven o’clock.” This was vital information that needed to get through.
“Six two, are we bothering you, Bill?” I didn’t know who in hell Bill was, but they were sure bothering me, and we were at the point where the steering had to be perfect.
“Pintail, steer four degrees right.” Don responded with a precise 4-degree correction which at 600 knots is no small feat, and I knew he was receiving my calls.
“High threat indication—and he’s going down—four five .say again.”
Shut up, you idiot, is all I could think, but the old mouth worked better than the brain for a change, and I confirmed Don’s turn with “Steady on.”
We were quite close in and there was nothing resembling a break in the clouds. I would rather face the guns I can see than cruise along in anticipation of what I can’t see underneath me. The clouds up there are sort of a dirty gray color at best. They looked downright ominous that day, and each SAM call made each of us sit a bit lighter in the seat.
“And Laredo’s proceeding south of the Red down towards the Black. It’s still solid.”
“Roger.” We didn’t have much further to go now.
“Stewart, you on?”
I guess he was; I hadn’t heard much other than support chatter. “Stewart going north, twenty degrees.”
“Stewart, got a two and a half ringer at two o’clock.”
“Laredo, keep it down. SAM activity at eleven o’clock. OK, Laredo, let’s go right here. Keep him on the nose.”
“Four five, you call a turn?”
“Ah, Rog, zero one, two. You make the calls and Til turn with you.”
“Contact is back up, Laredo.” Those two had a running battle for the air and I so wanted Laredo to win that I would have gladly throttled our supporters if I could have reached them.
“Pintail, one zero to the right.” That was the final correction, and if we had been able to do so, that was the time we would have gone to work in earnest and would have been rolling over the top to face the guns and put the bombs on target.
“Rog, Pintail’s following your Doppler. I’m over the edge of the area and it’s definitely not open.” Don had filled the square necessary to announce his decision.
I helped him with “Yeah, I agree, it looks like a loser to me. I concur and would say negative on the whole works for Pintail and all the rest of the flights.”
Don executed the abort with “Pintail here, we’re coming out, coming out. Left one eighty.” Back down the line of flight leaders the call was echoed and each of the four-shippers swung to a preplanned divergent course to establish the necessary separation between the low-flying, fast-moving flight as everyone moved without delay to get someplace other than on top of that gray blanket covering the active defenses.
Laredo did his best to keep us advised, but continued to have trouble getting through. “Contact is back up, eleven o’clock, high indication.”
“Ahh, Pintail, ah—this is Nash four five. What are your intentions?”
A proper reply would have been to tell him that I was going to talk to him about radio discipline when we got back on the ground, but Don confined himself to “Roger, withdrawing.”
“Pintail—this is Harpoon. Understand you are withdrawing.”
“Pintaa, that’s Roger.” That third flight of ours had been having trouble ever since they got their wingman on the wrong side way back by the river.
Laredo finally got through with “Pintail, suggest you exit back up the Ridge. We’ve got lots of high indications down here in the Phu Tho area.” He really did good work for us and was most interested in seeing that we did not get down into the little box he had worked himself into as he baited the defenders.
“Roger, we’ll cut back north,” and the exit was in progress. “OK, Harpoons, we’re withdrawing.” He talked almost as much as the support guys.
SAM was not ready to quit and Laredo passed on, “OK, contacts at your four o’clock—high indication.”
“Nash one one, four five returning to orbit.” Good, I thought, maybe he’ll be quiet out there.
While Nash faded, Harpoon made up for him with “Pintail—this is Harpoon. Understand you are calling it off.” What was the matter with him?
“Rog.”
“Ozark.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
This exchange told us that the first flight from the next strike wing was entering the area, and from the briefing, we knew that flight to be their SAM chasers who would be contacting our boys before long for a rundown on what was hot in the area.
Meanwhile, Otter flight, whom I had thought so unkindly of before, was still soaking up the SAMs in the other quadrant and I felt much better toward them now that I was headed out of the area. “Contact is at one o’clock—high indication only. Otter, you hear me? Launch at one going to six.” It sounded like they were having quite a day.
It looked like Ozark was going to inherit the same voice problems that Laredo had endured as he attempted to make initial contact with “Laredo—this is Oz—”
“Nash zero one, the target is three six zero now.”
A patient retransmission of “Laredo—this is Ozark”. showed he was still fresh and unfrazzled.
“Nash flight going to three six zero at this time” was all he got for his trouble and he wisely decided to wait awhile before trying again.
Our strike flights had the problem of finding an alternate area that was suitable to work and having flown all the way in on top of the clouds, we knew that would not be easy, yet we did not want to haul those bombs all the way home.
“Pintail—Elmo.”
“Go ahead, Elmo—Pintail.”
“Rog. Boy, you see anything north of the Red worth working on?” There was nothing really worthwhile and the only faint hope might have been back past the area of the initial turn-in.
“Ah, it looks like there might possibly be some slight breaks back to the northwest, but this—it’s really solid.”
“Nash, Nash, go three six zero at this time.”
“Harpoon is up by the lake and there’s nothing up here.”
The radio was just too much for Mallard lead and he made the smart move with “Mallard, let’s go flight manual, flight manual, Mallard.” He had switched his radio to a preselected discreet frequency and would no longer know what everyone else was up to, but he felt he would rather look a bit harder to keep track of the rest of the flights and at least be able to direct his own people without being cut out on every transmission.
“Laredo, contact and guns, Phu Tho.”
“Laredo—Ozark.”
“Lead, Ozark’s calling you.”
“And the contact is down.”
“Ah, Pintail—this is Nash four five. Ah, what—”
“Calling Pintail, say again?”
“All flights, the gap is open, the gap is open” was a reasonably good assurance that the way back out was no worse than it had been on the way in.
“OK, Laredo, we’ll be heading back out now.” The game was not over by a long shot and I had constantly drilled into all our guys the examples of the Thud driver who was relaxing straight and level at 18,000 feet on the way out, thinking he had it made, only to be blown from the sky by a wild but accurate SAM, and the flight lead who got complacent and low and slow with 50 miles of the homeward trip under his belt, only to ran across the top of a stray gun that knocked him out of the sky. We lost them both.
Elmo gave up on the radio. “Elmo lead, let’s go to another channel.”
“Rog, Elmo’s, let’s go to flight manua
l, flight manual.”
But the supporters and their escort took up the vacated ether. “Three, I’ll take the top.”
“Three, Roger, OK.”
“Hello, Pintail—this is Nash four five. Do you read?”
Patient Don showed not the slightest annoyance as he launched into the same discourse again. “Roger, Nash four five—this is Pintail. Go ahead.”
“Roger, Pintail, what are your inten—”
“This is Royal, this is Royal. Time is four three, Mig scramble, sector sierra sierra, time four three, Royal out.” That was the single most irritating call of the bunch, and it came from the heavy-voiced controller far from the battle, viewing the area on his radarscope, who seemed overjoyed to blast everyone off the air with his powerful transmitter. One of his scope heads had plotted a launch and, following the rales, he felt obliged to let the world know.
In the first place, the coordinates were worthless, and the information was old and contained nothing resembling direction, altitude or speed. Secondly, nobody cared what time it was by his clock, and we didn’t need to be told twice who it was, as we could recognize his voice anytime and anywhere. Those of us with some knowledge of the state of the art in the recognition and defense business could not fathom the complete lack of accurate and timely information that would have done us some good, and which could have been presented in a far more acceptable manner. I complained repeatedly and bitterly about this completely unsatisfactory system, but my complaints either fell on deaf ears or else got me chewed out, as I supposedly did not have all the facts. I was able to see a very slight improvement toward the tail end of my tour over there, but the warning and control systems we use today are unsatisfactory and antiquated, run by insufficient numbers of inadequately trained people. Should you agree, don’t bother taking up the sword for the cause. The real lack of aptness in the system is buried under mountains of phony statistics and denied by those in a position to demand improvement in the system. You have to go up there and get exposed to it from the driver’s side, under stress, and nobody with enough horsepower to do anything about it is going to be caught in that position.
Thud Ridge Page 6