Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  "Hurry." Esther beckoned from the door. He slipped on the pants without shorts and put the single sock in his pocket. He found his shirt wadded beside the bed and pulled it on, yawning and wondering if he looked as bad as he felt.

  "My family mus' go to Sunday Mass. Please hurry."

  He rose fully to his feet and, disoriented, almost fell.

  "Shit," he croaked. His mouth was dry and held a bitter taste.

  She pulled him by the hand through the house to the front door, her mother and sister silently ignoring him from the kitchen.

  "Call me tomorrow," she said, then pushed him out and closed the door behind him.

  In the bright daylight the quaint side street showed itself to be a dirty and sharp-smelling alley. Fine dust swirled up with each step. The modest houses lining the alley were shanties and lean-tos constructed of scrap plywood, cardboard, and bamboo.

  He stopped to fish a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket. A yellow dog with a curled tail and an indelible grin sidled up beside him. The dog raised its leg and sprinkled on his pants' leg. He kicked at it, missing and almost falling. The grinning dog slunk away, leering back to make sure he wasn't being followed.

  For a crazy moment the dog reminded him of the pig he'd met in the jungle. He lit the cigarette, coughed, and listened to the agonizing beat of blood in his forehead.

  He emerged onto the larger thoroughfare and began to look for a jeepney. "God, but it's good to be alive!" the Bear yelled to anyone who might be interested, laughing as he waved at an approaching jeepney.

  It was seven-fifty before he finally got back to the hospital room. He took a long, very hot shower, and pulled on the issue smock before happily padding toward his bed. Each step jarred his aching head.

  "Dear God, do I need sleep? Yessir! Has it been great? Yessir!"

  He was pulling back the covers when the door opened and Marty the nurse stood there, hands on hefty hips.

  Oh, shit!

  "Where in hell were you last night!" she demanded.

  He thought quickly. "Didn't feel too hot, so I came back early. Sorry I missed you."

  "Bullshit on that," she said, eyes glittering with anger as she pushed into the room. "I called back here from the club and had 'em check. You weren't here."

  "I don't know about your people. Not very reliable," he tried.

  "I know who's reliable, and it sure as hell isn't you," she said nastily. "I had a great dinner planned and you were out screwing whores. I've got a long memory, Mal."

  This was Marty's turf and if allowed to continue her present mood, she would surely make his life miserable.

  "No shit, Marty," he tried on a different tack, "Benny and I weren't feeling too good, so we came back early. I sat in Benny's room and we talked until real late. I even fell asleep on his chair, but we were back pretty early."

  Her eyebrows lifted, and he knew she was considering his lie. What she might lack in sophistication, Marty the nurse made up for with sixth sense. "Bullshit," she said, her final judgment made.

  He nodded toward the door, trying to smile. "Those things lock?"

  She glanced at him, not understanding. "Of course not. It's a hospital, remember."

  "Too bad." He shook his head, still grinning.

  "You look awful, like you're about to drop from exhaustion."

  He mustered all the charm he could, which was puny. "I'm not feeling well, nurse. Can you make it better?"

  Marty didn't require much charm. She was smiling, eyes animated, chest beginning to heave dramatically. She touched his arm, perspiring mightily.

  A full hour later Marty straightened her uniform and primped happily at the door as the Bear, now cross-eyed with exhaustion, prepared to drop off into well-earned sleep. She'd toiled hard, but had been able to rouse him twice to pay his dues.

  God did he have a story to tell them back at Takhli. In his fog he started to build the story for Glenn's—not Glenn for Christ's sake!—for Mike Murphy's benefit.

  "Mike, you may not believe this," he would tell him, "but I had three different women a total of seven times in one night and morning." Had it really been seven? He tried to recall. Mike might not believe him. He wondered how he could bring back proof.

  The problem was too difficult. He fell into a deep slumber.

  04/1845L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  The Takhli contingent of the composite strike force had consisted of eight four-ship flights, Korat providing eight more flights of F-105's, and Ubon four flights of F-4 Phantoms. The pilots had been briefed to ingress into North Vietnam in their individual flights, cross the Red River five miles south of Yen Bai, then turn due east toward Thud Ridge. When they had crossed Thud Ridge, half of the composite strike force was to swing southward, using the ridge as a shield while they approached the Yen Vien railroad siding. The remaining aircraft were to turn northward and bomb the Ha Ghia fuel storage area, fifteen miles to the north. Both targets were believed to be well defended by the North Vietnamese.

  Both targets were also more meaningful than they normally were assigned. Yen Vien was a major siding on the northeast rail line. Korat had sent its eight flights of Thuds there. Large amounts of fuel were thought to be stored at Ha Ghia. The 355th wing, led by the 357th Tactical Fighter Squadron, and the F-4's from Ubon Air Base had gone to Ha Ghia.

  Colonel Mack

  Mack stood in a corner of the briefing theater, talking to Maj Max Foley and Lt Col Johnny T. Polaski, two of the luckiest men in the world. Foley and Polaski were both smoking cigarettes and drinking the rotgut mission whiskey handed out by Doc Roddenbush after the tough missions.

  By all that was logical they should be dead, or at best sitting before Vietnamese interrogators with no whiskey or cigarettes and little hope.

  Johnny T. Polaski had been leading the attack on Ha Ghia, his flight engaged by MiG-21's. Johnny T. had turned hard to engage a silver-colored, delta-wing MiG and had not seen the MiG's wingman. The second MiG had fired a heat-seeking Atoll missile from his six o'clock position and the missile had tracked straight and true. It had smashed into the tail of Polaski's F-105, but had not detonated. He had flown the Thud back home with the enemy missile buried, unexploded, in his tailpipe.

  Foley had been pulling off the Ha Ghia target, still maneuvering hard when he'd also seen MiG's. He'd called for his flight to drop their empty fuel tanks in anticipation of engaging. His fuel tanks had released, but one had somehow ended up wrapped about his right wing. He'd flown the aircraft all the way back to Takhli, the collapsed fuel tank still firmly affixed to the wing.

  Mack listened, marveling at just how tough and resilient the Thud was. The formal debriefings with maintenance and intelligence were finished, and now Mack was just bullshitting with them, trying to find out things the others had not.

  What was right or wrong with maintenance? Were there too many CNDs (could not duplicates)? Was the enemy doing anything different that they should learn to cope with? Were some new or better tactics evolving that would allow them to better cope with enemy air defenses? What could they do to minimize losses when they flew tomorrow? He discussed the small details that the debriefers might think were inconsequential, but that might save future lives.

  Other than the loss of one aircraft—a new lieutenant named Ricard had bailed out and been picked up unscathed—it had not gone badly for the squadron. Red Crown had relayed that a total of twenty-four MiG's had been launched against the strike force. The EB-66's said eighteen SAMs had been fired. Still, the 357th squadron had placed their bombs squarely on a tough target, and they had suffered no casualties. The fact there were no secondaries from the target, which meant there had been no fuel in the big tanks, was not their fault.

  Mack finally broke up the informal session and walked from the command post back toward the squadron, thoughtful as he gazed out at the ever-busy flight line. He watched as a crew chief fussed over his bird, like a mother over her child just home from a fight with the neighborhood bully
. He'd only had to tell one chief that his airplane would not return. It had felt good to add that the pilot had been picked up and was just fine.

  At the squadron he went into his office and picked the roster off his desk. Sergeant Hill had already updated it with the rescue of Lieutenant Ricard.

  The roster reflected the changes of the last ten days.

  Too many losses, he decided, for just ten days of flying.

  During this time Mack had worked hard on the basics of combat flying. He had put up his old signs. "DON'T FLY BELOW 4, 500 FEET," "JINK, JINK, JINK, KEEP YOUR AIRSPEED UP, CHECK SIX O'CLOCK," and talked with the men about low-exposure weapons-delivery profiles, MiG tactics, and how to dodge SAMs. He had personally flown with each flight commander, to make sure they put words into practice, then with each new man as he came aboard. He pounded the basics into their brains, and watched as they gained confidence.

  The threats—SAMs, MiG's, and flak—the enemy was throwing at them were indeed becoming manageable. Give them another couple of weeks, he thought, and the 357th would be ready when the major shoot-out came with the North Vietnamese. And the shoot-out would come. The politicians would give them a meaningful target. They would go after it, and the enemy would try to deny it. Both the North Vietnamese and the Thud pilots would recognize it when it came, and after a bloody fight one would come out the winner. Only one would be left in command of the sky.

  BOOK II

  Today—Termite Hill, Democratic Republic of Vietnam

  Precisely ninety-three miles west of Hanoi, the Da River, which flows southeast to Thanh Hoa, is joined by a small tributary from the southwest. In the V of the union is a low mountain, barren and desolate and pocked with deep craters.

  American pilots once called it Termite Hill.

  Tribesmen travel from the mountainous region near the Ma River in eastern Laos, down the untended road on the opposite side of the stream, and ford the Da near the intersection of the stream and in full view of the mountain. They take their meager produce to market to trade for essentials, as they have done each few months for centuries. But they are especially wary as they pass by Dead Mountain. It looks eerie and forlorn. The tribesmen believe it is inhabited by spirits.

  Years before, the elders of the group remember, the mountain had been tall and proud, thickly forested and lush, loud with the busy sounds of monkeys, birds, and flying insects. Of course, the mountain had still been alive then.

  When the War of Unification was raging and the Americans flew their fighters past here to bomb the Great Hong Valley, the tribesmen had astutely found another market, far to the west, and for several seasons had gone there. They had heard stories that the mountain had angered the Americans and that they were killing it, but few had believed they could succeed.

  When the Americans stopped flying overhead, the tribesmen returned to their old trade route. They had been amazed at what they had seen when they looked across the tributary to the mountain. No sign of life. Quiet, except for an occasional stirring of wind across its barren and desolate ground.

  Nothing grows there, now. During the rainy season the heavy downpours wash great amounts of red soil from the mountain, so much that the Da River changes to the color of blood as it flows past, and every dry season it seems that the mountain has shrunk even more. They wonder if someday it will disappear altogether.

  The tribesmen were puzzled so they asked the people at Bac Yen, the farm village nearest the mountain, what had happened. The villagers told them the American airplanes had dropped great numbers of bombs and sometimes would even shoot their guns at the mountain.

  The tribesmen still wondered. On a subsequent trek through the village, they stopped again to discuss the subject. Why had they bombed this particular mountain, which seemed to be of little apparent use to anyone?

  The villagers just shook their heads again, ridiculing the tribesmen, and said everyone knew the Americans were crazy. There had been no soldiers at the hill, no supplies or buildings there. There was no reason at all, but the Americans bombed it anyway.

  The people from Bac Yen had been careful to avoid Dead Mountain after the Americans had started to bomb there. The intelligent ones still did, even though the planes no longer came. It was a treacherous place. Sometimes, when the wind blew the dust and the shape of the mountain was blurred in the shimmering heat, and there were distant moaning and the sounds of angry voices.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Monday, December 5th—1740 Local, Clark Air Base, Philippines

  Benny Lewis

  A sign was suspended near the cafeteria serving line: "This Food Has Been Inspected & Passed by 1Lt Marjorie Stubbs, Ass't Dietary Officer CABHR 23-12."

  The patients snickered and sometimes even laughed, for the food's appearance and taste were such that it could, indeed, have passed through Marge's skinny GI tract.

  Benny and the Bear sat in the crowded hospital dining hall, staring at food passed by Marge. The Bear toyed with crispy nuggets of meat that the menu described as braised beef tips. He laid his fork on the edge of his plate, admitting defeat. Benny, having previously given up on braised beef tips and nourishing vegetable—raw broccoli—retreated to dessert, trying a spoonful of tapioca pudding with the visual appeal and consistency of Lepage's paper glue. He made a face.

  "Uncle," he declared.

  "We should have gone to the club for dinner," said the Bear.

  In two days they both would undergo flight physicals, required before they could be placed back on flying status. Until then they'd been authorized freedom to come and go at will. The only possible complications were a blemish on the Bear's right lung, a smudge on the X-ray film the flight surgeon said was diminishing in size, and an imperfection in the curvature of Benny's spine, which the doctors could not determine was harmful. If all went well, they would return to Takhli in three days. They were both anxious to get back.

  Benny was beginning to grieve less over the split with Bets. He had started to change after a telephone conversation on the same morning the Bear had returned to the hospital with his wide grin. After talking awhile, he realized he didn't know this woman any longer.

  "My friends here in Eugene," she had said, "including my psychoanalyst, all agree that you are participating in an evil war."

  She told him about her close friends from preparatory school days who now held meetings and sent blood-splattered letters to congressmen protesting America's illegal participation in Vietnam's civil war. She had decided to join their effort, since she could provide valuable information on what it was like to live inside the fascist military machine. She would tell them about the mental aberrations of America's baby-killers.

  "Ben," she concluded, "get out of that silly war. Come back and regain your sanity. The men over there, including you and all your friends, will just end up being killed for nothing. Ben, no one cares. I don't know a single person here who cares if any of you get killed, or if you win or lose your war."

  His war?

  Before he hung up he couldn't resist asking how long she'd known her new lover.

  "You left in September," she'd answered simply, and had not offered more.

  Benny emerged from his reverie. He placed his spoon down on the fiberglass tray, unable to stomach the tapioca.

  "What did you do today?" asked the Bear.

  Benny shrugged. "Not much. You?"

  "I got a call a coupla hours ago," said the Bear, "from a friend who went with the airlines back in sixty-three. He's herding a Boeing 707 around the Pacific for TWA."

  "Where'd you know him from?" asked Benny.

  "Before I became a Weasel, I was in SAC flying B-52's. He was the copilot on my first crew. Parker Lindsey's his name. You probably wouldn't know him."

  "Never been in SAC, and hope I never get the pleasure," said Benny.

  "Not my style either," agreed the Bear, "but they got some good people."

  "Why'd this Parker guy get out of the Air Force?"

  "Dollars and cen
ts. He's been with Trans World for three years now, so he's probably pulling down fifty thou."

  "First officer?"

  "Yeah. Says he'll be a captain in a couple of years."

  "He probably makes double what we're getting. Depressing, isn't it."

  "I'll bet all the bastard has to do is man the damned autopilot and get coffee," said the Bear.

  "They've got stewardesses to get their coffee."

  "Oh, yeah."

  "And no one's shooting at him."

  "He's got a shallow fuckin' perspective. All he talks about are his investments and money."

  "I've got friends who made the same choice, and most of them are happy. Between layoffs they're happy anyway. My wife would have loved it if I'd gone with the airlines."

  "Then you've thought about making the change?"

  "Airline pilots and BUF pilots have an interest in aviation, but they don't like to fly. I'm a fighter pilot and I love flying. They could cut my pay, or make me a buck captain forever, but I'd still want to fly fighters."

  The Bear toyed with a spear of raw and brittle broccoli.

  "How about you, Bear. How come you aren't out making big bucks with industry? You could make a bundle with your knowledge of aircraft electronics."

  The Bear thought before he replied. "I like the flying, the camaraderie, and knowing I'm doing something for my country a little better than the next guy."

  Benny abandoned his food and brought the subject back around. "How'd your airlines friend find out you were here?"

  "We've got a mutual buddy in Manila. The guy I told you about who volunteered for embassy duty? Parker Lindsey contacted him when he got in and found out I was here and how to get in touch. Says his crew's going to lay over in Manila and wondered if I could make it down there, maybe have a drink and talk over old times."

  "You ought to do it. Manila's a nice city."

  "I thought I might start rating Esther and Angela on their individual talents."

  Benny groaned. The Bear changed the story to make it juicier every time he told it. "Don't start telling me about it again."