Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  Andy Schumacher spoke up in a dubious tone. "We could lose our asses, too."

  "We're already doing a good job of that, Andy. What I'm talking about is putting the bastards off the air so permanently you could fly across North Vietnam in a Piper Cub."

  Ries was glaring. "We've got other people in the room, Captain Stewart, and some of us have studied tactics for more than the few months you've been in fighters." He glanced around the room, and his eye lit on Pudge Holden, who had been holding his peace.

  "Pudge, you taught tactics at Nellis. You have any ideas?"

  Pudge shrugged and slowly rose. "I heard Andy say we ought to launch more Shrikes, and Shaky say that we ought to use terrain-masking better, and I heard you say something about rolling back the threat, right?"

  Ries nodded for him to continue.

  "I heard someone say we ought to use a low-level ingress now and then, and someone else say we ought to try lofting bombs. None of those things make up a campaign. They're just tactics. Maybe they're good tactics, but I'll bet they've all been tried already, and you haven't eliminated the air defense system with them. Now the defenses are about to get a lot worse, right?"

  "So what's your point?"

  "My point is, when Bear Stewart stands up and makes a pitch for the only real campaign we've heard about here, let's listen. Then maybe we can criticize and change it to make it better, but he's making sense, so let's start by listening."

  Ries looked angry. "I've got to listen to everyone. Stewart's not the only one with ideas."

  "You asked, so I told you what I thought." Holden sat back down.

  Ries folded his arms again and looked at the group. "I've worked out an approach to solving the problem with my bear. It's called a "roll-back" campaign. Instead of one Weasel flight on every mission, we use two flights. One flight protects the strike force, just like now, and the other Weasel flight bombs or shoots missiles at the outermost SAM site, then the next one and the next one, until we've pushed the bastards back to the sea."

  "What about the acquisition radars the Bear was talking about?" asked Lyle Watson.

  "Too hard. We'd never find the search or acquisition radars. Hell, we have trouble locating the SAM sites, and they're big."

  "How about his idea to have an all-out, dedicated campaign?" asked Watson.

  Ries shook his head, irritated. "That would take coordination between recce, the other fighter wings, and maybe even the B-52's. They'd never buy it at headquarters."

  "Sure to hell won't if you don't try," muttered the Bear.

  Les went on. "We'll be preparing our position paper during the next few days. Any of you want to look it over and comment or play devil's advocate, see either Dan or me. Now, let's go around the room one more time."

  The Bear had heard about Ries's and Janssen's roll-back campaign idea before, and had always thought it was a dumb one. He started to stand, but Benny put his hand on his arm and pulled him back down.

  "Forget it for now, Bear," he said. "You're just pissing uphill, and you oughta know by now where the pee's going to land."

  When the meeting broke up, the Bear left with Benny, Pudge Holden, and Lyle Watson.

  "The dumb shit," muttered the Bear. They all knew who he was talking about.

  "I disagree," said Benny. "Ries's and Janssen's roll-back idea isn't all that bad, and by the time all the staff pukes and the brass and the guys from the other bases put in their two cents in Saigon, nothing's going to be recognizable anyway."

  The Bear tried to cheer himself. "At least the brass are starting to understand we've got a problem with the defenses."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Thursday, 22 December, 1966—1700 Local, 357th TFS Pilots' Lounge, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Tiny Bechler

  Tiny arrived at the pilots' lounge ten minutes before the squadron meeting called by Colonel Mack was scheduled to begin. He was enjoying a cool beer with Mike Murphy and Bear Stewart when Sam Hall and Chickenplucker Crawford walked in and joined them.

  "What are you chickenpluckers talking about?" asked Crawford.

  "The Bear says he and Benny are going on R and R to Bangkok with a couple stews they met in Manila," replied Murphy.

  "Hell," joked Crawford, "they just got back from their last boondoggle."

  "When you guys going, Bear?" asked Sam.

  "We'd like to take off a few days over New Year's," the Bear said.

  "I'll make a note of it," said Sam. As acting operations officer until a replacement for Johnny T. Polaski was assigned, Sam approved R and R requests.

  They watched as other pilots came in and gathered into cliques. Swede Swendler joined them. "What's the meeting about, Sam?" he asked.

  Sam shrugged. "This one's Colonel Mack's show."

  "Any word about when they'll name a replacement for Colonel Polaski?"

  "Not that I know about," replied Sam.

  "It's probably someone from one of the headquarters," growled Chickenplucker Crawford. "Some toad the generals want to get promoted."

  "You're the one who deserves it, Sam," said Swede, and the others agreed.

  "I'm happy with the A-Flight commander's job."

  Benny Lewis came over with a captain in tow. "Sam, like you to meet Dave Persons, one of our new Weasel pilots. Dave, this is Sam Hall, our ops officer, Pete Crawford, C-Flight commander, and Captain Swede Swendler here has D-Flight. You've met the others."

  "I'm just acting ops officer," Sam corrected as they all shook Dave Persons's hand.

  "I've been telling Sam he deserves the job, permanent," said Swede.

  A handsome lieutenant named Willy Dortmeier joined them and Chickenplucker introduced him as a new member of his C-Flight. Dortmeier had arrived the day before from Bitburg Air Base in Germany and was still groggy from the time change. Tiny knew him from the Air Force Academy. His father had been an ace in the Pacific in World War Two, and Willy was motivated by family tradition. Maj Gen Bill Dortmeier had retired the year before, but Willy had inherited his steady hand and keen eye.

  Colonel Mack came in, and Chickenplucker bellowed, "ROOM TEN-HUT!"

  "As you were," Mack said, and went to the refrigerator.

  "What's the meeting about, boss?" called Swede.

  Colonel Mack pulled out a bottle of beer and opened it. "Drinking beer and flying fighters. Isn't that enough?"

  Mack leaned against a table, tilted his head, and took a long swig, then casually regarded the group. "Might as well get started. I suppose everyone's here that's going to be." He looked about the room. "Lots of new faces. Flight commanders, go ahead and introduce your new people."

  The flight commanders called out the names and each new pilot raised his hand so the others could make their catcalls. When they were finished, Mack welcomed them to the 357th.

  "We're here to win another war," he said, "but you guys know that. You're all adults, and I'll treat you like that. We'll try to get you a few indoctrination missions in the lower packs before we send you up to pack six, but there's no guarantees. Each one of you will have the pleasure of flying on my wing on one of your first missions to pack six. That doesn't mean I'm the best—"

  "He's the best," said Crawford in a loud voice, "and don't you chickenpluckers forget it!"

  Mack waited for the hooting to subside. "Like I say, I may not be the best, but I generally know how to get there and back and maybe I can show you a couple of things."

  The consensus of the muttering between the old heads and the newcomers was that the boss would show them the no-shit way it should be done.

  Mack read from notes. "Maintenance is asking that we write things up better when we land. They're complaining we're in too much of a hurry to get through the debriefing. Slow down and write properly so they can troubleshoot the problems and fix the birds. They're also asking that you not give the debriefers a hard time. You got a problem with maintenance, take it up with Lieutenant Shilling or Chief Roberts and let them straighten it out."

 
; A discussion arose about maintenance having too many CNDs. "I've had a radio problem three flights in a row," said Ken Maisey, "and the answer's always the same: 'could not duplicate.' I'm getting tired of it."

  Tiny heard Bear Stewart mutter something about Maisey's family lineage.

  "Like I said," repeated Mack. "Take it up with Lieutenant Shilling or Chief Roberts."

  Maisey continued with his complaint. "I told Chief Roberts and he said that no one else can find the problem, like I'd made it up or something."

  The Bear snorted loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Lieutenant Shilling, the overworked and harried maintenance officer, raised a weary voice. "I'll look into it, sir."

  "I hope so," griped Maisey.

  Mack moved to the next subject. "The air cops are raising hell about one of our finest, who has now reaped four tickets for parking violations and two for speeding. This same individual has also been singled out by the motor pool for damage to our squadron van."

  Tiny tried to act nonchalant, but the old heads knew who Mack was talking about, and they turned malicious grins on him.

  "Thirty-five miles per hour on base, ten miles per hour on the flight line, and don't park in the colonels' designated spots even if you know they aren't around. The base commander says that no more tickets will be tolerated from this squadron." Colonel Mack paused. "To fix the problem, I've assigned Lieutenant Bechler as squadron vehicle control officer. I'm sure things will improve under his astute guidance."

  They all hooted at Tiny, who glared about sheepishly.

  Mack took a drink of beer and waited until the laughter stopped. "Now let's talk about jobs."

  The room grew quieter.

  "We've got so many actors, we could put on a play. We've got an acting ops officer and two acting flight commanders. I just came from wing headquarters and it's official," he said, then paused for a long moment, looking about.

  He grinned. "Sam Hall is your new ops officer, and I expect everyone to give him the best support possible."

  Cheers.

  "Does that mean we can't call Sam an asshole anymore?" called Chickenplucker Crawford.

  "Not any more," yelled Swede Swendler. "Now he's asshole, sir!" The pilots roared.

  Mack then announced that Bud Lutz and C. R. Clark would take A and B flights, Crawford and Swendler would keep C and D flights. Benny was confirmed as WW-flight commander.

  After the meeting closed, they stayed in the squadron lounge to celebrate and shoot the bull. Tiny watched and waited for his turn to congratulate Sam. He felt good about the movements in the squadron until he started to think about the losses that had made the changes necessary.

  Bear Stewart

  The Bear talked with Mike Murphy again about the upcoming R and R.

  "You guys will have a good time," said Mike. "Bangkok's a good R and R town. Mike grinned. "But watch your ass. You've been talking a lot about this Julie."

  "She's a nice girl, Mike."

  "That's the scary kind, babes. First thing you know you'll be getting serious."

  The Bear grinned. "I've got a built-in fear of serious relationships. Acts like a warning receiver and tells me when to back off and run."

  Mike looked out at the room. "Most of these guys are married. You ever think maybe they've got something we don't?"

  "Yeah. Every time I think about what happened to Benny when he called home and found his old lady in the sack with a guy, I think about how lucky I am."

  Mike Murphy turned to the Bear. "What's she like, this girl of yours?"

  "She's not my girl."

  "What's she like?"

  The Bear thought. "Nice kid. She's got her act together. Bazooms so big you wouldn't believe. She's sexy and pretty."

  "Good in bed?"

  The Bear paused. "I don't know."

  "You haven't taken her to bed and you're meeting her a second time?"

  The Bear didn't answer. He was having a hard enough time trying to think things through for himself.

  The redhead looked at him very seriously. "Sounds like you need some advice on how to handle her. You haven't been around a nice girl in a while, and you shouldn't treat her like you would some round-heel. You gotta treat her special."

  The Bear waited, suspicious.

  "First, get a real nice hotel room. Fancy. That'll put her in a nice frame of mind."

  Mike was trying to help after all. "Yeah?"

  "Then get some bath beads, you know, the kind they have in Europe that will leave her skin nice, and make sure you have some nice bath oils and cologne water."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Then have her take a nice, slow bath and get herself all relaxed and oiled and perfumed . . ."He paused.

  "Go on," said the Bear.

  "Then open the door and let me in, because she sounds too good for you."

  "Asshole."

  24/0655L—Vinh, Route Pack Two, North Vietnam

  Benny Lewis

  The Bear said the commander in charge of defenses at Vinh was good. In fact, the Bear said, he was likely the best of them all.

  The city of Vinh was located at the mouth of the Ca River, 150 miles south of Hanoi, which meant the gomer commander was isolated from the mutual protection offered by the redundancy of SAM, MiG, and AAA defenses in the Red River valley. He also had to make do with far fewer assets, because they kept the most and the best to defend Hanoi and Haiphong. But the Bear said the guy improvised and did his job all too damned well.

  He said the Vinh commander normally had only one SAM site to work with, sometimes two, and only had two Firecan radars to aim his antiaircraft guns with. But by the use of patience and good tactics he was able to keep the Weasels from finding his radars and he still bagged more than his quota of airplanes.

  As they flew just south of Vinh, with only a single, distant Firecan radar monitoring them, the Bear explained more about his begrudging admiration for the unseen commander.

  "When the war's over," he told Benny on the intercom, "I want to come here and shake the bastard's hand. He's that good. The MiG's are too chickenshit to come down here to protect him, he doesn't have a bunch of other SAM sites around to help take the heat off, and he can't leave his radars on the air for long or the Weasels would have his ass."

  Benny grunted as they made a sharp turn. Tiny Bechler was on the right, and Pudge Holden led the second element on the port side.

  "He's the only gomer commander who's really got us figured out," the Bear said. "Somehow I think he's found a way to tell the Weasels from the strike aircraft, because he never attacks when we're around. It's only when we get low on gas and start for home, or if there are no Weasels fragged on the mission, that he shoots."

  "Interesting."

  "Then he waits for one of our guys to screw up, like letting his airspeed bleed down too low. He turns on every radar he's got, starts shooting artillery like hell, every gun he's got, and gets our guys stirred up, climbing to get out of the flak and bleeding off even more airspeed. A second later he fires SAMs and gets his kill. He doesn't waste missiles because he doesn't often miss. If all of them were as good as him, it would be bad news. You'll see what I mean."

  They were protecting a small strike force that was fragged into the area to bomb the Vinh ferry, which was very difficult to find.

  "Where's that gun?" asked Benny, talking about the Firecan radar.

  "Three or four miles north of Vinh, at your ten o'clock. Try turning toward him, and I'll show you what I'm talking about."

  Benny called the flight. "Red Dog flight, we'll be maneuvering."

  He went into a sharp bank and turn to the left, pulling enough g's that the Bear groaned on the intercom. Benny dropped wings level, heading toward the steady strobe on his attack scope.

  "The guy's good. Watch."

  Benny selected a Shrike station and began to center his needles. "He's still on the air," he said, thinking that this time the Bear was wrong.

  "Try firing a missile at him,"
said the Bear.

  Benny lined up precisely with the Firecan, using his needles, and dipped the nose of his aircraft until the needles were centered, to check how low the target was on the horizon. He referred to a card clipped to his kneeboard. If you knew the dip angle and your altitude, you could determine the distance. "He's in range," he said, pulling the nose of the aircraft up to toss the missile at the radar.

  The Shrike missile was ten feet long and eight inches in diameter. If launched at the correct airspeed, distance, and loft angle, it would be tossed into the radar's beam and steer itself into the antenna, where the forty-five pound fragmentation warhead would detonate.

  "You're lined up okay," said the Bear.

  Benny depressed the red trigger button on the stick. The Shrike missile whooshed off its pylon, streaking upward in a long arc. Twenty seconds to impact, he guessed. A second later the strobe disappeared from his attack scope.

  "Where'd it go?" asked Benny.

  "He shut down his radar."

  "Damn," said Benny, thinking about the wasted missile. With no radar beam to home in on, the Shrike would likely end up making a mess of some confused farmer's rice paddy.

  "He's not as cool as he usually is. Normally he'll let the missile fly out for a few more seconds before shutting down," said the Bear.

  A flight of strike aircraft led by Chickenplucker Crawford called out intense barrage fire from guns near the mouth of the river. It was obvious that they had not located the ferry, and that the gunfire made it difficult to get in closer for a better look.

  Another Firecan radar came on the air, this time from their five o'clock.

  "It's from over near the beach," said the Bear.

  When Benny started a hard turn to his right to line up on the second AAA radar, that one went off the air and the first Firecan came back on.

  "Shit!" he exclaimed.