Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  There was some low muttering from the staff officers. The location was in the heart of the defenses. To bomb in the Thai Nguyen area, the pilots would have to fight their way across the valley and through the worst of the defenses, hit a target swarming with SAMs and guns, then fight their way out.

  "Headquarters Seventh Air Force has just alerted us to study JCS target numbers seventeen and nineteen, in detail, so we can prepare ourselves should it come."

  Colonel Parker motioned to Lieutenant DeWalt, the young intelligence officer, who quickly gained the podium and nervously adjusted the microphone. He spoke from notes and gave a thorough overview of the targets.

  Aerial photograph of a complex of buildings. Huge structures at each end, with a maze of smaller, connecting buildings and a long elevated rail with a large, overhead derrick running in between. A superimposed rectangle, outlining the critical buildings, covered an area more than two miles long and half a mile deep.

  The Thai Nguyen steel mill was North Vietnam's showpiece, the pride of President Ho Chi Minh, the first product of his touted industrial modernization program. In fact, it was the only real success of his five-year plan.

  The North Vietnamese had made no progress with the electrification of rural areas. The rail system was not yet upgraded, and it still ran on the old narrow gauge. The government program to efficiently allocate irrigation water through a new network of reservoirs and canal systems had not gotten off the ground, and they still used the ancient Chinese distribution system. But the North Vietnamese leaders were proud of the steel mill.

  The ore from the great mine at Tri Cao, near Thai Nguyen, was extracted by use of crude, manual techniques, but the steel mill itself was a technological wonder when compared to the primitive industries in the remainder of the country.

  Construction of the mill had started in 1960 using equipment and expertise from both the Russians and the Chinese, and involved some 20,000 workers. Its goal was to produce 200,000 tons of iron per year when completed in five years. The first blast furnace was operational in a little over three years, and in 1964 it had produced almost 100,000 tons of pig iron, cast iron, and steel.

  That was all very impressive for a country which was ninety percent agrarian, nine percent stone age, and one percent Communist leadership.

  War or no, construction efforts were continuing. So was production. Aerial reconnaissance photos showed ongoing work on a second blast furnace and sprawling new buildings housing more of the plant. The issue of the steel mill was loaded onto special railcars at the adjacent, modern loading facility and shipped both north to China and south to Hanoi. The DIA people couldn't tell them how much the mill had produced in 1965 and 1966, or even what the output of the mill was used to produce. They guessed at such things as bullets, mines, and trade credits with China.

  The steel mill complex itself was JCS 19. JCS 17 was the sophisticated rail-loading facility.

  A second photograph showed the loading facility. A maze of parallel railroad tracks and two huge loading docks. Red rectangle superimposed over a building in between the loading docks, smaller red squares over small structures beside the tracks.

  The rail facility was semiautomated, using equipment from Czechoslovakia and East Germany. More efficient than anything found in Red China, the facility had a maximum loading capacity of 1,500 tons of iron and steel per day, which meant it would easily be able to keep up with the output of both blast furnaces when they were running at full bore.

  The staff accepted Lieutenant DeWalt's briefing with stony silence. Colonel Mack gazed intently at the detailed map on the wall as Colonel Parker replaced DeWalt at the podium, his mind busy with ingress routes and tactics.

  "Well?" asked Parker, casting his blue eyes about the room.

  Maj Max Foley stood. "When do you expect the frag order, sir?"

  "Seventh Air Force doesn't know yet, so I certainly don't. I just wanted you to be ready. I want you to start preparing bomb loads you think would be appropriate for a structure of that size. Then if we don't agree with the weapons loads specified on the frag when it comes in, we'll know what to argue for."

  Max grumbled. "No matter what we suggest, they keep directing us to use M-117's." M-117's were World War Two–vintage 750-pound bombs stockpiled by the hundreds of tons in the States. They were meant to be carried in bomb bays, and were fat and bulky and created too much drag for the sleek and superfast Thunderchiefs.

  But B. J. was in no mood for complaints, so he stared at Max Foley without comment until he sat back down. He glanced about the room brightly then.

  "Any more?"

  Getting none, he pointed to his deputy commander for maintenance. "Give me a quick rundown on aircraft availability."

  The DCM stood, peering down at his notepad. "Seventy-four F-105D's on-station. Sixty-four flyable, but twelve have notable discrepancies."

  "By tomorrow morning?"

  "Are we going to fly this afternoon?"

  "A sixteen-ship mission to pack five. An easy target, and I don't anticipate losses."

  "I'll have sixty-eight flyable by morning, and we'll have most of the discrepancies corrected."

  "Not good enough. I want everything ready. This may be an extended effort, and I don't want us running out of flyable airplanes. Put your guys on long hours. What's the most you can squeeze out of the men?"

  The DCM looked unhappy, and Mack sympathized. Maintenance was already worked into the ground at Takhli. "Seventy flyables," he said finally.

  "And no major discrepancies," said B. J. pointedly. He looked at the DCO, the other squadron commanders, then over at Mack, whom he studied for a longer moment. He glanced away.

  "Squadron commanders, I want you to put together a tiger list. Pick out your top sixteen pilots and tell them they'll have to stay available for the next four days. None of them go downtown or on R and R. The minute we receive a frag order for either JCS seventeen or nineteen, I want them ready to fly. I want our best pilots flying on our first strikes at the steel mill, and I want results."

  Lieutenant DeWalt slipped back into the room and hurried to the podium with a note. Parker's face worked for a moment, and finally turned into a grin. He looked up and slowly scanned the room. "It may happen sooner than I thought. No one here is to breathe a word about this target until it's released. Mack, stay here. The rest of you are dismissed."

  As the others filed out, Mack wondered at the reason for his being held behind.

  The second the door closed behind the last of the men, B. J. grinned again, but it was a nervous look. "We've been alerted for a morning strike on JCS seventeen, Mack."

  A butterfly fluttered in Mack's stomach.

  "The Thai Nguyen rail loading facility. The goddam commander of Thirteenth Air Force is coming in tomorrow morning, or I'd be leading it myself."

  "I understand, sir."

  "This information just came in by courier. It's that goddam big, Mack. There's a lieutenant colonel from Seventh Air Force outside that door who has to brief me and the mission commander on the specific instructions and restrictions laid on by the generals."

  "Who's going to be mission commander, sir?"

  "I've picked you."

  The butterflies started to settle, and Mack unconsciously narrowed his eyes as he thought about the upcoming melee. At least he would get to lead his men into the fight.

  Lieutenant DeWalt led a lieutenant colonel wearing a Class-B uniform into the room, then swiftly departed.

  The button colonel shook both of their hands. "Lieutenant Colonel Gates," he said, "Seventh Air Force plans and programs directorate."

  He fished into his briefcase, brought out an Air Tasking Order marked SECRET, and handed it to Colonel Parker. "Your frag's in there. General Moss ordered me to visit all the bases involved in the strike. He wants to make sure this one goes off as smoothly as possible."

  Gates gave a brief pitch. The president had directed the strike on the rail siding, but he'd made it clear they were not to d
amage the steel mill. They were to destroy the railroad siding as a threat to the steel mill. They were to render the loading facility into splinters, but they were not to harm the mill, not even to overfly it. If the North Vietnamese didn't respond to the threat, further direction would be forthcoming.

  The button colonel made sure both men had received the message loud and clear.

  "I've got the general's plane waiting at base ops. I'll visit Korat and Ubon, give them the word, then head back to Saigon to report to General Moss that you've all been briefed."

  Parker chewed his lower lip. "Tell the general that Takhli is honored to be first on the target."

  Gates started to say something, thought better of it, and departed.

  Mack had noted Parker's fidgeting and said in a reassuring voice, "We'll make it a clean strike, Colonel."

  Parker's voice was strained. "I want the pilots to know that if any man hits any part of the steel mill, I'll have his ass. Jesus! Both Seventh Air Force and PACAF would hold a witch-hunt. You'd get the hatchet as mission commander and I'd get it as your boss, but by God, I'd have the man's ass first!"

  "Message received, Colonel."

  Parker said, "I wish to Christ I didn't have to meet and greet the weak-dick three-star from Thirteenth Air Force tomorrow. This mission's important to the brass. Hell, it's even important to the president."

  Parker paced, glancing periodically back to his squadron commander. "I'm putting you in charge of it because I know you'll do things right, Mack."

  There was more pep talk, more nervousness, and Mack found himself continually reassuring B. J. Parker that they wouldn't screw it up.

  Mack had his own concerns. Was the Thai Nguyen steel mill as well protected as he imagined it would be? The butterflies in his stomach returned.

  B. J. studied him closely. "Mack," he finally said, "I'm putting you up for colonel with the strongest recommendation possible. A damned good evaluation report, and I've recommended a confidential attachment on top signed by General Moss. I think that will override what that wing commander at Yokota did to you."

  "Thanks for the confidence, sir." But Mack's mind was not at all on the possibility of promotion.

  25/1950L—Hoa Lo Prison, Hanoi, North Vietnam

  Glenn Phillips

  Glenn was beginning to feel that they thought he was a doctor or something, for periodically a badly wounded or terribly beaten prisoner was dumped into his cell to die. It had happened twice now. Tonight the guards dumped another one on him.

  He knew this one. Against all odds it was yet another guy from the 357th squadron, and like the others, Pete Crawford was in terrible condition. From his head to the soles of his feet he was in bad shape.

  He'd known Crawford in the squadron as a feisty guy from Tennessee, a pilot with a quick mind and good flying ability. He'd been C-Flight commander. But what they brought him was something that had been Pete Crawford, something with a bent and broken body and, it seemed, no mind at all.

  At least this time his patient had been cleaned up and changed into prison pajamas.

  He putzed around and examined him carefully before tapping out that Maj Pete Crawford had been placed in his cell. Bad shape.

  He went back to the bunk and examined Pete closer. Abscess of his cheek, several broken teeth, bruises all over him, another bad abscess on his belly, arms wrenched and pulled so badly out of their sockets he was fearful of trying to push them back into position. Testicles swollen to the size of grapefruits. Anus swollen. Blood dried where it seeped from an ear.

  He laid him out flat and after sucking a breath, pulled the limbs back into proper position. The eyes came partially open, but there was no other reaction, although the pain must have been excruciating.

  He hurt for Crawford, and his anger smouldered for a moment. It would have been more compassionate if they'd gone ahead and killed him. But that was their way, he'd learned. They would torture you until you didn't care, until you wanted to die, but they wouldn't let you slip over that edge. They made you live with the awful pain and indignity.

  They seldom tried to get military information. They just wanted to bend you and hurt you, to make you feel like you were no longer a man.

  He prayed for Crawford, talking to God like the friend he had become.

  A query tapped from the adjacent cell. Glenn went over and tapped out V-E-R-Y– –B-A-D.

  He carefully massaged Crawford's bunched leg muscles.

  The captain in the adjacent cell relayed an unnecessary response from the brass. T-R-Y– –T-O– –H-E-L-P–.

  He tried to give some water to Crawford. Finally he forced it, pouring measured amounts down him. The throat constricted and Crawford drank. He was wasted and skeletal, like the guys in the photos of Dachau when it was liberated.

  Crawford went through mild deliriums that night and through the next day. He was weak and obviously on the verge of death. He talked clearly once, although Glenn had to hunker down and put his ear close to Crawford's mouth. He talked about bird hunting back home and about his dog. It was a child's voice.

  Glenn was able to force small amounts of rice with flecks of dried fish down Crawford's throat.

  On the third day, Crawford muttered something that Glenn thought might be lucid.

  "We were first, weren't we?" he asked.

  "What do you mean?" Glenn responded.

  "Push it out square with the waves, Red."

  That was all there was for a day, for Crawford grew silent. When he finally spoke on the following day, he did so with his eyes open.

  "It's you, huh."

  "Yeah."

  "We gotta get outta here."

  After a few more sentences, Glenn learned that Crawford thought he was someone called Red. Since a pilot named Red Williams had arrived at Hoa Lo Prison the same day as Crawford, Glenn thought he understood.

  That night Crawford talked again with his eyes open, and Glenn tried to tell him that Red Williams was also there in the prison, but in another cell. After telling him several times, he got through.

  "We didn't make it. We tried," said Crawford.

  A while later, Crawford recognized Glenn and called him by his first name. He told him about Bear Stewart, that Bear was now flying with Benny Lewis and that they were giving 'em hell.

  That was the first time Glenn knew that Mal Stewart had made it out of North Vietnam alive. He'd presumed the Bear was dead. He happily tapped out a message to take Malcolm Stewart off the mental lists of Americans known to be in North Vietnam.

  Crawford went through another bad time then and cursed about a stupid, heavy boat.

  That same night Crawford had a small bowel movement, his first since being dumped in the cell. He did it on the bunk, in his pajamas, and Glenn had to clean up the mess because Crawford wasn't able to move much and wasn't lucid enough to know he'd done it. But his body was starting to function, and that was good.

  Glenn prayed, telling his friend that he was thankful that Crawford had shown that little sign of improvement.

  26/0435L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Colonel Mack

  When Mack walked into the briefing theater, he noticed the board.

  "Got a good one today, boss," said Benny Lewis as he stared at the board.

  "Yeah." Mack made a few notes from the board.

  "If we go to the JCS target, I'd like to make a change in our normal Weasel tactics. Pudge Holden is going to be my number three, and we'd like to try something we've been working on."

  "That's an odd flight lineup," Mack said. "Both of you guys are lead qualified."

  "We plan to operate in two independent, yet supportive elements, like we'd do against MiG's."

  "Like Ries tried?"

  "He didn't get the chance to practice like we've been doing. We've got it worked out pretty well."

  "Will it affect the strike mission?" asked Mack.

  "We think it'll help you guys. It'll give us a better chance to take on the SAM sites."

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p; "Dangerous?"

  "Maybe, but it can't be worse than the way we were doing it before."

  Mack thought for a moment. He liked for his men to be innovative, but he also wondered if this was the right time to try something new. "Tell you what, Benny, you go ahead and brief it to the crews when it comes your turn, and I'll either give a nod or an aw shit."

  A few minutes later Lieutenant DeWalt came in, scribbled ALLEY CAT on the board, and gave a thorough overview of the JCS 17 target. He was careful when he talked about defenses.

  "One SAM site and several dozen guns known to be active in the target area," DeWalt said. "There may be more we don't know about." He added that an RF-101 recce bird had been shot down near the target area the previous afternoon.

  Capt Smiley Boye said the weather would be good. Possibility of a few high, scattered cirrus clouds. Nothing at their altitude or below.

  They launched into the mission briefing.

  The EB-66's would be orbiting out over the water, thirty miles beyond Haiphong, trying to set up screen jamming of acquisition radars. The EB-66 briefing officer knew they could not do much good for the strike force at that distance.

  A flak suppression flight would precede the strike flights to soften up the guns in the target area, scattering CBUs around the periphery of the siding. Colonel Mack would be leading the chopper flight.

  Capt Swede Swendler would lead the next flight, the first to lay hard bombs onto the rail siding. Then Capt Bud Lutz and Maj Duffy Spencer, Pete Crawford's replacement as C-Flight commander.

  Next would come the 354th squadron, with their most experienced and steady pilots leading their three flights. Finally the 333rd, with their squadron commander and his two best majors.

  Benny Lewis would be out front, leading the Weasels.

  The deck was stacked. B. J. had told the squadron commanders that he'd wanted the craftiest middle managers who were still damn good pilots, and he'd gotten them. Mack figured he had a hell of a lot of steadiness and moxie in the group.

  He carefully spelled out the target timing and bombing assignments. Two flights to the north side, two to the south side, and the remaining five flights in the center. Anyone who was not positive he was going to hit squarely into the target was to pull off dry. No long bombs would be tolerated.