You want to minimize your vulnerability going into an airfield when you’re not quite sure what’s happening outside the fence line, so the idea is to try to stay above 15,000 feet—above the effective range of AAA and SAMs—until you’re well within the confines of the controlled ground area within the fence line. The “Random Steep” approach enables the aircraft to approach upwind at high altitude and high speed, then rapidly corkscrew down in up to a sixty-degree bank, bleeding off enough energy in the downwind break so the flaps and landing gear can be lowered for landing. Timing all this so as to end up properly aligned with the runway can be tricky, particularly when your heart is beating out of your flight suit thanks to the adrenaline rush that comes standard equipment on that initial combat sortie. At about fifty feet I pulled back on the power, executed the flare, and fifty-five tons of airplane gently kissed the runway without my having sheared off the landing gear. Dave gave a quick nod that signaled his satisfaction, but there’d be no time for attaboys. This would be a lightning-fast turnaround in which we’d keep the engines hot, combat load our precious cargo, and get the heck out of Dodge.
* * *
A standard airdrop mission meant sixty or so paratroopers packed into the back of a Herc. They sat on thick nylon cargo straps running the length of the plane, configured in the shape of a seat. Although no Barcaloungers, they weren’t too uncomfortable. On these evac missions, we crammed up to three hundred refugees back there. There were no seats or benches, and no windows except for a few small portholes near the side parachute doors. These “first-class” accommodations consisted of metal pallets spread the length of the aircraft, and cumbersome cargo straps for securing passengers as if they were pallets of ammunition. Children were pinned against their parents and grandparents, some clinging to a single bag stuffed with whatever possessions they were able to throw together before escaping for their lives. A few wore their Sunday finest; many more sported well-worn, perspiration-soaked garments befitting the hot and humid climate. Little girls clutched their favorite dolls. One young, wide-eyed lad wore a Mickey Mouse T-shirt that read DISNEYLAND. THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH. His father spoke some English and thanked our loadmaster as he assisted them onto a floormat.
“Nắm chặt lấy các dây thừng, khi máy bay cất cánh thì sẽ bị dằn xóc rất mạnh,” the staff sergeant warned the man. Hold onto the strap. Once we take off it will get very bumpy.
* * *
Inside the cockpit, we were still on high alert. “You have the airplane,” Dave said as he turned over the controls to me to prepare for takeoff.
“I have the airplane,” I responded, assuring positive control at all times, just as I had learned from Captain Maxwell during my very first T-bird indoctrination flight.
Once our tires cleared the pavement, I feathered the yoke to establish the six-degree pitch up that we’d need to clear the ground, then pulled back to generate an attitude that allowed us to maintain our initial climb speed. Dave retracted the landing gear and I pulled us into the tight forty-five-degree bank (the maximum allowed with fifty degrees of flaps engaged) that would safely spiral us up without leaving Tan Son Nhut’s outer limits. We had made it out safely. But just a few days later, the crew of C-130 72-1297 from the 314th TAW wasn’t as fortunate. Destroyed by rocket fire while on the ground at Tan Son Nhut, she became the final USAF C-130 lost in the war.
* * *
My next mission was somewhat similar, but this time would forgo the cover of darkness and fly in and out in broad daylight. Operation FREQUENT WIND (the evacuation of American civilians and at-risk South Vietnamese from Saigon during the final days of the war) was in full swing and time was not on our side. We spiraled down into Bien Hoa, a fighter/tactical airlift base slightly northeast of Tan Son Nhut in the northern part of Saigon. If anything, security at Bien Hoa was even worse than Tan Son Nhut. North Vietnamese forces had severed the roads around Saigon and they were about to begin shelling Bien Hoa. Once the town of Xuan Loc fell on April 23, 1975, Bien Hoa became indefensible. During our descent we could see the civilians attempting to flee the countryside and jam the main thoroughfares in their hasty mass exodus for the coast. Even that was nothing compared to what we saw at Bien Hoa—a beehive in which thousands of refugees were frantically trying to convince the authorities to grant them access to our planes so they could flee before the impending communist takeover.
Once again, we combat-loaded hundreds of refugees, packing them in and strapping them down as we raced to remove them from harm’s way. It was well over a hundred degrees that day, with the harsh midday sun beating down on the olive-green fuselage, creating a blast-furnace effect inside—almost three hundred evacuees strapped together inside an airborne sauna—less than ideal conditions in which to experience our high-degree corkscrew ascent. When all was said and done, we made it out safely and without incident—one of the final aircraft to do so. I remained on high alert until we had cleared Vietnamese airspace and were well over the South China Sea on our six-hour flight to Guam. When “Red Crown” control bid us “Good Day” and indicated clear skies, I heaved a deep, cleansing breath of relief. Big mistake.
Flying into Tan San Nhut or Bien Hoa—or any combat zone—it’s only natural that I’d be 100 percent focused and engaged. It’s hard not to be, considering the firepower that was aimed in our direction. But over the course of the five- to six-hour flight to Guam, I tended to relax and let my guard down. It’s not as if the fishing boats we were flying over at twenty-five thousand feet posed much of a threat, and our descent into Andersen would entail a standard landing pattern, unlike the dangerous spiral tactic we employed in combat. “Andersen tower, Juliet six-one-niner is with you at five thousand feet,” Capt Antoon radioed in, after being instructed to switch to the tower’s frequency.
“Roger, six-one-niner. Enter a left downwind for runway zero-six left at 1,600 feet,” rattled off the controller, speaking at a mile a minute in attempt to service a cacophony of flights trying to cut in. With over 110,000 Vietnamese refugees transported to the United States through Guam, it’s no wonder the frequency was jammed with landing and departing aircraft. The airfield was taxed well beyond its intended capacity.
“Left downwind for six left at 1,600 feet, Juliet six-one-niner,” Dave confirmed.
All well and good. I was now under the purview of Andersen’s air traffic controller and in just a few minutes we’d be touching down on Andersen’s main runway. I continued to follow the controller’s instructions until we had our gear down on short final approach for landing. It was then that I noticed a C-141 still occupying the same runway upon which we were about to land. “Juliet six-one-niner confirming runway zero-six left?” Dave questioned.
“Six-one-niner, go around! Go around!” responded the controller, clearly alarmed that he had cleared an aircraft to land on a runway that was already occupied. I jammed the throttles full forward and our nose pitched skyward. What had been a smooth descent rather quickly became an aggressive ascent, accompanied by g-forces that were foreign to the folks crammed in the back. Many tipped and convulsed all over each other. We brought the aircraft back around and this time we were able to land without incident, but it was really raw back there. Up front, we had the luxury of donning oxygen masks, but I didn’t envy the crew who had to clean up that mess.
I learned a great lesson that day.
Never let your guard down, and expect the unexpected.
I learned that not a single mission was routine. I’d have to consciously psych myself up for every one. You’d think that nearly flying into a seventy-ton cargo jet would be enough for this to sink in. But it wasn’t. It would come back to haunt me on more than one occasion.
* * *
These were exciting times for this young man, and by now it was clear to me that I wanted to devote my life to this profession. In the aviation field, the idea is to accelerate as rapidly as you can from a copilot to a pilot to an aircraft commander to an instructor to a flight exa
miner. There is a hierarchy in the flying game and you want to be recognized for both your competence and your leadership capacity, whether you fly in a single-seat airplane or multi-place airplane.
Every bit as important as your airmanship is your capacity to build teams. A solid, well-oiled team is the foundation of formation flying—a group of airplanes flying in perfect synchronicity, sometimes approaching the speed of sound with only a few feet separating your wing tip from that of your wingman’s. The aircraft lead runs the show, and he damn well better know how to inspire trust in his team because everyone’s life depends on it. Wingmen follow the lead almost without question, and they’ve got to inspire trust of their own by maintaining a constant awareness of the potential for a midair collision, and a situational awareness that keeps them at the ready to assume the lead if necessary.
So you want to accelerate, you want to accumulate hours, you want to build experience as rapidly as possible, and you want to move ahead in this incredibly competitive scenario. To break ahead of the pack would take more than just proficient flying skills—at this point almost all of us had those. I noticed that those who were less activist might not accelerate as quickly as those who were constantly volunteering for missions, so I volunteered for every flying opportunity on the planet. But so did almost everyone else.
The problem was that there were only so many missions to go around, and I was rapidly becoming restless. So if I wasn’t flying, I’d volunteer for anything else that I could do—in many cases chores that others might choose to turn away from. It all goes back to that Toms River work ethic that was pounded into me by Dad and Erna. I tried to do the best I could no matter the job—to be the best officer I could be. The more that I took on, the more that earned me other opportunities along the way. Higher-ups were starting to notice me.
I had only been there for five months or so when it was announced that there would be a change in wing leadership. Colonel James “Bagger” Baginski would be replaced by his vice wing commander, Colonel Al Navas, in a change-of-command ceremony that would take place on August 1. Bagger had just received the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal for being “personally responsible for the administration and execution of the entire aerial resupply effort of Cambodia and the Air Force’s support of the Saigon evacuation.” He was well respected, well liked, and known for his ready smile and firm handshake. A founding member of Airlift Tanker Association and a fellow C-130 pilot with more than five thousand hours, he would go on to become a major general and driving force behind building our air mobility into the global force it is today. The ceremony would be no small affair. In fact, General Paul K. “P. K.” Carlton would be flying in to officiate Colonel Navas’s assumption of command.
While I certainly looked forward to attending the ceremony, I never thought that I’d be the one running it. But that’s exactly how it played out. To this day I can’t say who chose me for the assignment—maybe it was our squadron commander—but out of the entire wing, I was selected to plan and execute the entire event.
So here I am, a first lieutenant who’s been on the base for only a few months, responsible for coordinating a multitude of base elements that I barely even knew existed: Protocol, Public Affairs, Security Police, Transportation, Civil Engineering, Communications—each would play a central role, and just one of them failing to perform could spell catastrophe for the entire event. Even the smallest detail would have to be anticipated and executed, and I’d have to contemplate all the “what-ifs” and build in plenty of backups.
Pieces of the puzzle would include invitations, venue preparation (podium, PA system and backup system, weights for the speeches, seating for the public and VIPs, signage, lawn mowed, flags secured and in place, flowers), live band, honor guard, security police, base entry for guests, transportation, escorts for Distinguished Visitors (DVs) (along with welcome packages), corsages for spouses, bouquet for Bagger’s wife, media, agenda, scripts, rehearsals, writing and printing certificates of appreciation, troop formation and alignment … and this was just for the ceremony. Throw in the reception, and coordinating the funding for all this—without sacrificing any of my time in the cockpit—and you have an exciting growth opportunity and display of confidence by the boss, who never doubted that I could handle it. And it came off without a hitch.
I can’t tell you how many of my peers came up to me in the days that followed and asked how I had pulled this off, as if I were the one cutting the grass and painting the bleachers. It all goes back to putting into practice everything we had just been taught back at the Academy: having a clear vision and inspiring others to help you achieve that vision. It’s called leadership. Empowering those who would be executing the tasks, respecting their qualifications without micromanaging, and getting them excited about the important role they had in creating an unforgettable event for the boss(es).
I got an assignment that nobody really wanted. I took it on with enthusiasm and gratitude for the challenge. I worked my ass off and stretched myself to navigate totally uncharted waters and never stopped to question whether I could perform, even though it meant that this first lieutenant would be coordinating elements all the way up to the general officer level.
I worked hard on it and it turned out well and it earned me a bit of visibility both with Bagger and with the Navas family. I became known to them and respected by them. It was one of those serendipitous moments that I never could have planned or plotted, or even imagined, really.
That awareness turned out to be quite helpful both professionally and personally. I grew extremely close with both Barbara and Al Navas, to the point of them unofficially adopting me, and it was a wonderful thing. They invested in me. They took an interest and they paid attention and then, within the bounds of an elder and a junior, they coached me and they mentored me, and on more than one occasion they kicked me in the ass—which was well-deserved at the time.
Al offered me everything I always thought a father should, yet for whatever reason my own father was unable to provide. We continued to stay quite close with the Navases through the years and ultimately they stepped in to become my surrogate parents at my wedding. And it all started with my taking on a challenge that, frankly, nobody else wanted. That change-of-command ceremony became a key turning point in my life, professionally and personally. It allowed this young lieutenant to begin to separate from the pack a little, and that attention paid huge dividends many years later. This was the moment when people saw a breadth of possibilities in this young officer, who had reflected some good operational instincts and also some broader interests—that he might be valuable and worth investing in. They thought I had potential. And even more importantly than my superiors, my peers began to notice.
This is a very competitive business—some might even say cutthroat in certain regards—but this put me on the map in a very positive light. I did my best not to walk up anybody’s back over the years. My hunch is that most people will tell you that was the case—that I never threw anybody under the bus, not because that was a politically correct thing to do but because that was just not my style, not how I was raised. Once again, it all goes back to character, values, and integrity. Forged in Toms River, reinforced in Colorado Springs.
I don’t remember all the details of that day, but I do remember that I slept very well that night. Margaret Thatcher hit the nail on the head with this one:
Look at a day when you are supremely satisfied at the end. It’s not a day when you lounge around doing nothing; it’s when you’ve had everything to do and you’ve done it [well].
* * *
Even after the Academy, boxing remained a great source of exercise for me and I continued to follow the sport. In September of 1975 I was living in Chambers Hall, a high-rise BOQ (bachelor officers’ quarters) on Clark Air Base in the Philippines. It had been a long day of flying and it was early evening when I noticed a group of officers gathered around the small black-and-white TV set in the squadron briefing room. I couldn’t see
the screen but I had no trouble hearing the distinctive voice booming from the speaker. “I’m gonna give him a real whoopin’! It’ll be a killa and a thrilla and a chilla, when I get that gorilla in Manila,” promised world heavyweight champion Muhammad Ali. The “gorilla” referred to archrival Joe Frazier, whom Ali was to battle for the heavyweight title in what would be one of the greatest boxing matches of all time—the “Thrilla in Manila.”
Less than sixty miles northwest of the Araneta Coliseum in which the fight would take place, our squadron briefing room was standing room only. At 10:45 a.m., October 1, 1975, the bell signaled the start of round 1. Rather than his usual high-spirited dance around the ring, Ali marched flatfooted toward Frazier and unleashed a vicious series of combinations. The squadron erupted. When it was over, Ali raised his arms in victory, then collapsed onto the canvas. It was an inspiring match—so much so that I headed for the base gym, strapped on the gloves and gave the bag a whoopin’ of my own.
* * *
My tour at Clark was successful in terms of flying airlift missions as a young aircraft commander, and I departed Luzon with a great sense of gratitude—thankful that I was given the opportunity to serve my country and emerge from combat safely—but even more grateful for those who paid the ultimate price in service to our great country.
In spite of the general antiaircraft threat over Vietnam, it would be dishonest to claim that I was ever actually fired upon while in the air, so I wouldn’t want to misrepresent that. But our country needs people who perform challenging aviation tasks well and it was my great privilege to be on teams that fell into that category.
From Clark I went to Squadron Officers’ School (SOS) and graduated number one in my class of five hundred—so I got to Little Rock with a bit of a reputation.
Journey Page 7