Run Run Cricket Run, page 15
The sound of an O-2 soon announced the arrival of Nail 76.
“I have your chute right in the top of a tree. Rescue is on the way. I’m not going to get too close to avoid giving your position away.”
“Roger, 76. The 23 that got me is in the trees almost right under me and just off the trail itself. He’s well camouflaged, so be careful.”
“I think I have him. His camouflage netting was blown away when he fired. I’ll mark it for the Sandys as soon as they arrive. Your chute is real visible from the air so they won’t have any problems seeing you.”
Within 45 minutes the two A-1 Sandys were overhead with two additional Sandys orbiting a safe distance away in formation with the rescue choppers. Jim Russell gave the Sandys a briefing on the situation and the approximate location of the gun. He suggested they come in from the sun and then marked the gun with a Willy Pete, breaking 90 degrees from the roll-in heading, jinking vigorously, like a bat. The gun opened up, confirming its location, and within seconds the Sandys killed the crew with cluster bombs followed by napalm, which caused the gun and its ammo to explode. No other gun crews volunteered to expose themselves. Mark’s pickup went uncontested. It was one of the shortest SARs on record.
Later that night in the Nail Hole, Captain Tinga was the toast of the Nails, who always celebrated the return of one of their own. Thatcher walked up beside his Academy classmate at the bar, grinning.
“Well, Mark, are you trying to win the Medal of Honor or something? I know you well enough to know you weren’t at 5,000 feet.”
“No comment.” Mark grinned.
“Tell me about it.” Thatcher once faced off against Mark in intermural rugby at the Zoo, and he knew how tough he was.
“Okay. I knew there was a gun there because the little bastard hosed me down a few days earlier on a fragged truck park mission. I assumed he was somewhere at the base of the mountain where he was supposed to be. He wasn’t. The sneaky little bastard was 100 feet out on the trail with nothing but a bush hiding him. That should be against the rules. So, I thought I’d clean his clock. But it didn’t work out the way it was supposed to. There was no option. Both engines were hit, so I punched out. I landed in a tree way high above the ground. How high I don’t know, but I dropped my helmet and never heard it hit.”
“I talked with the Sandy pilots,” Thatcher laughed. “Apparently they got him for you.”
“That pisses me off. I wanted to go back and clean his clock.”
“Now, now, Mark. There are a lot more guns out there for you to play with. Maybe this is a sign you need to take up something a little less dangerous than gun hunting.” Thatcher was smiling. “There’s an old saying my grandfather used when I was young: ‘You don’t learn anything from the second kick of a mule’.”
“Maybe not, but you and I both know this war will be over soon and I don’t know what in the hell I’m going to do. I’m not going back to KC-135s and I sure don’t want to end up selling life insurance.”
“Well. For now, maybe you should think about buying some. Come on. There’s a hell of a poker game going on over there. Maybe if you lose some money, you’ll feel better.”
“OK by me. It’ll give me a chance to kick your ass again like I did in rugby we played at the Zoo.”
Thatcher smiled but didn’t answer because Tinga kicked everyone’s ass in rugby. The night went quickly, and the two friends continued their banter until the Nail Hole party ended late. It might be more accurate to say it paused and resumed 12 hours later. Nail Hole parties never really ended.
16
Miracles Do Happen
Captain Tex Robertson launched his OV-10 at daybreak for Sector III. His flight suit was already drenched in sweat—Thailand could be hot even in the morning. His fragged target was one mile south of Ban Karai Pass coming out of North Viet Nam. This was one of the major entry points of supplies from Laos into South Viet Nam and therefore one of the most heavily observed and bombed, both by B-52s and FAC-directed airstrikes. Roberson loitered high and east of the target, which was in triple canopy jungle interspersed with the typical outcroppings of karst at random intervals. He was over North Viet Nam in his holding pattern although the border was indistinguishable in the jungle below. At the exact time specified on his strike plan, four Navy A-4s called in to establish contact.
“Nail, Zebra flight, four A-4s with eight Mark 81s each. We have you in sight. Anytime you’re ready.”
“Roger that. Target is a truck park; elevation is 800 feet. Give me two apiece on the first pass. I can’t see what the hell is down there, but the AAA will probably be intense, so I will smoke the target and get out of your way. I suggest mixing up the delivery if you know what I mean.”
What he meant was changing the roll-in and roll-out headings on each pass so the gunners couldn’t draw a consistent bead. Nail 33, like most FACs, hated these invisible targets selected by infrared photography or observations from Heavy Hook operatives on the trail because he couldn’t see them through the foliage, but the known quantity of guns in this particular area was indicative of something important. Robertson rolled in and fired two Willy Petes, one seconds after the other.
“Zebra flight, you’re cleared in hot. Those smokes are 100 meters apart for reference. Call FAC in sight. I’ll be moving north.”
“Roger that Nail. Zebra 1 is in hot, FAC in sight.”
At four second intervals the other A-4s rolled in. The Navy and Marines often attacked in formation. The Air Force, especially the F-105s, rolled in almost immediately, one after the other, so the succeeding members of the attack could alter their drops to hit any anti-aircraft guns shooting at the lead aircraft. There were advantages to both tactics, but the experience of the flight leader was always the deciding factor.
The A-4s hurtled downward in trail formation, one after the other, at a 60-degree angle. With a background of lush green jungle below, it was an impressive sight, one Tex Robertson and other FACs never tired of seeing. Imagine a front row seat to a display of incredible power, not just from masses of steel and aluminum hurtling toward earth in a choreographed performance of incredible precision, but the finale of a huge fireball accompanied by a shock wave that jostles the FAC aircraft a few thousand feet away. As the fireball subsides, a cone of gray and brown dirt spikes upward like an ice cream cone before collapsing in an orgasm of brown dirt and splintered trees in an immense crater that wasn’t there seconds ago. As the strike aircraft pull off the target, wisps of vapor trail from their wing tips as they twist and turn in unpredictable patterns to confuse the gunners below.
“Nice drop Zebra. I don’t see anything, but you were right on my smoke. Try 200 meters to the east.”
“Roger that Nail.”
Robertson was probing, and with nothing to go on but the initial target coordinates, he was using his best judgment on where the jungle might be hiding something. He selected a typical area at the base of a karst formation about 200 meters to the east of the initial drop. Up until that moment, there had been no flak—welcome news, or non-news as it were. That’s when all hell broke loose. Red tracers engulfed his aircraft and he heard and felt the distinct hits of anti-aircraft shells. The OV-10 was controllable, barely, but it wasn’t going anywhere. One engine was toast, and the other was damaged, barely turning. The ailerons didn’t work, so the only control was the rudder, which allowed Robertson to keep the wings level long enough to punch out, which he did, all in a matter of seconds. As his parachute opened, he tried his best to steer away from the danger below, but the best he could do was to aim for the upslope of the mountains on the North Vietnamese side of the strike zone.
The parachute snagged some bamboo as he landed. He quickly detached himself, fell about three feet, and began running uphill. He took his survival radio in his left hand and pulled out his .38 caliber revolver from the shoulder holster with his right hand.
As he continued his climb up the steep slope of the bamboo-cluttered mountain, his wind gave out and he realized he needed to hide. Too many smoke filled nights of boozing in the Nail Hole took an early toll. And he didn’t even smoke. The clusters of bamboo were about 20 feet in diameter and interspersed along the slope of the mountain. Just pick one and crawl inside, he thought.
The bamboo was so thick, the best he could do was squeeze in with the left half of his body. He turned on his survival radio and immediately heard the Zebra flight leader trying to contact him on the guard frequency.
“Zebra, this is Nail 33. I’m okay. Can you see any bad guys?” He was wheezing heavily. “I’m about 200 feet up the slope from my chute.”
Zebra 1 answered. “Not from where we are because we don’t want to get too close and give your position away. We see your chute. We have about ten more minutes of playtime, but another Nail is inbound. Sandys are being scrambled now.”
Zebra 2 came up on guard channel, “Zebra 1 and Nail, I may have a fix on the gun. It’s about 500 meters from the chute and out on the flood plain behind some camouflage.”
“Nail, Zebra 1. Do you want us to take it out?”
“Hell yes. Go for it.”
“Roger that. Keep your head down.”
Zebra 1 called his wing man, “Zebra 2 you have the lead.”
“Zebra 2, roger that.”
Zebra lead was hoping the gunner would be stupid enough to fire on Zebra 2 and give away his position; he was. As Zebra 2 pulled off the target, the gunner opened up even before the bombs hit. The bombs were 20 meters away from the gun, close enough to kill the gunners but not destroy the weapon. The other A-4s, having a specific mark, were shooting fish in a barrel. The gun was obliterated.
“We got him Nail. Stay off the radio. We have to head back to the ship. But help is on the way.”
“Roger that. Good work on the gun.” Robertson tried to sound calm, but his voice wavered, disclosing his lack of bravado. He was not as frightened as he was before the A-4s killed the gun but was far from relaxed. Further transmissions were not only a waste of battery power, but also a potential hazard for any direction-finding equipment the NVA might have. Robertson continued catching his breath and trying to remember his survival training. Nothing came to mind except hiding.
Memories came flooding back about the Negrito tribesman at Jungle Survival School in the Philippines. He and other members of the Viet Nam-bound airmen were taken to Clark Air Base for briefings on the Viet Nam situation and a two-day course in jungle survival. There, after a helicopter ride into the middle of the jungle, an Air Force master sergeant gave the inbound airmen a course in how to survive in the jungle. A short and very dark Negrito tribesman was his assistant. The Negritos were pygmies, and what was survival to Americans was daily living to the Negritos. The sergeant explained how accomplished the Negritos were at hiding in the jungle. During WWII, the Philippine government wanted to use Philippine soldiers to guard the newly constructed Clark Air Field. General MacArthur wanted to use Negritos. The decision was made to do a test: Philippine soldiers would guard Clark Field for one night, but if the Negritos could infiltrate the base, MacArthur would win. At first light, the Philippine officials were bragging that no intrusion was made. MacArthur’s staff officers asked them to look at the shoes of their guards. Every guard’s shoe was marked with a white ‘X’ in chalk. The debate was over. Negritos would guard the base.
The survival instructor asked them to close their eyes for one minute. When he asked them to open their eyes, he gave them 20 minutes to find his Negrito associate. The group fanned out in the jungle clearing they were standing in, and gradually expanded their search area to well over 100 yards but returned empty handed. After admitting defeat, the Negrito emerged from leaves nearly under their feet, smiling with the few teeth he had left. He wasn’t three feet from where he was first standing. The demonstration left its mark.
Tex Robertson tried to put his training to use. He tried for several more minutes to squeeze into the clump of bamboo next to him, but the canes were so close together, no amount of effort worked. As he was trying for a third time, he heard a whistle and saw a line of NVA soldiers in uniform slowly marching up the hill, line abreast, straight toward his position. He gripped his revolver even more tightly in his right hand, squeezed as far as he could into the bamboo, and resigned himself to his fate. He didn’t know whether he would surrender or fight it out. Only God knew.
As the line slowly advanced, he froze, expecting the worst, but not knowing exactly what the worst was. Was it capture and torture? The Hanoi Hilton? A summary execution? It didn’t take long for the NVA officer in charge, who was blowing a whistle and carrying a pistol, to climb up the steep slope to the opposite side of the bamboo stand, which was about ten feet in diameter. He looked up through the gaps in the bamboo, made eye contact with Nail 33, and paused. Robertson was shaking so hard he doubted he would even hit his adversary if he fired. He was surprised by two things: the man was a regular, uniformed officer, and he was young, probably not over 20. Later he would come to understand the Vietnamese had been fighting this war, in one form or another, since the end of WWII. There were no old officers, except for those in the headquarters units.
The eye contact seemed like an eternity, but after what was probably just a few seconds, the officer abruptly turned, blew a series of calls on his whistle, and headed back down the slope. His troops followed and they disappeared in a matter of minutes.
Nail 33 was submerged in a sea of emotions. Relief was immediate, although he wasn’t out of danger yet. He was still deep in enemy territory. Bewilderment was not far behind. What just happened? And why? Did his enemy suffer from poor eyesight? Fear of being shot himself? Pity? Nail 33 would spend the rest of his life wondering. He would later suffer from PTSD, although he didn’t know then what it was. And he wouldn’t be alone.
And now, where in the hell were the Jolly Greens? The A-4s, true to their word, stayed around for as long as they could, but their sound had faded long ago. As the NVA advanced up the slope of the hill, Robertson had turned down his radio volume to avoid giving his position away. He turned it up ever so slightly and immediately heard the chatter of the rescue team on guard channel.
“Sandy Lead, Nail 33.”
“Nail 33, give me a five second hold on your radio.”
Robertson complied by holding the transmit button.
“Nail 33, got a fix. Stay off the radio until you hear us overhead. We’re about ten minutes out.”
Fifteen minutes later, the Sandys roared over and around the jungle surrounding the downed pilot, his parachute snagged in the trees and visible from the air.
“Sandy Lead, you have no idea how good you look from down here. I’m not hearing any gunfire, but I can’t promise anything. Some Navy A-4s got the bastard who got me, so that may be it.”
“Well, just to make sure, we’re going to sprinkle a little popcorn around just to make sure. Keep your head down.”
The A-4s dropped CBU 29 in the area around the pickup point, but at a safe distance from Robertson. The thousands of stainless ball bearings covering the ground neutralized most of what or who might have been hiding in the weeds, giving the Jolly Greens time to affect the rescue. Robertson wondered if this was a clue as to why the North Vietnamese officer decided to leave as quickly as he did. He may have had previous experience with A-1s and CBU.
“OK, Nail. Pop your smoke.”
Robertson pulled the ring from the red smoke canister. Red smoke almost boiled out immediately; and he tossed the canister 20 feet away down wind.
As soon as he saw the first wisp of smoke, Sandy Lead cleared the lead Jolly Green rescue chopper to Robertson’s position. Within minutes, Nail 33, face smeared with dirt and flight suit soaked with sweat, was surrounded by medics in the helicopter who gave him water and conducted a quick physical. In 45 minutes, he was met at the NKP flight line by a huge contingent from the base, especially Ted Thatcher, his squadron mate from the Academy.
At these events, which occurred once or more a week at NKP, the honoree, regardless of the unit he was assigned to or the airplane he flew, would be sprayed with champagne and embraced by those who rescued him along with his brothers who were not in the air. Later, Robertson got totally plastered at the Nail Hole, nearly squeezed the breath out of the Sandy and Jolly Green crews again and ended the evening by throwing up on the Nail Hole lawn. Just another day in the life of the Nails.
17
A Visit from Group Headquarters
Roger Brown awoke at 0500 for a 0600 takeoff. The weather was good, and early morning air was refreshing, although it wouldn’t last much longer, the tropics being the tropics after all. Brown was fragged to fly with a staff member from Bien Hoa, a Captain Powell. He hadn’t been told what the purpose of the flight was, but assumed it was some sort of information gathering exercise to pump up a resumé. After a few boiled eggs and some coffee at the Nail Hole, he caught the TUOC trolley to the flight line. As he walked into the briefing room, he met the visiting captain.
“Hi. I’m Roger Brown. Nail 73. Welcome to NKP.”
“Glad to meet you Roger. Art Powell. I hope you don’t mind taking a staff weenie along for a ride.”
“Not at all. My pleasure. Where you from?” Roger was being extra nice. He was characteristically a little sarcastic. Being nice was strictly an act.
“Buffalo, originally. No comments please.”
“Why, what a strange thing to say?” Roger was smiling. “Where’d you go to pilot training?”
“Laredo. How about you?”
“Moody. Valdosta, Georgia. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. Clouds, rain, real instrument flying, and stuff like that.”
“Okay. Rub it in.”
Texas and Arizona flight schools were well known for lack of real weather to practice instrument flying. The standard joke was that every time a cloud appeared there were a few mid-air collisions because every pilot wanted some real weather time. The staff officer seemed pleasant enough and after the briefing they suited up and headed for the flight line.
