Run Run Cricket Run, page 16
After a 30-minute flight, and some personal comments about where they went to school and previous assignments, they leveled at 6,500 feet and Brown started jinking the O-2 and glassing the trail below.
Captain Powell keyed his microphone. “How about letting me show you a few of the tricks we use down south?”
Roger removed his hands from the yoke, holding them momentarily in the air to confirm he was no longer flying. Powell cranked in some right rudder trim and negated the trim by over-correcting with left aileron. The O-2 was flying wings level but slightly skewed, with the nose pointing a few degrees right of its actual flight pattern.
“This is a way to give the impression the airplane is flying in one direction when its actual flight pattern is a few degrees left of the actual line of the fuselage.”
The staff officer was smiling, obviously pleased with his trick, which may have worked at low altitudes where gunners might have been somewhat misled, but at a mile high, the orientation of the fuselage was not evident to ground gunners. The flight pattern was evident not from the direction the plane was pointing, but from the simple observation of a spec moving through the sky. Within a few minutes, something was making noise as it passed by the open window of the O-2. It was the sound like sheets ripping, which, in the absence of any laundry at 5,000 feet above the ground, was a clue anti-aircraft shells were passing close by the open window and probably all around the O-2.
Small arms fire, which is what the staff officer was used to, was not a factor on the trail. Large anti-aircraft shells took several seconds to reach the desired altitude and were fired ahead of an airplane’s course, not at the airplane itself and certainly not the way the nose was pointing. Brown assumed control rather abruptly and began jinking aggressively toward the nearest tree line. The staff officer, turning a little pale, didn’t object and observed passively as Brown assumed control. No one spoke.
After Brown re-trimmed the O-2, the radio crackled.
“Nail 73, Hillsborough.”
“Hillsborough, Nail 73.”
“Nail 73, your fragged flight of two F-4s with Papa Whiskeys is inbound to you now.”
Papa Whiskey was a code name for Paveways, 500-pound Mark 82s with laser homing bombs controlled by the F-4 crew and used for precision airstrikes on targets that required precision within a meter or two. They were often used on cave entrances where a hit a few meters to one side with conventional bomb drops might not damage the cave at all. But the primary targets this day were guns. Dropping bombs on an anti-aircraft gun emplacement was near suicide anyway if the gun was active, but Paveways allowed one F-4 at a higher altitude to ‘light’ the target with a laser operated by the back-seat pilot. That F-4 did not drop the bomb. It could be circling a relatively safe distance away. The second aircraft, the one dropping the bomb, could be less accurate than normal. His job was to drop the bomb from a safer altitude, but within an envelope, and monitor it as it flew itself to the heat generated by the laser light from the first F-4. The bomb had a sensor located on its nose controlling small, movable fins on the nose of the bomb. The accuracy was incredible, a few feet at most from a few thousand feet away.
“Cisco, Nail 73. Target is a gun emplacement near the base of a karst formation. I’m glassing it now, but the camouflage is excellent, so it may take two passes to knock the camouflage off it. If the first pass doesn’t kill it, you’ll need a second, but the blast should at least disable the crew. Your second pass should be on a clearly visible target. I will mark the target and pull off north. You need to come in from the east and break south. We’ll see what happens before the second round. But let’s not play all our cards yet.”
“Roger that Nail. Waiting for the smoke.”
Brown rolled in and fired a Willy Pete. The rocket hit and the smoke grew into the normal white mushroom shape.
“Cisco, the gun is about five meters left of the smoke and hidden behind a small bush. You’re cleared in hot.”
The F-4 making the drop rolled in and dropped. The bomb hurtled earthward and impacted exactly where it was supposed to. The gun was obliterated and a large crater marked its grave. Brown flew over the hole at 5,000 feet to confirm the kill. As he did, two additional anti-aircraft guns suddenly appeared from the base of the karst, but 50 meters farther to the left side, and began bracketing his O-2 with ribbons of scarlet tracers. The guns were clearly visible now but hadn’t been seen before. That’s when the light came on for Brown. They had emerged from the left of the cratered area from a cave where they hid during the day, a very common situation on the trail. Anti-aircraft guns were frequently moved, and wheeled carriages were standard on artillery pieces the world over.
Brown’s passenger from Group Headquarters screamed at Brown to get the hell out of there. Brown was already in a 90-degree bank left pulling 4Gs and ignored his distraught expert. He radioed the F-4s once again:
“Cisco Flight, there are two additional guns about 50 meters west of the destroyed gun. They were in caves and wheeled out. They’re firing, so be careful. You won’t need a mark because they’re not camouflaged.” For no apparent reason, Brown started humming “As the caissons go rolling along.” Brown’s passenger stopped screaming and appeared catatonic.
The F-4 Phantoms responded immediately and in two passes destroyed both the second and third anti-aircraft guns. The first gun was firing as it was hit; the second gun’s crew was apparently killed by the blast on the first gun and their gun was then destroyed with another Paveway without any further resistance. The Phantoms emerged unscathed, a miracle considering the wall of lead they flew through. As Brown slipped back to the west over the mountainous karst formation, he gave the F-4s their BDA. “Cisco Flight, you destroyed three 37mm guns despite intense anti-aircraft fire. All gun crews killed. I salute you brave sirs. Great performance.”
Cisco Lead came on the radio in response. “Nail, I return your compliment with the classic Ho Chi Minh Trail cheer. ‘You Nails is shit hot.’”
“Well thank you sir. I hope we meet again under more liquid circumstances.”
Lead double clicked his mic, and the Phantoms were soon a faint smoke trail in the azure blue skies over Laos.
Brown spent the next hour and a half reconnoitering the karst ridges on the trail, always jinking, always looking behind as well as ahead and above the aircraft and below it. After making a few notes about other potential targets, he called Hillsborough and told the operator he was RTB. Brown’s passenger, clearly shaken, didn’t speak for a while. After they were safely over the mountains heading west, he managed a weak, “Good work.”
Brown nodded and added a little right rudder and left aileron to make him feel at home. Arriving at the Nail Hole just in time for Happy Hour, Brown found the party in high gear. Killing anti-aircraft guns with Funny Bombs was the equivalent kicking the winning field goal at a high school homecoming football game. The absence of a special thank you from the homecoming queen was replaced by free drinks all night from his fellow Nails, many of whom faced those very guns on previous missions. Of course, it wasn’t a perfect substitute, but it would have to do—until his year in Hell was over.
Mark Tinga was the first Nail to greet Roger that evening at the Nail Hole. Roger related the story of the ‘trick maneuver’ of the staff officer to him and to some of the other Nails nearby and everyone got a good laugh. Mark put his arm around Roger. “Roger, not many guys have the oranges to do what you did. By the way, you’re not trying to break my gun kill record, are you?”
“Mark, you’re so far ahead that no one could stop you. There aren’t enough Willy Petes left in Viet Nam to mark that many targets.”
“You are just too kind,” Mark laughed. “But what are you doing insulting a staff officer from Headquarters? You’re going to give Nails a bad reputation.”
“Mark, there is an old saying I once heard from my grandfather: ‘Never spit in another man’s face unless his moustache is on fire.’ It was and I did.” The laughter from the nearby Nails was both predictable and loud.
The Nail Hole party that night went on as usual, but the fun was coming close to an end.
18
Night Flying the Hard Way
Bad Sam was hung over. It was almost 1600, and all he could remember was killing 27 trucks the night before with Big Jim. Big Jim was the major nicknamed ‘Gorilla’ who loved playing bumper cars with other inebriated Nails using seat cushions from the sofa when he’d had a snoot full. But when Sam checked the flying schedule this evening, his hangover pain increased even more. He was scheduled for another night mission, but this time with the navigator no pilot wanted to fly with, Major Stanley Kratz.
Major Kratz had the lowest truck count of any navigator in the squadron. He was a slight, balding man with stooped shoulders, not at all the picture of an Air Force warrior. In the Nail Hole, he was the wet blanket of the party, always complaining about something, never boisterous, and never happy about anything. Navigators, as a rule, liked the pilots they flew with, and took great pride in BDA, which for them was primarily truck kills and guns since there wasn’t much else to see at night. Extra points were awarded for tanks, fuel trucks, and anti-aircraft gun emplacements, double that for hitting a gun in the act of firing. But Kratz never seemed to find anything to kill. The pilots that were unfortunate enough to get him on a mission would spend hours flying around in circles, following his hand signals, but never getting a drop signal, the left thumb down motion by the navigator whose eyes were glued to the starlight scope in the right hand. The point system for nighttime kills was rather crude, and the actual point total seemed to get skewed in direct proportion to alcohol consumption, the lateness of the hour, and the phase of the moon. But it served a purpose: competition always increased effort and improved results, in life and in war. The world’s sports industry was based on the same concept.
Pairing Kratz with Sam, who had one of the highest hypothetical average point counts in the squadron, was either someone’s idea of a joke, or the Squadron Commander’s idea of improving total kills by plugging holes in the offensive line. It was an admirable management tactic, but Sam didn’t give a crap about management goals. He would have killed trucks if no one was even keeping score. Nevertheless, it was what it was.
Kratz didn’t like the war and he let it be known. He didn’t fulfill his obligations as a crew member for reasons of conscience but because of spinelessness. Every time he flew, he was given an opportunity to save American soldiers fighting in South Viet Nam. That’s why Nails fought. Instead, he skirted the edges of the trail where the gunfire was sporadic and the probability of finding targets was slim.
None of the pilots and navigators liked the war. They knew it was not only a hopeless cause, but of questionable justification. Any Nail who ever stepped into the cockpit knew he might not come back. But they were Air Force officers, and they understood clearly the oath they swore to serve their nation. The Nails with the highest BDA were often those who gravitated to the areas with the most gunfire because they knew the trucks were there. Stan Barwick, the pilot who often thought about becoming a Buddhist Monk, opened the door to the Nail Hole. Unlike Sam, who was looking for a light breakfast after a late-night flight and a late awakening, Stan was looking for an early lunch before taking off on an afternoon trail mission. The two began eating peanuts and cracking boiled eggs.
“How’d you do last night?” Barwick asked Sam.
“Twenty-seven. Three convoys coming out of the mountains east of Tchepone. How about you?”
“Eighteen trucks and two tanks. And I was on the last flight of the day schedule. I found them right at sunset. Have you noticed the increase in truck traffic over the last several months?”
Barwick poured each of them a cup of coffee from the pot Sam had started when he entered the Nail Hole earlier. Sam took a light sip of the hot black coffee. “Hell yes. We are in for something big, and it won’t be long. There’s no way we can continue with the troop withdrawals in the South and the increase in truck traffic from the North. We’re on some sort of collision course, and it won’t be long in coming. I’ve only got two months left on my tour, so I won’t be here for the end, and I’m glad. It ain’t going to be pretty.”
“What’s crystal ball say?” Sam spoke while still trying to get the little pieces of eggshell off his egg. His fingers were shaking so badly from his bender the night before he was having trouble, so Barwick gave him a peeled egg and took Sam’s half-peeled egg.
“Kind of obvious,” Barwick answered. “The acceleration in traffic and the increase in gunfire is getting to the point where we’d be idiots to think SAMs aren’t far behind. I don’t know about you, but I see the curtain starting to come down.”
“Well, let’s make sure it doesn’t hit us on the head on the way.” Sam washed down the egg with a swig of coffee, the cup trembling in his hand.
“Have you ever figured out what in the hell we’re doing here?” Stan was being serious, not caustic. And it was a question Nails asked each other frequently.
Sam was not an academic by any stretch, but he was a lot smarter than many gave him credit for. “I think a few politicians think Viet Nam, like WWII, was a fight between good and evil. Kennedy, Johnson, and finally Nixon wanted to be like Eisenhower, a real hero who turned out to be a great president. We could call it the Savior Complex. But Viet Nam is not Japan or Europe, and Ho Chi Minh is not Hitler. According to Thatcher, Ho Chi Minh was our ally in WWII. He says a lot of the war is about rice. North Viet Nam doesn’t grow it very well.”
Barwick washed down the last part of his egg and then answered. “Well, I didn’t know that, but I don’t disagree. I was a music major, so I’m not much on world history, but I have never figured out why the United States government thinks this place is worth thousands of American lives, not to mention the thousands more wounded. It’s one thing to help someone who has been invaded by another country, but in this case it’s the Vietnamese who were invaded, first by France and now by us.”
Sam pushed his bar stool back and got up. “The only problem I see is that you and I aren’t in charge. Well, thanks for helping an old man with his boiled eggs. You flyin’ again today?”
Barwick swallowed his last bite and then answered, “Yep! And then I’m headed for Bangkok for three days after I land.”
“Well, have a good time. See you when you get back.”
“How about you, Sam?”
“Drew Kratz for tonight’s mission.” Sam’s disgust was not hidden.
“Well, good luck. I’ve never killed a truck with him.”
Sam smirked. “Well, tonight he’s going to kill some trucks. I’ve got a plan.”
Sam went back to his room, got a good day’s sleep, and later that evening met Major Kratz at the TUOC briefing room. Kratz was a slightly built man with thinning gray hair and a permanent look of suspicion or perhaps distrust. His eyes never seemed to stay focused on one thing very long—they darted around like ping pong balls on a table. When Shakespeare wrote, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once,” he must have known a Stanley Kratz. Sam was known to be slightly less poetic: he suggested Kratz just didn’t have the oranges for combat. After the standard briefing, he and Kratz walked out to their black O-2 and met the crew chief. After a standard preflight, they strapped on their parachutes as the sun was going down on a beautiful, clear evening at NKP. They didn’t speak more than a few words through the briefing which was fine as far as Sam was concerned. He started the engines and after taxiing and taking off, he spoke to Major Kratz over the intercom.
“Well, Stanley, what say we set some records tonight?” Sam was grinning his famous Bad Sam grin, a combination of mischievousness and sarcasm.
Kratz didn’t say anything, but looked over at Sam from the right seat, expressionless.
Within 30 minutes, darkness set in; Kratz took the starlight scope out of the bag and started warming it up, looking out of the open window on his side of the plane. He scanned the terrain below and motioned for a right turn to Sam, using his left hand. Sam complied, and rolled out when Kratz held his hand up level. The twists and turns continued for over 20 minutes with no indication from Kratz he saw anything. Sam slowly reached up to the armament panel and flipped the outboard drop switch on the left side of the O-2. He then hit a button on the yoke which released a parachute flare that Kratz would not see from the right seat until it ignited, after about 15 seconds later. Parachute flares came in an aluminum box about three feet long and five inches square. Because they were not aerodynamic, they tumbled as soon as they were dropped. A parachute popped out after a few seconds, a bright white flare then ignited below the chute, and the ground 5,000 feet below was illuminated well enough to see with the naked eye. Parachute flares were optional, depending on pilot preference. The normal night marking devices were red ground flares. Sam ordered parachute flares loaded on his O-2 for good reason. With them, the pilot and the navigator could see the trucks below, something not possible with red ground flares. There was one drawback: the gunners below knew someone was trying to kill their trucks. As usual, they opened up with a barrage of anti-aircraft fire aimed in all directions since they couldn’t see who dropped the flares. The range of the shells was over two miles.
Kratz reacted with shock. “What in the hell did you do? I didn’t call for a flare drop.”
Sam rolled the O-2 up 60 degrees on the right wing and looked out of the window on Kratz’s side of the airplane. It was apparent they were over jungle covering rugged mountains, at least a half mile from the trail.
Sam triggered his intercom. “Tell you what Stanley, since there aren’t any roads down there, there won’t be any trucks. Let’s see if we can find some guns.”
