Run Run Cricket Run, page 21
Lt. Stevens, the Georgia football star, heard the story and made a mental note to remember aircraft were expendable, his life was not. He and the major logged the last three missions in Sector II, near Mu Gia Pass. This night, he and Major K were fragged to Sector III, which covered the territory near Ban Karai Pass. It was south of Sector II meaning the trucks were able to stay safely in North Viet Nam longer before crossing into Laos on the trail. As they climbed east, Art Kazinski briefed him on the difference in the sectors.
“Tonight, the North Vietnamese trucks you see will have logged another ten or so miles in safety because their trucks were able to travel farther in North Viet Nam jungle before turning west into Laos. It’s taken them a while, but they never stop hacking roads through the jungle. The farther they can get in North Viet Nam before they enter Laos, the safer they are since we don’t bomb the North anymore. We’re not authorized to strike them until they cross the border. They’ve become so brazen, they sometimes line them up in broad daylight, waiting for bad weather or darkness to move them. How’s that for a screwed-up war?”
“I guess I have to ask: Do FACs ever cheat on those restrictions?” Tom Stevens was exhibiting the same reaction all new FACs did: Were we here to win or not?
“It’s been known to happen. Sometimes the border is difficult to pinpoint.” Major K was grinning, his face softly illuminated by the instrument panel lights.
“I’ll have to remember that,” laughed the young pilot, adding a little more elevator trim and his own grin to the dialogue. The two officers made a strange pair. In addition to a 15-year age gap, Stevens was a southerner, Kazinski was from the north. Stevens was a football star, Kazinski was a sedate, intellectual who loved reading history books, particularly books about WWII. Stevens was six-foot-two; Kazinski was five-foot-eight; Stevens was a newly-wed; Kazinski a grandfather.
Major K took the starlight scope out of the bag and started scoping the ground below. The sun’s last glow was replaced by tracers, visible as far as 30 miles farther down the trail. Parachute flares by the dozens were already swinging lazily in darkening sky in South Viet Nam, meaning the black C-123 flare ships, called Candlesticks, were hard at work trying to find targets for their A-1s. Tom Stevens saw other large red tracers to the south, also many miles away, but they were not coming from the ground up toward an airplane, they were coming from an airplane toward the ground.
“Those are the C-130 gunships you told me about on our last mission.” Lt. Stevens pointed to the south.
“Roger that. They can be extremely effective, but they can’t operate in most places we do because they can’t jink when it gets hot. That’s why they fly a little above 10,000 feet. Since they’re 4,000 feet higher than we are, the AAA is at its peak unless it’s firing straight up. Remember, what they can do, which is unique in aerial combat, is fly in a computer-driven parabolic arc allowing them to fire their recoilless cannons continuously as they fly in a 360-degree circle.”
Tom Stevens broke hard left as a string of 37mm shells came up suddenly, low and from the left. They went under the O-2 and lit up the sky above them high and to the right as the shells airburst in a sparkling crescendo. The display was beautiful, but the fact that the shells were intended to kill them tended to dampen any pleasure the observation might have provided otherwise. After recovering from the break, both crewmembers rechecked the tightness of their seat belts and shoulder harnesses and adjusted their mental and psychological state to ensure maximum concentration and emotional control. It was time to get serious.
“Good move on that break Tom! What the hell is going on? The main part of the trail is still a mile or so ahead. Let me see if this can find something.” The starlight scope was on, but Kazinski was waiting for the functional part of the trail to start his hunt. As a rule, the guns were silent until the attacks began. The gunners didn’t want to advertise themselves as targets in the absence of any other targets. It was like hanging a sign on themselves saying, “shoot me.” But on this particular night, they made a mistake, and it would cost them dearly. They opened up on the O-2 before any provocative action on the part of the Nails. Major K immediately started scanning below.
It wasn’t long until the reason for their aggressive behavior became clear: there were a dozen tanks on a side road leading to the main portion of the trail. They came into view a few minutes after the warning shot from the gunners below and were getting ready to turn south.
“Damn!” Major Kazinski’s shock was understandable. This was the first sighting of tanks on the trail and it probably meant a further escalation of the North Vietnamese attacks in South Vietnam.
“Call Moonbeam and get something here fast. Tell them we’ve got tanks.”
“Moonbeam, Nail 77, we’ve got tango alpha november kilos in sight. Need something right away.”
As Tom Stevens finished his request, he banked quickly once again, dodging two more strings of 37mm shells, this time from separate guns.
It took a few seconds for the Moonbeam controllers to figure out ‘tank’ was spelled phonetically to disguise, or at least obscure, the message from anyone listening in. Lt. Stevens encoded the message on his own; it wasn’t necessary since radio transmissions were scrambled. Nevertheless, it showed he was being extra cautious, and Maj. Kazinski smiled to himself. Moonbeam controllers reacted quickly and redirected two A-1s from NKP that were outbound to Sector II to the north. In less than two minutes, they checked in with Nail 77.
“Nail 77, Zorro 21 and 22 five out from your position. Eight napalms apiece, four Funny Bombs and pistols. We have your overhead beacon.”
Lt. Stevens keyed his mic, “Zorro flight, what we have down here has tracks if you get my meaning. We’ll drop two marks and suggest you mix up the roll-ins more than usual. We’ve already taken 37mm fire and haven’t even dropped anything yet. Let me know when you see our beacon and the marks. We’ll be well to the west to give you room. Let’s use the nape first to light up the area. We’re dropping the marks now.”
Major K was smiling to himself. His young pilot was only on his third mission, but he was learning fast. He figured out, on his own, that napalm would provide illumination for the succeeding drops of the Funny Bombs. They could easily melt the tanks, barrels and all. Major K, his head buried in the hood of the starlight scope, used hand signals to direct Lt. Stevens over the drop zone. Then he gave the thumbs down drop sign twice, a few seconds apart. As the last ground flare dropped, he put the starlight scope in his lap.
“Okay, let’s head west and watch the show.” The ground flares took a few minutes to ignite before they became visible.
Lt. Stevens started a steep turn to get as far away from the target and the A-1s as quickly as possible. Within three or four minutes, the red ground flares reached a brilliant glow visible from miles away. Major K motioned for a 180-degree turn to the left to place him on the side where the show would begin so he could give corrections to the A-1s. As the black O-2 was halfway through the turn, he pushed the starlight scope out of the window again. “Shit hot!” he shouted over the intercom. Then, over the radio, “Zorro the marks are perfect, one on each end of the column. Send everything between them to hell. We’ll be south of the target at 7,000.”
“Roger that,” responded Zorro lead. “Zorro 21 is in hot. Two, delay until you see what the nape lights up.” Zorro 22 acknowledged, and the show began.
Within seconds, a sight very few people would ever witness appeared on the inky black canvas below. Napalm, basically jellied gasoline, doesn’t erupt instantly, like a bomb; it splashes in a line of bright orange flame, lighting up the ground around it as if it were day. It runs along the ground like a flaming avalanche burning anything it touches and sucking the air out of anything close to it. At the end of the 300-foot stream of hell, everything under it is on fire. The flames die slowly, over several minutes, but that was all the time Zorro 22 needed to assess the damage. The tank column came to a complete halt, but only the first four were burning. If there were any crew members alive in the rest, they were undoubtedly trying to reverse course to get out of their death traps.
Zorro lead radioed his wingman to come from the rear, both to ensure the remaining tanks didn’t reverse course and to confuse the gunners who were probably still looking in the direction Zorro lead came from. Zorro 22 had a cake walk. The light from the remaining napalm was still adequate to see precisely where to drop and he didn’t miss. The rear of the tank column was now ablaze and ammunition from the tanks started to erupt in a furious series of explosions. With each new explosion, the tanks jumped a few feet off the ground and disintegrated a little more.
During the entire episode, North Vietnamese gunners in the area were furiously shooting randomly into the sky. Red tracers were screaming up from the ground in all directions since the gunners had no idea where the black A-1s were. The Nails enjoyed a front row seat. They could see Zorro 22 at the bottom of his pass even though the A-1 was painted black; that was how bright the flames were. The FACs, even from their higher vantage point, were still forced to dodge both 37mm and 23mm tracers; some of the AAA rounds fired at the Zorros were fired in their direction. Other gunners, not sure of where to shoot, were firing wildly, not at all uncommon in night conflicts.
The attack continued for another 20 minutes, with both Zorros exhausting everything except their Funny Bombs. After they paused the attack, Kazinski entertained Lt. Stevens and the Zorros with a little humor. “Guys, you’re not going to believe this, but they’re down there kicking dirt on the burning tanks.”
“Kicking dirt? You’ve got to be kidding,” radioed Zorro lead.
“No, I’m not. They are trying to put the fire out.” Apparently, the crews abandoned ship, as it were, hid somewhere in the vicinity, and then reemerged when they thought the attack was over. “Okay, guys. You destroyed the tanks on each end of the column, let’s use the Funny Bombs on the rest. You’re cleared in hot. Start from the front of the column and work backward.” Major K motioned with his hand to Lt. Stevens to turn north to give the A-1s plenty of room to maneuver. Stevens started the turn.
“Zorro 21, roger that. In hot from the east. I’ll be breaking south Nail.”
“Zorro 21, roger. We’re well north at 7,000.”
Funny Bombs, the phosphorus bombs with thermite initiators that start with a flash, and slowly grow into a boiling white hot magnesium cloud from hell, were tailor made for tanks. The FACs observed only using peripheral vision to avoid night blindness. The Zorros spent ten minutes dropping on the tanks that were either undamaged or damaged but not burning. Major Kazinski called for the last pass on the second tank, which was stopped but still not burning, and Zorro 21 called in hot.
The ‘fog of battle’, a common term in military affairs, afflicts military operations everywhere and has throughout history. It results from the confusion and uncertainty surrounding battle whether land, sea, or air. On this evening, it manifested itself once again as Zorro 21 dropped the second Funny Bomb. Seconds later, a clip of seven shells from a 37mm anti-aircraft gun streamed up from behind the O-2 and ripped off four feet of the right wing. The two Nails were trapped in an airplane with no ejection seat. The panic was indescribable. The cramped cockpit left no room to maneuver and the O-2 was instantly uncontrollable. It disintegrated on the ground in less than a minute. It was downed by a random shot fired wildly by a gunner with no idea what he was shooting at in the black, Laotian night.
On the ground, the 37mm gun crew commanded by North Vietnamese Sergeant Ca, the gunner whose name meant ‘brave warrior’, shouted with joy at the vengeance his three-gun anti-aircraft battery wreaked on the American spotter plane. He knew it was a lucky shot, but to him it was a tribute to his father who died recently. He was now the oldest member of the family, a family that fought first the Japanese, then the French, and now the Americans. This was his second ‘kill’ and would earn him another promotion.
Major Art Kazinski and Lt. Tom Stevens had been trapped in a completely uncontrollable airplane, one with no ejection seats and with faint hope of opening the door and bailing out given the cramped cockpit. After the war, records would show only one successful bailout from an O-2. A total of 178 would be shot down. OV-10 losses were 73; and the OV-10 had an ejection seat. The next day’s photo-recon pictures showed the O-2 lying on its belly, four feet of wing missing. Apparently, it went into a flat spin and crash landed on its belly. Bailing out of an O-2 was difficult under normal circumstances, particularly for the pilot. If the navigator in the right seat was incapacitated, bail out would have been impossible under any circumstance. There would be only one documented bailout.
No one would ever know why, but two opened parachutes were lying in a pile on the ground next to the remains of the fuselage the next day as the RF-4 reconnaissance aircraft photographed the scene. There was no indication the parachutes had been used; they were too neatly piled up. Apparently, they were removed unopened from the bodies, popped open, and piled neatly to discourage any search and rescue attempt. Sergeant Ca and his gun crew weren’t being kind; they just didn’t want any interference with their normal activities. His father would have been proud. This was his third American aircraft destroyed.
The Nail Hole was predictably somber that evening. The Viking atmosphere was subdued. Conversations were in hushed tones, not the boisterous banter which normally prevailed. The Nails had suffered the loss of two heroes, men who fought bravely with no thought of fame or fortune. Men who served their country when it called. Men whose names would be etched in stone on a wall with over 58,862 other names. Family members and veterans would visit the wall over the years and remember their comrades. Many would say a prayer. Some would shed a tear. Nearly all would silently vow to oppose any commitment of American lives in the future without a clear and compelling justification for putting American lives in harm’s way. And, one day, people would stop coming.
23
The Beginning of the End
Captain Ted Thatcher landed after a day mission over Sector III, a mission marked by two airstrikes on suspected truck parks in triple canopy jungle. Not uncommonly, there was no discernible BDA. He had flown over the crash site of Major Art Kazinski and Lt. Tom Stevens on the way to his target. Not surprisingly, there was nothing left. The North Vietnamese moved the wreckage and dumped the bodies in the jungle to prevent any attempt at recovering them. As he climbed out of the cockpit, hair rumpled from the helmet and camouflaged fatigues wet dark with sweat, he was met by the squadron orderly, Airman Blake, driving a Jeep. “Sir, the Squadron Commander wants to see you as soon as it is convenient.”
“I’m not in any trouble, am I Airman Blake?” Thatcher was smiling.
“I don’t think so, sir. I think it’s about a meeting he wants you to attend.”
“Must be important. Want to give me a ride?”
“Yes sir. How was your mission today?”
“Typical. Tree parks, airstrike on targets I couldn’t see, and no discernible damage. I may put myself in for a medal of some sort. There must be a medal for frustration. Take me by the armory and let me get rid of this stuff.”
Thatcher loaded his parachute, AR-15, .38 caliber revolver, survival vest, and helmet into the back seat and climbed in the front seat next to the squadron clerk. They stopped at the armory on the way to headquarters and Thatcher dropped off his gear. A few minutes later, the Jeep pulled up to the Headquarters of the 23rd Tactical Air Support Squadron.
“Well, that was better than walking in this insufferable heat. Thanks for picking me up.”
“Not at all, sir. Have a good day.”
Thatcher entered the headquarters building and knocked on the door post of the Squadron Commander’s office. Col. Melendez looked up and motioned him in.
“Hi Ted. Did you win the war today? Can we go home now?” He was smiling. Thatcher saluted,
“Not quite, sir. Just created some more firewood for the locals.”
Col. Melendez returned the salute and motioned the captain to a chair.
“Ted, I called you here to see if you would be interested in a very delicate assignment. It involves working with the CIA, the Laotians, and the South Vietnamese military. You’ve already demonstrated a great rapport with our Laotian military. The X-Rays you fly with have a very high regard for you. I’ve already talked with Major Khampat and he picked you above the other Nails he flies with on the Cricket West missions. You’re the only Nail we have who speaks French, another plus for this mission.”
“First of all, colonel, I don’t speak French fluently. I learned what little I know on my first tour over here and I can get by. But if that’s a criteria for ending the war, we’ve lost. I will gladly accept your invitation based on the fact Major Khampat has recommended me. I assume the assignment is about a change in strategy. When we talked in the Officers’ Club a few months ago, I more or less predicted as much based on both the French experience and the obvious observation we are already pulling out. The abandonment of Khe Sanh and Dong Ha, our two northern most bases, was a signal to everyone watching this fiasco we couldn’t plug the supply line from the North. From what I see in the little news we get here; the U.S. is about to explode.”
“Ted, your guess is probably right on the money. What I’ve been told—and my paygrade doesn’t allow me access to much else—is that the South Vietnamese are going to invade Laos with infantry and tanks and block the trail from the ground. And, we are going to beef up Dong Ha and Khe Sanh in support. You will know more than me in a few days because you are to represent our squadron in the planning session at the Raven compound in Pakse, Laos. The Raven commander there will fly over and pick you up at 1300 hours tomorrow. You know the drill. Civilian clothes, no ID.”
“Do I have any authority to commit us in any way or am I just an observer?”
“I’ve been told we are to give them anything they want.” Ted Thatcher didn’t respond immediately, and the Squadron Commander finally broke the silence. “What are you thinking?”
