Run Run Cricket Run, page 7
Sam hit the intercom button and asked, “By the way, did you ever put in airstrikes in Sector One on your previous tour two years ago?”
Thatcher wiped the sweat dripping from under his helmet before answering Sam’s question. “Getting through the mountains from North Viet Nam to South Viet Nam has always been a challenge because we had unilaterally avoided bombing North Viet Nam after the division in 1956. Ho Chi Minh never accepted the division of his country and started the reunification in steps. The pipeline for supplies and troops into South Viet Nam became known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Sector One was the first entry point for the troops and supplies but later they developed passes farther south at Mu Gia and Ban Karai and rarely used Sector One. That’s because they could stay in North Viet Nam longer before entering Laos since we had quit bombing the North. Laos was only in play because it was flat and trucks could run far easier at night.”
Sam interjected, “The grunts in South Viet Nam have found huge underground tunnels that link everything from ammo supplies to hospitals and truck parks. We’re finding more and more stuff underground all over the trail.”
The headsets of the O-2 pilots crackled to life and the history lesson was suspended.
“Nail 79, Boomer 20 and 21 inbound with 28 Mark 82s each, 30 minutes play time.”
“Roger that Boomer. Meet us at the Dog’s Head.”
Sam made the return call as the O-2 reached the dirt roads coming out of North Viet Nam on the far side of the valley they were traversing. The roads, little more than crude dirt trails, snaked along the flood plain of the Ngo River which twisted here and there even though the things which once caused it to twist were long gone. Ban Laboy Ford, at the literal border between North Viet Nam and Laos, was a part of a river loop resembling the profile of a dog’s head, which is what the pilots named it. The surface for hundreds of yards on either side of Dog’s Head was surrounded by remnants of rice paddies long abandoned. It looked like the landscape of the moon, cratered by years of bombing, devoid of vegetation, and powder dry.
The tree lines on either side of the valley/flood plain were as much as a mile apart in some places, only a few hundred yards in others, depending on the terrain and the jungle, which was gradually being bombed away. The edges of the jungle were defined by huge masses of trees lying scattered and splintered, obviously the battleground between something trying to hide and something trying to kill. Typically, the anti-aircraft guns were hidden close to the jungle’s edge, although many were hidden in caves at the base of the karst formations; these were usually rolled out after dark unless a daytime airstrike was initiated. In this case, the RF-4 infrared photos of the target showed the guns were protected by extensive camouflage netting and not in caves.
So far, there was no gunfire. Nevertheless, Thatcher intensified the jinking, banking erratically left and right never allowing the plane to hold course for more than a few seconds at a time. The AAA in this area was especially heavy and could reach well over 18,000 feet. The O-2, only 5,000 feet above the ground, was a tempting target, but the gunners hadn’t sensed hostile action yet. They would be advertising themselves as a target if they did.
Always turning, never in a predictable pattern, Thatcher maneuvered the O-2 over the valley to a river abutting the mountain range on what was the far side of the trail. The land around the river formation was encircled by dozens of huge bomb craters filled with aquamarine water. In fact, there were craters on top of filled-in craters. They were obviously past attempts at bombing the fords which, in many cases, were successful. Bomb craters in Laos dated as far back as the French, after WWII. But, it was also apparent the North Vietnamese had relocated the road a few meters away or hauled in dirt and resumed operation. Much of the work was done at night or under cloud cover when possible. Bulldozers were often used, and FACs that found and directed airstrikes on dozers were given a few extra pats on the back at the nightly parties at the Nail Hole.
Sam pointed out of the right window. “See the pool in the right in the middle of the Dog’s Head? Photo recon shows at least one gun, maybe more, a few meters north of there in those bushes. It’s probably radar controlled, so there may be a control van hidden there as well. It will be impossible to see, though. They’ve got it covered up with camouflaged netting and leaves.”
The Dog’s Head was well named. It could have been the profile of almost any dog. The river was about 50 yards wide and had no visible current. Thatcher looked intently through his binoculars, but Sam was right. The camouflage was perfect.
Thatcher pointed to a spot on the river a few hundred meters south of the Dog’s Head. “Is that where Baker 22 Bravo was rescued?”
“Hell yes, how’d you know that?”
“Underwood and I met him at the Cam Ranh Bay Officers’ Club two days ago. What a story! There was still a cut on his nose from the bailout. He told me the Nails played a big role in his rescue. He described the piece of karst and the river. His description was pretty accurate. I recognized it easily.”
Sam responded. “The Nail putting in the airstrike where Baker 22 got hit put in several more airstrikes on guns using what aircraft he could get after the shootdown. He’s rotated back to the States, so you won’t meet him. But several more of our guys provided constant aerial surveillance, locating additional guns and directing airstrikes when the Sandys didn’t have a fix.” Sandys were the A-1s from NKP who used the Sandy call sign when operating on rescue missions. During regular nighttime missions, when they normally flew, they used the call signs Hobo or Zorro depending on their squadron. The discussion between Sam and Thatcher was interrupted by the Marine A-6 flight.
“Nail 79, Boomer 21 and 22, two A-6s with 28 Mark 82s each. We’re overhead and have you in sight. O-2 circling left over the river.”
Sam answered, “Roger that. Target is a gun complex, probably a 57mm with four 37mms around the main gun. Now let’s give ourselves the advantage of surprise. Instead of smoking it, which would wake ’em up, I’m going to describe where that bastard is. This should be easy. Do you see about where the tip of the dog’s ear would be?”
“Affirmative,” radioed the flight leader.
“Drop your entire load right there and they’ll never know what hit ’em,” Sam chuckled.
“Fifty-six Mark 82s? Do you know what kind of a hole it’s going to make?” A Mark 82 was a 500-pound bomb, the most common used on the trail.
“Damn right I do! I expect to see hell when you’re finished.”
“Roger that Nail. That’s exactly what you’ll see. Are we cleared in hot?”
“Go get ’em tiger. We’ll be holding east at 6,500 feet.”
“Boomer flight is in hot.” The A-6 flight leader and his wingman came in a few seconds apart, vapor streaming off their wingtips as they rolled inverted and pulled the noses of their planes down steeply.
“Our Willy Pete would just wake ’em in time for the A-6s,” drawled Sam over the intercom to Thatcher. “We’d be safe, because they wouldn’t give their position away for something as small as an O-2, but the A-6s would catch hell. Going against a gun is tough work, and surprise is the best tactic I’ve found. If the first pass doesn’t kill the gun, you better believe the next pass is going to be like flying into a wall of lead. When you have a couple of pros like these Marine pilots, it’s one pass and haul ass on guns. Coming out of the sun is another good choice.”
Thatcher double-clicked his mic again to acknowledge the last comment and watched intently as twenty-eight 500-pound bombs separated from each of the twin attack jets. The bombs hurtled down as the jets pulled up hard and broke left. Seconds later, 56 enormous explosions sent shards of dust spiking up from the earth. A huge orange fireball roiled up through the huge black cloud of dust. The shock wave of the bombs physically shook the O-2, flying a mile high and a few thousand feet away. There was only one problem, as far as Thatcher could see. The explosion was at least 400 meters to the north of the target, completely outside the Dog’s Head.
“What the hell, over?” shouted Sam into the radio.
“Beggin’ your pardon?” replied the Boomer leader.
“You’re 400 meters north.” Sam’s voice displayed his obvious displeasure.
“Bullshit. That dog ain’t got an ear left.”
“Negative, Boomer. You’re 400 meters north. I will admit it’s about normal for you guys, but hell, man that was a gun. You could have at least put your coffee cup down and used two hands.”
Boomer lead responded and he wasn’t happy. “North my ass, Nail! You bastards are drinking too much Wild Turkey down there at the Nail Hole.”
“Is that you, Mike?” asked Bad Sam. “For your information, Air Force pilots drink Black Label. We also wash our hands before we piss, not after. That’s so we don’t contaminate our organ. You swabbies drink shaving lotion and have to wash your hands after you piss because you piss all over yourselves. Which is what you did on that drop.”
“Hell, Sam, I didn’t know it was you. Did you change your call sign? You weren’t Nail 79 the last time when we hit that gasoline pipeline. Boy, we still talk about that one back on the boat. But you are getting on in years, and if I’d known it was you, I would have adjusted a few hundred meters knowing you’re too old to see shit anyway. But c’mon Sam, we wiped out the damned dog’s ear and everything around it.”
“I told you to hit the tip of the dog’s ear.” Sam was exasperated.
“And that’s exactly what we did. What kind of dog do you think it is, anyway?”
“It’s a damn Beagle you asshole. Didn’t you see the nice square jaw line?” Sam was getting more agitated.
“Beagle my ass! It’s a German Shepherd.”
What followed might be described as a pregnant pause. By the time the reality hit, Sam was laughing so hard he couldn’t talk. He motioned toward the boom mic on Thatcher’s helmet, so Thatcher called Boomer flight lead. “Well, Dorothy, I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“I guess not, Nail. Merry Christmas. See you next time.”
Thatcher looked over at Sam, who was already looking at Thatcher. “Did you remember it was Christmas?”
“Hell, no! I can’t even remember what month it is.” Sam grunted.
On the ground, Sgt. Ca, the North Vietnamese gun crew commander who scored a hit a few days earlier on an O-2, for which he was promoted to Sergeant, had been caught completely by surprise. There was no rocket to mark a target, and no airplane circling above the intended target. His gun crew hurriedly manned their gun and began to punctuate the blue sky above the haze layer, first black puffs from the 37mm anti-aircraft guns, then occasional white puffs from the 57mm weapon. He was shooting at the O-2 since the A-6s were out of range and heading home to their aircraft carrier. In less than 30 minutes, the A-6 pilots would be eating pancakes and drinking coffee on their aircraft carrier.
Thatcher took back the controls and intensified the jinking as he headed for the North Vietnamese side of the trail, where mountains and jungle promised a reprieve from the guns underneath. Once out of range, he turned west toward NKP, crossing the trail at a spot where trees were more abundant and the chance of a clear shot for gunners would be less likely.
Sam triggered his mic, “How about celebrating our victory today at the Officers’ Club for lunch?’
“Sounds good to me.”
The return flight was uneventful. Leaving 5,000 feet above the ground, the air became progressively warmer as the O-2 descended after crossing the last ridge of karst. It was in the mid-nineties, at noon. Bad Sam handled the radio transmissions and Thatcher flew. After unstrapping and squeezing out of the door with their parachutes still on, they started looking over the plane. Sure enough, there were some small punctures in the wing, evidence of shrapnel damage from anti-aircraft guns and a North Vietnamese gunner’s dashed hopes for another victory for Uncle Ho.
The following day, the TUOC briefers, who always drew a grease board cartoon based on some previous day’s screw-up, drew a cartoon of Snoopy wearing pilot goggles and sitting on a doghouse, propellers front and rear, shaking a fist and saying, “Henceforth, the Dog’s Head is that of a Beagle.”
Thatcher and Bad Sam returned the parachutes, survival vests, .38 caliber pistols, AR-15s, helmets, and water flasks and caught the TUOC Trolley to the Officers’ Club.
6
Let’s Do Lunch
Super Thai placed the rolled-up washcloths in the steamer and left to begin supervising the staff setting up the evening tables. The NKP Officers’ Club was decorated for Christmas, even though most officers didn’t pay much attention. It was just another day at war. Super Thai’s position as hostess was the result of her command of the English language, which was primitive but sufficient to the task. Her delicate fingers placed the decorations precisely in place on each table as a Philippine rock band practiced American rock songs on the stage. They were trying their rendition of “Proud Mary” but were having trouble pronouncing their R’s. It sounded as if they were singing, “Lolling on the Liver.”
Like many Thai women, the thought of marrying a GI was enticing to Super Thai, whose real name was pronounced ‘Sonni’. Her motivation was economic. Northern Thailand was a place of excruciating poverty, which overwhelmed the hopes of even the most optimistic. She spent less time than most girls thinking about it, though. She made a good living at the base, and one day when the Americans left, as everyone knew they would, she would have enough saved to move to Bangkok. The war had been very good to her. She began bussing tables but perfected her English rapidly, moving to the position of hostess within three years of her arrival. She supported her mother and father and three younger siblings.
The officers all thought she was a prostitute, an assumption she encouraged for two reasons. First, in Thailand a prostitute was not the pariah one would be in the Western or Middle Eastern countries. The Southeast Asian attitudes were much more liberal in that regard, and a young woman who could support her family sleeping with men, discreetly and selectively, was not always looked down upon. But second, and more importantly, Sonni knew something about Americans they would never admit themselves. Most of them were very decent men, and if they thought she was not a prostitute, they wouldn’t pay her much attention. Less attention meant less tips. She once listened to a rather intoxicated colonel explain the peculiar American custom of treating a whore like a lady and a lady like a whore. From that point on she flirted outrageously, and her tips skyrocketed.
Bad Sam and Thatcher disembarked from the TUOC Trolley after a 10-minute ride. Thatcher swung the door open, leaving the afternoon heat behind them, spilling the bright afternoon sunlight into the cool, red carpeted interior of the Officers’ Club. Solid mahogany, not paneling, adorned the walls, and many of the tables were already taken, mostly staff officers wearing khakis instead of flight suits. Bad Sam entered first with Thatcher following. As their eyes adjusted to the light, the hostess approached and bowed with her hands in typical Thai greeting position, fingertips together, hands under the chin. She wore traditional Thai silk dress, tightly fitting and decorated lavishly with embroidery, in this case tropical birds of paradise. She was not what most men would call beautiful, but was more of a caricature, excessively long nails painted a bright, flaming red, and black hair piled almost a foot high and sporting some very long bamboo sticks through the middle in random directions. She was six feet tall but probably weighed no more than 100 pounds.
“Captain Thatcher,” Bad Sam announced with mock fanfare, “I want you to meet Super Thai, the most beautiful woman in all of Southeast Asia.”
“Sawatdee-kah, Ted.”
Thatcher mirrored her bow, but not as low, indicative of the social stature customs of the East, and responded in a low voice, “Sawatdee-krap, Sonni. How have you been?”
“Fine. I wonder if you come back.”
Sam didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. As he turned and stared at Thatcher, his eyes said it all.
“Sonni, we would like a table away from the crowd, if you please,” Thatcher said.
Sonni bowed and led the way to the table farthest away from the other occupied tables. She handed them menus, motioned for a waitress, and left. Sam was staring at Thatcher, waiting for an explanation.
Thatcher let him twirl in the wind for a while, pretending not to notice that something strange had just happened. Finally, he laughed, “Sam, don’t read anything into it. That’s how she increases her tips.”
“Well, she didn’t flirt with me.” Sam was grinning.
“How many times have you eaten here?” Thatcher was grinning right back.
“Just twice. I don’t eat. I drink.”
“Well, now you have an excuse.”
Sam re-directed the conversation. “Maybe I do. Now, have you ever heard of Cricket West?”
“Sure I have, the war between the Pathet Lao communists, and the Laotian monarchy, sometimes called the second Secret War or the People War. Nothing much has changed since my last tour, according to my conversations with the Intel guys at Bien Hoa. Raven FACs handle the People War; they get to wear civilian clothes and fly unmarked O-1 Bird Dogs as low as they want. They don’t have to shave or say ‘sir’ and there aren’t any real markings of rank. They have two operations, one in the far north of Laos bordering China in the territory called the PDJ, or Plaine des Jarres. There was also an operation across the Mekong River from NKP in the Panhandle. Kind of pathetic isn’t it? Two secret wars butting up against each other in one small, formerly peaceful country. The Truck War and the People War.”
