COMBAT CONTRAILS VIETNAM: AW S*** SHACK!

COMBAT CONTRAILS:VIETNAM, by William B. Scott, features 18 compelling stories told by combatants who fought on the ground, in the air, and on the water during the Vietnam War. From daring rescues of downed pilots as enemy forces close to handling a crazed water buffalo aboard a C-123K transport, seasoned veterans share their unforgettable and extraordinary experiences. COMBAT VIETNAM is the first book in a series that chronicles true stories, spanning from the Cold War and reconnaissance missions to flight testing, combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and special operations worldwide. Following is one of the stories contained in the book. AW S*** SHACK! By William B. Scott and “Farmer” My first combat mission over North Vietnam would be a hard-hitting, eight-bomb strike against a major vehicle repair facility in Hanoi. We were going Downtown. As the new guy pilot, I was assigned the Number Two position in a four-ship formation, our flight leader’s right wingman. My back-seater or guy-in-back (GIB) was Rooster, an experienced F-4D Phantom Weapon Systems Officer who had logged several missions over the North.

Preflight was routine. While Rooster was firing up our bird’s Inertial Navigation System, I conducted the walkaround, confirming all bits and pieces of the mean-looking, camouflage-green fighter were in the right places and firmly secured. The F-4D was configured with two AIM-7 radar-guided air-to-air missiles, two Electronic Countermeasures or ECM pods, a couple of 275-gallon wing tanks filled with JP-4 fuel, and a pair of massive 2,000-lb. Laser Guided Bombs (LGB). To confuse radar-guided surface-to-air missiles (SAM), bundles of chaff—strips of aluminum foil—were tucked inside the F-4D’s speed brakes. Takeoff, join up and the flight up north were uneventful. We rendezvoused with a KC-135 tanker and took turns topping off our fuel tanks, before crossing into North Vietnam. With ECM pods beeping and squeaking, our semi-spread formation of four jets created an indistinct blob of noise on enemy radars. To avoid a SAM fused to detonate at a predetermined altitude in the middle of that blob, our four-ship repeatedly drifted down a few hundred feet, then climbed back up to roughly 18,000 ft.  As we approached Hanoi, Lead wagged his wings, signaling us to maneuver into a fingertip formation. The mission called for a pull-up, then 90-degree roll-in delivery, which meant the flight would bank steeply at the initial point, roll into a 45-deg. dive, and when altitude, airspeed and dive angle parameters came together, Lead would call, “Pickle!” Each pilot would mash a button on the control stick, releasing two 2,000-lb. LGBs.

Meanwhile, Lead’s GIB would be firing a laser beam from a Pave Knife pod mounted near his F-4D’s wing root. When locked on the target, reflected laser light would create a cone or “basket” with its vertex on that vehicle repair joint. Because this was long before the days of automatic tracking, the GIB used a small TV screen and hand controller to manually hold the Pave Knife’s laser crosshairs on our target. Not easy, but if he successfully lased the repair facility throughout our delivery and about six seconds of laser-guided free-fall, eight 2,000-pounders would obliterate the target. Eyes glued to Lead’s wingtip, my heart rate ratcheted up a few notches as the four-ship rolled in and started downhill. Weapons selected. Master Arm switch on. Speed brakes out… NOW! Our chaff bundles scattered in unison, creating a huge cloud of tin foil and, hopefully, hiding four Phantoms from the bad guys’ deadly radar-guided, surface-to-air missiles. Thumbs poised over the weapon-release button, we dived smartly, airspeed retarded a bit by those big slabs of speed brakes. Radio calls from all over North Vietnam assaulted my helmet-covered ears, which strained to hear Lead’s call through the nonstop cacophony of SAM-generated warning tones and transmitted warnings:  “SAMs! Four o’clock!” “Break right! MiGs on your tail! “Break left! Hard LEFT!” Confusion reigned, overwhelming the mission frequency with frantic radio calls, squeals, static, beeps from emergency beacons and scrambled babble. Over the noise, I heard it: “Pickle! Pickle! Pickle!” I jammed the weapons release button and felt our hulking fighter thump as 4,000 lb. of steel, high explosives and expensive laser-guidance kits departed.   Bombs away!  …Aw s***!

Lead’s bombs were still snugged up under his wings, as he and the other two Phantoms continued a steep dive. Heartbeats later, I heard his distinctive call, “Pickle! Pickle! Pickle!” A shower of LGBs fell away from three F-4s. But not mine. I’d already launched my pair of 2,000-lb. blivets. To where, I had no idea. Lead started a gentle straight-ahead pull-up, while his GIB carefully tracked our target, holding the Pave Knife crosshairs over those six LGBs’ final destination. We flew directly over the target, roughly 10,000 ft. above the impending firestorm and outside anti-aircraft gun range. Lead banked and wagged his rudder, signaling us to maneuver back into a spread formation. Exiting the target area’s threats of flak and missiles, I struggled to keep up with the formation. Throttles full forward in military power, I kept falling back, lagging the other aircraft. What the….? Had we been hit? All cockpit gauges confirmed critical systems were humming and happy. Both General Electric J-79 engines were faithfully producing up to 17,000 lb. of thrust. To hang onto Lead’s wing, though, I had to select both afterburners, consuming precious fuel at a scary rate. It felt like we were dragging an 18-wheeler truck! Frantically, I kept scanning the instrument panel, mind racing. What’s wrong, old girl? A brain flash of no-way; you-gotta-be-kidding-me: I’d left the speed brakes out, as we pulled up, following the bomb-delivery maneuver! Functioning exactly as designed, those flat-plate boards sticking into the airstream were creating beaucoup drag, battling against the J-79s’ thrust. And, of course, devouring our fuel. Then our Number Four called, “MiG at six! Firing missiles!” Lead commanded a hard right break-turn to evade missiles trying to lock onto an unlucky F-4. Back into afterburner. Even more precious fuel gulped and gobbled. Number Two was rapidly sinking into deep-s*** trouble. “Four” finally called an all-clear. The enemy missiles were tumbling out of control and that MiG had vanished.

Rooster and I did some quick fuel calculations and concluded we wouldn’t make it back to base. I’d screwed up big time. Nothing to do but call Lead and confess that our skosh fuel situation had put us in hurt-city. Fortunately, a gutsy KC-135 tanker crew crossed the Laos-North Vietnam border, enabling me to link up and take on a few thousand pounds of life-giving JP-4 with only minutes to spare. As my heart rate slowed to something approaching normal, I swore undying allegiance to every tanker driver in the U.S. Air Force. Back in formation, our four-ship flew home with no further excitement. However, I’d never felt lower. First combat mission and I’d blown it. Years of hard work—ROTC in college, pilot training, Phantom transition, air-to-air and air-to-ground training, and finally realizing a long-held dream, flying fighters…. All down the proverbial tube! When it came time to put everything on the line in combat, I’d messed up royally. Probably be grounded. Maybe sent back to the states, banished to a training squadron, flying Cessna T-37 “Tweets” for the rest of a brief, boring career. Damn!

After landing, taxi and shutdown, I silently crammed a kneeboard, checklist, helmet and oxygen mask into an olive-drab bag. I’d just stepped off the ladder, when a colonel pulled up in a staff car. Glumly, I slinked over and started mumbling. “I’m really sorry, sir. I screwed up. Thought I heard Lead calI…” “What the hell you talking about, Captain? What shape’s your airplane in? Is it up for another mission?” the colonel barked. A maintenance officer! Stunned, I stammered, “ Uhh… Yes, sir! Code One, sir! No squawks. Good to go, sir.” Back at the squadron, our flight lead—a veteran fighter pilot—began the mission debriefing by asking a question I was dreading: “What happened to all your fuel?” I admitted leaving my speed brakes out, as we came off the target. I didn’t mention the early pickle. After a long pause, Lead simply growled, “I’ll bet you won’t do that again.” That was it. “Farmer” had lived to fly the Phantom another day! Somehow, some way, the God that watches over green fighter pilots had taken pity on this ol’ country boy. A few days later, I was scanning a newspaper, when a small article caught my eye. Evidently, Paris peace talks had been disrupted by indignant North Vietnamese accusations that American pilots had bombed a sensitive facility very important to the Communists. It was deep in Hanoi, not far from a major vehicle repair facility. American negotiators adamantly denied that the sacrosanct edifice had been targeted by U.S. forces. I carefully reread the article, a big grin spreading across my young mug. Maybe, just maybe, Farmer’s bombs hadn’t been wasted. Farmer went on to fly 200 combat missions, many over North Vietnam. A few years later, he was selected for USAF Test Pilot School and logged several thousand hours as both an Air Force and civilian test pilot. He retired as a full colonel from the Air Force Reserves, and recently from a major aerospace firm as its chief test pilot. Read more incredible stories as told to author Bill Scott, who sat down with these legends for multiple interviews to learn how it really was.