COMBAT CONTRAILS VIETNAM: The Threat Inside My Aircraft

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 closed in 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. THE THREAT INSIDE MY AIRCRAFT By William B. Scott and Tom Menza Another day, another mission. From Saigon, my crew and I routinely hauled critical cargo all over South Vietnam. Our lumbering, 1950s-vintage C-123K transport wasn’t sexy, but the old girl was a vital link to troops depending on us to bring them beans, bullets, bombs and priceless letters from home. We routinely dodged groundfire, but never in my wildest dreams could I have anticipated today’s bizarre mission.

During preflight, I noticed the ground crew spreading hay and straw on the cargo bay’s floor. What the…? A large truck backing up to the aircraft’s lowered rear ramp brought the answer: A 2,000-pound Asian water buffalo. We were tasked with flying the U.S. State Department’s four-legged, one-ton gift to a Vietnamese village, where a local militia had helped U.S. Army Rangers protect a mountain pass. A dozen handlers wrestled the beast up the loading ramp, pushing and pulling it to a midship position. Our reluctant passenger was rigid, tense, and breathing heavily, resisting the crew’s diligent attempts to wrap a web of six nylon straps around his massive form and tie them to anchor rings in the floor. I hoped the hay and straw would absorb water buffalo droppings and urine. Otherwise, our maintenance guys’ corrosion control team would rip me a new one.

Once the critter was secured, my crew and I boarded via the forward entry door to avoid our guests in the cargo bay.  We strapped into the cockpit, completed routine checks and procedures, started the engines, and taxied to the end of the runway. “Saigon Tower, Bookie one-zero-five, number-one on taxiway Alpha for departure.” “This is Saigon. Bookie on Alpha cleared for takeoff.”  Our flight engineer pushed the throttles up to takeoff power, and we were rolling. The usual rattling and considerable vibration eventually disappeared, as our steed left the ground. The miracle of flight had happened again. We climbed to 5,000 feet and settled in for the 40-minute flight to our destination—a 1,800-foot dirt airstrip on top of a hill, adjacent to a small village surrounded by large, tropical trees. None of us would forget that village. Its name was distinctive and, as it turned out, quite appropriate for the day’s mission:  Phuoc Yu. “Ph” is pronounced as an “F”. En route, I enjoyed the view of Vietnam from above—verdant, laced with rivers and canals, farmers’ fields, rolling hills, valleys, villages, and a small city or two. Hardly the image of a war zone.  Ten minutes before landing, though, serenity gave way to absolute chaos in the back.  Our massive passenger was bellowing loudly, accompanied by a cacophony of hooves stomping on the cargo bay’s metal floor. Over the intercom: “Loadmaster to pilot! That damn buffalo got loose!” We now had a one-ton very angry creature running from one end or our airplane to the other. With its newfound freedom, the critter did what a male water buffalo does—assert its alpha bull status, by targeting the nearest source of its discomfort: our loadmaster.

“Yiiieee! Load to pilot! The damn thing is charging me!” he screamed.  I glanced over my shoulder to see our loadmaster scramble up the cargo bay’s side panels, then cling to the ceiling, barely clear of slashing horns. “Load’s” relatively safe haven high in the tail section left him hanging upside down on steel-wire control cables, emulating a tree sloth. Up-front, the copilot, flight engineer and I tried to remain inconspicuous, silently thanking Him that we weren’t back there with Big Buff and our load-sloth. Besides, we had our hands full, fighting to maintain control of the airplane. “Descent check!” I called, setting up to land. Of course, nothing in our kneepad checklists covered landing with a runaway water buffalo bellowing, stomping, ramming bulkheads, and trying to destroy the insides of an aircraft. Its awesome horns had already punctured the aircraft skin. We had to get on the ground ASAP! Landing on a short field required full flaps and the slowest possible safe airspeed, a couple of knots above stall. That was about 89 knots, as I recall. Using the FM radio, my copilot called a Special Forces team holding the airstrip.  “Phuoc Yu radio, Bookie one-zero-five. Random overhead to three-zero, full stop.” I turned final and lined up with the runway, aiming for a near-end touch-down point a thousand feet below. At such a slow landing speed, trimming the aircraft was crucial. That meant balancing aerodynamic forces on the flight controls with a large “trim wheel” linked by cables to tabs on the aft edge of our horizontal tail.  Trimming reduced the amount of control force a pilot felt. By not having to manhandle the C-123K’s heavy, unboosted controls, trimmed landings were easier and safer. However, at a mere 500 feet, just before landing, that loud, bellowing buffalo decided to lumber from the back to the front of the cargo bay. That one-ton shift of weight drastically altered the aircraft’s center of gravity, unbalancing my landing trim setting. As the bull ran fore and aft, the aircraft nose went up and down, requiring constant power and speed changes to compensate for pitch variations.  We were now in a no-win cycle. Adding speed to avoid stalling and regain pitch control meant we were too fast to stop on the short Phuoc Yu dirt strip. Unable to land, I rammed the throttles forward, pulled the nose up and executed a go-around. Circling back, I tried again. The damned critter moved again, and my trim and pitch control went wild again. Add power and make another go-around. We attempted five landings, and made five go-arounds. There was no way we were going to land with a water buffalo racing around back there, punching holes in our aircraft’s aluminum skin. Sooner or later, the blasted critter’s horns were going to destroy something critical and we’d crash. Splatting in front of Phuoc Yu’s elders and our State Department host would be embarrassing.

A strange thought flashed through my brain, as we circled the field for yet another landing attempt. A year ago, I’d been flying a sleek supersonic jet, strapped into a snug, compact cockpit. Now I’m trying to control a flying barn with a wild water buffalo on the loose! Think! Maybe I could drop our out-of-control passenger. Lower the tail ramp, open the rear ramp door, yank the aircraft’s nose up and let that damned buffalo sliiiiide out. But a quick glance to the rear scrubbed that idea. What if those hungous horns got stuck in the rigging or door frame? Then we’d have the beast dangling outdoors, acting as a giant air brake. No dice, I thought. Having no performance data for asymmetric water buffalo swinging from one side of the fuselage, I ruled out dumping the beast. I glanced at the crew’s aluminum gun box. There were four M-16 military rifles in there. The flight engineer looked at me and grinned. An experienced hunter from Montana, he asked and I granted permission to “take him out. “Aim to the back or the side of the airplane, not up here and not toward the ceiling,” I warned. The loadmaster was still up there, playing sloth. Briefing complete. “Copy!” the clearly motivated engineer said. He climbed down to the cargo bay, opened the gun box, grabbed an M-16, and went hunting. Bam! Bam! Two shots, followed by considerable bellowing, hoof-stomping, and a flight engineer cursing and shouting over the intercom. “Geez, I winged it! Aw s***! He’s charging!” The co-pilot shouted, “Shoot at the head! Head shot! Now! Now, dammit!” Bam! A loud, heavy thud. Silence. Big Boy Beast was down, less than a yard from the flight engineer, who was sporting an ear-to-ear grin. Our courageous, big-game-hunter crewmate had just shot an attacking water buffalo inside our airplane, using a military-grade semi-automatic rifle. This was undoubtedly a first in hunting lore, and a potential cover story for both “Guns and Ammo” and “Aviation Week & Space Technology.” Definitely a two-fer! I landed safely, taxied to a dirt parking area just off the runway, and ran through the engine shutdown checklist.  The loadmaster unwound from his safe perch among the rigging, performed his after-landing duties, and lowered the tail ramp, constantly mumbling about being in a “damned combat zone, taking hits from a damned water buffalo, inside a damned airborne airplane.”  PTSD wasn’t a term we used back then, but our loadmaster had it now. Villagers and ground troops crowded around the back, gawking wide-eyed at the mess inside.  They knew something unusual had been going on, when we aborted several landing attempts. Apologetically, I explained to the gathering that we couldn’t land with Big Boy running around inside. We would have crashed. So, we had to kill the poor thing. It was the only humane option…for our well-being. The villagers nodded gravely, though no one understood English.  Too bad, so sad. But tonight they’d enjoy buffalo steak. They pulled the beast out with ropes, and kindly swept up the hay, straw and buffalo manure. We bade the villagers, Army troops and a stunned State Department guy so-long and boarded our somewhat beat up bird. The flight back to base was uneventful and quiet, as each crew member tried to assimilate what we’d just experienced.  I landed, taxied to our parking ramp, and shut everything down. I dutifully filled out flight and maintenance logs, noting “small-arms holes in aircraft skin, starboard side of cabin.” Taking small-arms hits was a weekly routine for our operations, improving the odds that maintenance would never question new holes. I was dragging tail. Time to call it a day and head for the crew quarters. I looked forward to a shower, clean clothes, a good dinner in the chow hall, and hitting the rack. Soon, details of the day’s surreal flight—graced with images of a crazed water buffalo puncturing holes in my airplane—faded away.  I quickly fell asleep around 10 p.m. About midnight, I was awakened by loud knocking at the door. Our maintenance officer, carrying an aircraft log book, wandered in, wearing a sheepish grin.  “Ah, lieutenant, you wrote in this log, ‘Possible ground fire…’” “That’s right, sir,” I quickly confirmed. “Well, lieutenant…. Yes, there were bullet holes in the cabin skin.” He hesitated, still grinning. “But with the metal bending outward, not inward. Those holes were made by rounds fired from inside your airplane.” Busted. I spent the rest of the night filling out paper work and debriefing maintenance and intelligence folks about the art of shooting an uncontrolled water buffalo inside an almost-uncontrollable C-123K. After completing U.S. Air Force pilot training in 1969, Tom Menza was assigned to the 19th Special Operations Squadron in Saigon, South Vietnam, flying the C-123K, an ugly troop transport.  His 22 years on active duty included flying KC-135 tankers, serving in staff assignments and teaching at the Air Force Academy.  After retiring from military service, he attended law school and practiced law in Colorado for the next 30 years. Occasionally, he returned to the cockpit as a part-time charter and business jet pilot. Retiring from everything in 2017, he now enjoys well-earned time with his wife at home…and sleeping-in late. 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.