Operation Thunderhead (6 page)

The force of the slipstream was another problem. The force of the winds at near-supersonic speeds was incredible. A category 5 hurricane has winds of over 155 miles an hour. It can rip buildings apart, flip cars over, knock down brick walls, and leave a trail of devastation in its path. People cannot stand or walk in such a wind. At Mach 1, the wind blast passing a jet is fives times that fast. Face shields, helmets, and protective clothing could help a pilot survive the damage from the slipstream, at least minimizing injuries to his face and eyes.

In time for the Korean War in the 1950s, the ejection seat was in widespread use around the world. “Punching out” became a popular term for ejection. The expression came from a pilot having to literally blast free of his stricken aircraft, punching through the canopy or ejecting after the cover had been blown clear of the aircraft.

The terrific forces of ejection could leave a pilot dazed and confused at best. Some pilots survived ejecting from the craft only to smash into the ground still strapped to the device intended to save them. Automatic ejection systems were developed that ejected a man from his aircraft, then freed him from the seat and opened his parachute.

New systems were developed that utilized a rocket engine to drive the ejection seat up and away from the aircraft. As speeds continued to increase, the danger to the pilots from the damaging slipstream also increased. Limbs had to be held in by harnesses that automatically pulled the individual into place as the ejection system initiated. Bones would snap if limbs flailed in the awesome winds. There was also the danger of striking part of the cockpit rim if the individual's arms and legs weren't held in their proper place.

The F-105D Thunderchief had a rocket-propelled ejection seat that had been designed by Republic, the aircraft's manufacturer. A drogue chute on the seat itself stabilized it in the air after the rocket had burned out and the seat was clear of the aircraft. The pilot wore his parachute rather than having one that was packed as part of the seat. Once the pilot released his seat's harness, he fell free and pulled the ripcord on his own chute.

To initiate the ejection sequence, the pilot pulls up on the large looped yellow-and-black-striped handles on the outside of the ejection seat. The handles are held in the lowered “safe” position and are located just outside of seat body, where the pilot's thighs would be. Pulling up the loop handle cocks the firing system, moving a lever from the bottom of the loop up to the center. The pilot grabs the center handle with his fingers and squeezes his hand shut, “pulling the trigger” on the ejector seat.

The canopy is blasted free of the cockpit as the ejection sequence starts. The catapult rocket ignites, punching the seat up and away from the aircraft. The rocket engine of the catapult pushes the seat up and away violently enough that the tail of the plane can streak by underneath the ejection seat as the drogue chute deploys to stabilize the system and keep it from tumbling violently through the air. When he releases the ejection seat, the pilot falls away and his own parachute opens automatically. Because some pilots are known to have “frozen” in their seats after ejection, a system was installed that pulled the pilot away from the seat by a strap system.

The whole action takes only seconds, but it's an extremely violent experience. The advertised safe top speed for ejection from an F-105 is reported to have been 525 knots (about 605 miles an hour) but many pilots and crews were forced to eject at higher speeds. On April 30, 1967, Leo Thorsness and his rear seater in the two-seat F-105F Wild Weasel punched out of their aircraft over North Vietnam while moving at 600 knots (over 690 miles an hour).

Aircraft struck by ground fire or missiles had been seen by other pilots and aircrews to explode shortly after being hit. The explosions sent metal shards flying all about the bird, along with an expanding ball of flame and burning fuel. Waiting for a plane to slow down could use up what precious time there might be before an explosion. The dangers of ejecting at over what was considered a “safe” speed were completely acceptable to men facing a grisly death from their aircraft tearing itself, and them, apart.

An old saying by pilots and fliers was that the average person lost a quarter inch of height when he ejected. No matter how straight the seat might hold someone, it still took a hard blow and high G-forces to get an ejection seat out and past a speeding plane. That force still drove the vertebrae of the spine together, compressing disks and causing damage that normally required bed rest and therapy for a complete recovery. Being seated correctly at least minimized the compression damage from the force of ejection. Combat flying rarely allowed for being correct about much of anything at the moment of ejection. The supersonic slipstream ripped and tore at unsecured limbs, flailing them about, breaking bones and damaging joints. But at least the man would be out of the aircraft and alive. Not many POWs who had ejected from an F-105 or any other aircraft stated that they felt as much injury from a compressed back as they did from all of the other suffering they endured during their incarceration.

No matter how an ejection was completed, it has remained a frightening and dangerous maneuver. It is an action of last resort for a pilot who knows his aircraft cannot survive. When done over enemy territory as the result of combat or air defense fire, the pilot then faces the very real possibility of capture once he does reach the ground.

CAPTURED

The smoke had been so thick in the cockpit of the F-105D that Dramesi hadn't been able to see his hand in front of his face. Once he had made the decision to eject, training took over and there was little that he needed to see in order to save himself. He knew that he was going fast and was very close to the ground. Options were limited and it was time to get out. Not knowing whether he was upside down, heading toward the ground, or what his orientation was, his view of the instruments blinded by the smoke, Dramesi punched out. The last thing he remembered was squeezing the trigger.

When the ejector seat shot out of the plane, the windblast was so powerful that it knocked Dramesi unconscious. The next lucid thought Dramesi had was when he found himself standing on the ground, unbuckling his parachute harness. His training had taken him through the parachuting process without his having to think about a single aspect of it. Now came the realization that he was deep inside enemy territory. He had punched out over North Vietnam, and the rest of his training would have to be employed for survival as well as to prevail over whatever was going to come next. And it was probably going to involve a bunch of the same people who had just shot him out of the sky.

The parachute landing had put Dramesi on the side of a brush-covered hill overlooking a small valley. He was unsure of his exact location, but he did have a sense about where he had landed. Getting up onto the crest of the hill he was standing on would also give him a better view of the area, where the rescuing forces would be approaching from—and just where the enemy might be. According to the reports filed later, the location of Dramesi's shoot-down was at coordinates 173800N and 1062300E. That put him about 225 miles south-southeast of Hanoi and seventy miles north of the demilitarized zone between North and South Vietnam. He was deep inside enemy territory, and his only sure way home would be a pickup by a search-and-rescue chopper.

As Dramesi moved up the hill, he heard gunfire coming from the area where he had made his parachute landing. There was little cover beside the brush and the occasional tree as he reached the ridge going along the hill's crest. The high ground was where Dramesi figured a rescue helicopter could most easily find him; the trouble was that a small trail ran along the ridge, which meant the enemy traveled there and they would be able to find him, too. He had twisted his left knee either during the ejection or while landing. Adrenaline had kept the injury from slowing Dramesi down much as he evaluated his situation and planned his course of action.

In the briefing prior to his mission, Dramesi had listened to an intelligence officer tell the fliers what they could expect in the way of assistance if they were forced down in enemy territory. Outside of the American search-and-rescue units, there was basically no help they could expect in North Vietnam. The final admonition of the intelligence officer stuck with Dramesi: It was people who caught people. It was a simple enough rule that so many other pilots forgot in their time of stress after ejecting. It took people—the North Vietnamese—to catch the American fliers who were forced down. To evade capture, you had to avoid people. There was no one to turn to for help except for yourself, and the men whose job it was to come in and rescue you. Everyone else had to be avoided. Dramesi looked around and steeled himself to getting out of his present predicament.

To his west side, there was a small cliff that would help prevent ground troops from approaching from that direction. The cliff ran around to the south of his position, covering him from approach from that direction as well. And the top of the ridge did give him a good position to see the surrounding area. Moving along the path as he headed north, Dramesi could see North Vietnamese moving in the valley below. It was time to hide.

A leap took him off the path and into the brush without leaving any sign of an escape route. On his survival radio, Dramesi contacted his wingman, Ken Gurry, who still orbiting overhead in his F-105D. Gurry had to leave the area due to low fuel, but he had already notified the search-and-rescue teams about Dramesi's situation and location. Rescue helicopters and escort aircraft were already on their way. In spite of his reluctance to abandon his fellow pilot, Gurry had to leave the area before his fuel ran out or the rescue people would have two downed pilots to worry about. Dramesi acknowledged his wingman's message and simply said that he would see him later.

Almost immediately after the jet left the sky overhead, Dramesi heard the sound of the Sandys coming in. The Sandy was the call sign of the Douglas A-1 Skyraider aircraft, which were assigned to escort the helicopters of the combat search-and-rescue units. The radial-engined Skyraider was an attack bomber that had first flown during World War II. The prop-driven aircraft could only go about half as fast as the average jet fighter of the Vietnam War, but it carried four 20mm cannon in its wings and up to 8,000 pounds of ordnance on the hard mounting points under its wings. On top of the heavy punch it could carry, the Skyraider had a long loiter time over target. The fat, slow Sandys were looked at with real affection by downed pilots, as they stayed in the air overhead for close to ten hours at a time.

Trouble was, Dramesi didn't know where the Sandys were, and they didn't know where he was. Getting on the radio to call for help had been his first move, and the right one according to his training. Now he had to find that help, and they had to find him.

The engine noise of a prop-driven aircraft is a distinctive one. Dramesi could hear the planes in the distance, but didn't know in which direction they were coming from. Without that information, he couldn't direct the aircraft toward him; and he couldn't use any signaling device but his radio or the enemy would find him as fast as the planes would. There were enemy troops in the valley below, and they were already making their way up the hill. Soon enough they would reach the crest and the ridgeline where he was hiding in the brush. His only option was to stand up and try to locate the Sandys coming in to help him.

Cupping his hand over his ear to concentrate the sound, Dramesi turned his head to try and hear where the Sandys were. The loudest sound of the props was to his south, so he called over the radio to move them north, in his direction.

“Turn north, turn north!” Dramesi said over the radio. Then he saw the aircraft to his east. “Sandy One, this is Lover Lead. Turn west, stand by, and I will direct you over my position.”

With his experience as a forward air controller, Dramesi knew how to apply the approaching Sandys against the enemy forces on the ground around him. Hearing the approach of the planes, he directed them overhead and identified his position. Now that the attack bombers knew where he was, they could address the North Vietnamese forces approaching him on the ground.

Telling the pilots of the Sandys to target the side of the hill rained hellfire on the approaching enemy. White phosphorus rockets roared out from under the wings of the Sandys, punching into the hillside and blooming into yellow-burning petals of white smoke flowers as they detonated. Only two hundred yards away from his position, Dramesi watched the 2.75-inch rockets explode in the brush, sending the enemy forces running back down the hill toward whatever cover they could find. He was in his element, the skills he had put to use for the 4th Infantry still fresh in his mind as he directed the air support units to his location. It wasn't a ground operation he was fighting for now, it was his own freedom. The Sandys were holding the enemy back while the slower rescue helicopters were on their way. The ground experience he had received while working as FAC with the 4th Infantry also helped Dramesi as he hid from the enemy while still maintaining a good observation position.

Every weapon in the valley seemed to open up at once. Now it was time to get the aircraft to a higher altitude, where they would be safe from the ground fire but still available for a rocket or gun attack. As he directed the Sandys away, the aircraft moved to a higher altitude so that they could also cover the area to his south more effectively. And that's when Dramesi's luck ran out.

He was barely sticking up from the chest-high brushline along the top of the ridge, but that had been enough. A rifle bullet coming up from behind smashed into Dramesi's right leg. He knew the enemy had to be close but wasn't sure of their exact location. All they could have aimed at was his head and shoulders, but the overhead roar of the prop-driven aircraft must have shaken someone's aim. The last message he was able to send up to the Sandy overhead was: “They got me, they got me.” Lover Lead was down.