Vietnam II: A War Novel Episode 3 (V2) (7 page)

Captain Mike York

Wild Weasel Driver

It was my 30th birthday.  How was the party?  Not enough ice cream and too many clowns.  Oh yeah, and plenty of fireworks.

My back seat electronic warfare officer Thornton and I flew every night of the first week, but that first night was the wildest.

The F-4G was designed to neutralize air defenses and that is exactly what we were called in to do.  The F-4G looked like every other Phantom II at first sight, but there were subtle differences.  The skin of the Wild Weasel was covered with 52 flush mounted interferometers that could detect incoming radar signals.  In addition it carried a radar homing and warning system in a chin pod beneath its nose instead of the rotary cannon that Phantom fighters carried.  The Wild Weasels missile wells were populated with a jamming pod on the left, an empty pod on the right and two AIM-7 Sparrow radar missiles in the rear wells.  The Sparrows were not the Wild Weasel’s primary weapon rather the two AGM-88 High speed Anti-Radiation Missiles (HARMs) that hung from the outboard weapons stations were.

With all the gear, 58,000 pounds worth, the two 12,000 pound static thrust engines struggled to get the Wild Weasel into the air.  In clean configuration the Phantom was capable of flying twice the speed of sound.  The Wild Weasel was only capable of high subsonic speeds when fully equipped for combat.

One of our first targets was Da Nang Airport.  It was formerly the Da Nang Air Force Base and the Vietnamese still maintained a military ramp there that had fighters and surface to air missiles.

We could still pick our own call signs back then and they didn’t have to be politically correct.  The Wild Weasel used beer call signs like Budweiser, Pabst and Miller for each flight of four.  The weather was terrible.  That damn typhoon made it instrument meteorological conditions most of the time.  There were missions when we took off zero-zero in fog and rain.  We had to taxi slowly, line up on the runway and take off very carefully in almost zero visibility.

From Thailand to Vietnam there were two air refuelings.  The mission was usually four to five hours total.  That was a long time in an ejection seat.  Most of our training sorties were less than an hour back home.

Unlike Old Saigon, Da Nang is pretty distant from our Thai base.  We burnt up a lot of fuel using tactical air speed.  It was better to be a gas guzzler than be dead.  We were lucky to always have the tanker guys there to give us a squirt.  With the weather being awful hitting the tanker was not always easy.  On one mission, a buddy of mine had to make three tries on two tankers before they could get a good contact and take on fuel.

With the collapse of the extensive Vietnamese air defense system all the individual SAM sites were on autonomous mode.  They were on their own looking up at the sky hoping to catch us.  That didn’t mean we’d be any less dead if we wandered over one of their sites, which they were already in the process of moving constantly even in those first hours.

The Wild Weasel mission was not the only suppression of enemy air defenses mission out there.  The Navy had the same mission that they called Iron Hand.  Through some kind of agreement, thank you Joint Forces, we divided Vietnam into an east and a west.  The Air Force and their F-4Gs had the west while the Navy and their F/A-18s had the east.

First, we used the Weasels to target the Vietnamese longest-range missile, the SA-2.  These were the most dangerous missiles out there.  After they were rolled back, eliminated as a threat to air operations, we targeted the SA-6s.

The F-4G was built around the guy in the back seat.  I did the flying and Thornton worked the gear and fired the missiles.  He would be looking for the SAM sites while I used my radar to keep enemy aircraft off our backs. 

We took heavy fire from anti-aircraft guns on our approach to Da Nang.  I heard the tink tink of rounds hitting the airplane.  I was hoping that it just punched a couple holes in the fuselage and didn’t hit anything critical. 

Then on the way back out the fuel started acting funny.  We were losing pressure and we had burnt a lot more than we should have.  It could have been a maintenance problem, but more than likely that AAA had ruptured a fuel line or damaged the fuel system in some way.  It looked like we were calling it a day.

We called for a tanker immediately.

A half hour later we were running on empty and there was still no tanker in sight.  We were over Thailand.  At least we had that going for us.  Neither one of us wanted to eject over the jungle. 

“What do you think?”  Thornton asked.  I could tell he was thinking along the same lines.

“It’s time to go.”  I called it.

“Pabst 22, Sentry 61 head bearing 280 and descend to ten thousand feet.”  AWACS said over the radio.

They were directing us to a friendly airfield.

The landing strip was rough.  There were no lights.  Again the weather was crap.  The airfield was some commuter airport where they flew in mail and used for crop dusters.  We did our best, but after four attempts we were still not on the ground.  On fourth attempted landing both engines seized. 

We executed our save our ass checklist and came down on a silk canopy. 

It was my first and last ejection.  The rest of our missions were pretty routine after that.

Major Wesley Clinton

B-52 Aircraft Commander

Andersen AFB, Guam

The B-52 is a sinister beast.  They started out a space age silver and gone through many paint schemes over the years.  Ours were painted either a very dark black.  The dark paint helped cover up all of the bumps and bulges the forty year old aircraft had sustained.  In addition we carried camera pods and jamming antennas along the belly of the plane.  In short, the plane was damned ugly.

The B-52 community never got much credit for what we did in the V2.  As little as the B-52 is mentioned you might think we weren't even there.  I understand in a big picture kind of way.  The Cold War ended and the new world was starting and it seemed like the Pentagon wanted to show off all the cool high-tech stuff like smart-bombs and Tomahawks.  The buzzwords were clean and surgical.  Another reason that is not mentioned is that the B-52 is a cold reminder of the first Vietnam War.  The Pentagon did not really want to advertise that a bunch of Eisenhower-era aircraft were dropping iron bombs left over from V1.

On Night One the B-52s flew low-level strike missions.  They were the first low level combat missions in B-52 history and given the way they worked out they are most likely going to be the last.

It all started the day before.  On the evening of January 16th the operations officer is pounding on my door around dinner time.

"Your crew launches in an hour. Get your stuff together." He told me.

I rustled the crew together and made them hit the chow hall.  No one wanted to eat, but we made ourselves.  It was going to be a long night.  Most guys also grabbed some food to bring with them.

At the Operations Building we got our brief.  The target was a military airfield that we had studied a hundred times before so it was a quick brief.  Then it was off to intel where we heard again about suspected SAM sites and where the best places to crash were.  The plan was to attack in a 3 ship cell formation.  It is an incredibly dangerous mission.  Attacking an airfield that can launch fighters at you before get there or after you leave is best left to fast movers who can get away and fight back.

We get a final pep talk from the wing king which is another reminder that some of us are going to die and not to let that bother us. 

“There’s going to be casualties.  A lot of them.  Some of you aren’t going to make it home.  Don’t let it get you down.  Stay focused and don't run into the ground.”  He announced before he headed back to his desk.

“Thanks boss!”

“We always flew with a wad of cash, normally a grand, during Linebacker.”  The General goes on to tell me with a hand on my shoulder.  “If you get shot down you don’t want to have to sell your ass to the locals for a cup of rice or a hiding spot.”

Jesus Fucking Christ.

A look at my crew tells me they look like they are ready to cut and run.  I get my guys together and head out.

The bus took us to Life Support to collect our flight gear, this included helmets and since this was a combat mission pistols and flak vests.  Then we went by the Flight Kitchen for our box lunches which were critical since no one had eaten much.  Then we went to the Command Post for our flight plan which was stored on a portable tape drive.  Finally, our last stop was Base Operations where we got our weather briefing and I conducted a final crew briefing.

My father was an F-4 pilot and he told me never to pass up the chance to eat, drink, piss or smoke.  I did all four at base ops before we headed for the plane.

The B-52 is a big plane.  The wings are 189 feet tip to tip and weighing in at a 250 tons fully loaded.  Only 25 tons is ordinance.  The rest is fuel.  The plane was designed around fuel.  The guys at Boeing that designed it knew that the Soviet Union is a long way away.

It’s not as fast as a fighter, but it's got eight water injected turbojet engines.  It’s the last American aircraft to use turbojets.  They are noisy, smoky gas hogs that were replaced by turbofans in the rest of the fleet years ago.

The large bomb bay is what makes the BUFF truly awkward.  Most of the Boeings look similar, but the ordinance the B-52 designers planned for it to carry called for some outside the box thinking.  The solution was two sets of trucks, special landing gear, in front and the rear of the aircraft with the front wheels the same size as the back wheels.  Another set of small wheels are out at the wingtips to prevent the plane from tipping over and scraping the wing on the runway.

The bomb bay was antiquated.  The release mechanisms were no different than you would find in a World War era B-17. 

The tech that had been put into the plane was all navigation and radio.  We had GPS long before a lot of other aircraft for precision bombing as well as satellite communications (SATCOM) and sophisticated jammers to help protect us.

We had other defensive mechanisms in case of a missile attack. 

The B-52 was also the last American bomber to be able to shoot back.  We had guns.  Four fifty caliber machine guns were mounted in the tail.  The gunner didn’t sit in a turret like the old bombers though.  He sat in the cockpit and controlled them remotely.  By the 1990’s even the gunners knew the guns were about worthless.  Any MiG pilot worth his wings would be able to out maneuver a tail gun attack.  Still it was nice to be able to shoot back.

Worse the word had come down that the guns were being removed.  Too expensive to maintain for all the good they did or in this case didn’t.  The gunners were all going away.  The career field was being eliminated completely.  All the remaining gunners were going off to early retirement or another career field.  In TSgt Ryal’s case he did not have enough time in service to qualify for an early out so he was headed elsewhere.  Still wanting to fly he had settled on being a weapons director on an AWACs.  To say that he or any of the other gunners were happy about it would be an overstatement.  He would be off to retraining as soon as we got back stateside.  For him this was the last hurrah.

The B-52 is not easy to get into.  It didn’t help that half the crew was still half asleep.  We climbed up the small ladder under the belly.  The Nav went up the ladder and stopped at the top.  I noticed that he had a stack of barf bags stuffed into his hat pocket on his flight suit.  Knowing him he was going to need them.  He hung out at the top of the ladder while we passed up our bags full of our gear.  Since this was a combat mission we had twice as much stuff as usual.  Five minutes later we got all the stuff inside. 

We all crawled up after him.  It’s cramped as hell inside.  It was not a roomy aircraft to begin with and each new modification leads to another box or wire harness hanging out in the crew spaces.  We have to drag all that gear through the plane without unplugging anything or bumping a board.  The equipment we jostled might decide not to work when we needed it the most in the fight.

Moore and Kaley, our two Navs, peel off to the lower cockpit compartment.  The ladder between the upper and lower cockpit was the only place that you could stand up in the airplane.  To save our backs we would stand on the ladder to stretch on long flights.  The lower compartment is isolated and dark.  There are no windows for the navigators to look out of.  The navigators, who could not eject upward due to the pilots, the electronic warfare officer and gunner being above them, had ejection seats that fired downward.  Ejection at altitude was dangerous.  Ejection during low level missions was certain death.  The only thing I could do for them if we got it bad at low altitude was to climb the aircraft trading airspeed for altitude, even if it meant a stall, and get them at least 500 feet so they could get out safely.

The navigators were cursed with having the bathroom down in their little cave as well.  The shitter in a B-52 was a can.  All of them leaked.  Every B-52 smelled.  Air circulation was bad.  It was like flying inside a septic tank.

Upstairs the pilot sat on the left and the copilot sat on the right.  The EWO and gunner sat behind us facing backwards.  We all had ejection seats that fired upwards.  The seats were uncomfortable as soon as you sat down.  After eight hours the pain was intense.

Ergonomics didn’t exist when the plane was built in the 1950s.  Switches and gauges were stuck wherever the engineers could find space.  This led to the pilot having all the controls for the hydraulic system and the copilot having all the controls for the electrical system.  It took a real team effort to fly this beast.

At the plane we checked the maintenance logs, and found that we are down a radio and our radar.  We are assigned the Battle Sky today.  Its old, of course they are all old, but this one was also pretty bent so we are lucky that we don’t have more problems.  She wouldn’t maintain heading worth a damn and it was even so bad that the autopilot could not compensate sometimes.  The radar and radio are go no go items so we can’t leave without them being fixed.  The crew chiefs are scrambling to get them working and my crew just works around them.

Engine start and taxi take about an hour.  The whole time the crew chief and the comm nav guys are tearing boxes out trying to get our electronics working right.  We start the engines without a hitch and because timing is so critical we have to start taxiing.  The maintenance crew rides along with us.

The entire mission was based on timing.  We had to take off on time to meet up with the tanker on time and to make our bombing run on time.  There was no slop built into the attack plan so a delay would require the planners to recoordinate every aspect of the mission.

The airplane is extremely noisy when the engines are running.  We have to communicate through the headsets in our helmets.  We run the pretakeoff checklist while we taxi.  Meanwhile the maintenance guys are still crawling all around us fiddling with the systems.  It’s Guam so it’s hot as hell in the cockpit.  There’s air conditioning, but it’s only for the equipment to keep it cool and humidity free.  I get better air from the radio than I get from the vents.

The hardest part of flying the B-52 was actually taxiing it on the ground.  There was no steering tiller like in the C-130 or KC-135.  The rudder pedals controlled the trucks.  This made taxiing the plane the equivalent of steering a tractor trailer with only your feet. 

We reach the hold short line with the rest of the formation.  Number one is going to take off in one minute.

The SOF, supervisor of flying, drives by in his truck and makes sure we look ready to go.  He is checking for any open compartments, dangling antennas or anything else out of the ordinary.

“King 35, you are good to go.”

“Maintenance, AC.  How we doing?”

If they can’t tell me that the plane is ready to go then I’m going to have to pull off and let the rest of the formation continue.

“We’ve just finished.”

Ryal helps the three maintainers escape down the belly hatch while I hold up the line.  Number one is just taking off as the maintainers escape the taxiway for the grass.  I hoped someone was coming to pick them up.  It was a long walk back to the maintenance shack.

As soon as they get out I accelerate and catch up with the rest of the formation.  By the time the Gunner is getting strapped in it’s our turn to take off.

B-52 engines are water injected.  It doesn’t sound logical to pour water onto a fire, but the water cools the air going into the engines.  The denser air allows the engine to burn more fuel giving the aircraft more thrust.  BUFFs were sometime called water wagons or steam jets among the crews.  The process produced dense, black smoke.  When we took off 15 seconds after the bomber in front of us we could not see a thing rocketing down the runway.  We listened to the radio to see if the guy ahead of us aborted and we watched the clock to make sure we were on time and accelerating properly.  If anything went wrong we aborted the takeoff.

At least until we reached S1, the point of no return.

"Set dry thrust," I ordered as we took the runway.

"Cleared for water," the Copilot says.  He comes on the throttles and gives them small adjustments.

"Four good pumps,” I said checking the water injection.  Then I glance at the airspeed.  "70 knots now"

"Nav timing,” the navigator says confirming he’s started his watch.

"Expiration of S1 timing now,” the navigator says a few seconds later.

"Committed," I said confirming our airspeed past S1.

Once we were committed or past S1 speed we could no longer safely abort the takeoff, meaning there was not enough runway left for us to stop, and we were going no matter what.

We’re heavy today.  I watch the runway remaining markers pass on our left and see that we’re going to run out of runway before we are in the air.  I firewall all eight of the throttles.  This was hard on the engines, but not as hard as crashing off the end of the runway into the ocean would be.

The Battle Sky came off the runway slightly nose down.  I tapped the brakes to stop the wheels.

“Gear up.”

“Gear up,” the copilot repeats as he throws up the handle.

Next the flaps come up and then we are climbing at 280 knots.

Two hours later the primary strike aircraft plus airborne spares, some forty aircraft in all, have all launched into the night sky.  It was all done radio silent so everything from engine start, taxi and takeoff was done based on timing.