Hamfist Over the Trail (10 page)

Boss handed me a pair of binoculars, as he maneuvered to place the trail on my side of the plane. “Take a look, and tell me if you see anything.”

We flew along for about thirty minutes, with the trail on the right side of the airplane. At Hurlburt, they had shown us how to do Visual Reconnaissance, but hadn't told us how disorienting it can be to VR with binoculars. Every now and then, I'd see something that looked like it might be a target, but when I took the binoculars away from my eyes, I lost sight of the exact location.

Boss could see I was having trouble. “Here,” he said, as he handed me what looked like a shoebox with binocular eyepieces on one end and some switches on the top. “Zoom in with this button, and when you see something of interest, put it on the cross-hairs and then press this button to turn on the gyro stabilizer. Then zoom out and your target will still be in the cross-hairs. You can even take your eyes away from the gyro-box and when you look back in, the target will still be in the cross-hairs.”

I practiced with the gyro-stabilized binoculars for a while and started to get the hang of it.

Then I saw my first truck.

“There's a truck down there,” I said excitedly, “right by that horseshoe bend.”

“Let me see.” Boss took the gyro and studied the target. “We're at Delta 71. Looks to me like this is a flak trap. See how the truck is sitting mostly in the open, not even camouflaged? They want us to bring some fighters in to attack it. When we're all in the area, they'll open up with triple-A. Mark it on the map, and we'll report it to Intel.”

I could see I had a lot to learn.

We followed the trail west, to where it intersected a major north-south route. The Mekong River followed that branch to the north and south as far as the eye could see. Just north of the intersection, the river made large switch-back.

“That's Delta 49, also called the Dog's Dick.”

To be honest, it didn't look like a dog's dick to me, but it was a memorable bend in the river, and a memorable name.

We turned north to follow the trail, and in the distance I could see prominent white cliffs along the west bank of the river.

Boss pointed in their direction. “Those cliffs are the most prominent feature of Delta 43. Like I said, there's a 9-level 23 millimeter gunner there, the guy that nailed my ass, and I don't recommend you get too close until you have a better feel for the area.”

I had noticed we had begun slow jinking, swerving unpredictably from side to side, as we started heading north. Not anything violent, just heading changes every few seconds.

“You don't want to fly straight-and-level when you're around here.” Boss advised, “Just do some unpredictable S-turn maneuvering all the time.”

We headed off toward the west, and well off in the distance I could see an airfield.

“That's Saravane. It's an Air America base called Lima 44. I wouldn't call it a really secure area, because it's still in Laos, but if you get hit, it's closer than Ubon. If it's not an emergency and you just need to recover somewhere other than DaNang, I recommend Ubon, because it's in Thailand. I'll tell you right now you can't get back over the mountains to DaNang on one engine.”

I made a mental note.

We headed back to the East, staying to the north of the east-west portion of the trail. I was practicing VR with the gyro binoculars in wide-angle view, when I saw a piece of the jungle move across the road. I wasn't sure what I was seeing. I turned on the gyro and zoomed in to get a closer view.

As I zoomed in, I could discern that there was a group of soldiers, perhaps twenty, perhaps more, crossing the trail, holding a large sheet of camouflage netting over their heads. If I hadn't been looking right at them at the time, I never would have seen them. I put the gyro stabilizer on its highest setting, so I wouldn't lose sight of the target.

“Boss, I think I see a gathering of people down here at three o'clock.”

Boss put the aircraft into a right bank and said, “Let me see.”

I handed him the gyro binoculars, which were still pointing at the target. Boss zoomed out, then zoomed back in, and quickly plotted the point on the chart.

“Good job, Hamfist. You found us a target.”

Boss became all business. He switched the transmitter over to VHF.

“Hillsboro, Covey 212. We need air assets at Delta 54. Prefer CBU.”

“Roger, Covey 212. I'm sending a four-ship of Gunfighters with Mark 82s, ETE five minutes, and in fifteen minutes you'll get a flight of F-105's, call sign Boxer, with CBU-24. Strike frequency Echo.”

Boss showed me the frequency card, pointed to the fifth line, labeled “Echo”, read across to the designated frequency, and tuned our UHF. In the meantime, he was reaching into the large pocket on the leg of his flight suit for his KAK wheel, the authentication device we would use to confirm that we were, in fact, talking to friendlies.

“I'd prefer to use CBUs against these gomers, but it's just as well we blow the covering off their hiding place with the Mark 82s first, then we'll use the CBUs. So it won't hurt to put Gunfighter in first.” Just then, Gunfighter checked in on strike frequency.

“Gunfighter 21 check.”

“Gunfighter 22.”

“Gunfighter 23.”

“Gunfighter 24.”

“Covey 212, Gunfighter 21 flight of four fox fours, Mark 82 slicks, ETE three minutes, ten minutes playtime.”

“Roger, Gunfighter 21. When you get to the rendezvous point, set up a left hand orbit and look for a bend in the river that looks like a pair of tits. Authenticate mike bravo.”

“Roger, entering the orbit now, have the tits in sight. Authentication zulu.”

“Okay, look near the cleavage, I'm in to mark.”

We rolled into a 120-degree bank, pulled the nose through and entered a 30-degree dive with the target directly ahead. While we were rolling and diving, Boss was setting up his armament switches to fire from the left rocket pod. As we reached firing parameters, he picked off two rockets in rapid succession, and then pulled up sharply to the right, then banked left to look at his marks.

“Shit,” he said on interphone. “I'd like to tell you I purposely missed the target, but it was just a lousy mark.”

“Covey, I have two smokes on the ground.”

“Roger, Gunfighter, I have two marks oriented east to west, fifty meters apart. I want you to put your bombs thirty meters due south of the western mark. Target elevation,” Boss quickly scanned his plot on the map, “is 4600 feet. Wind is from the south at ten. Run in from north to south with a break to the west. I'll be holding off to the east. Cleared in hot.”

“Lead's in.”

We were heading north now, and Boss was watching the airstrike through his
left side window. I craned my ne
ck to watch.

Lead's bombs were close, but no cigar.

“Okay, two, I want you to put your bombs ten meters short of lead's. Cleared in hot.”

It looked to me like number two's bombs were right on target.

“Number three and four, put your bombs five meters short and five meters long of number two's bombs. Cleared in hot.”

Just as he finished his transmission, another call came over the strike frequency.

“Boxer flight, check.”

“Two.”

“Hello, Covey, Boxer flight of two fox 105s, CBU-52, approaching rendezvous, angels 23, ten minutes playtime.”

“Roger, Boxer, set up an orbit to the left, and let me know if you see our airstrike. Authenticate whiskey delta.”

“Foxtrot.”

“Gunfighter flight is winchester.”

“Roger, Gunfighter, you're cleared to RTB. I had you on target at 45, off at 53. One hundred percent on target, BDA RNO. Good job. Thanks.” Boss handed me a grease pencil, and, on interphone, said, “Write down what I just gave him. Put it right there, on the side window.”

We heard Gunfighter leaving.

“Thank you, Covey. Gunfighter flight, button three, go.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

Boss was back on strike frequency. “Boxer flight, I want to bring you in from east to west with your CBU. Target elevation 4600 feet. Do you still have the target area, or do you want me to mark it?”

“Lead has the target. I'm ready to roll in. Am I cleared in?”

“Cleared in hot. I'll be off to the south. I want you to pull off to the right, to the north.”

I could see Boxer Lead on his run. He released his CBU, and then there was a small flash under his airplane.

“Was that triple-A?” I asked.

“Naw. That was his CBU opening up.”

Then I saw a large donut-shaped twinkling pattern along the ground, right where I had seen the soldiers.

“Good hit. Aim for the same spot, number two. We'll keep dropping on the same area until you guys are winchester.”

Boxer flight gave us one more pass each, then were winchester and headed home. They had gotten all of their CBU right on target. Boss gave them the BDA, and I dutifully copied it onto the side window.

I was disappointed that all of our BDA had been RNO – Results Not Observed. It was obvious that no one could have lived through a pounding like that. I had been hoping to get a feel for how many gomers had been Killed By Air – KBA.

“Can't we just estimate how many gomers we killed?” I asked.

“No way. RNO is RNO. Unless we see dead bodies, or count body parts and divide by four, we don't have KBA. Never, I repeat, never make up KBA. When we debrief Intel, it's going to look like all we did was turn trees into toothpicks. You and I know better.”

“Got it. Hey, Boss, how soon are we supposed to RTB?”

Boss looked at the clock, looked at the fuel gauges, and his eyes widened.

“Shit! We've stayed here too long. I don't know if we have enough fuel to make it back to DaNang.”

“How about Ubon?” I asked.

“At this point, it's about the same distance. Shit, shit, shit.”

We jettisoned our rocket pods and started a shallow climb.

“Crack open your door, and lean out the cylinder head temperatures to max,” he instructed. “Tighten your parachute harness and be ready to bail out. But don't go until I give you the word. If the engines quit, I don't want to bail out until we're away from the A Shau Valley, unless we've descended below 1500 feet.”

I really had to pee again, and reached back and grabbed another piddle pack. But somehow, I was too uptight to use it. I just couldn't go.

DaNang was in sight now, and we had declared a fuel emergency and requested direct overhead the base. We arrived over DaNang at 5000 feet and flew a flame-out pattern, which would put us in a good position to land if the engines did fail at any point.

Overhead at 5000 feet, downwind at 2500 feet, base leg at 1200 feet. Piece of cake. We landed, and the rear engine failed just as we taxied in.

We didn't say much as we taxied in to park at the revetments. After we shut down and secured the plane, we copied the strike information I had written on the window in grease pencil to a debriefing sheet. Then we went to Intel and gave our debriefing.

“One last thing,” Boss said, as he opened a cabinet in the squadron break room. He brought out a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. “We're entitled to mission booze.”

It turned out that there was actually an Air force regulation that stated that crewmembers were entitled to one ounce of whisky after each combat sortie.

“We usually save up our ounces until we get full bottles, then trade with the marines for boxes of steak and lobster. Today, I think we'll just drink it.”

“I'll drink to that,” I replied. I still had to pee.

24

January 2, 1969

There was an A-4 bag and an A-3 bag on the floor of my room when I returned from flying, along with a cardboard box containing some letters.

Mitch's hold baggage had arrived and had been automatically forwarded on to me. Apparently the MAO had been on top of things. The bags were waiting for me in my room at the hooch when I came back from the 0600 mission.

It was tough looking through the belongings of someone I hardly knew. Fortunately, for me, there was nothing especially remarkable or personal in his bags. Just uniforms and civvies. I put it all in a box to send to his next-of-kin.

Mitch's mail was also waiting for me to look through. There were about ten letters, held together with a thick rubber band.

The first one I opened was his American Express bill. Funny, I hadn't pictured Mitch as an American Express type of guy. The bill was for $43.89. I dug out his checkbook and wrote a check for the total amount. In the signature block I signed, “Hamilton Hancock, POA John Mitchell,” as the MAO had noted in the SCO instructions.

There were a few letters from cousins and other relatives. The Mortuary Affairs Officer told me that, under no circumstances, should I be the person to inform any relatives of Mitch's status, so I just put the letters in the box with his clothing, to later send to his next-of-kin.

There was a letter from a girl, I couldn't tell if it was his girlfriend or just a friend from college. I sent the form letter of notification to her, along with my contact information.