The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (55 page)

MARINE CRUSADER

BRUCE MARTIN

Bruce Martin was sent out to Vietnam with US Marine Fighter Squadron VMF(AW)-232 in August 1966.

When we found out we were going, the squadron roster was frozen, although we had the better part of a year before we were committed to actual combat operations. In that period we did a great amount of air-to-ground training in the F-8D and E, and in Vietnam the vast majority of our missions were ground support, although we also flew some fighter escort missions into Laos and up North. We had problems in that the Crusader was not designed for air-to-ground work. It had a lead computing gunsight and radar for air-to-air combat, so as far as bomb delivery was concerned we used the TLAR method – “That Looks About Right.” You would pick a point on the gunsight and then place your target on that, allowing for drift and windage; people who had done it for a while became extremely accurate. The F-8 was a fine platform for rockets and strafing in any case, because they were flat-trajectory weapons.

The squadron was screened before going over, and we had a very capable and experienced group of pilots when we arrived in Vietnam. The senior flight leaders, including myself, were sent over early to gain combat experience with VMF(AW)-235, the unit we were replacing at Da Nang. Generally the first couple of missions were quiet – maybe a little local radar bombing, usually in the daytime. However, my first mission was with the Commanding Officer of VMF(AW)-235 and we went on a night hop to Tchepone in Laos, one of the hottest places in town. Nobody even barked at us that time, but I was very impressed with the fact that I had even gone.

We relieved VMF(AW)-235 in November 1966, but by January 1967 around seventeen of our pilots had been transferred out of the squadron to various Group and Wing staff jobs. Many of the new pilots we received were short of F-8 experience, especially in air-to-ground delivery, and had to be trained on the job. This gave the airplane something of a bad name for a while amongst our customers, until the new pilots gained the necessary experience.

Our missions were usually flown in I Corps or the northern part of II Corps; sometimes we even got across to the Central Highlands, around Kontum and Dak To. The large majority of them were flown from the DMZ to south of Chu Lai. We also went into Laos on a regular basis and did an awful lot of work along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We also flew two or three missions a day up North, hitting the area around Dong Hoi and Vinh and the lower Route Package One areas of North Vietnam. A favorite target was the gun emplacements around the Finger Lakes area, just across the Ben Hai River into North Vietnam.

We flew seven days a week, day and night. When we were on strip alert we were usually armed with eight 500-pound Snakeye finned bombs, plus our 20mm cannon. A second plane would often carry napalm and 5-inch Zuni rockets. The Snakeyes wore fins that would extend in flight and retard the bombs’ descent, giving us time to get clear of the blast from the bomb if we were releasing at low altitude.

It was hard work operating out of Da Nang. When we first arrived we were living in open-side tents, with no air-conditioning. The weather could be abominable, with lots of thunderstorms, heavy rain and low ceilings. If you flew at night, it was so hot in the daytime that it was difficult to sleep. We also had problems with our ground support equipment; there were never enough serviceable bomb loaders and our ordnance people often had to manhandle the 500-pound bombs onto the plane, by inserting pipes in the nose and tail where the fuses would go and muscle them on. In comparison, the Air Force on the other side of the base had airconditioned trailers, good equipment and a nice club. When General Seth McKee, one of the Air Force commanders, came to visit his son, who was a pilot in our squadron, he saw our living conditions and said, “Boy, if my guys had to put up with these conditions they would quit!” In spite of this, the squadron morale was very good throughout the tour.

I had joined the squadron in the summer of 1964, had spent a lot of time in the Crusader and was comfortable in it. I felt pretty invulnerable as far as the missions we were flying were concerned. We were getting a lot of ground fire, but it was nothing compared to what the Navy and Air Force and our A-6s were facing up North in the Red River Valley, Hanoi and Haiphong area. Normally the worst we would see would be 37 and 57mm anti-aircraft fire. Towards the end of our tour we were getting some SAM alerts down in the Route Package One area and around Khe Sanh, but I never saw one fired and, much to my dismay, I never saw a hostile aircraft.

The day that I was shot down started with a typical in-country mission for my wingman and I. Things started to go wrong when he had to abort on takeoff roll due to smoke in the cockpit. I continued the mission with my full load of eight 500-pound Snakeyes and contacted control to see if they had a single-plane mission for me. Normal SOP called for two aircraft on a mission, but exceptions were the rule, especially if we were operating below the DMZ . . .

When I asked control if they had any single-plane missions for me, they replied that they had an emergency mission up near the DMZ and gave me a briefing on the way there.
²⁵
I climbed to 15,000 feet and flew up the coast, turning inland for the last 14 miles to the target. It was a nice hot summer day and as we were near the end of our tour I had borrowed the Assistant Maintenance Officer’s Nikon camera to take some shots for us both. However, there was to be little chance to do that as the day’s mission turned out to be far from routine.

As I started to let down southeast of Dong Ha there was an F-4 coming off the target and he had been hit. I took some pictures of him as he went by and then saw him go into the water. It turned out the pilot was a friend of mine, Ray Pendagraff, and neither he nor his backseater got out.

There was nothing I could do for the F-4, so I went on in and was told to salvo all my ordnance in one go, as there was a lot of anti-aircraft fire in the area – 37 and 57mm and quad 50-caliber machine guns. I received a target description and they told me to go off to the west and then come back flying parallel to the Marines lines, from west to east.

I set up a ten-degree dive and crossed over the target at 250 feet and 450 knots, but as I released all eight bombs, everything in the cockpit lit up and the aircraft bounced. The fire warning light came on immediately and the utility hydraulic system failed. As I tried to pull up the Forward Air Controller called me and told me that my bombs were “right on.” I had planned to come around again and go in for a strafing run, but when the cockpit lit up I lost all interest in staying in the area.

In Vietnam we had been told that the enemy owned the land but we owned the water, so if you were hit you should try and make it out over the water before ejecting. When it became obvious that the airplane was holding together, I began to climb and head out to sea. I put out a “Mayday” call and some A-4s with the callsign “Miss Muffet” that were on their way in came alongside to escort me out of the area. The flight leader said, “You have a very thin trail of smoke around your tail section, but I can’t really see any big holes or anything.” So I continued to climb and asked him to tell me if it got any worse.

I got out to the water and turned south and began to think about getting the aircraft back, or at least maybe to Phu Bai where they had arresting gear on the runway. I called Red Crown, the destroyer that coordinates all the rescue efforts, on the Guard channel and as I was speaking to him I looked to my right and saw that the fellow in the A-4 was giving me a vigorous “eject” signal. I looked at my instruments and saw that the exhaust gas temperature gauge was going up and heading toward the maximum reading. I looked in my mirror and there was a big cloud of black smoke behind me. Without further ado I reached up and pulled the face curtain to initiate the ejection sequence.

I felt the sensation of the aircraft falling away from me and then a lot of twisting and girating and then a terrific impact as the parachute opened. I looked around but couldn’t see the airplane. I was later told that it had exploded about ten seconds after I ejected.

Since I was about six miles off the coast I reviewed what I had been told about water landings when I had jumped as FAC with the 173rd Airborne Brigade. I also recalled an article that I had seen in the National Geographic that talked about the population of sea snakes in the Tonkin Gulf and how they could raft up a quarter of a mile wide by about ten miles long. I thought that it hadn’t been a very good day so far, and I really hoped I didn’t land amongst those.

A number of people had been lost over the years in water landings, when they had become entangled in their parachute or shroud lines. As the parachute filled with water it had dragged them down. I was concerned about that and as I got lower I took off my oxygen mask and dropped it to gauge my height. It seemed like I still had a way to go before I hit the water. The usual procedure is to look at the horizon and wait until your feet touch the water and then release your chute and I knew that. However, I was not comfortable with that, so when it looked like I was about ten feet from the water I released the parachute and had about the longest two or three seconds of falling that anyone could imagine, because I was a little bit higher than I thought!

My lifejacket was already inflated, although the camera that I had tucked into it had, needless to say, disappeared. Once I got into the water I swam to my life raft, which had been stored in the seatpack and had come down ahead of me, inflated it and climbed in. I felt pretty good and decided to use all of the available survival aids, so I got out the signal mirror and was starting to unpack the salt water distillation kit, when I looked up, and hovering in front of me was an Air Force HH-53B Jolly Green helicopter.

They put a swimmer in the water, a para-rescueman, and I got out of the raft and into the water as well, because the downdraft from the helicopter blades was blowing the raft away. The PJ put the horsecollar around me and they pulled me up into the helicopter.

When the PJ was back on board we headed for Da Nang and it was on the way there that I realized I had been hurt. I started to stiffen up and by the time I got back to the field I was hobbling around like a 90-year-old man. It was mostly cervical strain, later diagnosed as a compression fracture, and abrasions, but at least I didn’t have any holes in me.

I asked the helicopter pilot how they had got to me so quickly and he said that they were out looking for the Phantom that had gone down and saw an F-8 going by with smoke pouring out of the ass end of it. They said “That’s a customer for sure” and just turned around and followed me.

I spent a night in the base hospital and had to wear a neck brace for about ten days, and then I went back flying again. Months later, back in the USA, I received a package in the mail. When I was shot down, I had been carrying an Air Force style plastic briefing book, with codes, procedures, radio frequencies and other information in it. Apparently the charred book had been washed ashore and found by a Marine Recon Team, who saw my name in it and thoughtfully packaged it up and sent it back to me.

NIGHT MISSION ON THE HO CHI MINH TRAIL

MARK E. BERENT

Mark Berent served with the 497th Tactical Fighter Squadron of the USAAF during the Vietnam War, flying F-4s on night missions out of Thailand.

It’s cool this evening, thank God. The night is beautiful, moody, an easy rain falling. Thunder rumbles comfortably in the distance. Just the right texture to erase the oppressive heat memories of a few hours ago. Strange how the Thai monsoon heat sucks the energy from your mind and body by day, only to restore it by the cool night rain.

I am pleased by the tranquil sights and sounds outside the BOQ room door. Distant ramp lights, glare softened by the rain, glisten the leaves and flowers. The straight-down, light rain splashes gently, nicely on the walkways, on the roads, the roofs. Inside the room I put some slow California swing on the recorder (
You gotta go where you wanta go . . .
) and warm some soup on the hot-plate. Warm music, warm smell . . . I am in a different world. (
Do what you wanta, wanta do. . . .
) I’ve left the door open – I like the sound of the rain out there.

A few hours later, slightly after midnight, I am sitting in the cockpit of my airplane. It is a jet fighter, a Phantom, and it’s a good airplane. We don’t actually get into the thing – we put it on. I am attached to my craft by two hoses, three wires, lap belt, shoulder harness and two calf garters to keep my legs from flailing about in a highspeed bailout. The gear I wear – gun, G-suit, survival vest, parachute harness – is bulky, uncomfortable, and means life or death.

I start the engines, check the myriad systems – electronic, radar, engine, fire control, navigation – all systems; receive certain information from the control tower, and am ready to taxi. With hand signals we are cleared out of the revetment and down the ramp to the arming area.

I have closed the canopy to keep the rain out, and switch the heavy windscreen blower on and off to hold visibility. I can only keep its hot air on for seconds at a time while on the ground, to prevent cracking the heavy screen. The arming crew, wearing bright colours to indicate their duties, swarm under the plane: electrical continuity – checked; weapons – armed; pins – pulled. Last all-round look-see by the chief – a salute, a thumbs-up, we are cleared. God, the rapport between pilot and ground crew – their last sign, thumbs-up – they are with me. You see them quivering, straining bodies posed forward as they watch
their
airplane take off and leave them.

And we are ready, my craft and I. Throttles forward and outboard, gauges OK, afterburners ignite, nose-wheel steering, rudder effective, line speed, rotation speed – we are off, leaving behind only a ripping, tearing, gut noise as we split into the low black overcast, afterburner glow not even visible anymore.