Excerpts from
the book
Excerpts from
the book
We came in through the ADIZ (Air Defense
Identification Zone), and flew up its corridor headed for
McClellan AFB, California. Since engine number one was already shut down and feathered, it was good to get closer to landing. We were afraid to relax too much though because number four engine was running more roughly than before, and losing a good bit of oil. A little trail of dark smoke now traveled along beside us in our slipstream.
Captain Blough and Major Post discussed problems
that could occur during landing, and decided to let the
captain, who is an experienced Instructor Pilot with over 5,000 hours in the KB-50, take over the controls. Post had not yet landed the aircraft with an engine shut down.
When we pulled back power to begin descent,
engine number two did not respond properly. There
appeared to be some undetermined problem with it. The
pilots and engineer discussed possibilities while everybody
cinched up their seat belt and squirmed to make sure they
were tight.
We had already declared an emergency, and received priority in our descent.
About four miles from touchdown, we could see eight fire trucks with their red lights flashing lining both sides of the runway.
Then number two engine exploded in a huge ball of fire. The aircraft lurched violently, and was smoothly pulled
back into control by Blough.
“Copilot, feather number two; engineer, make sure
two is shutdown and isolated,” Blough said calmly.
“Roger sir, number two is feathered!” screamed back
the copilot.
“Two is shutdown, but it’s on Fire! It’s really burning
- it’s burning into the wing!” Shouted the engineer.
“Awright, copilot, let’s go ahead and discharge the
fire extinguisher on number two,” Blough said thoughtfully,
like he might be placing a bet on a college football game.
And to the crew: “We gonna put’er down boys. this baby’s
sick - we ain’t takin’ her ‘round.”
“Extinguisher Discharged!!” Screamed back the
copilot.
Now the aircraft buffeted as it encountered the
ground effect, and Blough altered it’s heading slightly to
align with the runway as the main gear touched down.
There was a squeaky “kiss - kiss” as the tires contacted the
landing strip, then we could hear the struts rumble as they
worked the weight of the aircraft from its wings to the
runway. We rolled to the end, and turned off onto the
taxiway with two engines smoking, and two feathered,
chased by eight wailing and flashing fire trucks.
We parked the aircraft and walked into base
operations. It was late now, and we were met by the base
commander, Colonel Strong.
Pages 34-36
The weasel is sweeping the valley with its great
searchlight. A bright beam of blinding light passes across
us, pauses, then yanks back with a jerk and illuminates us,
throwing monstrous shadows of our flailing and thrashing
arms and legs far ahead of us as we run through the deep
snow. The diesel engine shrieks like a wild beast, and the
weasel starts after us.
We race up the far slope of the steep hill, trying to
reach the woods before we are headed off. The weasel
gains on us, charging at full speed, its engine roaring, its
gears whining, its tracks slap-slapping against the ice and
snow.
A searchlight lights us up again and we can hear
“pops” going off from behind us. Looking back we see
what looks like flashbulbs going off from the weasel. “Poppop-
pop.” They are firing at us! They are still 300 yards
away, but gaining quickly; the forest is still another hundred
yards!
“Those are blanks?” Bill gasps out.
“Blanks hell! What’s that whistling over our heads?”
“Pop-pop-pop! Zing, zing, zing!”
The roaring and whining is closer now, the “slapslap-
slap!” is louder. I look back and see a great black
cloud of diesel exhaust pulsing out of the vehicle, rising
swiftly into the cold moonlit air. A man with a rifle in his
hand and a Russian fur hat is riding on top of the rearing
vehicle. A brilliant light sweeps across the snow hitting me
in the eyes. It passes on but then jerks back and fixes on
me. “Pop-pop-pop-pop!”
Burning lungs, pounding legs – I charge heedlessly
into the black forest!
“Yea!!!” Into the dark woods at full tilt, now sinking
eighteen inches into powder snow with every stride.
“Safe!”
But then I hear “Varoooommmm! Varooooommmm!
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!” The weasel is coming into the
woods after us!
We split into three different directions. I sail over a
boulder, falling into whatever lies below – soft snow it turns
out. Now I am flat on my back, three feet deep into a snow
bank, struggling to climb out and get back on my feet. A
rifle shot cracks out from deep in the woods, and another
from a different location – they’re surrounding us! I go
slipping down a steep hill, skiing in a fashion, through the
trees. I crawl behind a boulder as I hear snowshoes
crunching through the forest floor coming toward me. I
actually quit breathing as I hear people stomping around.
They come toward my boulder, and then slowly the sounds
fade away.
Pages 61 & 62
The pilot vanished into the smoky sky and was
never heard from again. The navigator began broadcasting
on his survival radio saying he had landed OK but was
under sporadic enemy fire. He could see enemy forces
and they were coming after him. He was running and
calling for help.
Air Force and Naval aircraft began congregating
over the area although low clouds and the smoke of
combat made visual contact with the ground difficult.
All American aircraft in the combat area were under
the control and direction of an airborne battlefield command
aircraft, which functioned somewhat like an airborne air
traffic controller. It’s call sign was “Crown” and it began
organizing the rescue effort and directing aircraft to the
area. Army choppers also reported they were “inbound,”
requesting headings and directions
The navigator on the ground called in to tell us he
was behind a hill and the enemy couldn’t see him. “You
can get me real easy right now!”
We were the first tanker to reach the area, coming in
at 520 knots and 27,000 feet. Crown directed us to
assume orbit at 2,500 feet, and we made a rapid descent,
our aircraft shuddering and shaking through the
aerodynamic forces of its swift drop. Then we leveled off in
hot, turbulent air and set up an orbit 1,500 feet over the
area of the search.
Immediately an F-4, low on fuel but with ordnance
on board, was vectored to us. We made a quick
rendezvous and hooked up in moderate to heavy
turbulence. He took some fuel and dropped into the murky
clouds. Our Boom Operator noticed the receiver aircraft
had already been hit by small arms fire.
“I gotta GO!” A disembodied voice broke in over the
airwaves. “Dammit! They found me! Where ARE you
guys?”
An Army FAC (Forward Air Controller) was flying his
small Cessna aircraft very low over the area trying to mark
the enemy location with smoke flares, but was also taking
hits from them. The F-4 we had just refueled came over
the rescue area low and fast and made two passes but got
hit by ground fire. Trailing a heavy, black cloud of smoke
he departed for home.
Another F-4 came in, quickly took fuel then went
down for a look. After several low drags through the valley
trying to get under the clouds, he found the enemy. He
was fired upon at the very end of his run but developed a
weapons malfunction. He could not release his bombs and
departed for his home base.
Another F-4, “Scarlet Three,” came in and joined
up with us, took some quick fuel and dropped into the
clouds.
“I’m behind a big black rock!”
The FAC went in to mark the spot for the F-4 and
took several more hits. He finally departed the area,
muttering laconically: “I got a real good hosing-down –
one of these times those guys are going to have my ass.”
Pages 15 & 16
I press The Surface Warning Control pushbutton
twice, and above ground a rotating beacon lights bright red
and slowly begins spinning around and around, and the
sirens begin their loud and eerie scream as they slowly
rotate, alerting anyone or anyTHING near the site above
ground to run like hell.
I poll the crew, who are now busy scanning their
respective equipment panels: “Crew report ready to
launch.”
“Deputy ready to launch, Sir.”
“BMAT ready to launch, sir.”
“MFT’s ready to launch, sir.”
“BMAT, set circuit breaker 104 to on.”
“Roger, Commander, circuit breaker 104 — set to
‘on’.”
Electrical power can now be applied to the missile
ordnance items, including the welded-shut fuel and oxidizer
valves. I verify we have selected the target that was
specified in the launch message, and point to the lighted
indicator and announce, “Target 1 is selected.”
“Deputy, insert your key, and turn on my count of
‘Mark”. We both snap the safety seals that secure plastic
covers that guard the launch keyholes.
The deputy responds: “Roger, sir, key is inserted.”
And I continue: “ . . . three, two, one, mark.”
The Deputy Commander and I turn our launch
commit keys. I continue, without pause, now reading
from the Launch Control Console as various lights on the
console illuminate: “Crew, we have a LAUNCH ENABLE
lighted and the Missile Batteries are being activated.”
Now there is a long wait. The great batteries out in
the missile always sit there dry. A bladder filled with
battery acid sits above these dry batteries. During the
launch sequence the bladder is punctured and the
electrolyte inside drains into the batteries and they become
active and come up to power. It’s only a 28 second wait
but time is different now. The only sounds that can be
heard are the calm, monotonous humming of the fans in
the control center. It’s just like any other morning at 3:00
a.m., on alert, in any other complex — it’s calm and quiet in
here, almost sleepy.
APS POWER lights. The missile is now operating
on its own battery power. Now it’s alive - out there in the
dark silo.
Another long wait, listening to the humming of the
fans again - then SILO SOFT lights: the 750 ton silo door
has unlatched and lifted itself up, and is sliding along its
railroad tracks, through the swirling fog that has come in
from the Pacific Ocean. The “gunbarrel” now lies open to
the night sky.
GUIDANCE GO lights – the missile computer has
taken over its own control of the missile.
FIRE IN THE ENGINE lights, a steady red.
Still it’s very quiet, unreal in an absolute sense, yet it
also seems very normal.
Then most of the lights on the Launch Control
Console go out.
The klaxon sounds: “UGGGGAAAHHH!”. The FIRE
IN THE ENGINE indicator begins flashing red. I punch the
klaxon off.
Pages 101, 102 & 103
I was studying an AF
correspondence course and was writing late into the
evening in the alert pad dining room. Two or three
crewmembers were sleeping in the TV room under a gray
unblinking buzz from the set which was still on although the
two television broadcasting stations that we could receive
here had signed off for the night. The other 200 or so
crewmembers and maintenance personnel were asleep in
their beds in the rooms beneath us and most of them had
been there for an hour or more. Finally I too went down the
steps into the sleeping area which was quiet, still and
peaceful.
I washed my face in the latrine, walked down a
hallway that led out toward the parked aircraft to the room I
shared with my pilot & co pilot, who were already asleep. I
paused outside the door to the room and quietly hung my
flight jacket on one of many pegs there. I glanced at my
watch, which read 1:10 a.m., recalling that I had to get up
at 6:30. Slowly I opened the door and quietly, very quietly
closed it behind me as I stepped into the dark room. I
sneaked over to my bed, tiptoeing carefully through the
darkness and sat down cautiously so I would not make any
noise. The bed squeaked a little and I stopped for a
moment and then slowly sank down.
I reached down and quietly unzipped my right flight
boot, very slowly as not to make any noise with the zipper,
even holding my left hand over the zipper for added
quietness. When I reached the bottom of the zipper, the
klaxon in every room in the alert pad went off. Sound
waves reverberated throughout my body. I could feel the
bed vibrate with the ten second long
“UGAAAAAAAAAAAH!” of the klaxon. I felt as if a huge ice
pick had been rammed straight through my head into my
body and then connected to an electric current. I could
neither breathe nor think. I immediately pulled the zipper
back up as if in an apology for causing all that noise and
then realizing what the noise was, and what it meant, I
reached to find the light at the end of my bed to turn it on,
but knocked the lamp over on the floor.
BANG! – BANG! – BANG!
That was the copilot running into a wooden closet,
falling back on his bed, leaping up and running into the
closet again, and again. Finally he rolled over the bed to
the other side. He stepped into his flight suit, squirming it
up over his shoulders and as he dragged the zipper up, all
the klaxons went off again “UGAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
I walked out of the door, casually pulled down my
flight jacket and then started a slow dogtrot out to the
planes.
“HALT!” a guard called with an M-16 pointed at my
stomach.“EPIX!” I yelled, shouting the new day’s password.
“PASS!” he responded.
I reached the nose gear of our aircraft at the same
time as the crew chief. I noticed he was missing his cap
and one boot. I reached for the ladder to climb up to the
flight deck.
POW! A B-52 fired up the starter cartridge in its
number four engine. This controlled explosion provided hot
gasses at high velocity to start the jet engine turning over.
Fuel was added and it was operating in a second or two.
There followed a great shrieking whine as the engine was
brought up to full throttle so it could provide electrical and
hydraulic power to start the other engines. It all sounded
like a great beast had just been shot and was screaming
with rage!
POW! Whine! Another B-52 fired up with black
smoke rising high up above it like a black tornado!
POW! Whine! Another B-52 fired up and black
smoke drifted through the parked aircraft turning the flight
line into an unreal world of light and darkness with great
belches of dark red flame from the full running engines.
Pages 123 & 124
My family and I return to our camp site and walk down to the river, which is really a small creek that winds through the area. We listen to its singing and gurgling as it travels over its stream
bed while light flashes from bright rocks as the water runs
along its stony waterway. Birds hop across the rocks that
fill the creek bed, and raccoons and foxes walk beside and
wade into it, keeping an eye on us. A couple of friendly
looking coyotes watch from a small rise. Everybody here is
looking at us; we’re the strange ones. We can get the
feeling that they have come down to the campsite
exclusively to see us. A magpie plays the role of docent,
clearly pointing to us, while making interpretive comments
to explain our presence. Wonder if she has an honor
system? “Deposit two pine nuts, please!”
Later, we cook and eat sumptuous steaks and
potatoes grilled slowly over a campfire built in a brick
fireplace under the great oaks.
Evening brings blue shadows that reach as far into
our souls as they lean across the land. The wind, always
present in the northern Dakotas, now slows as if to linger
here to see the sun set in this special place and watch with
us as it falls behind a rocky cliff. Gold and crimson clouds
seem to touch the high bronze canyon rocks.
Far below, out across the desert floor, bent
sagebrush glows with purple luminosity, each wiry plant
seeming to scatter dusk out of its labyrinthine maze. A puff
of contented breeze brings the scent of dust to my nostrils.
The earth smells good.
Stars seem to perch on our shoulders and surround
our heads throughout the bright night. Owls fly in and out
of the overhead trees and watch our campfire in
amazement; small rocks tumble as tiny creatures peek or
run in alarm. The night wind brings again the smell of
sage, christening us one more time with its scent and
anointing us as one of its own.
pages 163 & 164
Carefully we crawl onto the active
runway and apply full power. Slowly we inch forward,
finally moving a foot or two, then ten feet, and then we feel
ourselves being slowly pushed back into our seats. An
enormous acceleration increases amazingly; the wing tips
lift off the ground, then the wings begin to fly. Some 47
seconds after start of takeoff roll, lift comes to the aircraft
and we float briefly, then leap strongly off the runway and
fly level for a moment.
“Gear up,” calls the pilot.
“Gear coming up!” Responds the copilot.
And the gear comes up with a heavy “Thump!
Thump! Thump!” More speed. Flaps come up with a
shrieking whine. More speed, and we’re bouncing and
sliding, skidding to the left, and the left wing falls as the tail
comes left. Then the left wing comes up and we leap up
again. But the right wing falls and the B-52 drops heavily,
falling out of the sky, and then it is lifted up, up, up and up
and up, pilots fighting to maintain control. Turbulence
begins as a chop, and increases quickly in severity, and
then we drop down again into the black night, left wing
down, leaning to the left, falling out of the sky, held into our
seat only by the belts and shoulder straps. We can feel our
wet hair rise within out helmets. Then we’re shoved down
deeply into our seats as lift returns to the aircraft, and we
ride, bucking and bouncing up and down, swaying quickly
from side to side as the turbulence abates into a moderate
chop. Now we’re at 400 knots, and really climbing, finally
kicking free of the earth-zone weather as we soar into the sky
– creatures of the black night in a black airplane, and we all
smell of sweat and kerosene and gunpowder.
Pages 310 & 312
We cross the street to an outside cafe where we can
sit under umbrellas rising from the center of round tables
and we enjoy a Japanese beer.
Saigon would be beautiful if it weren’t for the Hondas
and the crush of refugees. If you want to think back to the
prewar writings about Saigon you have to try to ignore the
roar of the Hondas, and the smell of hydrocarbons.
Yes, the whisper of the bicycles is gone now, but
sometimes you can still smell the wood smoke, and then
occasionally there comes an old whiff of fresh mint and
flowers and perfume, always with the underlaying body of
sandalwood incense rising and falling through the shady
streets.
Then the world seems to pause for a moment and
you can feel yourself strolling in reverie down these
graceful old boulevards. If you listen closely now you can
almost hear the haunting strains of accordions playing
music from Moulin Rouge drifting in the cool of evening
breezes, floating across the parks and over the wide
sidewalks and under the awnings. There seems to come a
peace that Paris will never know. Then finally you can hear
once again the whisper of the bicycles gliding down the
boulevards.
Eight teenage boys come around the corner. Five or
six of them are dressed in black pajamas. The one in the
middle has two revolvers on his belt, and two others carry
giant machetes. They walk down the street like kings. We
come back to reality quickly.
Pages 299 & 300
Pages 312 & 313
Tonight we’re busy up on Monkey Mountain, high up
in the fog, way above Da Nang - 0300 hours, bright lights
are glaring in the bombing van, servos are whistling, fans
humming, static snapping in the air. Smells of ozone, and grease from bearings fill the trailer air and mingle with the
bitter smell of old, burnt coffee.
A call from ADVON comes in through the static, bringing coordinates of a new bomb run for later this morning. The B-52s that will be striking this target are already airborne and will contact us in about two hours.
The message is encrypted and it comes over a secure
phone, and they all begin with a “whoosh” and end with a
“whoosh.”
I decode and plot coordinates of the Pre-Initial
Point (PIP), Initial Point (IP), the Release Point, and the
Target Area. The PIP is that spot above the earth that the
aircrew will navigate to on their own before we take over
the bomb run. It is critical that we have the three B-52s
running exactly along the line from the IP to the Release
Point so their bombs will fall into a rectangular area that
covers the target. If the courseline should be as little as two
degrees in error, many bombs will be thrown out of the
target area even if the aircraft are at the proper point when
they release. The weapons that will be dropped are
checked on ballistic tables to verify their time of fall and the
path that they will “fly” from bomber to target. If there are
problems or questions we call ADVON to discuss and
clarify those issues.
I plot the new target area rectangle on a map and find it includes a village in South Vietnam that has not yet been designated as “Abandoned.” I tell Sgt. Smith, who is the crew leader, to call ADVON and verify the village has been cleared and can be attacked.
“It’s a waste of time. ” Smith said.
“What do you mean?” I ask him.
“They always say it’s cleared.” He pours some
coffee “Every time – want some coffee, sir?”
“Thanks,” I say, pushing my cup in his direction “but the
regulations say to verify it with ADVON, so call ‘em.”
The coffee is bitter. I set the cup down and check my
watch. It’s fourteen minutes before our next bomb run. I
head into the computer room to check the final setup. The
plotting board is the point of control on the bomb run. It is located deep in the middle of the radar vans and it receives electronic inputs from computers and radar signals. The “board” itself is actually an easel pad, a 33” by 28” sheet of paper which hangs vertically in front of a fluorescent light box, similar to those used by physicians to check X-rays.
Pages 317 - 319