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

   Synopsis     The Author    Place Order    Blog