Webmasters Note: The 45th and 47th TFS were the first US forces to operate out of Ubon. They were not part of the 8th TFW, but regardless, their story is a very important part of our history.
MEMORIES OF UBON THAILAND
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A FIGHTER PILOTS JOURNAL
Richard E. Hamilton,
Copyright Registered 1998, Library of Congress.
ONE
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MACDILL
It was February 1965. I was a member of the 47th Tactical Fighter Squadron, 15th Tactical Fighter Wing, stationed at MacDill Air Force Base, Florida. We were part of the United States Air Force Tactical Air Command, equipped with F-4C Phantom II fighters. The F-4C was the newest aircraft in the USAF inventory and we were one of two wings in the Air Force that were combat ready in the Phantom II.
I was the squadron Scheduling Officer and was sitting at my desk, waiting for the Operations Officer to return from the weekly scheduling meeting at wing headquarters, hoping he would have the information I needed to complete the monthly sortie projections.
Our Wing Standardization and Evaluation Officer, Jack Britt, who was also at the meeting, returned first and looked in my door. “Guess what, Dick? We’re going to deploy to Thailand, to Ubon Royal Thai Air Base. We’ll provide counter-air support for six F-105 Squadrons from Japan and Okinawa.”
“What?” I was surprised—shocked actually. I’d heard some scuttle-butt about a
12th Wing squadron deploying to Naha, Okinawa, but nothing about Thailand. “When are we going? For how long?”
Jack shrugged. “Not sure. Sometime this summer, I think. I don't know for how long.”
Just then the Operations Officer, Major Hodges, came in, overhearing Jack’s comment. “Knock it off, Britt. You too Hamilton. This whole thing’s classified.”
We answered in unison. “Even in the squadron?”
“I’m telling you it’s classified—Top-Secret. Don’t talk to anyone about it. This is strictly need-to-know. And get the word out, no one can tell their wives.”
“Swell,” I said, “We’re the only unit in the Air Force with deployable F-4's. This is really a dumb secret.” My only response from Hodges was a glare. That's how this whole thing got started.
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I guess I should provide a quick and dirty history lesson at this point. Before World War II, the French colonized what in 1965 was called North and South Vietnam. Before, it was known as French Indochina. The French developed giant rubber plantations in their colony that provided about half of the world's supply of that important raw material. The Japanese invaded the country in the late 1930s to gain control of the valuable rubber supply and to control the strategic shipping lanes near the oil-rich Dutch East Indies (Indonesia). France, who was fighting Germany at the time, couldn't offer much resistance. During the Japanese occupation, local resistance groups began fighting the occupation forces. Two separate factions of guerrilla fighters emerged : one in the North and one in the South. The leader in the North was, Ho Chi Minh, an implacable communist.
When World War II ended, the French returned to reclaim their colony. But the days of colonization were over, and things would never be the same. The French met resistance from both sides. The North Vietnamese were especially tenacious, and while the French held all of the large cities, the countryside belonged to the communists. The French, weakened by the war at home, didn't have the resources nor the will to reclaim the country. After a decisive defeat at Dien Bien Phu, The French pulled out and left the country in anarchy. Vietnam remained split and a civil war developed.
Generally, the entire region was in chaos after the war, and the United States was left to pick up the pieces. The restoration of Japan became our first priority and the rest of the area suffered because of it. In short order China fell to the communists and the Soviets began flexing their muscles from Vladivostok with their Pacific fleet. The Soviets began looking for naval bases in the southern area that would expand their influence in the Indian Ocean as well as the entire Western Pacific; that place was Vietnam.
In 1954, the United States countered the Soviet's aggressive behavior by forming the South East Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO), an alliance of the major countries with significant interests in the region. Australia, The Philippines, Thailand, Great Britain, France, Pakistan, New Zealand and The United States became the signatories of the pact. Much like the North American Treaty Organization (NATO), an attack on one nation was an attack on the Alliance.
At this time Ho Chi Minh formed the Peoples Republic of Vietnam, and the new country was immediately recognized by the Soviet Union. Their backing allowed Ho Chi Minh to broaden the war against the south. Fearing that the Soviet-backed North Vietnamese Communists would defeat the fledgling southern democracy, the United States and her allies stepped in to prevent the takeover. They knew if South Vietnam lost the civil war, the whole region would become communist, country by country. Hence, the “Domino Theory.” As the Soviet Union became more aggressive, the United States feared that they might also lose access to the oil-rich country of Indonesia and the freedom to move our Navy between the Pacific and Indian Oceans.
In 1961, President Kennedy offered support to a number of South Vietnamese political leaders, hoping that one of them would be strong enough to resist the inroads by the North Vietnamese. The U.S. then sent military advisors to the south in an attempt to modernize their military and teach them how to fight the communist insurgents. For the most part these efforts were unsuccessful. The politicians we chose to support were corrupt and siphoned most of our aid into their own pockets. We slowly escalated the war by providing Special Forces in direct leadership roles.
By the end of 1964, our forces were secretly embroiled in the war in both South Vietnam and Laos, looking for ways to stop the flow of men and supplies coming from North Vietnam. The Gulf of Tonkin “incident” provided the excuse to expand our involvement. Although never proven, North Vietnamese gunboats purportedly attacked two of our Navy destroyers that were cruising the North China Sea during “Desoto” patrols, a covert operation to interdict supplies headed south. By asking Congress to support retaliatory strikes against the North Vietnamese, President Johnson unintentionally committed our military to a prolonged war. And, little by little, Congress unwittingly supported the escalation. Shortly thereafter, in 1965, we began opening fighter bases in Thailand to support the war against North Vietnam. Our war had truly started.
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In the weeks that followed our notification, we anticipated that we might start practicing for our upcoming air-to-air mission in “that place.” No way, as it turned out, but we spent a lot of time concentrating on nuclear deliveries. Were we fooling the bad guys or what?
Finally I learned, through the Deputy Commander for Operation's secretary, that our sister squadron, the 45th TFS, would go first, in April, and we would relieve them sometime in July. We were only required to go for ninety days each, as the Air Force was planning to form a new wing there later in 1965. Their pilots tour length would be for one year or for one hundred missions, whichever came first. Our deal sounded better, although we all wanted to be there long enough to get a Mig. Still, no one was to know.
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when my wife, Fran, asked me about the deployment shortly thereafter—seemed the Wing Commander's wife was on the “need-to-know list.”
She’d spilled the beans at a Wives Club coffee.
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The first big training exercise for the mission was a “go, no-go exercise,” so we could deploy across the Pacific Ocean without going to sleep. We were given a ration of go pills (dexedrine) and no-go pills (sleeping tablets—Nebutal and Seconal) along with a schedule for taking them. The test would take place over a weekend, of course. No sense screwing up the workweek.
I started with a go pill, followed by another after eight hours. After the second one kicked in, my eyes were in a permanent surprise-like stare. After another four hours I was supposed to sleep. I gulped down my Nebutal and hit the pillow, but my eyes never closed once. After eight hours I took the second series of go pills. By this time I had no appetite and felt like digging postholes. That night I tried taking two Seconals but that was an utter failure as well. By now I’d been up for thirty-two hours and was speaking very quickly. I lied on my score-card about taking the next go pill series and finally got to close my eyes for a couple of hours.
The next day I advised the flight surgeon that all had gone well, and I could fly across the Pacific without going to sleep. About this, I had no doubts.
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Not much changed over the next few months. Our sister squadron, the 45,th deployed on schedule and one of their pilots had already shot down a Mig-17. Their Phantoms were attacked by four Migs during an escort mission. Our guys quickly “suckered them into their six,” meaning that the Migs gained the initial tactical advantage, starting out on the F-4's tails—ready to shoot. Our guys managed to out fly them however, and the leader downed one of them with an AIM-9 Sidewinder missile. A short time later they’d bagged another Mig.
Although we were delighted with their success in the air, we’d heard that living conditions at Ubon weren't so hot and that the 45th pilots morale was at an all-time low. Their Squadron Commander, like ours, had been the leader of the Thunderbirds acrobatic team and was a bit egocentric. It was rumored he didn't like his role as combat leader and spent a lot of time flying back and forth between Ubon and Clark AB, P.I. for “medical treatment.” It turned out that the treatment he received was a circumcision. We all wondered why he’d waited until he was in combat to do the procedure—so did the top brass. His Operations Officer was tasked to concentrate on squadron administration duties, which left a leadership vacuum in the flying department. The Assistant Operations Officer, who was a real follow-me type, took over the leadership role and got the job done. Nonetheless, we were excited about our deployment, still thinking about downing our own Mig, until the 45th suffered their first combat loss. That made things dead serious. It also made us wonder about our commander’s leadership abilities.
We still hadn't concentrated on air-to-air mission training, but we got what practice we could between ourselves one the way home, after our mission objectives had been met. The whole deployment was still classified, even though the news media reported Air Force F-4s flying out of Thailand.
Finally the big day arrived. We were put into quarantine the evening before the launch, so we could get the right food and plenty of rest—away from the wife and kids. Yeah, right! What a mess. It was noisy, hot, we slept on cots, and there was a shortage of pillows and sheets. Even our vaunted high-protein steaks had been full of fat and tougher than shoe leather.
Anyway, the next day the majority of the pilots said good-bye to their families on the ramp amongst the newsmen and photographers. I’d elected to say my good-byes to the kids the afternoon before I went into quarantine. Somehow it seemed more normal. I didn't want my children thinking that this day was different or scary, that I was going off to war and might not come back. I’d hoped they’d think it was just another routine deployment—god knows they’d seen enough of those. Fran came, however, and I gave her a hug and a big kiss—one I wouldn’t forget—making sure she didn’t see the tears in my eyes when we parted.
I looked around as I climbed the ladder to my plane, surveying the scene.
One of the wives was waving a protest poster, which quickly disappeared.
The journalists were snapping pictures, and I wondered if they knew where we were going.
What a way to start a war.
TWO
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Our deployment was scheduled to be a three-day affair. We’d fly to Hawaii from MacDill, our Central Florida home base on the first day, on to Clark AB, The Philippines, the second day, and then to Ubon the following morning. Right at twelve thousand nautical miles, give or take a few. Some of our maintenance personnel and extra aircrews had preceded us by two days on a C-130 transport, and would meet us in Hawaii. They would provide maintenance support, if required, and the spare aircrews would step in for any sick pilots. After they serviced and launched our spare aircraft back to the mainland, they would proceed to Ubon.
Takeoff was uneventful. We deployed in four formations of six aircraft—four of which were spares. Each formation would marry-up with three KC-135 tankers, modified Boeing 707 transports, for our airborne refuelings. Consequently we were spread for a long ways, having twenty miles in between each section. Our four six-ship formations met with our first group of tankers over Dallas and the refuelings went well. However, we almost aborted over San Diego, as our mission leader couldn’t make contact with light-ship “November,” which was our rescue vessel. Someone finally got the frequency right and we pressed on to aloha land with a new set of tankers who would buddy-up with us for the Ocean crossing.
There is nothing so boring as to fly a heavy-weight fighter in a big formation over a great big body of water. The only relief from the monotony was during air-to-air refueling and that wasn’t very often. Some of us had put our “G” suits under our butts and blew them up every once in a while to prevent numbness. Others moved out of formation a did a couple of aileron rolls, until one of the commanders told him to knock it off.
Our GIBS (GIBs, guys in back—preferred name for PSOs, Pilot Systems Operators) were a bit apprehensive about their first long flight and some of them were having the usual problems: staying alert and not being able to urinate. My GIB, Jim, just couldn't make himself go in the “piddle-pac,” a sponge-lined plastic gizmo that held about a quart of liquid. It isn't as easy as you might think, those of you who have never tried it. Jim was all cramped up in the cockpit, wearing a flightsuit and G suit (he hadn't put it under his butt). The pressurization and normal vibration of the aircraft made it difficult for him to get started. Hell, finding it through all of that gear was tough enough. Most guys were fine after getting that first dribble in the plastic tube. But not my guy.
Jim was complaining loudly when I noticed my master warning light blinking, telling me my number two engine was losing oil pressure. Its diagnosis was accurate, and I had to shut the engine down and leave the formation—since I was unable to maintain the same altitude with only one engine. The flight leader, after hearing that everything else was fine, told my wingman, Jack Gravis, to stay with me, and we pressed on at a lower altitude with eight hundred miles left to Hickam, AFB. This was not a very serious problem in the F-4C. We had plenty of fuel and the other engine was doing fine. But it certainly didn’t help with Jim's difficulty in mastering the piddle-pac.
As we’d left the formation, I heard our mission commander tell the tanker that he was not going to enter the ADIZ (Air Defense Intercept Zone) within the ten-mile window. The F-4 was equipped with an inertial navigation system which was quite accurate, and other members of the flight verified our position. The tanker leader told our flight leader he had a Master Navigator on board who had everything under control; since when does a fighter pilot tell a big airplane navigator about his specialty? About that time, we picked up a couple of bogies on our radar screens which turned out to be Hawaii ANG F-102 Interceptors. They advised the tanker leader he’d missed the ADIZ and they’d be required to escort his formation to Hickam. Quite a few raspberries were heard after a few choice fighter pilot comments were relayed to the Master Navigator. He deserved them.
The rest of the flight beat us to Hickam by about twenty-five minutes and we were very happy to get our Phantom on the ground. I’d almost forgotten about Jim's difficulty until we parked the aircraft. He leapt from his seat and hit the ground tearing at his zipper—relief at last. We all stood there and watched while he shot spurt after spurt at least fifteen feet. The ground crews were mildly amused; he was embarrassed. After debriefing, we were given two hours to do as we wished until quarantine. Naturally we hit the bar and sipped a couple of Mai Tai's until no-go pill hour. All in all, a good day.
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We’d had four spare aircraft for the deployment. The original plan was to leave two of them on the ground in Hawaii, while the other two accompanied us to Wake Island, where the mission would be declared a “go.” They would then return to Hickam and all four spares would return to MacDill the following day. The aircraft I flew from MacDill was getting an engine change, and one of the others had developed a hydraulic leak. Looked like the plan was working thus far, and my replacement bird was humming right along.
Our route of flight was direct to Wake Island, direct to Guam, and direct to Clark Air Base. Everything was point to point over water. The trip was approximately forty-five hundred nautical miles, give or take a few, and the time of flight was about ten hours and thirty minutes. Another boring day. At least the weather forecast was good, so we expected no problems in that department.
Jim was upbeat after his difficulty on the first day, and proved himself capable within the first hour. His only problem now was where in the hell he was going to hang the bag for the next nine hours. He solved the problem by hanging the strap on the ejection seat handle, which he didn’t plan to use.
This was the first time I’d seen Wake Island. I immediately conjured up a scene from an old World War II movie where the hero, William Bendix, single-handedly fought off the first wave of the Japanese invasion, holding a hot machine gun in his bare hands as he riddled the enemy with bullets, saving his buddies, but, none-the-less, losing his life. The island was just a small dot in the gigantic Pacific, and made me wonder about the men who lost their lives there. Such a high cost for such a little insignificant place.
My thoughts were interrupted by a radio call. Our deep-ocean escort, a C-130 Hercules, lost one of its four engines an hour or so out of Wake, and advised us he had to abort. Since none of us had developed any problems and we were far enough along by now, the mission commander wished him well and declared the mission a “go.”
The rest of the mission was uneventful, except for our sore butts, until we learned that the tankers who had been scheduled to refuel us over the Mariana Islands had been needed for another mission. Consequently, we were advised to land at Anderson AFB, Guam. We would press on to The Philippines the next day.
After landing, we raced to the Officers Club bar for our two hours of freedom. When we walked in the door, a voice over the intercom advised the membership that the “combat crews” were entering the establishment. We thought it was nice of these guys to welcome us aboard, until it became apparent that the announcement was for the Strategic Air Command “combat crews,” who’d been sitting alert in their B-52 bombers (eight-engine strategic bombers we called BUF's, big ugly xxxxers). After a few pointed remarks were made to the SAC pukes, we had a few beers and hit the sack. Another pretty good day.
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The next morning we departed for Clark AB, P.I., where we’d be leaving our aircraft. Ostensibly, another squadron in our wing, the 43rd, would use the aircraft in support of a SEATO initiative, to provide Air Defense protection for the nearby signatories if required. Actually, they would be used to re-supply our squadron with replacement aircraft and aircrews if we lost any in combat—a sobering thought. Eventually they’d join the 12TFW, another group from MacDill, that was scheduled to move to Cam Ranh Bay, a new base being built in South Vietnam.
We hadn't require tankers on this leg, so we arrived in flights of four looking like the sharp squadron we were, ready for combat. Each flight broke in precision with exactly four seconds spacing between aircraft, hitting the runway with the nose held high, our orange and white drag-chutes billowing in the wind, we’d taxied to our parking area in close formation, feeling proud.
We got to relax for most of the day at Clark, another beautiful and historic base, whose appearance emitted the flavors, traditions, and memories established there before the second war. It reminded me of some film-clips I’d seen in the newsreels at the movies when I was a kid. That afternoon a few of us hit the pool and generally enjoyed ourselves. Later we had dinner,
en-masse, while listening to a twenty-one piece Filipino band that sounded very much like Glen Miller. Although no one showed it, we were getting tense as we got closer to battle, even though our bravado was at its peak—But at the same time a feeling of apprehensiveness prevailed. All-in-all, it was another good day.
We left for Ubon RTAB, Thailand the next morning on a C-130 transport. All of the pilots were on board, lined up on portable seats that were attached to each side of the aircraft. They were made of aluminum tubes and red nylon straps, kind of like lawn furniture, and were very uncomfortable. The backrests were vertical, making it impossible to recline. Every time the aircraft would turn, accelerate, or decelerate, we would all be pushed forward or against each other, the last man in the row bearing the brunt of the weight.
When we arrived, the C-130 pilot, who must have been a frustrated fighter pilot, decided to pitch-out the Hercules and land like a fighter. He aligned the aircraft with the runway at fifteen hundred feet and, when he reached the approach-end, made a fast three hundred and sixty degree left turn, using about sixty degrees of bank, losing altitude during the turn. While still in a slight bank, the giant aircraft crunched down on one-wheel, and the pilot placed all four engines in reverse, stopping in about three thousand feet—less than the first half of the runway. He probably thought his maneuver would thrill the troops. It was a thrill all right. Most of us were thrown on the deck, completely out of our seatbelts, and were probably lucky not to have been hurt. Welcome to Thailand—Our war had begun.
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THIS IS IT?
I'll never forget our welcome, or lack of it, when we arrived—July twenty-fourth. Hardly anyone spoke to us and a lot of the grubby-looking departing pilots and maintenance troops jumped on the transport aircraft as soon as we hit the ramp. Could this be an omen?
Boy, was it ever. The first news we received was that a member of our advance party, Dick Keirn, and a 45th GIB, Ross Fobair, had been shot down that morning by an SA-2 surface-to-air missile, the first loss of the war to that potent Soviet weapon. We had sent eight 47th pilots to Ubon two weeks early to learn the ropes. Now one of them was declared missing. No one had seen any parachutes.
The description of their mission was unbelievable. Our Operations Officer had led his flight over a suspected SAM site position, at medium altitude, in wispy clouds, and in close formation. They were above a heavy overcast. When the missile came out of the lower clouds, it was too late to make an evasive maneuver, and the SAM made a direct-hit on the number two aircraft.
Because they were in close formation, the missile also caused severe damage to the other three aircraft, causing one of them to abort into Udorn Air Base, an airfield about seventy-five miles north of Ubon.
The veteran 45th Squadron Commander, who was also in the flight, apparently made no attempt to correct the flight leader’s actions which were in direct violation of the most rudimentary of the combat tactics we had all been taught.
We also learned that the F-105 flights they were scheduled to support, had never gotten airborne due to the bad weather. As it turned out, our guys were just flying around in the clouds over hostile territory with no mission.
I asked myself, What in the world was that experienced combat pilot thinking about? How could he let it happen? Then I realized that my Squadron Commander, the guy I was counting on to provide the leadership and keep me alive in battle, had silently participated in this fiasco. His silence spoke volumes. This was not turning out to be a good day.
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Ubon Royal Thai Air Base had sounded pretty good to me. Remembering the movie, I had conjured up thoughts of the King of Siam and all of the mysteries of the East. But after I arrived, the base wasn’t exactly as I’d pictured—not nearly so glamorous. And the smell. Whew!
Our base happened to be a renovated WW II British base that had been constructed in a rice paddy. There was eight thousand feet of runway with one taxiway and a small ramp. There were also a number of small round parking revetments scattered about, which held two aircraft each. The place was jammed with only one squadron of F-4s; we had twenty five total.
There was heavy construction everywhere—graders and tractors working away, hundreds of Thai workers running around with two buckets of dirt suspended from a stick they carried across their shoulders. They were enlarging the size of the ramp and the runway was going to be lengthened by two thousand feet along with the associated taxiways. I noticed a couple of new maintenance hangers being built beside the new ramp along with a bunch of other buildings of unknown variety.
Our Squadron operations building faced the old ramp and one of our GIB's had already mounted the 47th Squadron sign above the front door.
Our logo was the “turnip termite,” a creature from Dogpatch, taken from the comic strip Lil Abner.
Maybe a tough termite didn't seem very appropriate for battle, but it did kind of fit into the scheme of things.
The place was surrounded on three sides by rice paddies covered with about one foot of smelly water, nightsoil I guess. In the housing area most of the streets weren't paved, just red dirt or mud, depending on the weather. Speaking of the weather, the Ubon type was a lot like MacDill. There were thunderstorms almost every afternoon and the air was super humid.
Thailand is known to be the bug capital of the world, and Ubon had its share of the total. They had many varieties, and they were all big. In particular, I remember the rice bug, a gray beetle about two inches long with big pinchers. The Thai's loved to eat them raw. They would pop off the head, stick the opened end in their mouth, and kind of squeeze the contents out with their fingers, like sucking on a tube of toothpaste.
The beetles used to swarm all over the parking areas at night when our maintenance troops were working on the aircraft. The bright lights attracted them and drove our guys nuts. It was kind of hard to get any work done when you had a two-inch beetle crawling up your leg looking for something to bite. The small round ramps next to the rice paddies were especially convenient to the creatures. Although it was counter to acceptable security practices, our troops used to let little Thai boys on the ramps to hunt the beasts. They would kick two of them together and the insects would lock pinchers. The kids then picked them up and tossed them in a basket. Very shortly their baskets were full and their whole village was treated to a high-protein breakfast the next morning.
The heat from the lights also attracted snakes, kraits mostly, which were quite deadly. These required a more professional approach and scared the hell out of most of us.
The housing at Ubon was unique. Except for the Squadron Commander and Ops Officer, who were assigned air-conditioned trailers, we lived in “hooches.” A hooch was a long building constructed on three foot stilts, and screened on all sides with a tin corrugated roof. There were also two corrugated sections that protruded out approximately halfway up the sides to form little roofs. These were designed to keep the rain out during the monsoon storms. For the most part they worked.
Each hooch was divided into four rooms—about fifteen by fifteen feet. In each, there were two sets of double steel bunk beds known as racks, four steel lockers, and our very own footlockers. The racks were covered with mosquito netting, the use of which was strongly encouraged, as the Ubon variety of these blood-suckers were enormous, and always hungry.
Later in the week our mobility equipment was shipped to us from Clark.
It had been sitting out in the open for two weeks and most of the stuff was wet or had already mildewed.
Mobility gear was pre-packed clothing, ready to go in case of an emergency deployment. Everyone had packed the required numbers of socks, tee shirts, shorts, etc. in footlockers, but the condition of the clothing wasn't always the best.
After all, who wanted to put in good stuff if you were never going to use it.
I had holes in only three socks, my tee shirts were gross under the arms, and the shorts were a bit threadbare.
Oh well.
Who was going to know—the old story about having an automobile accident in grubby underwear didn’t apply here.
Our next surprise was the bathroom facility. When we arrived, we had a couple of
six-holers and a shaving shed, which had semi-open walls. The shed contained a few cold-water showers and five or six sinks with their own mirrors. Each hole, which were always gamey because of the heat, had its own supply of lime to mask the odor. A roll of toilet paper stood next to each hole.
Shortly after we arrived these facilities were upgraded, replaced actually, with another hooch that had just one great big long room. One half of the building contained twenty toilet stalls down one wall with an equal number of urinals across from them. The other half had twenty shower heads sticking out of the wall on one side, with a bank of sinks and shaving mirrors on the other. The walls were unfinished and the floors were cement. There was a string of dim yellowish light bulbs running down the center, from end to end—and the ceiling was alive with geckos. Boy, what a wonderful place to congregate with your buddies every morning.
Another oddity about our housing area were wooden ramps instead of sidewalks. These ramps, besides filtering out the mud, also provided great hiding places for little creatures. Off duty, the standard clothing for using the john was flip-flops on the feet and a towel for the rest of you. One night, as one of our pilot’s proceeded to the shower, he noticed something rather colorful peeking out from between the slats. On closer examination it turned out to be a six-inch centipede, which attacked him. Fleeing, he left towel and flip-flops behind as he raced back to the hooch.
There was also an Officers Club, or part of one anyway. It was one wing of a building under construction. It had a bar, a few tables and chairs, and a pool table. The only reason we had that was because of the previous chaplain, who’d complained vehemently about the lack of a place for the pilots to hang out. After his request for a club was turned down, he helped the pilots clear out one of their bedrooms and build a makeshift bar. He also became the bartender. Finally, the base commander relented and opened one wing of the unfinished club building.
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Fortunately, we were given the first day off to get settled in before our war began, although the paper-war started for me about fifteen minutes after I arrived.
“Dick, we need a schedule.”
“Dick, we need tomorrow's frequencies.”
“Dick, we need call signs.”
They needed this; they needed that.
To hell with them; I needed some rest, a good meal and a beer.
Request denied. Three hours of hard work later it was time for dinner. We were informed that we would eat at the “mess hall,” a good name for this particular facility. Compared to the Air Force, the Army knew how to eat. Their mess halls were a thing of beauty compared to this place.
Here, we were introduced to our new Base Commander, a full Colonel we called Magellen because he was a navigator. By now, you should have a pretty good idea how fighter pilots view navigators, and this guy fit every one of the descriptions to a tee. Neither he or his boss had heard about taking care of their troops. All of his priorities seemed to be focused on what he called, “the important things”: the runway, taxiway, ramp, and revetment construction, and the building progress on the new personnel and headquarters buildings, etc. He mentioned nothing about improving the living conditions for us.
Our enlisted personnel, the mechanics, munitions' troops, and administration clerks lived in the same kind of hooches as we did, only in a different area of the base—without the paddy view the officers enjoyed.
When we asked Magellen when our living conditions might be improved, he replied: “The Air Force will take care of those things after the important projects are in order,” Great, I thought. In a couple of years, if we were lucky. And for all of this, we got $1.90 daily per-diem. Yeah! No wonder our predecessors wanted on the plane before we could get off.
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Getting organized was no easy task. Even though we had done lots of pre-planning, it was never as easy as it looked on paper. We got our people settled by flights. Each flight A, B, C, & D, got their own hooch. We had a total of fifty four pilots, including the Commander, Operations Officer, and the Maintenance Officer. Aircraft Commanders bunked with their GIBs. The restroom facilities were located in between the two rows of hooches for ready access by all.
On any base there are four major areas where fighter pilots hang out: the Operations desk where the flying schedules are posted everyday on a big Plexiglas board, the personal equipment locker room where we played bridge and scrabble and kept our flying gear and survival stuff, the Intelligence area where the maps were, and the bar. The latter being the most popular. The one thing in common about these places was that they were all air-conditioned, a definite advantage over our hooches, which were equipped with what looked like the original ceiling fans taken from the set of Casablanca.
Following the first week, a bunch of the troops wanted to grow handlebar mustaches and wear “go-to-hell” hats like we had seen on TV—like everyone else in Southeast Asia. These hats were similar to Australian bush hats, turned up on one side, except they were olive drab.
“You guys are going to look like the Pentagon expects, clean-shaven and professional,” our commander said. So that was that. But I couldn't help but wonder, though, who in the hell was going to know what we looked like if we weren't allowed to tell anyone we were here.
One of the first memorable events that occurred during our get acquainted week was a group of rats that had taken a liking to one of our hooches, running up and down the open ceiling rafters all of the time, even during the day. Magellen had not acted on the complaints, even after one of the little furry creatures had fallen on one of our GIBs. They, being junior, all slept in the top bunks and learned that mosquito netting had a secondary use—to fend off falling rats. Anyway, one of the occupants of “rat hooch,” Roger Stemler, was a superior pistol shot and decided that he would lie in his bunk and pick off a few of them—Maybe that would get Magellen's attention. Sure enough, it worked. We had an exterminator and someone to fix the holes in the roof out there that very day. From then on however, all weapons had to be locked up in the personal equipment room.
Getting used to the local noises at night was also a problem, kind of like sleeping out in the backyard for the first time when you were a kid. Gigantic bugs make gigantic noises. This, coupled with our visions of a cobra slithering around, kept a lot of us awake for a while.
One night a guy in the next hooch, Bob Farkas, got tired of listening to a frog, who was undoubtedly looking for a mate, so he decided to get rid of it.
Flashlight in hand, he inspected under the hooch with a bamboo pole and found the culprit, a one-inch frog, with a three-inch air sack under his chin.
Boy, could he croak.
Getting laundry done was another problem. There were no laundry facilities, at least not in the true sense. There was a building about ten feet square filled with wash tubs. There was a cold water tap and the water had a brownish tinge. We were encouraged to hire a laundry person. We had our choice of two: “Big-Box” or “Little-Box.” The littlest one carried a great big cardboard box and the big one carried a little cardboard box. I chose the latter; figuring she might be stronger. They would pick up the laundry you left on your racks everyday and take it to the laundromat. Here they would beat it and stretch it until they were satisfied. That doesn't mean it was clean, however. Your socks quickly became tube socks, with no heels and were about three feet long. Everything took on a dirty red look, like the mud, and didn't smell much better.
Many times, while laying on the rack after flying, you would hear one of the guys yelling, “Big-Box, where are the rest of my socks? Did you steal my socks?”
“Big-Box no steal socks—Maybe Little-Box steal socks.” No one could tell whose socks were whose. They all looked the same. In the long run we all seemed to break even. After all, who in the hell would want those socks?
Each hooch had its own houseboy. He would sweep the floors, make the racks, pick up the junk, empty the trash, and shine your boots. Every afternoon all the houseboys’ got together on one of the porches to shine boots. They would really carry on, speaking a mile a minute. Guess it was kind of a cultural thing—discussing the days’ happenings. They always had a smile for you and made you feel better about the day, no matter how bad it had been.
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The flying situation took a little getting used to as well, even though our squadron was very experienced. About half of the frontseaters had been recalled from the Air National Guard during the Berlin and Cuban crises. Most of us “Guard bums” were captains and had more flying time than our Flight Commander's, who were majors. Quite a few of us had an edge on the Operations and Assistant Operations officers as well. We’d certainly dropped more bombs than they had. We also had more tactical experience as flight leaders. This situation was normally not a problem unless one of them got us shot at for no good reason. These problems were usually ironed out in debriefings or in private discussions at the bar.
In the case of our Operations Officer, Major Hodges, the situation never got better—he listened to no one. I was the Scheduling Officer and, at the request of some other pilots, I tried to schedule him for less-demanding missions with men who didn't mind flying with him. I was walking a tightrope, however, and he finally overheard me briefing my assistant one day about who didn't want to fly with him, and what missions to put him on.
“Why?” he asked me. I told him. He demanded an apology—I told him I was sorry to have become involved in the ruse, but I refused to apologize for admitting he was a bad flight leader. Not satisfied, he ordered me to pull mobile control duty until I apologized. Poor Jim, my Gib, had to go with me.
Mobile duty was another contentious requirement thought up by our leaders. No other base in the theater required their pilots to sit watch at the end of the runway in a radio equipped truck, checking that each aircraft had its flaps down for takeoff and its gear down for landing. This was a necessity in a training environment, but not for experienced combat pilots.
After I served four days on mobile, the Squadron Commander, L/C Robinson, stepped in and canceled the Operations officer’s order. I never apologized to him—why should I—for telling the truth? Everybody backed off as best they could, but the undercurrent of mistrust prevailed during the rest of the deployment.
This entire experience was becoming absolutely surreal. Not only did we have to live in this crazy environment, we had to put up with crazy leadership. All of us felt like we were walking on eggs. We would soon learn that our situation would get worse.
The overall bombing campaign in North Vietnam was called Rolling Thunder.
Our missions in support of this operation were: to bomb strategic targets—rail yards, factories, electrical plants, bridges, airfields, military barracks/camps and ammunition storage sites, interdict supplies being routed south, assist rescue efforts, maintain air superiority, and to escort various reconnaissance missions that would take place in North Vietnam and Laos.
Missions in Laos were called Barrel Roll and Steel Tiger, and were generally armed reconnaissance missions against supply routes.
We also got to play photo journalist for the Pentagon—More on that later.
After we had been flying for two weeks, it suddenly dawned on many of us that someone in Washington, not our commanding general, was controlling our missions. Some “big shot” in the Pentagon was selecting our targets, our weapons, the time of day we were scheduled, and deciding how many aircraft we would fly against each target.
I should note here that, even in wartime, there is never a bomb dropped or a shot fired without a written order from the top. There are orders for everything in the military. The orders that directed our war were called fragmentation orders; fragments of the general order that carries out the war plan. The “frags” are sent to every involved unit; assigning them specific targets to attack. Supposedly, the frag orders came from the next highest command authority, which in our case was the 2nd Air Division at Udorn, Thailand, but for the most part, they seemed to pass straight through from the Pentagon. They came in every morning by secure teletype and we carried them out. No matter how dumb they might be.
The Pentagon also played the number’s game. The F-4 was a multi-purpose fighter. That is, it could perform both the air-to-air mission and the air-to-ground mission, including nuclear. Apparently Secretary of Defense, McNamara, thought up the idea that you could count two-for-one with the F-4. They’d schedule us for an air-to-ground mission, cycle us back to a tanker after we dropped our bombs, and then send us out for a Mig-cap mission because we always carried Sparrow Missiles. I suppose McNamara thought it sounded good on the news when the anchor reported that we flew fifty sorties that day, instead of twenty five.
Learning of this, one of our guys asked our commander if we could also take credit for two combat missions and apply it toward an Air Medal, which took twenty five missions to get in those days. His answer was, “Hell no.”
In actuality, most of us flew over enemy territory on at least one hundred separate occasions. Later, the Defense Department changed the qualification requirements for earning an Air Medal. They lowered the number of missions from twenty-five to ten, but that was only for missions flown over North Vietnam. Unfortunately, it was not retroactive.
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THE WEAPONS
The weapons themselves were also a problem for us initially. For the first few weeks we used primarily seven hundred and fifty pound bombs (Mk 117s), and really old WW II fuses. I guessed they wanted to use up the old stuff before giving us anything new and reliable.
A fuse for a bomb is a pretty basic device. It mechanically allows a small charge of accelerant to set off the main explosive filler inside the bomb casing. The fuse is armed when a propeller attached to it spins off in the airstream after the weapon is dropped. This provides a safe separation distance before the bomb is enabled. A bomb is supposed to detonate when it hits the ground, but there had been cases of premature detonation caused by the bombs hitting together in mid-air.
We were having a lot of bombs that weren't exploding when they hit and wondered if the fuses were working at all. Our Munitions Officer figured that the propellers might be sticking and if he bent them a little more, they would work.
On my next flight, as I was leaving the tanker enroute to the target, my wingman said I didn't have one propeller on my bomb fuses, meaning my bombs were armed. The force of dropping them or even a bird strike might cook them off. Jim checked my wingman and saw his propellers were missing as well. The other element also had the same problem. I decided to press on to the target and take our chances dropping them there. Hell, it was just as risky to take them home, maybe more so—we’d be exposed longer. No one had a problem during their release and we didn't have one dud. However, we decided that our Munitions Officer needed to come up with a better solution. He did, by “conning” our headquarters out of new fuses.
This wasn't our only weaponry problem. Just because the F-4 could carry most of the weapons in the Air Force inventory, didn't mean that the munitions selected by higher headquarters was the right one for the job.
For instance, one day I was targeted to attack a small wooden bridge with High Explosive Anti-Tank rockets. I hit the target, but the rockets just burned holes in the wood, causing minimal damage.
Later, on a night mission with rockets, I thought I was shooting into a mirror after I’d fired. I watched the rocket plumes as they departed the aircraft, then watched them immediately turn around and attack me. Actually it was flak coming from the enemy anti-aircraft gunners, who’d simply fired at the source of my rocket trails. In this case our choice of weapons had uncomplicated their job for them.
During our first month at Ubon, I was given the “privilege” of shooting a bull-pup air-to-ground missile at the Thanh Hoa bridge, a target of infamy in North Vietnam. There were two kinds of bull-pup missiles: the big one weighed one thousand pounds and the smaller one weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. I fired the latter, which was designed to destroy trucks and tanks. Boy, did I get noticed. The follow the trail rule applied and I had a SAM after me in about ten seconds. It missed. So did I.
I almost got caught-up in a Pentagon scheme to utilize an old Korean vintage VT Fuse, a fuse that has its own little radar on board that detonates the bomb about five hundred feet in the air—throwing shrapnel on the enemy. The weapons experts thought it would be great for attacking anti-aircraft emplacements. Fortunately, the day I was scheduled, my mission got canceled because of target weather. A F-105 pilot was not so lucky, however. Those fuses were never intended to be placed in the airstream of a fighter traveling five hundred miles per hour and, much the same as our propeller problem, the fuse armed itself in flight. When the pilot closed within five hundred feet of the tanker, the fuse radar thought it saw the ground and exploded. Since we’d been scheduled to fly the same mission in our squadron, it could just as well have been Jim and me. How does a commander explain something like this to the dead pilot’s wife and kids?
This constant meddling in our tactics by these armchair quarterbacks in Washington had a negative effect on our morale and sanity. It was difficult enough to attack the most heavily defended region in the history of aerial warfare, on a daily basis, without being interfered with by a bunch of amateurs. After all, we were the ones who were risking our lives, not them. It was also impossible to explain the situation to our wives and kids. So we were stuck with an impossible task, and had to live or die by their decisions without having anyone to bitch to. My greatest fear was leaving Fran without a husband and my kids without a father, and I didn't have any way to control it. Most of us didn't even talk about our fears among ourselves. These targeting and weapons problems taught me a great lesson; that the politicians in charge must trust the military to make the tactical decisions when fighting a war.
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The Pentagon also dictated the rules of engagement—which were changed frequently to fit President Johnson’s political strategies. Notwithstanding the reasoning behind them, they seemed designed to impede our success. We had them written on the bulletin board: Don’t bomb or attack: active military airfields, harbors or port facilities, coastal shipping, surface to air missile sites, Migs—unless you are attacked first, and agricultural dams or dikes. There was one more, the one that irked everyone the most: “Thou shall not bomb a village, even if they’re shooting at you from it.”
It was rumored that an F-104 pilot, trying to help his downed wingman, strafed a small hamlet and was sent home for it. No one wanted to purposely bomb helpless civilians, but the North Vietnamese military located anti-aircraft weapons in many of their villages because they knew they’d be safe from attack. Personally I never attacked a village, and I think I could vouch the same for every pilot in our squadron. I'll have to admit I was tempted to attack a 23mm gun emplacement one day. The gun was shooting at me from a small cluster of huts while I was trying to provide cover for a helicopter that was trying to pick up a downed F-105 pilot. Like most of the others, I gritted my teeth, held my temper and didn’t drop my bombs. Incidentally, the helicopter had to back off, and the pilot was captured—later I learned the pilot was Robby Risner. Sometimes the rules suck, and following them just doesn't seem to make sense, especially when the people that make them up never have been to war—or make them for political reasons.
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North Vietnam was divided into six areas they called Route Packages. Route PAC-1 was the farthest south, and five and six were divided east and west at the top. Two, three and four were in between. The really bad packages were four, five and six. Places like Hanoi, Phuc Yen, Kep, Gia Lam, Thud Ridge, Yen Bai, Haiphong, Dien Bien Phu, Phu Tho, Bac Ninh, Son Tay, Thai Nguyen, Bac Gian, Long Son, Hoa Binh and Thanh Hoa were all famous points of reference. There were also many barracks areas and truck parks in the lower route packages that would bring back some instant memories of danger for those that flew there; Vinh, Don Hoi, Vinh Linh, as well as Tiger Island, quickly come to mind.
Laos was another story. Apparently, the small country was involved in the war simply because of its location—caught up in the never-ending conflicts between the Thai, Cambodians, and the Vietnamese—who had been fighting one another for centuries. The ancient Lao kingdom was originally the home of the Meo tribe (later called Hmong), an almost primitive group of people living in small groups throughout the highlands. They were naturists, somewhat like the American Indians, and only fought when someone invaded their territory. And the country itself was different, almost entirely made up of heavy jungle forests interspersed with white limestone karsts, jutting from the ground like stone-age flint knives. There were several rivers and one central high plateau called the Plain of Jars, named after the enormous burial jars that were left on the plain by some forgotten people. There were hardly any major towns or roads, except in the lowlands near the Mekong river, just small villages located near burnt off clearings on the sides of the hills where tribal groups cleared the jungle to grow millet and opium poppies. Laos was an extremely beautiful country in a peculiar way, its valleys filled each morning with wispy fog. It reminded me of an old movie I’d seen about a secret land where dinosaurs still survived—still unconnected with the rest of the planet.
Anyway, or whatever reason, not striking targets in Laos was just about as important as not flying out of Thailand. Even though everyone knew we were doing it, no one wanted to talk about it. I guess that's what our government called “diplomacy.” I can assure you that none of us would ever forget being shot at in Laos, from Samneua, Ban Ban, Tehepone, and Route-7, the main road through the Plain of Jars out of the northern Parrots Beak.
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The mission assignments were much the same for the F-105s flying out of Korat and Takhli, air bases in north central Thailand, except they substituted SAM suppression for the air-to-air mission. Takhli also provided some EB-66 aircraft to the order of battle. They were 1950s vintage two-engine nuclear bombers, that had been converted for electronic jamming. They tried to jam the tracking radars of the SAMs and AAA, for the strike forces.
Udorn Air Base was on the Thai northern border, close to the Mekong River. Besides the 2nd Air Division, Udorn provided a jumping-off base for reconnaissance aircraft (RF-101s or RF-4Cs) stationed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base near Saigon, as well as an emergency landing base for aircraft with battle damage. It also supported the aircrew rescue effort with heavily armored helicopters, and provided forward air controller (FAC) aircraft, flying T-28s, for some Laotian missions. Air America, a CIA spook operation, was alive and well at Udorn and across the river at Vientiane, Laos.
Nakhon Phanom AB (NKP) was located just on the west side of the Mekong River, about ninety-five miles north of us. The runway and taxiways at NKP were covered with Pierced Steel Planking—metal sections laid over dirt. The runway was only four thousand five hundred feet long. Consequently, air operations were limited to “special” aircraft operations. Their contingent consisted of helicopters, forward air control aircraft and vintage fighters. NKP was the home of the “Sandy’s,” which was the call sign for the guys who provided Flak suppression for the helicopters during rescue operations. They flew single-engine, prop-driven, Korean-War-vintage A-1 fighters we called “Spads,” armed with four twenty millimeter cannons plus napalm, bombs, or rockets. Their pilots, like the rescue helicopter crews, were quite popular and always got their first drink free at any fighter bar. NKP also housed a spook operation called Task Force Alpha.
Da Nang AB was located just below the border between North and South Vietnam.
Da Nang also supported the war in the north with F-104 Starfighters and some special electronic reconnaissance aircraft which flew some really scary missions in the far, far north. Da Nang also served as a recovery base for Navy fighters that couldn't safely get back on board their carriers due to battle damage or hung ordinance—weapons that malfunctioned or didn’t release from the aircraft.
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Speaking of the Navy, they always had two aircraft carriers in the Gulf of Tonkin—part of the North China Sea. They called it “Yankee Station.” Each carrier based approximately one hundred and ten aircraft of various types: F-4B Phantoms and F-8 Crusaders were their primary air-to-air aircraft; A-4 Skyraiders, A-7 Corsairs, and A-6 Intruders were their ground attack aircraft. RF-5 Vigilantes and RF-8 Crusaders provided reconnaissance. They also had some radar surveillance and cargo aircraft that supported their mission.
The Navy flew unique “alpha-strike” formations against high priority targets. Sometimes they’d have as many as fifty aircraft dedicated against one target. First, they’d sweep the area for Migs with their fighters. Then came the strike force of attack aircraft. The Radar birds stayed in the background looking for Migs and surface-to-air missiles throughout the attack. There were also tankers, A-6 aircraft with special air-to-air refueling tanks, standing by in case one of the strike force was low on fuel. Immediately after the strike, the recce birds would zoom in and take pictures to verify the results. It was always a good idea for us to stay out of the way of an alpha-strike.
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FILL HER UP
Almost every one of our missions into NVN required air refueling. The SAC KC-135 crews flew out of Don Muang AB in Bangkok, and were always there for us when we needed them. They flew in giant race-track orbits, fulfilling their role as airborne service stations. They stayed in three major positions, known as Red, Blue, and Brown Anchors—those was also their call signs. They were invaluable on rescue missions. And they would sometimes cross into North Vietnam to supply much needed fuel to a damaged aircraft—disregarding their vulnerability to enemy fire.
We had one GIF in the squadron who could see a mosquito at one mile. Andy routinely picked up the tanker visually before our GIBs could find it on radar.
When he was in the flight, it was always a contest for our GIBs to pick up the target before Peter E.B. called a visual contact.
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Each Air Base had common call signs: The F-4s out of Ubon were wild animals—Lion, Tiger, Wolf , etc. The F-105s from Takhli were, cars—Buick, Ford, Chevy, etc. The F-105s out of Korat were trees—Oak, Fir, Elm, etc. Consequently, once on strike frequency, you had a pretty good idea who was there and what was going on.
Sometimes when cycling through the refueling operation, we would switch over to strike frequency to see how things were going—many times you heard things like: “Watch out Oak 2, there is a SAM coming up at your five o'clock. Break hard right—now. Oh shit! Anybody see a chute?”
Sometimes it was better not to know and the individual aircrew's played it by ear—Some of us just took things as they came—It was sometimes easier that way.
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The enemy order of battle for the air war in North Vietnam consisted of three types of fighter aircraft: Mig-17 Frescos, Mig-19 Farmers, and Mig-21 Fishbeds, stationed at Phuc Yen, Gia Lan, and Kep Air Bases near Hanoi. They had twenty-three mm or thirty-seven mm cannons and heat-seeking missiles.
The North Vietnamese anti-aircraft situation was much more formidable, mainly because the Migs didn't fly that much during our tour. They started with four-barrel fifty-one caliber machine guns and two-barrel twenty-three millimeter cannons for low altitudes (below 3,000 feet), thirty-seven and fifty-seven millimeter cannons for medium altitudes (2,000 to 15,000 feet), and eighty-five and ninety millimeter artillery for high altitudes (15,000 to 25,000 feet). The big stuff, along with some fifty-seven millimeter, had radar fire-control systems. They also had very distinguishable visual cues. For example, the quad-14's fired tracer rounds were yellowish-white, while the dual-23's tracers were a deep red. Flak signatures, were just as recognizable. The 37mm detonation's were a dirty brown, while 57mm's were almost white. The 85mm flak was very black, and the 90mm was more whitish. All of these weapons were of Soviet design and were very reliable—and quite deadly.
The enemy also had Surface-to-Air Missiles. The SA-2 SAM was their primary point defense weapon on our watch. You may have seen TV documentaries showing the reconnaissance pictures of SAM sites taken during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The Vietnamese versions were similarly laid out in a six-sided-star configuration, a missile at each point, with the guidance control radar in the middle. These were what guarded the principal targets around the Hanoi area.
Our only real defense against the SAM was to see it first and evade it. We called it a SAM break. The pilot that was attacked would wait until the missile had committed itself to his aircraft and then break, turning sharply down and into the missile. If he timed it right—the key word being “if,” this usually caused the missile to overshoot and explode harmlessly.
The aircrew's that flew north in later years carried “jammers,” pods that jammed the missile's guidance system. They also had RHAW gear, cockpit instruments that would pick up the enemy's missile and gun radars, to warn the aircrews that they were being tracked. Regardless, it was always best to see the missile first, rather than to rely completely on the electronics.
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After a few weeks things kind of settled down and our schedule became routine—like the old saying—a few moments of stark terror and a lot of boredom.
Generally we flew for two days in a row, and pulled additional duties on the third day, mobile control, bread-truck driver, and duty desk officer. Usually we had the fourth day off. The cycle varied, depending on the daily mission requirements and the health of our pilots.
The missions never got easier and the stress was enormous. Much of the time, I’d sleep fitfully, dreaming about the dangers I’d faced that day. I knew why I couldn’t shake my inner fears—there was no one to share them with. Fran was the only person I had ever trusted with my emotions, and no one else could take her place. I loved my profession, but it wasn't always easy. It was a macho thing, I guess. After all, we had our image to maintain—we would have been wimps if we had admitted we’d been scared.
All of us needed something to take our minds off of the war, the lack of leadership, and the rotten living conditions.
But we never found it.
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Little by little, we ventured out during our days off to discover the mysteries in the town of Ubon Ratchathani and the surrounding area. For transportation we caught a Thai bus at the main gate, a four-by-four foot shack manned by a couple of teeny little Thai soldiers dressed in shabby blue uniforms. Although they had guns, I wasn’t sure if the ancient things would ever fire. One day, I swear I saw a bent barrel on one of their rifles—So much for security.
The “one-baht-bus” (a baht was a nickel) was quite different. To start with, the Thai’s drive on the left side of the road and the bus had an American left-hand drive. It was much like an American school bus, only it was painted white and was a Mercedes diesel. The drivers weighed about ninety pounds and had to wrestle the giant steering wheel. Speed, it seemed, was also a part of the Thai psyche, and therefore always made for an exciting ride—every time.
Jim and I took off one afternoon to see the sights. On the way to town we discovered there weren't any bus stops posted anywhere and we were a little concerned about getting back. At the end of the line, there was a “greyhound depot” where lots of busses were massed, along with some decorated Thai trucks. “This must be the place,” we said, and jumped off.
We discovered a lot of neat stores during out walking trip of the downtown shopping area. Although they were more specialty shops than stores. The little establishments had most everything imaginable: jewelry, groceries, outboard motors, baskets, fruit, and pottery. There were even a couple of manufacturing facilities, making machine tools, and fabricating various products.
Shopped out, we decided to get a haircut. We selected the Gentlemen’s Barber Room. I wore a crew-cut in those days and figured they couldn't do too much damage. The Thai barbers used hand-powered clippers and gigantic scissors. And boy, could they made them sing. Our barbers made a big deal out of us both needing a shave, so we tried one of those too. They did a surprisingly good job and we continued to return at least once a week for the rest of our tour.
When we returned to the greyhound depot, the odor of Chinese food wafted through the air. Following our noses, we found the Bangkok Restaurant at one end of the depot.
Was it possible we’d found something to eat besides greasy pork chops? We ordered by pointing, “what that guy was having,” which turned out to be beef and bean sprouts, or something close to it. It was wonderful, and contained lots of really hot small green peppers. The owner was helpful, and suggested we try a beer with our meal—to put out the fire. This was our introduction to Singhai Beer, which was actually quite good. Our food was superb. We scarfed down the first plate and ordered a refill—plus another beer. We paid our tab, twenty baht, which was one buck apiece, and we caught the bus back home. I skipped Magellen's “Cafe” that night and was able to relax for a change. I think it was the first good night's sleep I’d had in weeks—no dreams at all, just sleep.
Because there was nothing much to do on base, I bought a camera at our teenie-weenie base exchange. My friend, Russ, and I started photographing every Buddhist wat, every water buffalo, every unique store, every little Thai kid, and anything else of interest within five miles. And I actually learned how to develop and print black-and-white film at the base photo laboratory. From then on, I included one or two of our photographs in my daily letters. I hoped that Fran would get a kick out of them, even though I always looked grubby and was acting silly in my pictures. But I liked getting snaps of Fran and my girls, so I reciprocated
We also tried the local night spot, called the King Star Nightclub. They had bad drinks and a Japanese Rock and Roll Band. Thai whisky was called White Cock, because it had a white rooster on the label. I'm sure that a steady diet of that stuff would make you blind in a hurry. It had kind of a sweet awful taste that I’ll never forget, something like Southern Comfort. Most of us stuck with the Singhai. And the music—One could only take so much of the Japanese Elvis. Some of our maintenance troops, however, grew to love the King Star.
They also opened a new restaurant downtown called the “Indian Restaurant,” owned by, you guessed it, an Indian. The place was all painted white, with bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. There were no tablecloths, of course. The Indian Restaurant served only the finest water-buffalo steaks, water-buffalo kabobs, and some kind of meat curry—maybe mutton—we hoped. As an extra bonus, you could also watch the geckos catch flies and mate on the walls and ceiling. Actually, it was a great break from the mess hall. We all could imagine that we were sitting down to dinner with our families, living a “normal” life.
Another unique pastime was riding Samlo's, three-wheeled bicycles with seats for two passengers. You could go anywhere for five baht. Once in a while, we’d get in a race with another Samlo—It was amazing how much speed those skinny little guys could generate from those bikes. One night, while proceeding through an intersection, a policeman whistled for another Samlo to give way for our three-ship formation. A little Thai women on the other bike screamed at the policeman. “Fuzz baaastard.” We wondered. Were the Aussies here?
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We had been briefed that the Australian Air Force sent a group of F-86 Sabre Jets to Ubon every once in a while to provide Air Defense for the base. After the Samlo incident, we’d guessed they were in town, in fact eight aircraft had arrived from Pinang, Malaya that very day. The Aussies had a small encampment on the other side of the base from ours. They had Thai-style buildings, on stilts, including a small Officers Mess.