Just as I experienced in the Philippines while attending the Jungle Survival School, the rain at Udorn was coming down in bucket loads. We were well into the monsoon season, and it would rain for most of the next six months. During the month of June, sixty-two inches of rain fell, a little over two inches a day. One evening, I was sitting outdoors on a metal bleacher watching a movie. The wind blew fiercely; rain hit the screen so hard it caused the image to blur. The sound of the rain hitting the bleachers blanked out the voices in the movie. One of the squadron pilots, Captain Furtak, and I were watching a movie called Torture Garden.
Torture Garden had been released earlier in 1968. It was directed by Freddie Francis and starred Burgess Meredith and Jack Palance. The story was about a group of patrons at a carnival sideshow who have their possible futures revealed to them by a screwball barker (Meredith) who exclaims, “I’ve promised you horror … and I intend to keep that promise.” From my perspective he did more than that in this frightening film, which was laced with plenty of shock, plot twists, and intense situations. In a similar manner, combat was also laced with plenty of shock, plot twists, and intense situations. We Skyraider pilots wished we could have our fortunes told, wished we could learn what our fate in this war would be. As the wind and rain continued, we could only hear part of the dialog, while we sipped the beers we kept safely hidden under our green military ponchos that covered our bodies. Reading between the lines of the film we could see that the patrons got what they asked for— but at a price that compromised their futures. It was a thrilling movie that I clearly remember to this day; but I’m still afraid to have my fortune told.
As I completed more missions, I was beginning to feel more comfortable. On each succeeding flight, I put my bombs and rockets closer to the target, and I now recognized all the way points we used to navigate by as we flew in and out of the clouds. We had about twenty of these points and named them by their appearance from the air. One was called the “fish’s mouth,” another the “parrot’s beak”; there was the “Donald Duck bridge” and the “whale.” We could speak about these sites over our UHF and VHF radios without concern about whether the enemy was intercepting our transmissions, as they wouldn’t understand the locations we were talking about.
I tried to fly a perfect flight every time I went on a combat mission. It was both a challenge and technique I had developed as a test pilot back at Edwards. There, I had limited fuel, instrumentation recording tape, and range time to accomplish all the test points needed to accomplish the flight test objective. The challenge in combat was to find the target no matter what the weather was like, spot potential gun sites, perform a stabilized and accurate weapon drop, and finally pull off the target without getting hit by ground fire or hitting the ground. It was very easy to screw up. Now, thirty years later, I can remember more about some of my mistakes than about the totally successful missions.
One time, after returning from a mission, I needed to taxi directly in front of the squadron building to get to the parking area. Unlike, conventional aircraft with a nose gear, the Skyraider was directionally unstable on the ground because its center of gravity was behind the main landing gear. It required the pilot to apply a small amount of rudder to turn but then opposite rudder to keep from ground looping (causing the aircraft to do a 360-degree circle on the ground). When taxiing a straight line, the pilot would lock the tail wheel and could relax a little. This particular time I needed to unlock the tail wheel for a small turn at slow speed. Unfortunately, the A-1 got away from me and I did a complete 360-degree turn directly in front of the squadron building. I felt certain that one of the Skyraider pilots was looking out the window, seeing me mess up. Reluctantly, I returned to the squadron building after my debriefing. I expected to get ragged on for my poor taxiing techniques. No one made a comment about it; either none of the other pilots saw it happen or they had done the same thing themselves. Writing now, I confess to the incident for the first time.
On another occasion, I completed a bombing pass and pulled up and did a vigorous bank to the left and then back to the right. We always jinked to prevent the enemy gunners from getting an easy shot at us. Because I am left-handed, I always strapped my clipboard on my left thigh and inserted my five-by-seven-inch mission briefing card in it. The clipboard sat on my knee about level with the flight control stick on which was located the aileron and elevator trim, gun trigger, and bomb and rocket release buttons. This time, while pulling up from a dive-bombing pass, I pushed the stick hard over to the left a little more vigorously than usual. Looking back over my left shoulder to see where my bombs landed, I suddenly saw out the corner of my eye a projectile with a white exhaust trail streaming out ahead of me. I also heard a swish sound. My first thought was that someone had fired at me and barely missed, going slightly under my Skyraider. I banked hard to the right, expecting to see a MiG firing another projectile at me from my six o’clock position. Seeing nothing, I whipped the A-1 back to the left again while looking for the elusive MiG. Another swish and for a second time what appeared to be a rocket passed under me and streamed out in front. It was then that I realized what happened. When I pressed the flight control stick hard over to the left, the corner of my clipboard accidentally pressed the rocket release button. Both of the rockets I had seen out in front of me were mine! Fortunately, I had not called out a MiG encounter on the radio. I was embarrassed and never said anything to my lead.
On another mission, I was flying as wingman with Tom Campbell. We dropped our bombs and fired rockets on an enemy position in Barrel Roll. Then we started strafing the target with our 20-mm guns. We were banking back and forth, zooming the Skyraider back up into the sky and crisscrossing each other’s tracks. Suddenly, Campbell called out that he heard a noise and suspected he had been hit by ground fire. We pulled off target and I joined up in close formation so I could look him over. I couldn’t see any damage, and Campbell reported that his Skyraider and engine instruments were all normal. He said he heard the noise behind him, possibly on the backside of the A-1’s sliding canopy. I could not find any damage in that area either. Finally, we came to the conclusion that he had probably been hit by one of the expelled 20-mm shell casings from my own firing. After the wing-mounted 20-mm guns were fired, the empty casings would automatically eject from the bottom of the Skyraider’s wing and slowly fall through the air, landing in the jungle. Because we were crisscrossing in track and getting lower on each pass, it was possible he flew under me just as I fired at the target. Another lesson learned flying the A-1.
On one flight I gave the aircraft mechanics a good laugh. Since it took an hour for the heavily loaded Skyraider to climb to 10,000 feet, sometimes I carried food with me for a snack during long missions. This particular time I had an overripe banana. I trimmed the Skyraider so that it continued to fly, making small adjustments with the flight control stick using my knees, while I peeled away the skin of the banana. The first three inches of the banana were very soft and dark in color from oxidation. I didn’t want to eat that section but had no method of disposing of it. I thought I could bite it off and spit it in my glove, helmet bag, or the leather folder that carried my maps and photos. That didn’t seem like a very good idea. Then I realized that, unlike a jet aircraft, I could open the canopy and spit part of the banana into the airstream. At 140 knots indicated airspeed, 165 knots true airspeed, and about 190 miles per hour, I opened the canopy and placed my left hand out of the cockpit a few inches. The air felt solid at that speed; it would take a monster spit to keep the banana residue off the tail of the aircraft, I thought. I bit off about three inches, turned my head to the left and leaned over just to the edge of the hot rushing air. With a mighty heave, I spit the banana into the blast of jungle air. The oozy banana stopped in midair for a fraction of a second and then sprayed back onto my face, helmet, harness, and flight suit. I used my gloves to wipe off my face and eyes; the rest would get cleaned up after landing. The ground crew got a big laugh when they saw banana all over my flight suit. I made a full confession; the guys could use a little humor during their twelve-hour work shift. One mechanic reminded me that the Skyraider prop rotated clockwise from the cockpit and the resulting airflow would make it better to spit out the right side of the cockpit. He suggested we put a placard on the instrument panel that read: “Attention jet pilots! Recommend spitting right side only.”
MIGs
An Air Force plane equipped with long-range radar kept continuous watch for MiGs (code named Bandits) flying in the Hanoi area. Also, a Navy destroyer with the call sign Red Crown sat out in the Gulf of Tonkin and tracked the MiGs. If a Bandit was detected, the controller would transmit a warning to all strike aircraft on UHF emergency frequency. Hanoi was code named Bullseye, so the warning we would hear might be, for example: “Bandits southwest of Bullseye seventy-five miles.”
I heard the call one time and quickly checked my map to determine the location of the Bandit. On the map the MiG looked like it was very close to me. I was in the extreme northeast corner of Laos near the town Sam Neua, only a hundred miles from Hanoi. At the same time, I was two hundred miles from my home base at Udorn. Making a run for Udorn at 140 knots against a jet that could fly 500 knots faster than I could didn’t seem like a very good strategy. Flying at 8,000 feet, I looked up and saw a contrail directly above me going the opposite direction.
The lack of speed, altitude, and zoom capability severely limited the Skyraider from assuming an offensive role against a jet-powered MiG aircraft in air-to-air combat. But with respectable firepower and a short turning radius, the A-1 was a formidable adversary in a defensive role. Pilot proficiency was often the determining factor in air-to-air engagements with jets. In this case, the Skyraider pilot needed to know the A-1’s maximum G loading, stall and spin characteristics, and the effective range of the weapons it carried. Pulling maximum G would create the shortest turning distance. Knowing the stall and spin characteristics would help the pilot keep from losing control of the Spad. And knowing the maximum lethal range of the guns and rockets would prevent the wasting of ordnance by firing too far out. We practiced defensive maneuvering against a T-33 at Hurlburt Field during our initial training in the Skyraider. Would I remember my training if I really needed it against a MiG?
The single-seat A-1H and A-1J models had great visibility both left and right and in the vertical plane. That could not be said for the side-by-side-seated A-1E and A-1Gs we were flying. An E/G Skyraider pilot was essentially blind out the right side, and the most critical part of air-to-air combat was keeping the enemy in sight. I was instructed at Hurlburt to keep the plane moving in altitude and heading and to check each other’s six o’clock position. If I spotted a MiG soon enough, I could turn into him and keep his plane in sight. If he chose to attack, he must accept a head-on pass. In that case I could arm my 20-mm guns and rockets and take a shot at him on each encounter.
The Skyraider had an advantage in both turn radius and rate of turn. At any speed we could turn tight enough to prevent a jet from getting on our tail. We also had greater endurance than a jet if we descended to a couple hundred feet above the jungle and set up a cruise mixture setting where we could continue to fly for four or more hours. The MiG would burn a lot more fuel at low altitude and eventually need to break off the engagement and fly home. We also had armor plating on each side of the cockpit and directly under the center section of the wing. Although an A-1 presented a large profile, only a bullet in the engine, canopy glass, or one that damaged a flight control surface could cripple you.
On the other hand, the Skyraider was at a disadvantage because of its slow speed. While slow speed was an advantage in turning, it restricted the A-1 from initiating an attack. If the MiG pilot was smart, he would keep his speed up, make a head-on pass, and zoom back up to altitude. The Skyraider didn’t have any zoom capability, and airspeed lost in high-G maneuvering was hard to get back again. While keeping my eye on the contrail of the suspected MiG, I armed my four 20-mm guns and started to descend. I watched him carefully for several minutes. For a moment or so I secretly wished he would make a pass on me. It would be fantastic to hassle with a MiG in any aircraft. It was the only time in my year tour I wished I was back in a jet fighter again. However, the contrail made a slow 180-degree turn and returned toward Hanoi.
SURFACE-TO-AIR MISSILE
MiGs weren’t the only danger Skyraider pilots experienced while flying in the northeast corner of Laos. Surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) were known to exist in this area and would be deadly to a slow-moving Skyraider. In addition, we did not have any electronic warning devices to alert us to a missile launch. While I was working with a flight of F-105 Thunderchiefs, one of the pilots radioed that he observed a SAM missile launch on his electronic display. All four F-105s dove for the trees and accelerated to high speed out of the target area. I was a sitting duck at 8,000 feet, flying at a relatively slow 140 knots. Rolling the Skyraider into a 135-degree bank, I pulled it into a vertical dive and headed for the trees too. As soon as I leveled off, fifty feet above the jungle, my speed returned to 140 knots. At that speed it was difficult to get a lot of distance from the location where the SAM warning occurred. I didn’t see any SAMs in the sky but kept up my speed, heading south back to Udorn. The Thunderchief pilots sped out of the area, tanked on the way home, debriefed, and were probably in the Officers Club bar having a beer before I got home. I didn’t get a chance to thank them for the warning.
Maj. Robert Kraus was my flight commander. Bob Kraus was a bit overweight and had a husky voice. He wanted to fly every day and made sure we got our share of the combat sorties. He had flown fighters for nearly twenty years, starting in the early 1950s as an instrument instructor in the F-86 Sabre jet, and later flying the F-100 Super Sabre for a year in Germany. He even had over a hundred hours in the tail-wheel P-51 Mustang. Bob Kraus loved to mix it up with the enemy and enjoyed flying one particular aircraft that he had named. (When a pilot finished his tour and returned to the States his plane became—unofficially—available for another pilot to name.) His aircraft was an A-1H, which he named Nick the Tiger. We flew a lot together, he as lead with me as his wingman.
Before long we were notified by the Intelligence Office that we had some good bomb damage assessments. One time we destroyed two trucks and killed twelve North Vietnamese Army soldiers. Another time we destroyed five trucks and killed eight Pathet Lao soldiers. Five days later it was reported we had killed four Pathet Lao and wounded eight by aircraft.
By the end of June, I was scheduled to be upgraded to a Firefly lead. Tom Campbell followed me on the first of four evaluation flights. Campbell taught me how to do what was called stand-off marking. If a Skyraider pilot was on a standard Barrel Roll strike mission and encountered multiple 37-mm guns, he would be outgunned and likely to get shot down. So the squadron came up with a safer plan on how to place white phosphorus rockets near the area where the Skyraider pilot was acting as a FAC for the jets. The plan called for climbing to 3,000 feet above the target altitude and placing the target on the Skyraider’s wingtip. This would put you two to three miles away. Then the pilot would make a 90-degree turn, putting the target on the Skyraider’s nose, pull the nose up to 10 degrees above the horizon, and fire a rocket. Then he would continue up to 20 degrees above the horizon and fire another rocket. Now two rockets would be burning on the ground near the scheduled strike area and the exact position could be described over the radio in relation to the rockets. This technique was not written in any of the official tactics manuals.
My second and third upgrade flights were flown with Major Bunn. Like Tom Campbell, Mel Bunn was part of the flight that successfully rescued Streetcar 304 just a month earlier. He was very near the end of his year tour and would return to Hurlburt Field in Florida to become a Skyraider instructor. On July 3, I flew my fourth and last Firefly upgrade mission with Major Flynn. Like Mel Bunn, Charlie Flynn was finishing his year tour, one of the old guys going home soon. Now I was qualified as a Firefly lead with forty-one combat missions and 128 flying hours under my belt. I was finally not a new guy anymore.
After my lead upgrade flights, I started to carry my American-made Argus C-3 camera loaded with color slide film on every flight. I took shots of my wingman and some of the target areas. I was starting to feel comfortable flying combat, a feeling I never would have thought possible a few months earlier.
There was one flight maneuver I accomplished several days later that I was actually proud of. Returning from a mission, I trimmed the aircraft for level flight, took out my smoking pipe and lit up. When flying jets, I could never smoke in the plane. With the need to breathe pure oxygen through the face mask, it would be extremely dangerous to have an open flame, even if it were physically possible. On the other hand, the Skyraider was not pressurized, and we only wore a mask so the sound of our radio communications would be better. There was even an ashtray in the cockpit. With my mask hanging to the side, I was puffing away and felt the urge to take a pee. Holding the pipe in my mouth, I pulled out the pilot relief tube, which had a funnel attached to the end. Just as I was relieving myself, the external fuel tank I was running on went dry. The engine started to cough and sputter. Talk about fast hands—I managed to switch fuel tanks while not dropping my relief tube, peeing on my boots, or even losing my pipe. Certainly this procedure was not in the A-1 checklist. Only an experienced Skyraider pilot could do what I did that day. It would take a very proficient aviator to juggle all those requirements at one time. However, this highly unusual maneuver did nothing to help win the war, and I didn’t dare talk about it in the Sandy Box.