Why? Because we built this inferior system we now use out of what we had. For rescue aircraft, we took some old junkers that had been rotting in the boneyards in the Arizona sun and pressed them back into service. We tied things together with inadequate communications gear that was years behind the state of the art currently displayed for open purchase in store windows in downtown Tokyo. We wrapped it all up in a cumbersome command system of cross-checks that spelled terror to those who would act with decision on the spot, and we made sure that we had to communicate way up the line to ascertain that it was all right to attempt to save a few lives. Then we charged it all to the guys doing the job. We said we’ll make it work by the guts and dedication of the drivers.
A modern system would be expensive, and in truth, it would have had to have been in the mill several years ago to have helped that afternoon. It wouldn’t be used too often—so therefore it wouldn’t be too cost effective, would it? Cost effective to whom? I know several hundred guys who would give you all the back pay they may get to buy that type of rig, if they ever get out of the Hanoi Hilton in one piece. Every taxpayer we own is paying a pretty penny to try and replace the skilled veterans we have left to suffer alone. We could have built an adequate system in time for that Sunday,- or we could have it right now, but we don’t. If we start it now, it will be a few years before we have it perfected, and by then we may not need it. But perhaps we will need it. Perhaps you will need it, or I will need it, or your son or husband will need it. Of course, it’s a tough one to sell, but it should have been sold yesterday and it should be sold today, and it is not. You are automatically critical of our antiquated approach as you sit in unfriendly skies and watch talent and young hope dashed forever before your eyes. If you have any feel for the worth of man, it makes you want to vomit. And I almost did vomit, but from the bitter fuel fumes I was sucking in as my bird took on fuel from the tanker, and.as I left the tanker to return to the rescue area I strained rny ears and my mind to keep up with the drama taking place on the valley floor of Route Pack 6.
“Nomad, Nomad—this is Carbine.” The call established the first real contact between the rescue elements and the strike force now converted to rescue force.
“Nomad here. Go.”
“Rog, Nomad. Royal wants me to escort you into the area. What’s your position?”
While the prop job started the chore of establishing visual contact with the fighters, the SAM warnings interrupted their transmissions to remind us that we must be on our toes. Better SAM warnings than Mig warnings at this stage of the game. Even though we had plenty of cover for the slower machines, we did not want them interrupted or disturbed as they sought out the downed men. We knew pretty well where the nearest SAM was located and we were not overly concerned with him at that moment.
“Nomad—this is Royal. You have border clearance.” Great. The wheels had at least ground out one favorable decision. The prop guys could come up into the area but the choppers hadn’t moved yet. They should have been there long ago, but at least the Spads were finally on the way. They were not the only ones entering the area, as the control people had started diverting other strike and cover flights from their normal homeward route, and they were loading up on fuel and coming into the area both to help us with their numbers and to allow us a bit more freedom in shuttling in and out for our fuel. There was no shortage of machinery from the fighter end, but we were powerless to do anything to speed the pickup we all wanted so much. The rescue people were now in full control of the effort.
“Carbine—this is Royal. What’s your bingo time?” The control types had committed Carbine to escort on the way in, but knowing the appetite for fuel that a Thud displays at low altitude, they were planning ahead for escort relief.
“Stand by, got to figure one. Ahh, let’s see, appears to be about forty-five minutes, Royal.” That should be plenty of time to get together and move the Spads up to the area, but it is amazing how hard it can get to spot another aircraft at times. When you throw in a speed difference and a bit of haze and a bit of low altitude, it can get downright difficult, and Carbine and the Nomads were having their problems.
“Carbine—Royal. Did you copy Nomad?”
“Rog, I understand he is about thirty-five miles out, is that Roger?”
As the control and the two flight leaders worked together to effect a join-up, the radio spit out a grim indicator of things to come. “Royal—Oakland, we’ve got some swept-wings here. Do you have any Phantoms other than Wedge in the area?” It is not difficult to confuse the Migs and the Phantoms and that is a mistake nobody wants to make. “You say Wedge has gone out to refuel?” and everybody perked up a bit more, rechecked the gunsight and the missiles and peered into the haze that was increasing as the sun sank lower and lower. Time, light and visibility were going to be more of a factor than we had at first thought.
“SAM, medium intensity at two o’clock.” More company.
“Tomahawk—Royal. Did you copy?” Royal knew that Tomahawk, which had the primary responsibility for the low cover of the downed pilots, was the flight with the lowest full reserve and was thus the flight most vulnerable to any Mig attack.
“Tomahawk, say again.”
“Rog, Tomahawk. We have Migs approaching the area.”
“SAMs up to medium intensity,” came from the weasels.
“Royal—this is Carbine. I’m still trailing Nomad. Do you want me to press on?”
“Rog.”
“Carbine—this is Nomad. I’m at base plus three.”
This call should have told the altitude of the prop machines and it was passed in the accepted manner using a base altitude that changed from day to day, and was supposed to be passed to all pilots at briefing. By using it you could talk in the open about altitudes and still not tip your hand all the way to those listening on the other end of the line. “Whatever thatis,” came from the frontseat of Carbine lead.
“Do you have a base altitude?” Perhaps the Bear could earn his pay yet.
“They didn’t give us one today.” Good deal, one more problem, but not a significant one.
“Royal—Oakland. Royal—this is Oakland.”
“Go ahead, Oakland.”
“Rog, Royal, you can disregard those Mig warnings. Those are Phantoms in the area.” Maybe so, or maybe different people were looking at different aircraft, but the call did not portray the seriousness of the situation.
“Nomad, can you give me a short count?” came from Carbine as he attempted to use his direction-finding gear to get a good visual contact on the Spads, The Spads replied by holding down the mike button and counting forward to 5 and then backward to 1, and while they were doing that they augmented the beeper that was still cluttering up the air and making the radio almost useless. But the steer worked and Carbine came back with “OK, Nomad, we’re about your eight o’clock.”
During the radio transmission for the steer, Carbine’s Bear had been trying to get a word in edgewise to advise his comrades that SAM was up and looking at them, and though he was quite distant, he apparently was going to fling one into the area anyway. “YOU LISTENING??? We got a valid launch—take it down.”
“Launch light—look alive.™
“Nomad, you across the river yet?”
“Rog.”
“OK, if SAM comes he’ll come from eleven o’clock—now twelve—strong indication.”