Carbine lead took a look, but was forced to sort out his priorities. You can handle only so many things at once and the SAM launch was second in line as far as he was concerned at the moment. “Umm—yeah—mmmm—I don’t see SAM anyplace and I’ve got to look out here for those Nomads.” Thus the wild SAM failed to deter the effort.
As Carbine reentered the area with the Spads, it became important for him to establish the relative positions of the other flights. All too often pilots have become involved in one facet of a task, only to ignore the other fast-moving pieces of equipment in the same piece of sky, and disaster has been the result.
“Tomahawk—Carbine.”
“Carbine—Tomahawk three.”
“Rog, what’s your altitude?”
“We’re at fifteen.”
“Carbine’s about twenty west and we’re trying to pick up the Spads.”
“Crown—this is Detroit. We’re at bingo fuel.” The Phantoms had been on Cap at a pretty reasonable altitude, but now they were running short on fuel and there was little else to do except release the top cover and try and get another flight to shuttle into their spot.
“OK, you’re released, to the tankers.” We had exposed a chink in our armor but we didn’t know it yet. There was no way we could know it from our position. You just have to rely on the guys controlling the situation to keep you covered while you charge around on the treetops.
“Nomad—Tomahawk. What’s your altitude?” Another smart flight leader was drawing himself a mental picture of the congestion and wanted to be sure he kept his charges where they belonged.
“Nomad, what’s your estimate to the target?”
I was having trouble reading Leo now. The combination of necessary radio chatter, the howling beeper and the fact that Leo was talking rather loudly with his mouth a bit too close to the emergency radio made him tough to understand, unless you were right over the top of him. I was not over him yet, but I was back from refueling to resume command of my force as Waco lead.
“Carbine, Carbine three, if you read, say again please.” I wanted to keep in touch with him for any necessary exchange of info and I was sure that a bit of chatter would be good for his spirits at the moment, but we were just not getting through as well as we should.
“This is Carbine lead. I’m almost in the target area and I have the Spads at my two o’clock position. Spads check at your eight o’clock.”
”—high SAM indication.” Sam still wanted to play, but we had no time for him now.
’Tomahawk, Royal wants to know how you stand on fuel.”
Nomad did not understand that it was not Leo’s beeper saturating the air, and once again Leer garbled as he tried to answer the call, “Carbine three, Carbine three, turn off your beeper.”
“Tomahawk three, four is approaching five thousand pounds.” Time for another flight to start thinking about the fuel problem. It is a great temptation to ignore it, but you just can’t. Anything we didn’t need was someone else down, out of fuel short of the tanker. For Tomahawk four it wouldn’t have made any difference.
“Nomad one, do you have Carbine?”
“Rog, Carbine, have you.”
“OK, I’m turning to the right now, down to about eighty or ninety degrees.” They were in visual contact and Carbine was intent on bringing the Spads right over the spot where Leo and his Bear were waiting.
“Tomahawk, you got Carbine?”
“Carbine—Tomahawk. Go.”
“Rog, Fm in the area and the Nomads are right behind me. We’re about fifteen miles out.”
’Tomahawk—Royal.”
“Go.”
“How are you doing on fuel?”
“I’m good for about another ten minutes.”
“OK, if you will point them out to Carbine and the Nomads, we will get you out of there.”
As all elements of the effort closed on the target area, the wayward beeper became more than ever a disruptive factor. It was difficult to relay proper instructions and you couldn’t tell if you were getting your message across. The ear-splitting screech shortened already short mental fuses and blocked out vital calls to different portions of the fleet at different times. It encouraged improper transmissions, and pilots recognizing a comrade’s voice tried to push their message across the radio by abandoning call signs, using first names and confusing others in the air. The next vital call was improperly given: the caller didn’t identify himself adequately, and what, happened in the next few minutes made it clear that the message didn’t get across to all of us.
“OK, we got bogies at three o’clock high.”
“Carbine three—this is Carbine one. We’re about ten miles out.” He was trying so hard to say, “OK, boss, hang on, we are almost there.” You could almost feel the transmission.
“Nomad—this is Carbine one. How about a short hold-down on the mike?” He was pretty sure he knew where everyone was, but you can’t take a chance when you are so close to getting the job done. He wanted to recheck positions with the directional gear.
“Nomad, Tomahawk is right over the area and I’ll show it to you.”
The lead Spad replied with a statement that seemed old hat to us at the instant but that later took a prominent place in our reconstruction of the puzzzle. “I’ve got a continuous parachute beeper and personal beeper.” This we had known for hours. “I’ve got a directional swing on a beacon just to the north of where we’re orbiting, Tomahawk.” Tomahawk knew he was directly over the spot where he had seen and talked to the downed crew. Like most of us, he didn’t even know Carbine four was down. He had no choice but to assume that the Spad had received a false swing on his indicator, and his job was to steer him to the proper place. That swing must have been on young Bob’s equipment, but where was he and how was he?
“Rog, he’s south of us about three miles—four miles.”
“This is Nomad. I’m over the plot but don’t have anybody in sight yet.”
“OK, Nomad—this is Tomahawk one transmitting for a steer. Tomahawk out.” The Spad was over the place he had plotted on the map from the coordinates he had been given, but it is difficult at best to give a really exact set of coordinates when you are bouncing around the sky taking care of the little goodies we had to take care of. In addition, the maps are tough to read exactly unless you have them spread out on a smooth table and have a nice set of map tools to work with. Thus, the Spad’s being over the plotted spot did not necessarily mean that he was over the exact piece of geography where we knew Leo and his Bear to be. The flight leads of both Carbine and Tomahawk were trying to get Nomad to keep them in sight and fly over the recognized spot on the ground.
“OK, Nomad one, how did you read?”
“Nomad one—this is Carbine. Have you in sight. The site is back at your six o’clock and if you’ll do a turn to the left—” The rest of his instructions were drowned in an especially loud beeper pulsation that seemed almost to reach up and deny the airwaves at the most crucial of moments.
“Tomahawk—this is Carbine. I’ve got you to sight. The Spads are off about your two o’clock—one o’clock. OK, I told him to start a left turn. OK, check at about your one o’clock—three o’clock Tomahawk.” Tomahawk’s wingman then spotted the Spads and called them out to his leader at the wingman’s eleven o’clock position. The instant he saw them Tomahawk started working them back over the spot.
“Tomahawk is rocking his wings, Nomad, do you see me? … OK, this is Tomahawk one. I’m inside~ef your circle, turn left—TURN LEFT!” Tomahawk was seized with the hopeless realization that Nomad did not have him and that they were so close yet so far from success, and he about rocked himself out of the sky as he hollered above the beeper, “Tomahawk rocking wings, DO YOU HAVE ME?” and his frustration spilled over as he answered his own question, “Ahhhh, he doesn’t see me.”