Thud Ridge (27 page)

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."

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."

"OK, Tomahawk—Nomad here. Say again heading."

"Head east, head east."

"Nomad one, did you read?"

"Roger, Nomad one."

"OK, Nomads, this is Carbine lead and you are right behind me and you are pretty well right in the area. I don't have the chutes right now." Over the hot mike Carbine's Bear called two bogies at five o'clock going away, but at this instant this was not Carbine's business and they were going away anyway.

"Nomad one, this is Nomad two. Do you want the choppers to come in?"

Of course we wanted the choppers to come in. They weren't doing us any good on the south side of the border and we were talking to the crew and the Spads were not getting shot up. Why not bring them in? That's the name of the game and one of the orbiting Thud drivers voiced it with a hearty "YES" over the radio. But Nomad one felt differently and for some reason was reluctant to act.

"Nomad one here, let me locate the pilot first."

I guess that call is the one that did Leo and his Bear in for sure, and the same pilot who had screamed "YES" now punched his mike button and sighed the bitter sigh of disbelief. Because Nomad one was running this portion of the show and those choppers to the south would not move without his OK, we lost this chapter of the war.

Another flight checked back into the area with "Royal— Neptune. What do you have for me?"

"Neptune—this is Royal, They said send everybody home. You're one of those they said send home." I have never figured that one out. Who were "they" and why were they sending fighters out of the area? The job was far from done and we needed all the help we could get. I could not figure that one, and I still can't, but those of us in the Thuds had only a support role by that time and the decisions were not ours. Had they been, the story might have been different

"Tomahawk—this is Nomad. Will you locate the pilots, please."

"Tomahawk—Carbine here. Will you fly directly over the spot so I can pick it back up, please? I'm at your twelve o'clock heading directly toward it." And then Leo tried to get this Spad driver who controlled his future squared away. He started steering him in from the ground, but either he would not talk to Leo or he didn't hear him.

"OK, Nomad, the pilot was talking to you from the ground. Carbine was talking to you. Did you hear him?"

"Negative, negative, I am unable to read him. Am I in the right area?"

"Rog, Rog, do you have the smoke from one aircraft? Fly east—head east, head east."

"Roger, I have the smoke from the aircraft."

"I said head east. Do you copy? EAST!" The Nomads finally got the message but they still could not see what so many were seeing and were telling them to see.

"The Nomads are orbiting right over them now."

"The Nomads are inside your turn at seven o'clock, Ed, do you have them? . . . the Nomads?"

"Rog, have them." It was now painfully apparent to the Thud drivers on the scene that they were going to have to make their heavy strike fighters perform like Spads by turning tightly on the deck and steering the blind rescueman, and that if our guys were found it would have to be our doing. The Nomads were acting like they had taken gas.

"Crap."

"OK, Nomad, do you have one one-oh-five? Should be at your one o'clock high."

"Negative—ahh, Roger, got you."

"OK, I'm headed north and I'm going to be right over the area. It's right under me at this moment. OK, Nomad—this is Tomahawk one rocking wings. I'm directly over the area. Do you have me, Nomad?"

"Ahh, all right, I've got you now, Tomahawk one.**

"OK, Nomad, you're on it now—roll out—roll out—ROLL OUT!" There was more steering still to be done and Nomad one just couldn't seem to get with it. "OK, roll right and it's at two o'clock to you right now."

Nomad seemed to have the idea now, but he was not hearing what we were hearing. "OK, I'm going down and see if I can find him."

"OK, Nomad, did you hear him?" We were beginning to think we were working with a guy who was both deaf and blind. "Nomad, did you hear him?" But Nomad was not with us.

From the air, we could not see the enemy on the ground. The valley was still and without visible movement but we assumed the enemy must be close to Leo by now. Leo's next call was so clear and so plaintive, it was pitiful. He must have realized that the beeper was giving everyone problems, and from the helter-skelter crisscross paths we were flying he must have deduced that we were having trouble getting the Spads into position. He must have realized that things were getting tense, especially since only he could know the terror of watching his would-be captors advance toward him while he watched his comrades trying desperately to provide the missing link of a visual sighting by a Nomad driver who couldn't see, but whose visual sighting had become mandatory; without this, the choppers which alone could save him would not be launched. Leo sounded like he backed off, took a look at the entire situation, calmly picked up his emergency radio, held it the proper distance from his mouth, and in a precise voice that somehow sounded smaller with each transmission said, "Pickup aircraft—this is Carbine three here, over." He saw the Spad, but the Spad did not see him, and _in answer came the screech of the stuck beeper somewhere to'the north. Tomahawk had pressed his fuel to the danger point, and having put the Spad on top of the downed crew and having Carbine over the crew with a still usable load of fuel, and with me and my Waco flight right behind Carbine flight, he left to refuel.

"Nomad—this is Tomahawk one. I'm going back out of the area, I'm going back out of the area. Do you have him in sight?"

Nomad didn't answer, but as Tomahawk left, Carbine picked up the pace. "Nomad, Carbine three is calling you on emergency frequency. If you would answer him I'm sure he would appreciate it." As Carbine fought a losing battle to finish the job that was so close to completion, but that for no reason was crumbling in front of his eyes, all strings snapped to a new degree of tautness.