One In A Million Mission
Dick Pietro USAF, F-100C, 1968-1969
Dick Pietro was a classmate of mine in Air Force Pilot Training, UPT Class 68E at Williams AFB, Arizona. My only military experience up to that time was four years of Air Force ROTC and I must confess that I was pretty naïve about how the system worked. Dick was one of several Air National Guard members in the class and they all fell outside the competitive ranking system that would determine their assignment when we graduated and received our wings. I remember Dick telling me that he was going to fly the F-100 whether there were any ‘Hun’ assignments available for our class or not, as he was going to F-100 Combat Crew Training at Luke AFB after graduation and then on to fly with the New Jersey Air National Guard.
When we were at UPT the big difference between the married and the single students was that the married couples lived off-base while the single guys lived on-base in the BOQ. Consequently there was very little social interaction between the married and single students. Dick was married and because of that I didn’t know him well, but he always stood out as a star athlete, and he was the stud who was going to fly the F-100 after pilot training. As you will read in his biography, Dick has quite an interesting background. He started out as an Army private in 1960 and then went through airborne training and to Special Warfare School, eventually becoming a Green Beret. This prior military service eventually led Dick to the Air National Guard and Air Force pilot training.
Dick and I went our separate ways after UPT but got together again about 30 years later. I was awarded my first Captain bid at Delta Air Lines in 1998 and needed to pass my FAA ATP (Airline Transport Pilot) written exam before I started training in Atlanta. Having put off taking the exam for over 25 years (never do today what you can postpone until tomorrow, especially if it is an FAA exam), I frantically called an outfit that had an advertisement in the ALPA magazine, called Lone Eagle Aviation, and left a message that I needed to get into their next ATP class. A call back from the owner, Dick Pietro, caught me by surprise and made what could have been a stressful experience a wonderful reunion. The class consisted of several F-16 pilots from Luke AFB, all wanting to get their FAA ratings and a job with Southwest Airlines when they got off active duty, and me, a 54 year old pilot for Delta who had an ‘in’ with the owner of the school.
Now, here is Dick Pietro’s story, starting with his biography.
THE F-100: HOW I GOT THERE
F-100 jocks like to think we’re different. Obviously everyone loves their special airplane, but to be a “Hun” driver back then was something really, really, special—you had to be on the top of your game. The Hun was the first USAF aircraft to fly supersonic in level flight, and many of the pilots who were new in the airplane in the 1950s and early 60s had fatal encounters with adverse yaw (where the nose of the aircraft yaws in the opposite direction of a roll), with most of those encounters occurring in the landing pattern on the base to final turn. You usually turn an aircraft using aileron with a touch of rudder—but you don’t turn an F-100 that way. You turn an F-100 mostly with rudder. This thought process was foreign to most fighter jocks of that time and was the cause of most of the accidents and fatalities that seemed to occur on base to final turn, as well as on takeoff. The aircraft was somewhat underpowered, especially when near max gross weight, so getting into a “sabre dance” (many of you have seen the famous video of that fatal accident) was the result of getting low and slow on final approach. You could light the afterburner but at that point you were done—I mean you died! But the allure of the single-seat, swept wing fighter called as loud as its afterburner, making it a coveted assignment among Air Force pilots in training in the 1950s and 60s. Only those at the top of their pilot training class were selected for the F-100 and then they had to survive training. I heard the call of the Hun and was determined to be an F-100 pilot.
I was born in Plainfield, New Jersey, on July 17, 1942. My high school years were less than stellar as I was more of an athlete than a scholar. I was headed nowhere until one of my high school teachers took me by the seat of the pants, kicked me in the butt, and told me to go in the Army and grow up. I did just that! Not surprisingly, that teacher is a close friend to this day.
My military career began as a private in the Army in 1960 where I trained in Infantry at Ft. Dix, New Jersey, Artillery at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, Airborne at Ft. Benning, Georgia, and then attended the Special Warfare School at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. After graduation I proudly wore the coveted Green Beret. What a thrill that was for a young kid.
After my Army active duty tour I joined the New Jersey Army National Guard in order to earn some additional funds for college. I attended the New Jersey Military Academy where I was commissioned as Second Lieutenant Artillery, and remained in the Army National Guard while I attended Bloomfield College in Bloomfield, New Jersey. I graduated in 1966 with a BA in Political Science and as president of my graduating class. During those years I was attached to the 11th Special Forces Group Airborne at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey, and managed to jump 38 times from perfectly good aircraft, both C-130s and C-141s. I vowed I would never do that again unless the aircraft was about to blow up. Several years later, as a fighter pilot, that thought process nearly got me killed.
With the help of some great friends I was able to transfer from the Army Guard to the New Jersey ANG (Air National Guard) and joined the 119th TFS (Tactical Fighter Squadron) in Atlantic City. They were flying the Hun at that time and this began my road to an aviation career and my long sought path to becoming a fighter pilot. I attended pilot training at Willie (Williams AFB) in UPT Class 68-E and then F-100 Combat Crew Training at Luke AFB. While I was still at Willie the 119th was called to active duty due to the Pueblo crisis and sent to Myrtle Beach AFB, South Carolina, to set up an RTU (Replacement Training Unit) to train new crewmembers. I loved the military and all it had done for me, both in the Army and the Air Force, and I wanted to repay my country. As a newly trained fighter pilot I couldn’t do that at Myrtle Beach so while still at Luke I volunteered for Vietnam and was assigned to the 174th TFS of the Iowa ANG which was based at Phu Cat AB, RVN.
ONE IN A MILLION MISSION
This mission story began back in November of 1968 when Sgt. Major Bill Healy, from my old Special Forces unit, informed me that our mutual friend John Sabatini, now a Lt. Colonel, was back in Vietnam for his third tour. It took a while to actually track John down, but I was finally able to make contact with him and set up a meeting with him in Saigon. It had been 5 years since we last met as Green Berets. We spent a full day together and had a wonderful time reminiscing about the old Special Forces days. We were both relaxed and had plenty of booze at the “O” Club. John’s Special Forces base camp was somewhere along the Cambodian Border at that time, but he wasn’t sure where he would be from week to week. I told him that I was flying the F-100 out of Phu Cat and that we always used the call sign “BAT”, so if he ever heard that call sign it might be me or one of my squadron mates. He told me how much his guys loved the F-100 and how they could always count on it to get the job done. He also said that bigger, louder Air Force jet (meaning the F-4) couldn’t bomb worth a shit and he never trusted them for CAS (close air support) missions. After a great day we parted company and returned to our units. I didn’t see John again for almost 18 months and then it was in a hospital in New Jersey.
Back at Phu Cat, on the morning of January 9, 1969, I was sitting alert with Major Mac Watson of the 174th TFS. Mac was a shit-hot guy and wanted me to be the flight lead that morning. He knew that I had served in Army Special Forces before becoming a fighter pilot and that I was always excited to go out on CAS missions in support of the grunts. For that alert our call sign would be BAT 01 flight.
Around 0730 we were scrambled to be part of a mission to provide close air support for a Special Forces camp that was under attack along the Cambodian border. I had no clue what was about to happen but it changed my life.
As we approached the target area I checked in with the airborne FAC. The weather was poor with a 2500 foot overcast layer and lots of scud below. He told us we were first on target with several F-4 flights holding high. After a quick briefing he then turned us over to the ALO (Air Liaison Officer) which was somewhat unusual.
The ALO had a UHF radio and was embedded with the Special Forces Team in the base camp HQ. That alone told me he had big balls. I checked in as BAT 01 Flight. While I was talking to the ALO on the radio to get the target information and give him our ordnance load of 800 rounds of 20mm, two 750 pound Napes and two 500lb hi-drag Snakes, all of a sudden a voice came up and said, “Dickie, is that you?” When I heard John’s voice my heart skipped a thousand beats. This was an unbelievable experience. It was a One In a Million chance that he and his troops would be on the ground right in front of me, surrounded by the Viet Cong. I responded, “Johnnie, it’s me. How bad off are you?” He said they were in real trouble and needed immediate help. He told me that the VC were literally right outside the compound. I confirmed with Mac that even though the weather was poor we were All In! I responded to John that we would do anything, and I meant anything, to help. John said, “God Bless you Dickie.” He then joined his men and had the troops deploy red smoke grenades. The ALO took over the radio and gave us directions for our bomb runs with reference to the smoke. He told us that we would be dropping very close to our troops, just outside the perimeter barbed wire, but it was necessary for their survival. He requested the napalm first and said to expect plenty of enemy 50cal machine gun fire.
I rolled-in and hit the smoke. With very little adjustment required, Mac delivered spot on. We both saw a considerable number of tracers while going in on our run, but sustained no serious damage. Because of the weather our deliveries for napalm were dangerously low and flat, and we actually saw the VC outside the compound. The FAC, who was still on frequency, came up and said we had scored direct hits on the VC. Then, in coordination with the ALO, he told us that all the friendlies had pulled back into the compound and requested that we drop our Snakes even closer than the napalm and if necessary, take out the barbed wire perimeter. He knew that we could deliver them with greater close-in accuracy and with less possibility of friendly casualties. Again I rolled in first, pressed well below our minimum safe altitude and hit the perimeter fence. Mac followed and again was spot on. The FAC reported direct hits on the VC and asked us if we would make several strafing passes to push the remaining VC back and give the SF troops a chance to advance. I replied, “You gotta be shitting me. Of course we would.” Mac and I were at “bingo fuel” by that time, but both decided, without question, to give them everything we could before RTB (Return to Base).
You can’t imagine the responsibility I felt about doing close-air support, pressing the target, and having to lay napalm so close to my old friend and his troops. As we left the target area both the FAC and ALO thanked us for doing a great job. I attempted to re-establish contact with John but the ALO said he was out with his troops. Upon landing at Phu Cat we were both on fumes with our fuel gages reading zip. The post flight walk around gave our crew chiefs heartburn, as both aircraft had a dozen or more sizeable holes from the 50cal fire. In spite of that, the old “Hun” brought us home safely.
I didn’t sleep well for many weeks as I was unable to find out how John and his troops actually made out that day. I didn’t know until several months later that he had been seriously wounded and was already in a hospital State-side when Sgt. Major Healey called my wife Margie, and together they visited John in the hospital. He was well on his way to recovery and they shared a few tears together. He said, in no uncertain terms, that Mac and I had saved his life and the lives of his men that day.
I don’t know how I could top that mission. It was an emotional experience, and for many, many years we three, Pietro, Sabatini and Healy remained in close contact. We just lost Healey in 2013. He was interred in a small cemetery just outside of Ft. Bragg. I’m still in touch with Sab.
“I’M NOT GOING TO PUNCH OUT”
I mentioned earlier that after 38 successful parachute jumps with the Army Special Forces I had developed a mindset about not jumping out of an aircraft unless it was about to blow up. The day that mindset almost got me killed was December 16, 1968.
Of my 122 combat sorties from Phu Cat with the 174th TFS, more than half were in Laos or “close” to the Cambodian border—many in support of Army Special Forces. Right after Richard Nixon was elected president and before he was inaugurated, we were already bombing in the south eastern part of Laos in what was called Operation Commando Hunt. These missions were long for a Hun, mostly over 2.5 hours, and almost always required refueling on the way up. Many were using top-secret special ordnance called CBU 34 (cluster bomb units). This was much different than regular CBU and could only be carried by the F-100 “C” model. So, with Phu Cat being the northern-most base with C model F-100s, we usually drew these missions. CBU 34 did not explode immediately upon impact but released trip wires, so we were in effect laying a mine field to keep the friendlies in and the VC out.
On that morning of December 16, 1968, our flight of four gathered for the Intel briefing that was given for all pre-planned Commando Hunt missions. These briefings were given by the Intel shop from Saigon. We were never sure exactly what type of mission or what the target would be until the briefing. The briefer said, “Today’s mission will use the call sign “Sun Valley” (used for most out of country missions) and we will be delivering CBU 34.” Our target was a village in a small valley in Attapeu Province which was protected by a Special Forces Team. It was under frequent attack.
Our normal delivery parameters for CBU 34 were 500 feet (or lower if possible), 500 knots (or faster if we could), wings straight and level for 45 seconds (most important), and straight down the valley, which the briefer explained ran east to west—a fighter pilot’s nightmare for sure. Several of us had been there before and knew we could expect plenty of ground-fire from both sides of the valley. The Intel briefing concluded with our FAC and Tanker rendezvous instructions. The four of us then discussed our mission strategy. This delivery was dangerous enough so it had to be made in a single pass. We would move into a wide echelon of two two-ships, one on the north and one on the south side of the village, and our deliveries had to be made simultaneously. In an attempt not to alert the enemy of our approach, we would request that the FAC not mark the target with smoke and we would not use the afterburner until after delivery. Then we would light the burner and break left and right, jinking as we climbed out with a rejoin at 10,000 feet.
We suited up. I was number 2 in the flight and we departed as two flights of two with a rejoin and climb out as a four ship. About 35 minutes later lead contacted the tanker and we joined up and topped-off our fuel without incident. About 15 minutes later lead contacted our airborne FAC. He was very familiar with the area and agreed that smoke was neither necessary nor desirable. Our instructions were simple. As briefed, the valley ran east to west with the village and SF team pretty much in the middle. Our run-in would be from west to east. Several miles out we began a descent from 10,000 feet and accelerated at full Mil Power to reach our delivery parameters. The village was in clear view. The FAC reported he had us in sight and said he would give us a verbal order when to start delivery. We hoped the enemy couldn’t hear or see us until we had made our delivery, but good luck with that idea. The FAC gave us the drop order and for 45 seconds we were sitting ducks. He reported hearing gunfire and we almost immediately started seeing tracers—lots of tracers.
The delivery seemed to take a lifetime but no one reported any serious hits. We lit our burners, pulled 4 Gs, split up and climbed out as briefed. We all seemed to be okay. Someone was looking out for us that day for sure. We rejoined around 10,000 feet and headed southeast toward feet wet and home to Phu Cat, planning to climb to around 25,000 feet.
I’m not exactly sure but around 15,000 feet I started feeling an engine vibration followed by some violent compressor stalls. These were common in the Hun during takeoff if the throttle was advanced too quickly from idle to Mil power. (Anyone who has ever flown the B-727 knows what I am referring to with the number 2 engine issues.) I immediately notified lead that I was having engine problems. He pulled out in trail to see if anything was obviously wrong. At that moment I had a series of compressor stalls that made it clear I was in trouble. He reported that I was blowing smoke and some flames and I began losing power. I couldn’t maintain my altitude. Lead also advised me that a small part of my rudder was missing.
At this point we were closer to the Marine Corps base at Chu Lai and feet wet than Da Nang. Lead ordered the rest of the flight to continue back to Phu Cat and declared a “Mayday”. I decided to clean my wings of the fuel tanks and we immediately headed to Chu Lai. The compressor stalls became less frequent but I could not maintain much more than half power. No doubt about it, I was on my way down. The F-100 is not a very good glider and my thoughts went back to what I said years earlier. After 38 jumps while in the Army Special Forces I wasn’t going to jump out of any aircraft that I could land. Another issue was the ejection seat in the F-100. It was very unreliable and had been blamed for several deaths, even during controlled ejections. In fact, the 174th had just lost a pilot during an ejection a few months earlier, thought to have been caused by chute and seat entanglement. It was not a rocket seat that gave the pilot a clean ejection but a weak ballistic shell that gave little clearance from the tail. It was notorious for entangling the seat with the parachute. (See Jerry Potter’s story, Chapter 14.)
I had a lot on my mind. Chu Lai was now in sight but lead didn’t think I had enough stability to land the aircraft safely with the rudder damage. He wanted me to get feet wet and jump out. I told him very firmly that I was landing at Chu Lai. He again told me that he thought I should eject.
Once lead understood that I had made the decision to land he contacted Chu Lai tower and declared an emergency. They advised that they had two operational arresting cables on their runway so I dropped the tail-hook, which I had never used before, and was now on an extended base leg, at about 4,000 feet. As I gently turned to final approach the engine again compressor stalled and tower reported that I had smoke trailing from the aircraft. Lead was following me in an extended trail position and advised me that he saw the smoke, but no fire. I had now committed to land the beast with virtually little power remaining.
Trading altitude for airspeed I pointed my nose down to what I thought would be my touchdown point on the runway. Maximum tire speed was 210 knots and it was somewhat less for the drag chute to deploy successfully. I was unsure of the exact location of the arresting gear so my intention was to aim for a point about 1000 feet down the runway. I was now flying a very steep and fast final approach, over 230 knots, but I was not about to reduce my speed for fear that if the engine quit completely I would land short and probably crash and burn. When I felt the landing was assured I touched down and to my surprise caught the first arresting cable at a ridiculously high speed. The main gear tires blew immediately and the nose gear slammed down on the runway so hard that it broke off. My shoulder harness did its job but I felt like both shoulders and my neck were torn apart.
There I was with the aircraft nose flat on the runway and fire trucks spraying foam all around the aircraft. While all this was happening, my lead was orbiting around the field and asked me if I was okay. I told him I thought I was and he said he was bingo fuel and would head back to Phu Cat. I opened my canopy and a ladder was immediately raised to get me out. I was dazed but had the presence of mind to install my ejection seat pin to prevent an accidental firing of the seat. That would truly have been a catastrophe!
As I climbed down the ladder a Marine Corps truck pulled up and a Lt. Colonel ran over to me and asked how I was, then proceeded to chew my ass out for closing down his runway. “We were listening on tower frequency and you were told to go to feet wet and eject,” he angrily said. I wasn’t in any mood to explain my decision other than it was MY decision to make. As I looked him over I noticed he was a non-rated puke (a non-pilot). He drove me over to their medical facility where I was examined by their flight surgeon. After a complete looking over he said I was full of bruises but had no broken bones. At this point the Lt. Colonel returned and was still visibly upset. He told me that HIS runway would be closed for the remainder of the day thanks to me. He then told me that I would be spending the night in a hooch with several Marine pilots. He dropped me off and I never saw him again. I was hurting, hot and soaking wet. There were three Marines in the hooch who said they were out “watching the show” and congratulated me for the successful barrier engagement. They joked that they had the marshmallows ready!
The first order of business was to give me an ice cold beer and point me to the shower. One of the guys about my size offered me a clean flight suit. His name was Dave. We all spent the evening exchanging stories and drinking beer. They told me that the Lt. Colonel was a real jerk who had washed out of pilot training years earlier. The next morning I was awakened by one of them and was told I was going to be picked up by a C-7 Caribou on its way to Phu Cat. I thanked them all for their courtesy, bid them farewell, and headed out to the flight line.
Once back at Phu Cat I was told to report to Operations for a mission de-brief. The other three pilots were present as was our Operations Officer. After my explanation of what I saw in the cockpit they all agreed that landing the aircraft wasn’t the best decision, but given the history of our ejection seat it was mine to make. During the debriefing their post flight inspections revealed that numbers 3 and 4 had taken numerous 50cal hits in the nose and wing areas. In a Hun, because of the giant shark mouth intake, if you’re going to take hits those are the safest areas because the engine is located at the rear end. That evening the squadron had a “survival party” to celebrate my safe return.
The 174th Air National Guard’s excellent maintenance team was sent to Chu Lai a few days later to inspect the aircraft. They reported severe turbine damage and numerous 50cal hits in the rudder and engine compartment. Obviously the main and nose gear were seriously damaged due to the barrier engagement. It took about a month of back and forth for the maintenance team but those old guard guys had the aircraft back in the air with a new engine. I was redeemed and relieved. Later I received a DFC for that mission—my second DFC, thus an oak leaf cluster. My old “Hun” lived to fly again.
Several years later an organization called “The Grand Order of Tape Dragons” was formed by Zodiac Aerospace, the maker of the arresting cables. Membership was for those who had made a land based runway cable engagement under emergency conditions. Someone submitted my name and I became a member. Today it boasts well over 3000 members.
During my tour at Phu Cat with the 174th we were know as the “Phu Cat Bats”. I flew 122 combat sorties in the F-100C and on May 14, 1969, when the BAT tour of duty ended, I experienced the thrill of a life time when I was chosen to ferry my F-100, along with the rest of the squadron, across the Pacific, from Phu Cat to Guam, to Hickam AFB in Honolulu, and on to Sioux City. This trans-pac required 19 in-flight refuelings. We flew without an auto-pilot, with no navigation aids other than ADF, and had to hang tight to the wing of the KC-135 tanker that provided our fuel and our navigation. Talk about a wing and a prayer!
After Vietnam I returned to the New Jersey Air Guard in Atlantic City and continued to fly the Hun until the 119th transitioned to the F-105 “Thud”. What more could a young fighter pilot ask but to fly those two magnificent machines?