The Twisting Path To Western Airlines
Ted Demosthenes USMC, A-4E, 1972
{ Date Of Hire By Western Airlines: 7/5/1978 }
I seriously think that the first time I asked Ted Demosthenes – Greek from now on – if he would write a story for Vietnam to Western Airlines, he told me that he was only in-country for three months and didn’t really have much to tell. Matter of fact I know he said that. I never gave up and kept asking—and here’s the result.
How about 104 sorties in 90 days? And after you read this story and know about just a couple of those sorties, I think we can safely say that Greek packed quite a lot into those 90 days. In a story that is both humorous and quite detailed about close air support and the performance and capabilities of the A-4, (and I might add amply punctuated with the vocabulary of the inner Marine, i.e. the “f” bomb), this is one hell of a tale. Each sortie is described with the detail you might not even find in an after action report, like it happened today, much less nearly 50 years ago.
When the first draft arrived even I was taken aback by the liberal “f” bomb usage, so I tried to blame my publisher’s sensitivities and suggested that Greek rework some of it. All he said was that after all he is a Marine, but he would un-“f” it the best he could. As you read the story you’ll see that it just wouldn’t be the same if totally un-“f”d.
Greek arrived in Vietnam in May of 1972 with VMA-211, the “Wake Island Avengers”, one of the last Marine Corps squadrons to fly combat in the war. There were no American infantry units left in Vietnam so their mission was close air support for the ARVN units and assorted missions into Laos and Cambodia. The war had gone full circle from the story by Bob Fritzler (Volume 4, Chapter 1) who arrived in Vietnam in mid-1962 with HMM-163, the second Marine Corps squadron to serve in the war. Now, 10 years later, Greek was in one of the last Marine Corps squadrons to serve in country. As you read his story you’ll see that he didn’t leave Vietnam with a whimper but left with an f***ing bang!
Meet my friend Greek—firearms instructor and all around Marine badass (a term he assures me is redundantly redundant).
THE ROAD TO WESTERN
I am truly fortunate, lucky, and blessed to have found my way along a twisting path to Western Airlines. This chapter takes you along that path of opportunities, setbacks, possibilities, odd outcomes, and near misses with planes, planet, projectiles, and people. I’m humbled to have these stories included amongst the amazing experiences recounted by my fellow aviators from Western Airlines and the services they so gallantly flew for.
Semper Fi,
Greek
GROWING UP
During the first couple years of my life my grandmother often took me to Lindberg Field in San Diego, California, to watch airplanes. Years later, and shortly after I soloed in a glider, she told me the third word I learned, after “Mama” and “Dada”, was “plane”. I’m quite certain it was her fault. Needless to say, I grew up drawing, building, and flying model planes (along with a healthy interest in fast cars). My dad was a career Marine and mom a career Marine wife. My brother Phil and I were Marine Brats. My dad believed he was the first Marine infantry officer and non-pilot to command a Marine Squadron—HQs and Maintenance Squadron 13. In the stranger things category: When in the Marine Corps Reserve and flying for the airline, I was offered, and declined, the opportunity to command this same squadron in 1989 (I chose the A-4 squadron, VMA-133, at NAS Alameda.)
At age 10 I actually got to fly a DC-3 part way from Hilo to Honolulu. The only people on the aircraft were the two pilots, a stewardess (flight attendant), and my family of 4. The captain let me operate the yoke, changing heading and altitude, as we flew at about 1500 feet along the eastern cliffs of Molokai from one end to the other.
I graduated from Culver Military Academy in 1963. Located in Culver, Indiana, they had an aviation program but I was playing football…oh well. Though my dad got me an appointment to the Naval Academy, I wanted to be an architect and buy an airplane. Off I went to Georgia Tech.
Because I changed colleges at the end of 1964 and again in 1965, I was a prime candidate for the Vietnam era draft. My father again pointed me to the military, this time to the Marine Corps Platoon Leader Course. I joined in 1965 and applied for the aviation track. I would attend PLC training during summers of ’66 and ‘67. I aced the aviation aptitude test and scored well on the general test. The flight physical was next and I did well on everything…except for one small part of the eye test. This was disqualifying for the aviation track. I was really disheartened, to say the least. Being young and naïve I didn’t challenge that portion and get another test. This meant that upon graduation from San Jose State I’d be commissioned a Second Lieutenant and sent to Quantico, Virginia, for the Basic School (TBS). At TBS I’d be choosing a ground officer specialty and heading for Vietnam in the spring of 1969.
SAILPLANES
While attending San Jose State College (65-68), I learned to fly sailplanes at Sky Sailing in Fremont, California. A small airfield with a grass runway, Sky Sailing was next door to the Fremont drag racing track, so you could watch fast cars and fly too. My flight instructor at Sky Sailing was a decorated Korean War Marine F-4U Corsair pilot who lost part of one leg in a landing accident. John Slingerland soloed me in 2.5 hours. Love sailplanes.
THE BASIC SCHOOL AND REDEMPTION:
At the time all Marine Corps officers except those on the aviation track attended The Basic School. TBS is where you learn the finer points of being a junior officer leading a Marine combat unit. I was still pissed about the flight physical disqualification, but pressed on to score well and put myself in a position to get a first choice chance for a specialty I wasn’t interested in. Truth be known, I just wanted to get going, finish my commitment, and get out. I had standing offers from General Motors and Ford to design cars as an industrial designer after my military commitment was complete. But then everything changed.
At platoon muster, right after lunch on a clear fall Virginia day in 1968, (and after we had spent the entire morning in an explosives class blowing up shit with C4 and other devices in the Virginia woods) Captain Allan Hartney, our platoon commander (a Silver Star “winner” with a great story from the Vietnam bush), read our afternoon assignments and then made a special announcement: “The Marine Corps is looking for TBS students to volunteer for FLIGHT TRAINING with the United States Air Force.” I was in the front rank and my hand moved at the speed of light. “Sir, I volunteer!” As a few others raised their hands, Captain Hartney barked, “Put down your fuckin’ hand Demosthenes, you DO NOT want to be an Airdale!” (Old Corps name for pilot). My reply was, “Respectfully Sir, I want to fly fuckin’ jets.”
A week later I blew through the physical with zero issues. The flight surgeon that checked my eyes said my previous flight physical appeared to have “some errors” in it. I graduated TBS in December ’68 and to underscore my luck at TBS, my wild girlfriend, Kathleen Sullivan, came to graduation with my parents. My orders were to the USAF Air Training Command, Laredo, Texas, Undergraduate Pilot Training (UPT) Class 70-04. By late January 1969 I was swimming in the deep end of ground school, enjoying south Texas food, and sniveling time in the T-37 simulator.
LAREDO TEXAS, T-41, T-37, T-38
By 1969 the USAF was training about 250 Marine pilots a year. Due to the tempo of operations in Vietnam, the need for Naval Aviators was high. In 1967 Naval Flight Training was so overloaded it was unable to provide the Marines with the number of graduates needed. The Marines, already using the Army to train helicopter pilots, discovered (or were tipped off) that the German government had just moved all German Air Force UPT to a single training base. This left five USAF bases with openings. The Marine Corps grabbed those slots immediately and requested volunteers from TBS. It got me back into the flying business. Training with the Air Force in Texas was interesting and rewarding.
ADVENTURES IN LAREDO
You could demonstrate a simulated engine-out procedure to a touch and go on a dirt road in south Texas on your final check-ride in the T-41 with instructor approval, and nobody gave a shit. You could fly into Mexico easily and no one on either side of the border gave a shit, including the Border Patrol who flew Super Cubs solo while patrolling the Colorado River. You could find them below your training sector if you had good scan skills. You couldn’t out-turn them, fly slower, get lower or land on the ramp, either. They were tough guys, doing a tougher job.
Cotulla, Texas, an infamous speed trap just north of Laredo, made many chicken-shit arrests for “speeding”, and a boatload of money off Laredo military drivers going to and from San Antonio. One chilly late-November afternoon, Cotulla apparently experienced some sonic booms and reported such to Laredo Ops. This incident was one of a number reported and led to the base commander and the Mayor of Laredo meeting with Cotulla municipal leaders and their Police Department. Apparently, the Governor was involved in the meeting and the result was a tenuous truce. No Sir! It wasn’t me, I wasn’t there, I don’t know who did it.
I learned low-level pop-up to low-angle bombing from one of my T-38 instructors who was the USAF’s youngest combat-experienced F-105 “Thud” driver. I would use this skill for real a few short years later.
My wild girlfriend, Kathleen Sullivan, drove cross-country from San Jose to visit during the summer of 1969. On her way east she got pulled over by the CHP at the bottom of the long, steep grade into El Centro in her new VW Bus. He said, “doing over a hundred”…she said “can’t be, the speedometer only goes to 90.” After inspecting her bus (another story!) and while suppressing a grin, the officer says, “OK, 75 and you don’t have to go to jail.” That fall, I talked her into (well, when I asked, she replied “Why?”) marrying me in the spring.
I graduated from flight training in December 1969 with silver wings, orders to MCAS Yuma, Arizona, and a wedding in May.
MARINE CORPS AIR STATION YUMA BY WAY OF
MCAS EL TORO AND SAN JOSE
The Marine Corps had created a transition program for Marines trained by the USAF. This program was additional flight training required for designation as a Naval Aviator where pilots were sent to MCAS Cherry Point or Yuma. I spent a few months at El Toro studying the A-4 while waiting for a slot in VMA-102, the A-4E transition squadron in Yuma. I chose the A-4 after hearing from friends in Yuma that A-4s were flying more than twice the hours of the F-4s, A-6s, and OV-10s. It was an easy decision.
While temporarily assigned to El Toro and busily learning everything A-4, Kathleen and I married on a gorgeous May 2nd day at Villa Montalvo in Saratoga, California. We soon moved to Yuma to enjoy the heat of summer in the desert.
Every instructor at VMA-102 was a Vietnam vet with significant combat experience. The flying was hot, sweaty, fatiguing, and fantastic. Cross-countries helped us build flight time, see the country at unusually low altitudes, and develop a healthy respect for single-seat self-reliance and precision formation flying. The air-to-air (ACM) and close air support (CAS) capabilities of the A-4 made it wonderfully clear that it was the right choice at the right time.
ADVENTURES IN YUMA: ATTACKING MEXICO
The Yuma range targets, just east of the air station, have run-in lines oriented south toward the nearby border. The Mexican side is desert and sand dunes. In the early part of the Close Air Support (CAS) training, I was flying a TA-4F with my instructor, our aviation safety officer (ASO) in the back seat. We were by ourselves in the late-afternoon pattern for a basic 30-degree (dive angle) bombs and rockets sortie. We dropped the 25 lb. Mk 26 practice bombs first then switched to rockets. We had two pods of the infamous 2.75 Folding Fin Aircraft Rockets (FFARs). We shot them in pairs because we were short on time. First run went fine with hits near the bull. Second run, one of that pair lost a fin and corkscrewed around us just as I began the 4G pullout. I thought it would hit us. The ASO just laughed and said, “I warned you!” Next run I got a little aggressive on the pullout and while reaching below and ahead of the stick to turn the Master Arm switch to OFF, pulled harder (remember those 4+Gs?) on the stick and somehow pressed the gun/rocket trigger as we passed through about 40 degrees nose up… Yup, that pair flew true, max distance, straight on into the Mexican dunes somewhere. ASO: “You didn’t”…Greek: “Yes Sir!”…ASO: “Nothin’ but sand and donkeys out there, let’s get rid of these shitty rockets and go find us a beer.”
DESERT SURVIVAL
In late July, I returned from a morning low-level navigation sortie with Roy, one of the more “colorful” Majors (actually, they were all pretty colorful in that squadron and worked hard to impart their knowledge and experience to us). In between the pages of our maintenance logbook were three sets of orders from the Air Group Commander. Major Stocking, my instructor, the Air Group flight surgeon (a doctor and Navy Commander), and I were ordered to remain in our flight gear and report to the station rescue helicopter that would land at the end of our squadron flightline at 1100 hrs. It was now 1050. In 10 minutes we were going on a 24-hour desert survival exercise with the gear we were wearing, and the doc was nowhere to be found. Evidently both the Major and the doc were on the phone to the Air Group CO, challenging the inconvenient orders.
Being resourceful, I filled up extra water bottles to put in my g-suit and survival vest. That done, and no helo, and no doc, Roy and I went to the squadron snack bar, ate cheese burgers, bought granola bars, and consumed a couple quarts of lemonade. The local temperature at the tower was 106, the doc couldn’t talk his way out of the exercise, and the helicopter was late due to overheating (Hmmmm?). They finally got us all onboard and flew about 15 miles north of Yuma. The helo set down on a flat spot above a dry ravine and tossed the three of us out with all the survival gear we would have if we had ejected.
From 1215 to 1700 we played the survival game in the hottest part of the day. The temperature was easily 115-120. We put up parachutes as shade, rested on our one-man rafts to be above the hot sand, built a solar still, inventoried all our gear (except the granola bars), shot flares for practice and gathered tumble weed for an evening fire and signal pyre. I recorded everything on kneeboard cards (1970, you know, paper, pencils). We took turns scuffing an SOS on the large flat area above the ravine and it took almost 2 hrs. in shifts, due to the heat. The surface soil is light tan but under that is darker dirt, so the letters stood out well, as we soon found out.
Our plan for the evening was to build a fire just after dark for practice and entertainment. Then we would hike over the hill to the east and walk down to Senator Wash Reservoir, about a mile and a half away. It was fed by the Colorado River and a place where we swam and water-skied in the previous months. About 1700 the air station’s C-117 (C-47/DC-3) flew directly over us as we were under the approach path for runway 17 at Yuma. We shot 4 flares right out in front of the airplane. No response.
Twenty minutes later a civilian Cessna 172, making an approach to the same runway, got the same flare treatment. Bingo! They made about four orbits over our position, rocking the wings in response to our flares and happy waving, before they headed for Yuma. 10 minutes later, we could hear the unmistakable beat of Huey rotor blades being turned at maximum torque! Within a minute, an Army green Huey (UH-1) appeared low on the SE horizon at maximum speed.
After a couple of low, tight turns just overhead to check on the landing area and us, the Army Warrant Officers landed on our SOS in the dirt. They had a 10 gallon water can full of ice water strapped in next to the door opening. They were from the Army’s Yuma Proving Ground and demanded we join them for a drink while we explained our presence and the exercise. We ended up getting “rescued” – it was the polite thing to do – and reprimanded for it the next day!
YUMA BACK TO EL TORO AND VMA-223
FOR SPECIAL WEAPONS TRAINING
In early spring of 1971 Marine A-4 and A-6 attack squadrons were reassigned from Vietnam to Iwakuni, Japan. The missions assigned were part of the US Strategic Warfare Program. The weapons-training was no longer for close air support, it was for nuclear weapons delivery. Those squadrons needed pilots qualified in special loft-bombing maneuvers. Ten of us were temporarily ordered to the Special Weapons Training Unit (SWTU) at El Toro and attached to VMA-223 for the training syllabus. This was great flying with lots of low, and very low, high-speed flying. The loft bombing technique consisted of a straight approach or run-in to the target at 500 Knots (575 mph), 50 ft. above ground level (AGL) for the final 10 nautical miles and then a calculated pull-up for “tossing” the bomb at the target. The missions were designed for single-aircraft operations. For what it’s worth, the Air Force used the B-47 to do this same type of delivery. That was very impressive to watch.
The qualifications flight was called an A-20R. My check/chase pilot for that high-low mission profile was the SWTU commander, a no-pressure LtCol with a bunch of experience. We departed El Toro for the Fallon, Nevada, range target with 6,400 lbs. of internal fuel, two external drop tanks with 2,000 lbs. of fuel each, and a 2,000+ lb. iron dummy practice bomb on the centerline pylon for a total takeoff weight of about 24,000 lbs., just under the maximum of 24,500. Our 1 hour 20 minute, 430 nm flight plan took us north from the LA area above 20,000 feet until passing Edwards AFB, where we descended to 500 ft. AGL, and lower on our low-level route for the remainder of the flight. Navigating under the west side of the Edwards restricted areas, we constantly scanned for other military aircraft operating visually as we were.
After about 20 minutes I determined that my right drop tank wasn’t feeding fuel to the internal tanks. This meant there would be almost 2000 lbs. of dead weight on that side which was an asymmetric balance condition to compensate for. I notified my chase of the situation. Moments after he acknowledged my call, and as I started to maneuver to cross a ridgeline between peaks, I glimpsed an F-104 Starfighter coming at us from 1 o’clock, half mile, high-speed, just above me. I was already rolling right with the chase 700 feet away at my 4. The roll and a right leg full of right rudder took me under the left wing of the F-104 by about 50 feet vertical separation. OK, this was getting to be a bunch busier than I imagined.
I crossed the Initial Point (IP) for the target run-in within 10 seconds of my plan, settled at 50 feet AGL and calculated speed, then added a little nose-up trim just in case of another problem, like running into a seagull. At the center of the target, I began the pull-up for the “overhead” version of loft bombing. This technique uses a “Half Cuban Eight” which is a half loop followed by an accelerating descent to a lower altitude escape in the opposite direction from your approach. Remember the full drop tank? It was trying to pull us off track to the right. The release angle of the bomb is programmed into the bombing system for just after you pass through 90 degrees
nose-up, about 104 degrees of pitch from level.
Per procedure, I had my left hand on the manual release handle in case the automation failed. As my nose reached 103 degrees, the auto tone stopped, but the bomb didn’t release. I yanked the handle hard. The release felt like the bomb had kicked the airplane in the belly. As the bomb continued straight up above me, I flew the half Cuban to nose below the horizon and then turned back toward the target to watch my hit. The radius of the target circle is 1000 feet with a bulldozed circle to mark that distance. A hit inside the ring is qualifying. My score was 400 ft at 3 o’clock despite the asymmetric load and the manual release. “Close” counts in nukes! It was a short distance to NAS Fallon. We landed, did a short debrief of the adventures so far, solved the drop tank problem, refueled, and then cruised uneventfully back to El Toro.
ORDERS TO JAPAN
Leaving my bride in California, I joined VMA-211 at MCAS Iwakuni, Japan, in September 1971. In the spring of 1971 the squadron had moved from Chu Lai, RVN, back to Japan and was assigned a mission within the US Strategic Integrated Operations Plan. From September ’71 until mid-January ’72 we planned our assigned missions, flew extensive low-levels in the Philippines, and practiced Special Weapons deliveries in frigid Korea. By the end of January, we were deployed to NAS Naha, Okinawa, to continue our training and validation of assigned target flight plans.
In mid-April, the Marine F-4 squadron with us at Naha suddenly got deployed to Nam Phong, Thailand, to work against targets in North Vietnam. We wondered why we weren’t sent too.
KATHLEEN VISITS, THE VACATION,
5 DAYS IN MAY, AND THE SECRET DEPLOYMENT
The squadron returned to Iwakuni in mid-April 1972. Kathleen joined me there and we rented a great little Japanese house on a hill with a view of town and the base. We quickly planned our 2nd anniversary celebration on leave to a hot springs resort in the mountains near Beppu, on Kyushu. Departing on schedule in my tiny car (“squadron” cars, passed pilot-to-pilot for $100, are another story) we arrived in Beppu mid-afternoon, had a great dinner, and proceeded to the hotel’s very nice communal baths where we were the only non-Japanese bathers.
Next morning, well rested, we had breakfast and packed the car. While I was checking out, Kathleen went to the car to look at the map. As I went out the front door of the hotel, I heard a perfectly clear PA in accented English: “Captain Demosthenes, please return to Reception for a phone call.”
My Operations chief was on the phone: “Sir, we need you to return to base ASAP.” “OK Sergeant Geer, how soon do I have to be there?” “Sir, don’t take time to wash your socks.” Back in the car, speculate on the reason, apologize to girlfriend/wife/best friend, drive 40km back to the ferry terminal, try to relax on the ferry, race back to the ready room and report to the duty officer around 1600. “The squadron is preparing to deploy. The destination is Top Secret and won’t be identified until enroute. Get your shit together (your gear) and be ready to go by 0900 tomorrow. You’re section lead for the Skipper’s (commanding officer’s) flight of 5; Dodger and the AMO are -4 and -5.”
DEPLOYING TO THE CLASSIFIED DESTINATION
We stayed on 1 hour alert for the next four days. We hung out in our flight gear with our wives and girl-friends on the lawn or sat in the ready room trying to pry the destination out of the Operations Officer (OpsO). Things went from interesting to frustrating rather rapidly. Released from alert at dinner on Day 4, someone said out loud: “This is bullshit, we ain’t going anywhere, it’s a pain-in-the-ass drill!” That cinched it. We left the next day around 1000 for Cubi Point, PI. Before we walked out the OpsO was sitting by himself making a point of studying the approach plate for Bien Hoa, RVN. “Never know where we may be going these days.”
TANKING OVER OKINAWA
Days before, I directed Schedules to assign a trusted Seeing-eye-Captain (SEC) as -2 in the skipper’s (lead) flight. This was my backup, based on previous experience, to see that our flight got to the refuel point. Fortunately, it was beautiful spring weather all the way to Okinawa where we were to meet the tankers that were based there. With only minor corrections we were right on schedule coming into the refueling point. GCI gave our flight steering info at 20 miles and the SEC talked lead onto the flight of 5 KC-130 Hercules tankers silhouetted in the afternoon haze. As we got closer it became apparent that there was only one Marine 130. All the rest were dark green USAF special ops 130s. We each got a separate tanker. It turned out that all but one Marine 130 were grounded for cracked or broken wing attach bolts!
We landed at Cubi Point and our hoped-for lunch at the Officer’s Club. Not so fast Marines, lunch turned into Navy “Box Lunches”. (You remember? White cardboard, dry white bread, bologna, chips and a banana). We ate in Ops for a FAST TURN. Right! We were delayed for fuel truck availability as the rest of 211 showed up to make it busier. We finally got fueled, launched, and headed west for the 2.5 hour leg to Bien Hoa, RVN.
We flew straight-ins on the Bien Hoa arrival, taking interval on final at 4000 ft. and pushing over for steep approaches to land. Crossed the inboard runway and turned into the de-arm pad to get our pylon safety pins installed by our ordnance team.
While sitting there, holding the brakes, a pair of USAF Combat Search and Rescue A-1 Sandys pulled up beside us to de-arm. Hung under their fully-load wings was what seemed to be almost every weapon currently known to man. We would soon know this weapons load was called “Supermarket” for rather obvious reasons. As they slid their canopies back, 3 foot magenta streamers, attached Knights of Yore style to the tops of their helmets, fluttered in the prop wash over the canopies. Damn, this is beginning to look like a combat zone! Then it was off to park in the shade of concrete-over-steel revetments (Thank you USAF).
Next day we got the USAF In-Country brief. They were our hosts on the US fixed-wing southeast corner of the airfield. The First Air Cavalry shared half the north side of the dual 10,000 ft. runways with the bomb dump. Most fun was the Army helo rescue demo of how to board each of their birds, including Cobras (prone on a gun-bay door). Once the Cav flocked back across the runways, the USAF host cautioned us regarding rescue if we jumped out almost anywhere in RVN. Seems it was a huge point of honor for the helo crews to rescue a fellow aviator. The caution was that you would likely have to referee your own rescue. Helos from everywhere were going to fight for the honor of snatching your ass from the clutches of the VC or NVA. A couple of months later we were witnesses to one of those events in the Parrots Beak region of Cambodia. A pair of USAF FACs jumped out of their shot-up O-2, right near the NVA’s R&R area. Lots of helos, 2 OV-10s, and a shitload of fixed-wing, carrying anything explosive in the south end of Vietnam, swarmed overhead to help with the rescue. The downed senior FAC refereed his rescue.
The morning of the second day the 8th Special Operations Squadron, the only close air support unit in 3 & 4 Corps, offered in-country familiarization rides in the right seats of their trusty A-37 Dragonflies. We took them up on it (later learned that the right seat sustained more casualties than the left…AND you got to see, up close and personal, people shooting at YOU). That afternoon and the next couple days we flew sections (pairs) of A-4s with pairs of A-37s on their Fragmentary Orders (scheduled missions).
The level of entertainment increased exponentially. We exercised every combination of 2, 3, and 4 ship overhead pattern we could think of. By weeks end the Vietnamese Air Force F-5 Skoshi Tigers were asking to join up with A-4s they found heading for the initial points. We got reprimands for our “aggressive” flying. Nobody thanked us (except the DASC and the FACs) for generating double the AF sortie/day rate.
Meanwhile, “back at the Ranch”, my wife of two years couldn’t get a ride to Saigon, so she spent two weeks with friends in Honolulu. While in Hawaii, she baked me four-dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. They spent two weeks making their way to FPO San Francisco and back across the Pacific to me. They survived in fine form, were gone in 24 hours, and have never been quite duplicated since. It must have been the two weeks of postal aging.
After a brief stay at home in San Jose, Kathleen picked up a job as nanny and limo driver for friends on business in Europe for a couple of months. Kathleen, her Mom, and our friend’s four kids visited multiple countries in a Mercedes 600 at very high rates of speed.
IN-COUNTRY ADVENTURES
Arclight earthquakes, the soothing buzz of Stingers, and Incoming (which, according to Murphy’s Laws of War, has the right-of-way). We didn’t operate at night for a number of reasons. During the first couple of weeks, sleeping was an exercise in learning the local “night noises”. My roommate, Al Bauman (another California boy), and I kept our steel helmets and flak jackets in arms reach. He had the top rack and I the bottom. We ran our window mounted a/c on high and cold 24/7 and it generated fairly good white noise. About zero-dark thirty on our third night, the room and everything in it started shaking steadily and the shaking continued for about 20 seconds (it seemed like 5 minutes). Al bailed out of the top rack landing on me as I slid under my rack. He said “earthquake?” as we pulled our flak jackets in and around us, face to face under the bunks. Noticing the rhythm of the shaking, we jumped to “mortars?” and about then, it quit; no aftershocks. We walked to the head to dump off some evening beverage fluids and found out the shaking was caused by a nearby Arclight strike, courtesy of B-52s dropping hundreds of 500 pound bombs on some nearby grid-squares of jungle and rice paddies.
The other odd, but really comforting night noise was that of the local detachment of AC-119K Stinger gunships of the Air Force 18th Special Operations Squadron. Black, recip and jet powered C-119 gunships, equipped with a pair of M61 Vulcan 20mm cannons and 4 M134 7.62 cal Miniguns being aimed by the pilot at target points supplied by sensor tech in a cargo bay module full of high-tech low-light and IR sensors. The cannons made a whirring sound like a pair of V-8 powered chainsaws.
They flew over the local area “surgically hunting” bad guys and also patrolled the Ho Chi Minh trail, hunting truck and elephant convoys (Yes, they had a cool technique to save ammo and not injure elephants, but that’s another funny story).
THUNDERSTORM TAKEOFF
My wingman (wingee) and I were launching with Cluster Bomb Units (CBUs) for a troops-in-contact mission on a day full of scattered thunderstorms. We taxied to the runway for a west departure after telling tower we needed to hold for a few minutes to burn down to max takeoff weight. Our CBU load was added after fueling, putting us overweight. We held between the runways with the power up a bit. (There’s no parking brake in the A-4). A big T-cell was directly west of us moving east right at us (but of course, where else would it be?), so immediate departure was imperative. Traffic on the north runway was non-stop. -2 said, “I’m good,” with a grin as he pointed at the storm.
I requested the south runway, normally reserved for the VNAF, closed the canopy and turned left for the runway as we got cleared for takeoff. Into position, run-up, fuel control check, -2 thumbs up (he rolls 30 seconds behind me), light rain on the windscreen, off the brakes, throttle to the stop, rolling… as the trusty (really, thanks P&W) J-52-P8 reached max power and my A-4 seemingly creeped heavily down the RW. The air conditioning tried to blow cool air through the eyeball vents pointed at my head. Suddenly, streams of condensation water from the bowels of the a/c ducting came gushing out. Kind of like someone spraying water from a garden hose on my clear visor. Lizard brain takes over and raises the visor—water in face—wrong move Greek—visor down, lean forward, pick up centerline, check airspeed at/above rotation speed for max gross takeoff, nurse 24,500+ish pound Skyhawk into ground effect, snap up the gear to gain speed, and stay at about 10 feet until the slats close; about 220 knots. I started a left turn away from the storm and over the main base at 50 feet and looked to see -2 lifting off. Lesson remembered: Always go full hot on the a/c for a few seconds to dry out the ducts and condensate—BEFORE taking the runway.
ZUNI 5 INCH FOLDING FIN AIRCRAFT ROCKETS
The A-4 was equipped with 2 wing root mounted 20mm cannons and capable of external carry of a long list of ordnance ranging from 26 lb. practice bombs to nuclear weapons (one of the A-4s primary missions). In Vietnam we always loaded the internal 20mm guns as insurance for the unknown. Externally carried weapons were hung on 5 under-wing pylons; outboard left/right, inboard left/right, and one on the center. Our most common configuration was a 400 gal fuel (drop) tank on the centerline, multiple ejector racks loaded with 3-5 bombs on the inboard pylons and, on the outboard pylons, a single 500/250 bomb or a LAU-10 rocket pod carrying four “Zuni” folding fin aircraft rockets (my personal favorite).
Zunis were almost 7 feet long, weighed around 115 lbs. and carried high-explosive warheads with proximity (radar ranging) fuses (think shotshell-like for people and planes) or contact fuses for harder armored targets like bunkers, tanks, and trucks. When they left the pod, they were traveling 2.1 times the speed of sound or approximately 2450 feet per second (aircraft speed + rocket speed). They were accurate and reliable if you did your part. Like the guns, they could be shot from almost any attitude, including inverted.
One reason we had so many rockets, warheads, and fuses available to us in 1972 was the Navy’s temporary removal of Zunis from all fleet aircraft carriers following a serious incident and fire aboard the USS Forrestal in 1967. The WestPac ordnance depots begged us to take them, so we took all we could get. Many had been in storage for years. We even gave our local Combat Search and Rescue A-1 Sandys a couple pods a day since they didn’t have them in their SEA inventory (the Sandys loved them; they used the A-1 to shoot them straight down, 90 degrees to the earth).
In late-June 1972 we were flying our asses off and running the bomb dump low on 500 lb. bombs so we were loading Zuni pods for every sortie. On a morning sortie two A-4s were working a troops-in-contact assignment using proximity fusing. Lead rolled in to deliver Zunis in pairs-mode (a weapons panel setting that fires one rocket from each pod simultaneously). They left the airplane normally, but about 2/3rds of the way to the target they detonated (they’re so fast, you almost HAVE to watch ‘em all the way to impact). Big surprise, high-G pull-up, WTF? Dash Two rolled in and his worked normally. Lead made a second run and got the same early detonation…WTF? Lead deselected his rockets. Two made a normal second run with no early detonation and decided to save the rest for inspection. We almost never brought Zunis back (risk to airfield) but this was an exception.
On careful inspection our ordnance chiefs found age or heat-related hairline cracks in the fuse radomes (plastic nose covers of the ranging radar sensor). These cracks caused the radar to see sideways as well as forward. Looking sideways they found their paired partner and detonated. Fortunately the fuses weren’t active until well ahead of the aircraft. We kept carrying Zunis.
ROCKET AND MORTAR ATTACKS – INCOMING HAS THE RIGHT OF WAY
The heads in our “hooches” were made of concrete and cinderblock because that had the most protection, so with flak jacket and helmet, we would shower and shave while waiting for the incoming shit-storm to subside. 0525 was the preferred time-on-target for our VC opponents. They were quite punctual and accurate. Our intelligence specialists told us how the VC launched the 122mm rockets (about the size of a Zuni) from angle-iron rails supported by bamboo posts. They used delayed fuses (like cigarettes) to allow them to be well away from the site when the rockets launched. The most infamous attack was 01 August. Of the 101 rockets aimed at Bien Hoa, the majority landed in SE quarter of the base where the US forces were located. We lost Corporal Luis Alonzo in that attack. Bless you Marine, guard Heaven well.
B-52 ARCLIGHT STRIKES; A CAUTIONARY TALE
The primary method used to warn tactical aircraft of impending B-52 arclight bombing strikes was a broadcast on Guard Frequency. The warning gave a coded location, description, and time-window. One bright hazy July morning as we leveled off at 20,000 feet and were checking in with our assigned FAC, we got one of these warnings with a time window opening in 1 minute. OK, B-52s are large, fly in cells of 3, and are faster than us, so we started scanning. 2 minutes later, as I glanced to my 4 o’clock for dash 2, I noticed that a large area of earth along the west side of the river behind and below us was billowing clouds of black and orange destruction. Looking up to 4 high, I found the Buffs in a box formation, somewhere in the high 30s above us. While looking for our FAC’s location we had flown directly under their northerly path as they released their loads. Thanks to the Big Sky Theory and blind-ass luck, we’d missed the iron rain of hundreds of 500-pound slick bombs.
CAS UNDER A THUNDERSTORM WITH SLICKS
The most memorable, and likely the most dangerous CAS sortie I flew during my 90 days in country, was in mid-August, when the afternoons were hot and wet with thunderstorms embedded in layered clouds. Our frag order was to support an ARVN offensive 50 miles SE of Saigon. After checking in with the DASC, we switched to our FAC’s frequency and headed in his direction to rendezvous. On contact, we gave him our weapon load of 8 slick Delta-2s (non-retarded 500 lb. bombs) and 400 rounds of 20mm for each aircraft. Navigating around storm cells and between layers of broken clouds, we found the FAC in the open area he described. The ARVN unit was under heavy attack by VC forces (“troops in contact”) and they needed help. This is the basic mission of a Marine A-4 attack pilot.
The target area was at the edge of our “not so open area”, just under the bottom of a wide thunderstorm, but not in the rain. The cloud base was between 700 and 1000 feet AGL. This meant we’d be using a shallow 10-degree dive angle instead of 30 or 45 which we preferred. I orbited in the open area while my wingman dropped behind me, taking interval for bombing. Flying with my knees, I grabbed my weapons release chart card and checked for the lowest altitude we could release slick 500 lb. bombs. It’s a small chart on a 5x8 page and it said roughly 930 ft. AGL. The release altitude would likely be in the ragged bottom of the clouds, at best.
The FAC briefed the ARVN troop position and the general direction for our run-in, north-to-south. We would be pulling off target to the west under the cell and then turning north for the next pass. As we passed about 2 miles east of the target the FAC fired a marking round (2.75 rocket) with a white phosphorus (Willy Pete) smoke warhead into the point he wanted us to place bombs on our first pass. He requested bombs in pairs, so we would make at least four passes each. We never did follow the command ROE (Rules of Engagement) of “one pass and haul ass”. Continuing north we notified the Army’s Long Thanh airfield that we would be over-flying them at 500 feet multiple times during our attack. They were happy to have us nearby and had a front row seat for what could easily pass for a low-altitude airshow.
Turning southwest over Long Thanh I started my first pass at 500 feet with the target at my 11 o’clock and headed under the cloud. The FAC put down another smoke to help us keep sight of the target. He called, “Hit my smoke, cleared HOT!” That was his clearance for a live run. When the target got to my 10, I used the pop-up maneuver I’d learned from my Thud driver instructor in the T-38. Pull up, roll toward the target near inverted, pull nose down, weapon sight on target, roll upright, and pickle the bombs off at release altitude. NOTE: it might have taken longer to type that description than it did to fly it. I actually got into the bottom of the cloud but kept the target in sight because of the smoke round and short distance. When the bombs released, I rolled and pulled 4-5 Gs hard right to the west to avoid being in the bomb fragment pattern and to avoid ground fire, all of which was going to be close. Shit, at this point, we were close to everything and going the speed of heat. It was at the bleeding edge of the envelope, but doable. The troops on the ground needed it and, as CAS pilots, we prided ourselves in putting the “close” in close air support.
We made 8 runs with bombs, varying our run-ins for the clouds and to confuse the bad guys. We used the tower at Long Thanh like a pylon in the air races at Reno. Each time we expended two bombs, we were 1000 lbs. lighter. Our delivery speed was close to 500 kts, so we were doing about that around the circuit. It’s hard, sweaty work, but it ain’t in the jungle mud on the ground. Were we shot at? Yup, no doubt. Being low and fast made us difficult to track. Those on the receiving end would be able to testify, if they lived, that being within a mile of the detonation of a 500 lb. General Purpose bomb really sucks, even if you’re in a hole.
We offered the FAC a couple runs with 20mm. He said the grunts would appreciate every round. After two more gun passes of about 80 rounds each, we got out from under the clouds, said adios to the FAC, and thanked Long Thanh for the airspace. Still at speed, we hauled ass for Bien Hoa, a steak dinner, a few rounds of good bourbon, and a well-deserved shower for body, soul, and flightsuit!
Months later, I received a very official package from the Republic of Vietnam. We had been awarded the Vietnam Cross of Gallantry, one of their highest military medals. My long time hope is that those we fought for that day lived another and eventually escaped the communist regime that eventually took over the country for Ho Chi Minh.
LAST FLIGHT
After a morning sortie working targets west of Saigon and expending all of our ordnance, we briefed a low altitude return following the Mekong River from the ocean north as it snaked toward Saigon and Bien Hoa. We dropped down to about 100 ft. for a high-speed trip up the river. When we reached the huge ARVN artillery firebase SE of Bien Hoa, we skirted around it, popped up to roll in on the 3 mile initial from 3000 ft. Descending for the overhead break at max speed, we put on a nice fan break for the troops at an appropriate altitude for viewing. In 90 days, I’d flown 104 sorties. I didn’t fly every day and some days I flew two or three times.
DEPARTURE FROM VIETNAM
After 11 months in WestPac (tours were 12 months in duration at that time) and exactly (almost to the minute) 90 mission-filled days in the RVN, I began my trip back to Iwakuni and on to CONUS (Continental United States). It turned out to be a Southeast Asian version of the long way. The C-141 picked up 20 Marines and other service members from Bien Hoa for a multi-leg flight to Cubi Point, PI. First stop was Nam Phong, Thailand, where two Marine F-4 squadrons were camped out (literally) on a barren USAF divert field. Next stop was U-Tapao, Thailand, where I found out we were going back to Bien Hoa before pressing on to Cubi. After landing I cornered the aircraft commander (who just happened to have trained at Laredo AFB), and had him get an intel brief for Bien Hoa. We knew there were attacks planned for the next 48 hours, and parking a 141 (rocket magnet) in Rocket Alley (the cargo ramp at Bien Hoa), for an hour or two of fueling and loading, was not wise. I told the A/C we Marines were getting off in U-Tapao if he was going anywhere other than Cubi. Bright young man that he was, he got us to Cubi early. Yup, all escaped aviators were cleared to the BOQ to obtain their Catch-Me-Fuck-Me T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, and proceed direct to the BOQ bar where we drank Cubi Specials into the wee hours by the side of, and in the pool!
Two days later, well “oiled”, fed, and tired of waiting for our scheduled departure, we sniveled a ride to Iwakuni on a Navy C-130. Droning north…Not so fast Greek…we had a prop problem that required a prop change in Taipei. We got off the airplane but couldn’t leave base ops for 6 hrs, so we crawled back onboard and slept on duffels, sea bags, and parachute bags. Then we finally took off and droned north to Japan. I spent the next two weeks in Iwakuni working out and doing a body clock change for my trip home. When I got to Yokota for my flight to Travis AFB I learned that my flight was delayed 6 hours, and no one knew why. An enterprising Marine Gunnery Sergeant (that would be redundant) traveling with us got us a ride on a Seaboard World DC-8 departing within the hour to Oakland. Yokota’s runway was about 11,500 ft. long and we used 10, 500 ft. to get airborne. We expected to see yards of barbed wire fence hanging from the wheel wells when we got to Oakland.
NAS GLYNCO
With orders to VT-86 at NAS Glynco, in Brunswick, Georgia, Kathleen and I drove cross-country in our VW bus. It was great fun and we were not on a tight time schedule. Glynco was a training base for Naval Flight Officers and radar specialists, where Navy and Marine weapon and sensor specialists trained to be F-4 Radar Intercept Officers and A-6 Bombardier Navigators. We bought our first house ($18,500), got a great dog, I dual qualified in the A-4 and T-39, flew a bunch, explored Georgia, Florida, and the Northeast US. Assigned as A-4C NATOPS Officer and shortly after, USN A-4C Model Manager, I got to know the Douglas Tech Reps really well. They became great friends and valuable contacts over the next decade.
VT-86 was ordered to Pensacola in mid-1974 and my Headquarters controller/detailer offered the following: stay with VT-86 for 3-5 years of flying or, “maybe” a Marine squadron or, most likely a USMC grunt school and a “career enhancing” desk job after the school? Hmmmm…THAT was easy…A-4 Model Manager, T-39 instructor, lots of flight time and ATP ratings. So I stayed with the squadron for the move and the longer assignment. Little did I know what was brewing near the Pentagon. OK, who the HELL does? Ever?
NAS PENSACOLA
We moved to Pensacola, bought a home, and I planned to stay in the USMC to retirement. I met the Douglas Tech Rep with the Blues (Blue Angels) who urged me to apply to the team, so I started down that road in summer of 1975. Our first daughter, Alexis, was born in December 1975.
Serious about the Blues, I also applied for appropriate USMC officer extension courses in January 1976. Shortly after I got a call from my detailer stating I wouldn’t need the extension courses as he was sending me to (Grunt AWS) Amphibious Warfare School (a no-flying tour) in June ’76. Told “Lyin’ Ernie” I signed up for his 3-5 years at Pensacola, had a house, new daughter, and AWS was not on my list of places to go or good deals. I told my Tech Rep friends I was going to resign and they told me to apply to McDonnell-Douglas for one of seven A-4 instructor pilot positions created for the Kuwaiti Air Force Training (KAT) Program. So, with no job in hand, and since Ernie wasn’t taking NO, or offering an acceptable alternative, I called Ernie and let him know in my most respectful profane manner that my resignation was “in the freakin’ mail”, which it was.
I got permission from the VT-86 Skipper, Frosty Warner, to use a T-39 for an ATP checkride before leaving active duty. Soon after, I was hired by McDonnell-Douglas to instruct for Kuwaiti Air Training. The week before I resigned (transferred to the Reserves actually) I endured an “interesting” FAA checkride in the T-39 that ended with two main tires blown on final landing in a big crosswind at Tinker AFB. I got a tow to hangar, did a short “debrief”, got my ATP signed off swiftly and, with that in hand, got my wheels and tires replaced (Thank you USAF, Tinker). I took a seat in the cabin and observed my two fellow instructors conduct an annual NATOPS check on the way back to Pensacola. (You buy the bourbon, I’ll tell the story).
YUMA AND KUWAITI AF TRAINING PROGRAM:
Moved to Yuma, bought a home. The KAT Training detachment was a cadre of five Navy and two Marine full-time instructors: Gary “Bear” Smith (Blue Angel), Gene Tucker, Mike Ward, Jim Ellison, Ed League, Bruce Cheever and me. We had an amazing (retired Navy and Marine) maintenance team from the flight and production test programs. Interesting first two months getting everyone to understand that training flights run on a tight range time schedule and not that of flight/production test...
Adventures in Yuma, Part II: We flew TA-4J, A-4KU models (Kuwait bought 36 A-4KUs), and the lone A-4N prototype. The training syllabus mimicked the USN A-4 advanced training program with formation flying, air-to-air combat, CAS, low-level nav, in-flight refueling, and checkout on the A-4KU models. The A-4N prototype, and fastest A-4 ever flown, was tasked to carry the ‘buddy store’ in-flight refueling system loaded on the centerline of the airplane. The tanking module turned out to be the most challenging training module.
During one of our bombing hops with our trainees in the single-seat A-4KUs, a Cessna-210 sneaking up the border, tried to fly right over our target at 1500 feet while my guys were bombing. As instructor and low safety, I was at 1500 feet coaching from a TA-4. I picked up the inbound 210 on my nose, made the flight go into orbit at 3000 feet and did an intercept on the intruder, a woman pilot and male passenger. With flaps and speed brakes out I could go just slow enough to fly formation on her wing and escort her off our target and past the hot target to the west while giving a description of the intruder to Yuma tower. I got “the bird” as I slid away, allowing her to turn toward Yuma.
Harry Gann, the Douglas historian and famous aviation photographer flew with me a couple times to get pictures of the Kuwaiti A-4KUs in action. We became good friends and had a shared adventure on 22 June 1984, the 30th anniversary of the first flight of the A-4 (The subject of a short story to be published at a later date.)
MCDONNELL-DOUGLAS LONG BEACH AND THE RESERVES
The Kuwaiti program lasted 18 months. A couple of months before the end of the program I was informed that the Production Test Pilot job promised in the hiring process would not be available, but I could apply for jobs open in Long Beach. I immediately began applying to almost all airlines and also at McDonnell-Douglas. Fortunately, in early ’78 and with Harry Gann’s help and endorsement, I found a position as an A-4 customer service rep at the Long Beach McDonnell-Douglas plant. It was a wonderful group and a great job. I met important and interesting people at DAC, including R.G. Smith, the famous aviation artist.
In 1978, joining VMA-134, an A-4 reserve squadron at MCAS El Toro, was fortuitous. The squadron was mostly a group of Continental and Western pilots. I met Denny Grose (Denny’s story, Chu Lai 1969 is in Volume 2, Chapter 21) and others in that squadron and I applied to most airlines, including Western, Continental, and PSA.
WAL
Denny Grose somehow got my name on the interview list for Western. I Interviewed with the Director of Training and flew my simulator check while the VP of Operations and a couple of other pilot managers wandered in and watched – and miraculously, I was hired and started ground school on July 5, 1978. My training partner was none other than Denny Sapp, Blue Angel Solo, who has a great story titled Shotgun, Volume 3, Chapter 23. At the end of training I moved my family to Culver City.
My first actual line flight as a B-737 Guy-In-Back (GIB) was with Terry Wolfe, GIB instructor and fellow A-4 driver, whose story, Choose Providence, is in Volume 2, Chapter 24. Terry entertained me with colorful PAs from LAX-SLC. He bailed out at SLC and I went on a turnaround to West Yellowstone for ice cream and an “interesting” introduction to line ops as a GIB. Back at SLC I got to GIB for Wolf Zinc, truly enjoying every minute of the final leg back to LAX (wherever you are Wolf, bless you).
Within a couple of months Denny and I were back at the schoolhouse as flight-engineer training partners on the 727. What a great group of pilots to know and be a part of – thank you one and all!
Semper Fi,
Greek