The Farewell Medallion

Chapter 8

Everyone starts to get a little edgy after the carrier has been on Yankee Station for thirty days.  We left Hong Kong on June five.  We’re into the second week in July and still waiting for the Constellation to relieve us.

I only bagged three hours sleep last night.  Schedules had me on the last launch yesterday, a tanker hop no less.  Two hours of droning around at thirty thousand feet so I could save fuel for some poor bastard who couldn’t get aboard.  Sure enough, an F-8 skipped a hook and then boltered twice.  By the time we rendezvoused he was real shook.  I was smooth as glass and he still missed the drogue three times.  LSO was cool, finally talked him down on his second pass.  Didn’t get back on deck until three AM.

This is my third cup of coffee since I got to the ready room; vile stuff.  The pot hasn’t been cleaned since we left port.  Lieutenant McCord, the duty officer, commonly called Red for obvious reasons, hands me the morning news brief-sheet to read.  The best item in it is about a guy in Florida who wants Hanoi to let him trade places with a POW. He says he’s already had a good life and that way the POW can go home while he does the time in the cell - nice gesture.

Art calls from the intelligence center and says to come on down.  They have a new target for us and we can start our brief early.

When I get there he’s bent over the map table with CAG’s wizard, Lieutenant Commander Ron French.  “Are you guys trying to find the best beach for your next R and R?” I ask.

French apparently lost his junior officer attitude and his sense of humor before Ginger Rogers could dance.  Without looking around, he speaks in that raspy monotone voice of his, “Grab a briefing card and map from that shelf over there, Tiger.  We’ve got a lot of stuff to cover.”

Knowing where you are and who’s on the ground that might shoot at you is secondary only to flying the airplane so I have already made sure my maps are updated with the latest triple A and SAM info.  Leaning against the table opposite from Art I mark the latest ship position on my map.  It’s about one hundred miles farther north than we were yesterday in order to generate an earlier sixteen plane strike on the Nam Dinh rail yards.

“About an hour ago an Air Force flight reported a truck park and POL storage area near the Laotian border on the road to Xam Nua,” French Says.  “They don’t have anything to send because their birds are coming back from a strike on the Yen Bai Power Plant.  They sent a flash message to us and the Old Man wants to respond.  It seems that you guys are the only sortie available.”

Art looks at me and our eyes meet.  “Hot damn,” he says.  “Scratch one truck park, here we come.”

We’re both grinning like crazies.  Finally got a decent target.  Old French, determined to curb his lighter side, presses on with the brief covering our target area and anti-aircraft defenses, mostly stuff we already know.  The weather will be good until late night when a heavy bank of clouds moves up from the Indian Ocean.

When he finishes with that he says, “Oh, one more thing.”

He looks around, squinting over his bifocals and spells out the classified nature of what he’s about to say.  “Don’t even tell your skipper about this one.  It doesn’t leave this brief.  This is only on a need to know basis to flights in this specific area.”

Measuring off of the nearest latitude and longitude markings he precisely places a dot on the map.  “There!  At that point; see the valley, after the second ridge north of the road, there’s a friendly living there.  If you should go down and are able to evade to this location you might be able to make contact.

“The procedure is to stay out of sight at the western edge of the open field.  The agent will pass through the field from south to north about an hour before sundown.  You’ll know who he is by the blue bag he carries.  If he is carrying his hat it’s clear.  Follow him.  When he lays the bag across the trail and stops it’s okay to approach him.  If he wears the hat, stay away.  Any questions?”

“Yeah, are you serious?” I ask.

“That’s exactly the way we got it.  Remember, don’t spread it around.  Give ‘em hell and get in here for debriefing right after your flight.  I’d like to finish at a reasonable hour tonight.”

“Roger, Roger.”

Red is waiting at the door of the ready room as we walk in, all excited ‘cause our launch time is moved up fifteen minutes.  We rush through the rest of the brief; routine stuff; altitudes, airspeeds, rendezvous point and so forth.

G-suit, torso harness, helmet and survival vest come off their peg on the wall.  Wiggle into everything and cinch it tight.  Sling the standard issue thirty-eight over our shoulder making sure we have plenty of tracers since we’ll be back at the ship when it starts getting dark.

Most of the pilots have split after the morning strike.  Only the duty officer, the XO and the yeoman are here to send us off.  Normal rah-rah, Red waves a playmate of the month picture at us on our way out the door.

Sign for the aircraft in flight deck control and get our deck position; the only two aircraft from the strike that came back up.  The skipper brought one back with a hole in the tail you could stick your head through.

Out on the flight deck it’s relatively quiet.  That’s deceiving.  In five minutes all hell will break loose.

Walk around the aircraft, stepping over tie down cables, pushing in slats, looking at hinge pins and hydraulic lines.  Visually check fuel.  Pay particular attention to the six five hundred pound bombs hanging on the wing station triple ejector racks while the ordinance chief looks on.  I give him thumbs up, pumping it a couple of times for emphasis.  He nods, and returns it in kind.  We all routinely adjust to the list of the deck while the ship comes into the wind for the launch.

“All ready to go, Mr. Tiger.”  The plane captain follows me up the ladder to pull the seat pins once I strap in and adjust the seat, removing the ladder once he’s back down.

Starting on the right side panel, my abbreviated check list insures critical switches and dials, the ones that can kill or embarrass, are appropriately placed.  I look over at Art as the plane captain directs the hook-up of the starting unit.  The voice of the Air Boss thunders over the flight deck speaker, “Set your time at sixteen ten.  Start your engines.”

The activity steps up to a new level as the whine of jet engines progressively wind up one after another.  The plane captain signals ready to start.  My signal: one finger for electric power, good; two for high pressure air to the engine, throttle off watching RPM starting to move, fifteen percent, throttle to idle, watch temp for ignition, idle RPM good; three fingers to disconnect starter unit, check generator on line; four fingers, disconnect external power.  Follow plane captain to check flight controls and allow final check of aircraft by deck crew.

All set, thumbs up for gear pins, chocks out signal, add power to taxi toward the number one catapult.  Brown, yellow, green and blue jerseys hustling in all directions, a splendid study in coordination.  Art right behind moving to Cat 2.  There goes the tanker, my turn.  Taxi forward over the catapult shuttle.  Red shirts showing arming wires out.  Green shirts under the wing to hook up bridle and hold back fittings.

Cripes, doesn’t Frank ever sleep?  Lieutenant Commander, Catapult Officer launched me fifteen hours ago on my tanker hop.  I know he hasn’t missed one all day.  All hands are away from aircraft giving Frank a thumbs up.  Franks yellow shirted arm high in the air; two fingers slowly crank into the turn-up signal.  Last second check of flight controls and instruments.  Looks good.  Give Frank my distinctive short salute.  Stand by, head back, watch his dance.  Satisfied all is okay, he swings his arm in a wide arc overhead pointing down the cat-track as his knee touches the deck.  I’m gone.

Nothing like it.  Less than two seconds, zero to one hundred sixty miles an hour.  Whooee!  Off the deck, let the nose come up precisely eight degrees on the attitude indicator, a quick glance at airspeed and rate of climb confirms I’m flying, gear handle up.  One – two - three clicks, indicator shows landing gear up.  Slight clearing turn, key the mike, “Wrought Iron One airborne.”

Two-fifty knots, flaps up.  Ten seconds behind Art checks in, “Wrought Iron Two.”

“Roger Two.”  Easy turn to left, Art comes into view pulling inside the turn to rendezvous.  He’s good, I taught him well.

A climb to thirty thousand feet will get us there with lots of fuel.  Nice day!  I can see the coast of China past Hainan Island.  Back the other way the coast disappears into the haze.

I check with Crown the area controller reporting feet dry fifty miles south of Thanh Hoa.  He checks my position and comes back, “Roger Wrought Iron, I show no bandits in the area at this time, have a good flight.”

Art has moved to a loose cruise position about two thousand feet away.  We both know the threat is from a surface to air missile.  Nothing else will be able to reach us at this altitude.  I’m avoiding the known sites, but sure as hell don’t want to be surprised by one of those fifty-foot telephone poles.

Gradually easing the course to the right we begin to let down on a northwesterly heading along the Laotian border.  The karst mountains come into focus.  Rugged country, makes sense that the border snakes all over the place.

Art, still in loose cruise has closed to within a thousand feet staying high.  Passing through six thousand feet I get a tally on the road.  Rocking my wings to signal Art, I bank into a hard left turn to parallel the road.  I’m looking for an exact fix along the road so I can set up a run from the direction of the sun to get a visual on the truck park.  Okay there’s a fork in the road – good there’s the river alongside.  That’s puts us precisely five miles into Laos.  Double click the mike button for Art to stay high and alongside while I have a look-see.  I pull around, nose down, running between the karst - ridges flashing by - should see something in about two miles.

“Wrought Iron One, you have a hot triple A site on your left.”

I’m back and forth, up and down – no tracers - don’t fly into the ground - work the eagle eyes – ha – a reflection off a windshield.  Pull up left, look over the shoulder, don’t take the eyes off that spot.  Have to get into position with enough altitude to roll in.  “Iron One has tally, will roll in hot.”

Like we briefed Art will get into position to roll in as soon as I’m off and spot my hits.

Take it out a little more, climb baby, almost there.  Master arm switch on, select all stations.  We’re there, pull it down, kick a little rudder.  Little bit slow leave the power up.  Five hundred knots – read-y-y pickle.  Damn!  Did they all come off?  Pull it through.  What’s the matter with the ailerons?

“Wrought Iron One, good hit, you got some secondaries.  You’re trailing some fluid from your right wing.”

“Roger Two, go ahead and roll in on my hits.  When you come off join up and check me over.”  Damn, Damn, Damn.  It feels like I’m driving a truck.

“Iron Two’s in hot.”

“Roger Two, I’ll be at your eleven o-clock when you pull off in a left turn.”  Wow!  Lots of fireworks down there.

“Two’s off, I have you.  Jeez!  You’re smoking, big time.”

Can’t hold the wing up.  No hydraulic pressure, pull the manual disconnect.  That’s better straight and level.  Check gauges.  Fire warning light!

“Iron one you’re on fire.  It’s getting worse.  Your aft fuselage is in flames.  You better get out.  There it goes.  Eject!  Eject!”

Smoke, flames.  Pull the handle – canopy – windstream – get the map out of my face – good chute.  Quiet, probably not for long.  They say you can guide this thing.  Where can I go?  Better get away from the trees.  There’s an open spot, I think I can make it.  Aw shit!  One tree.  Ow!  Damn!  Oh rocks!

I’m in one piece.  Gotta get the chute down.  Get it under that rock, cover it, get in the trees.  Slide under the leaves.  I hear Art but can’t see him.  Get the PRC radio out, good – antenna – switch.

“Wrought Iron Two, this is One, do you read me?” - Nothing.  There he is.  Answer, damn it!

“Wrought Iron Two, Wrought Iron Two, this is One, do you read.”

“Roger One, this is two.  I contacted Crown.  They’re trying to get someone on the way.  Are you okay?”

“I got a few scratches.  I think I’m all right.”

Somebody shouting?  I better move.  “Iron Two I think I have company to the east.  I’m going to head up the slope.”

“Roger One, I’m going to make a low pass to see if I can spot anything.  I still have twenty mike-mike if it will help.”

It might take two hours to get a chopper here.  Wonder if they can make a pick-up after dark?  Here he comes.  Sure is screaming.  Damn they’re firing again.  Aiieee!  He’s coming apart.  Get out!  Get out!  Dear God, get out!

Gotta get away from this brush so I can see.  Thought I saw a chute, over the ridge.  Gotta get over there.  Bring the seat pack.  Steep slope, vines cutting my arms.  Don’t panic, get your bearings.  Stop, rest.  Just a minute, I’m coming Art.

Been going forty minutes, at least.  Keep that tall karst in sight and I won’t lose my direction.  Is that a trail?  Supposed to stay away from trails.  Listen.  Run quietly.  Stop.  Listen.

Dark, cloudy, can see okay, the moon’s up.  Strange noises, animal noises, jungle noises, strange to me.  Two hours, should be getting close.  How can I find him?  Get off the trail, rest.

Heartbeat must be one-fifty.  Breath deeply, relax.  Dark shapes are hard to make out.  Can’t tell the trees from the rocks.  Might be a nice view in the daylight.  Shapes, gray, reflection white.  Must be a tree, it moves.  Wait!  His chute, it’s got to be.

It won’t be easy to get over there.  Figure out the best route.  To the right through the clearing, then up the hill.  Go, go again!

Closer, I think I can see him.  Why doesn’t he move?  Be okay.  Don’t be dead.  Gotta keep it quiet.  “Art!”

“Art, hey buddy, you okay?”  Let’s get that chute loose.  Here we go, put your head on my pack.  Straighten around here.  He doesn’t look good.

“Aow-ee!” Art cries out.

“Sorry buddy.  Bad leg?”

“Grant?”

“Hey Art, I’m here, take it easy.”

“I must have dosed off for a while.  I hit kind of hard.  Couldn’t move my leg.  How’d you get here?”

“Ox cart runs on the hour.  Let me get this chute down before the next one comes by.”

It’s really hung up.  If I cut it to shreds down here, maybe I can rip it loose.  Pull it side ways.  There it’s free.  Damn!  That’s one way to get it.

“Hey Grant, don’t kill yourself man.  I don’t think I have the strength to bury you.”

“Isn’t going to happen, we’re getting out of here.  Sandy will have a chopper in here at daybreak.”

“Nice work on that chute.”

I stash the chute and throw some leaves and rocks on it.  Art’s right leg is twisted and broken in at least two places.  When I get his flight boot off he says it feels better; sure is swollen.  I talk him into moving to a place where we’ll be out of site when daylight comes.  With him hopping his left leg, I try to support his body and keep the bad leg from hitting anything.  He wants to keep his tough face on, but the pain shows through.  Not a great location, at least we’ll be out of sight.

“Sorry ‘bout the treatment.  How you doing?”

“Not too bad.  My leg feels like it’s on fire, but except for that and a bump on my head I’m ready to roll.”

Art keeps shifting around trying to get into a more comfortable position.  I go back and cover the trail and look around to make sure we’re not too visible.  At least we’re in a fairly remote area.  We better ride it out here for the night.  Good chance of rescue tomorrow, if the weather doesn’t go sour.

No luck on two attempts to raise someone on the radio.  Art’s seat pack slammed into the rocks so hard it tore open.  His PRC’s not working.  I check our collective survival gear and reorganize.  Amazing amount of stuff they pack in there.

The moon must have gone down.  It’s blacker than a cave; feels like one too.  The rocks are getting damp with all the moisture in the air.  It feels ten degrees colder in the last thirty minutes.  I’ve got Art resting again, since I made a cover for him from his poncho.  I don’t know what kind of animal that is, screaming like a banshee.  Hell, I don’t even know what a banshee is.  Need some sleep.

I’m not getting much rest, maybe three minutes out of twenty.  At least Art is.

“Grant.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any water?”

“Between our seat packs and survival vests, about three pints.  Here – have some.”

“Thanks, just a sip.  What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”  It would be lighter by now if the clouds weren’t so thick.  I can barely see my map but I don’t want to use my flashlight.

Art strains to transfer his weight more to his left side.  Even if a helicopter could get in here we would have a hard time getting to a spot level enough for a pick-up.

“Can you tell where we are on your map?” he asks.

“Let’s see, based on where we were last night, you were flying about there when you made that gunner mad.  I only walked three miles at most.  That puts us about here.”

“Let me see.”

A light misty rain replaces the dense fog, revealing a high canopy of green above a dense tangle of tropic jungle.  The growth stretches up into the karst ridges behind us to what I determine must be south and west.  There’s probably something in the side of the mountain that throws my survival vest compass off when I try to confirm that.  The terrain falls off to the north of where Art came down, into an area of fewer trees.  That’s the only way we can go to get out of here and unfortunately where we would likely run into the bad guys.

“Hey Grant, look at this,” Art whispers, pointing to the map.  “Isn’t this where French’s mystery man lives?”

“Let me see. – I think so.  Yeah!”

“Couldn’t be more than two or three miles.”

I know that look and what he’s thinking.  “Unh-uh, we need to hold on here ‘til the chopper can get in.”

"Get real.  This crud’s coming from the typhoon we saw on the weather map.  It’s going to get worse before it gets better.  You know how this stuff is.  It could be days.”

“I won’t leave you.”

He’s right about the weather.  Where we are it would be hell getting in here even in good weather.  Situation stinks.  Maybe I could get over and investigate the agent thing and get back by dark.  Without anything to slow me down, I have a better chance of evading.  Art’s acceptably concealed and trying anything beats yielding to circumstance.

“Do you have your good luck with you?”  Art’s propped on one elbow holding the medallion on the chain around his neck.

“In my flight boot pocket like always.”

“It’s going to work,” he nods, laughing.  “The magic will get us out of here.”

We talk about all the contingencies.  He will keep every thing except for what I stuff in my pockets and my thirty-eight.  He gets the extra ammo.  If any aircraft should get in, he’ll use my radio to make contact.  I wait until eleven to start out.  It’s raining steadily.  Getting drenched.  Maybe the drizzle and low visibility will help me stay out of sight.  At least I’ve managed to keep Art fairly dry.

“You’d better go find the bag man,” he says.

“Okay, hang in there.  I’ll be back.”

“Normally I’d say break a leg but we don’t have any to spare, so good luck.”

I stop a hundred yards down the hill to look back.  Good, can’t see a thing.

The going’s real slow, up and down, through thick tangles and elephant ear leaves.  My pattern is to stop concealed, rest, listen, look and plan my course and distance to the next cover.  Try not to leave a trail.

I see what looks like a cultivated field through the haze to the east.  Although I can’t see beyond, I have a gut feeling there’s a village there.  The muffled engine sound in the distance could be a generator.  I alter my course slightly to the west, still heading mostly north.  The field I’m looking for should be around the edge of the karst overhang ahead and then back west.

Slow and steady wins the race, so they say.  I’ve been lucky to miss the search party that must be out here somewhere looking for us.  This has to be the right location.  It doesn’t look the way I pictured it.  A rock layer on the surface creates a break in the trees.  The cover to the west of the clearing explains why I should wait there.  Avoiding the trail that runs along the small stream of water on the south side, I slowly work my way west to find a well covered waiting place.  If he shows, I can move in the cover on the north edge to the trail, if there is a trail.  I can’t see it from here.

Waiting for something that you’re not sure is going to happen is maddening.  Now that I’m here my heart, beating like a drum, sounds like it might be heard a hundred yards away.  I see someone past the clearing in the trees.  A glimpse of what looks like a young boy’s faded gray shirt disappears down the hill.  My heart rate doubles.

Another fifteen minutes, time drags.  It can’t be real.  A thin man with mud up to his knees comes out of the trees to the right of my view.  My eyes jump from the dull blue bag to the straw hat under his arm.    French, my man, you deserve a medal.

I watch him plod stoop shouldered to the tree line where he pauses, looks around and then continues.  Here goes.  Taking a deep breath I advance quickly through the light brush to where he went into the trees.  He’s standing about sixty yards ahead.  He starts to turn slowly, then dropping the bag he abruptly thrusts the hat on his head.  I hear a voice off to the right.  I turn left to run.

“Han up!  Han up!”

I’m looking directly into the barrel of an AK-47 under the somber stare of a khaki uniformed soldier with a red star emblem on his pith helmet.  His buddy also armed is covering about twenty feet away.  I look back at the path to see the blue bag disappear around the corner of the trail.