But Geeno’s problems were faster moving than Hannibal’s and the SAMs, the Migs and the flak were all zeroed in and waiting for him that bleak morning when he headed north for the last time—and he knew they were waiting. Like the rest of the Thud drivers, he never lacked a knowledge or appreciation of the forces aligned against him, but only a few flinched from the blanket of steel that waited, always active, always eager, never compromising. We had only four who couldn’t hack it, four only whose fear overcame them and dealt them the gravest defeat man can suffer—to surrender to the cowardice that made them quit in the face of the enemy while those they had lived with went forth to take their chances on dying or rotting away in prison in order to defend their supposed right to default on their brothers-in-arms and still go forth unblemished. This is wrong and our system is wrong to tolerate it. You try and change it if you will. I have already tried and been rebuffed. No matter what demands the leadership imposes, the combat soldier who falters and fails in the face of the enemy’s fire is an unspeakable wretch whose own insides must someday devour him.
There is no telling what type may display the unpardonable sin of reneging under fire. Our four covered the spectrum. We had one who had been a professional fighter pilot for about ten years. He loved the travel, adventure and challenge of the peacetime forces. He liked his aircraft and thought well of her demonstrated prowess on the gunnery range with the practice bombs and shells. When the press of events called him to the day when the gunnery range fired back and airplanes exploded and people died, he crawled on his belly and surrendered his image of a man because he was afraid. Another was a bomber guy who got caught up in the personnel conversion to this different machine. He was out of his element, almost as far out of his element as those poor slobs who have been rotting in Hanoi for over two years, so he fell on his face and cried, “I can’t take it.” He had been professionally raised under a banner that unfortunately says “Peace Is Our Profession” and he wasn’t capable of transforming himself to the knowledge that war is our profession, as most of the rest of the bomber guys did. Our third failure was a lieutenant who almost cracked ,up earlier while pulling alert pad duty with nobody even shooting at him. Perhaps I should have spotted him then, but it took only a few lousy 37-millimeter shells, bursting woefully out of range, to surface this clever dodger in uniform. He decided that he would like to be a ground officer during the period of hostilities, and the last I heard he was getting away with it.
Our fourth was our worst. He wears the U.S. Navy ring of an Annapolis graduate. I always knew the Navy was smart, but how they figured this clown out ten years ago and got him transferred to the Air Force is beyond me. He was the worst in that he knew better and had demonstrated the capability, under fire, to do the job. He quit around the halfway mark when he was approaching the stage where he would have been a real value to us. Among other things, he developed a fear of heights after ten years as a jet pilot. He learned all the rules and all the angles and he played them to the hilt. When all else failed him, he managed a hardship discharge. Hardship indeed, that this leech defaced the profession as long as he did.
So do you suppose that Geeno was scared as he blasted off in the murk of a predawn departure from our own private piece of jungle? I suppose he was. Anyone who isn’t scared is an idiot. It is completely plausible and quite a scintillating experience to be able to translate this being scared into the most dynamic courage and a determination to get the job done properly. Geeno knew what his job was. He had to lead two wings of F-105’s to one of the nastiest targets in the North, and he and his three flight companions were to still the flak so the first Wave of strike aircraft could penetrate and get the job done.
When you are in the spot of leading both wings and are also the flak suppression flight for your own wing, the first one in on the target, you can’t help feeling a tremendous sense of responsibility. In this situation, more than any other, you know that the responsibility for the whole tribe is in your lap. More than that, you know that the success or failure of the strike itself is your baby doll. No matter how well it is planned and no matter how many instant experts are sitting on the ground ready to advise on something they have never done, you have the ball. Your word is sought after in the confusion of the departure. You call the shots as men and machines struggle to the end of the runway and fight to leave the arming area in proper order. Your burner light is the infallible signal to all concerned, “Yes, this is it, we’re really going,” and the degree of confidence, calm and expertise that you exude does more than you know to determine the results, and even the survival of your troops.
This was brought home to me most clearly during a discussion with one of the docs who was working on a potential fear-of-flying case. Actually the guy had the fear, and it seemed like every time he moved he got exposed to something else to increase his fear, but he was a good man and he utilized every bit of smart and stamina he had, and while I am sure that he never beat the fear, he controlled it and stuck with the task. While trying to help this pilot, the doc was discussing the emotions of people faced daily with the violent loss of those they sweat next to and he said something to the effect that all rational men had a sense of fear. He said, “Don’t you think the colonels who lead you in this wing feel fear?”
The pilot responded in amazement, “You mean they actually get scared too?” It’s what you do with the emotion that counts.
Geeno picked up his specific responsibility for this Saturday morning mission the evening before. When the frag arrived there was always much interest in what we were doing the next day and a shuffle to see who would fill which spot. In a wing like ours where the leaders led, you always had to give the boss first crack at the next day’s work. Depending on who had to meet the visitors the next day—and there were almost always visitors—who had what meeting or what additional duty plans, the boss would decide on his availability and choice of mission time. Other things being equal, that 0200 wakeup was not too popular with those of us in the command bracket. It is great to be skimming along when the sun conies up, and you get the feeling that you are in the saddle on this new day and that you are running things and all will be good. You also get a feeling of accomplishment when you land early and know that before most people have stirred you have done a good job. And you get so tired you hurt. The primary duty jocks who have been flight planning most of the night could sneak away to the sack for a few hours, but the leaders always had something to make that move inappropriate, and the next thing you knew you had worked yourself out of daylight and into night. We all gave the continuing early schedule a try at one time or another, and we all managed to get falling-down sick doing it. So on this particular Friday afternoon, both the boss and I declined and the early one rotated to Geeno, the next squadron commander in line.