“OK, Tomahawk—Nomad here. Say again heading.”
“Head east, head east.”
“Nomad one, did you read?”
“Roger, Nomad one.”
“OK, Nomads, this is Carbine lead and you are right behind me and you are pretty well right in the area. I don’t have the chutes right now.” Over the hot mike Carbine’s Bear called two bogies at five o’clock going away, but at this instant this was not Carbine’s business and they were going away anyway.
“Nomad one, this is Nomad two. Do you want the choppers to come in?”
Of course we wanted the choppers to come in. They weren’t doing us any good on the south side of the border and we were talking to the crew and the Spads were not getting shot up. Why not bring them in? That’s the name of the game and one of the orbiting Thud drivers voiced it with a hearty “YES” over the radio. But Nomad one felt differently and for some reason was reluctant to act.
“Nomad one here, let me locate the pilot first.”
I guess that call is the one that did Leo and his Bear in for sure, and the same pilot who had screamed “YES” now punched his mike button and sighed the bitter sigh of disbelief. Because Nomad one was running this portion of the show and those choppers to the south would not move without his OK, we lost this chapter of the war.
Another flight checked back into the area with “Royal— Neptune. What do you have for me?”
“Neptune—this is Royal, They said send everybody home. You’re one of those they said send home.” I have never figured that one out. Who were “they” and why were they sending fighters out of the area? The job was far from done and we needed all the help we could get. I could not figure that one, and I still can’t, but those of us in the Thuds had only a support role by that time and the decisions were not ours. Had they been, the story might have been different
“Tomahawk—this is Nomad. Will you locate the pilots, please.”
“Tomahawk—Carbine here. Will you fly directly over the spot so I can pick it back up, please? I’m at your twelve o’clock heading directly toward it.” And then Leo tried to get this Spad driver who controlled his future squared away. He started steering him in from the ground, but either he would not talk to Leo or he didn’t hear him.
“OK, Nomad, the pilot was talking to you from the ground. Carbine was talking to you. Did you hear him?”
“Negative, negative, I am unable to read him. Am I in the right area?”
“Rog, Rog, do you have the smoke from one aircraft? Fly east—head east, head east.”
“Roger, I have the smoke from the aircraft.”
“I said head east. Do you copy? EAST!” The Nomads finally got the message but they still could not see what so many were seeing and were telling them to see.
“The Nomads are orbiting right over them now.”
“The Nomads are inside your turn at seven o’clock, Ed, do you have them? … the Nomads?”
“Rog, have them.” It was now painfully apparent to the Thud drivers on the scene that they were going to have to make their heavy strike fighters perform like Spads by turning tightly on the deck and steering the blind rescueman, and that if our guys were found it would have to be our doing. The Nomads were acting like they had taken gas.
“Crap.”
“OK, Nomad, do you have one one-oh-five? Should be at your one o’clock high.”
“Negative—ahh, Roger, got you.”
“OK, I’m headed north and I’m going to be right over the area. It’s right under me at this moment. OK, Nomad—this is Tomahawk one rocking wings. I’m directly over the area. Do you have me, Nomad?”
“Ahh, all right, I’ve got you now, Tomahawk one.**
“OK, Nomad, you’re on it now—roll out—roll out—ROLL OUT!” There was more steering still to be done and Nomad one just couldn’t seem to get with it. “OK, roll right and it’s at two o’clock to you right now.”
Nomad seemed to have the idea now, but he was not hearing what we were hearing. “OK, I’m going down and see if I can find him.”
“OK, Nomad, did you hear him?” We were beginning to think we were working with a guy who was both deaf and blind. “Nomad, did you hear him?” But Nomad was not with us.
From the air, we could not see the enemy on the ground. The valley was still and without visible movement but we assumed the enemy must be close to Leo by now. Leo’s next call was so clear and so plaintive, it was pitiful. He must have realized that the beeper was giving everyone problems, and from the helter-skelter crisscross paths we were flying he must have deduced that we were having trouble getting the Spads into position. He must have realized that things were getting tense, especially since only he could know the terror of watching his would-be captors advance toward him while he watched his comrades trying desperately to provide the missing link of a visual sighting by a Nomad driver who couldn’t see, but whose visual sighting had become mandatory; without this, the choppers which alone could save him would not be launched. Leo sounded like he backed off, took a look at the entire situation, calmly picked up his emergency radio, held it the proper distance from his mouth, and in a precise voice that somehow sounded smaller with each transmission said, “Pickup aircraft—this is Carbine three here, over.” He saw the Spad, but the Spad did not see him, and _in answer came the screech of the stuck beeper somewhere to’the north. Tomahawk had pressed his fuel to the danger point, and having put the Spad on top of the downed crew and having Carbine over the crew with a still usable load of fuel, and with me and my Waco flight right behind Carbine flight, he left to refuel.
“Nomad—this is Tomahawk one. I’m going back out of the area, I’m going back out of the area. Do you have him in sight?”
Nomad didn’t answer, but as Tomahawk left, Carbine picked up the pace. “Nomad, Carbine three is calling you on emergency frequency. If you would answer him I’m sure he would appreciate it.” As Carbine fought a losing battle to finish the job that was so close to completion, but that for no reason was crumbling in front of his eyes, all strings snapped to a new degree of tautness.
“BREAK RIGHT, Tomahawk three! Migs behind you.” Those had been bogies all right, and the vultures had played it smart. They had loitered out of contention until the bottom flight, now critical on fuel, had started to gather its forces, rejoin, and climb up through the Migs’ best altitude on their way out in quest of fuel.
“Which Tomahawk has Migs?”
“Tomahawk three. I’m hit and I’m burning—son of a bitch…. Tomahawk four—this is three. What’s your position?”
“To your left. I’ve got you.”
Tomahawk three was still flying but in trouble. Maybe he paid too much attention to his trouble, but who can say? Maybe he ignored the fact that three vultures don’t quit easily, especially when they have a flamer and a potential straggler in front of them. Who is to criticize three for getting a bit wrapped up in whether he was about to blow up or not? Not me. I’ve been there, and unless you have you just don’t know.
“Four—still got me?”
“Tallyho, three.”
“Anyone behind us?”
“Four here. I can’t see them.” Look hard, buddy. You’re the flying safety expert who has read so much and studied so much about what happens when you panic. Keep that head moving. Remember all that jazz about emergency procedures? What’s the next move? How did you get here anyway? You aren’t an old tac fighter pilot. You didn’t even get the courtesy of a check-out in the aircraft or a school before you left the States. They sent you over here as an administrator of safety and you had to wangle a local check-out on your own guts and dedication. So this must be aerial combat. This must be where that air combat maneuvering comes in. Too bad you didn’t get a chance to try it before this in practice. But look hard, work hard, this is the big league, buddy, and you are in the spotlight.