As I approached the spot, I skidded my steed to the right and got as slow as I could get and still stay airborne, rocked the left wing down and looked long and hard at nothing but trees. The steering needle swung to the left and then to the tail and I knew I had him pinpointed. “Tomahawk four, Tomahawk four—this is Waco on emergency. If you read me turn your beeper off.”
Like the cut of a knife the screecher shut off and the small clear voice said, “This is Tomahawk four. I read you loud and clear, Waco. I am OK and awaiting pickup.” I was so pleased, I almost forgot my business, and in my anxiety to get a better look at the area, I almost pulled my beast into a stall as I told the world on the radio that I had found Joe. “Waco two, I’ve got his position spotted. Get up to altitude and get us some Spads and some choppers in here on the double. Tell them no sweat on Migs Bind tell them we have to hurry. We’re far enough south so they ought to be able to get the job done without making it a big production.” I swung around for the spot and yanked my sweaty map out from under my left buttock, which is still the best map holder ever devised for a fighter plane, and prepared to get some good coordinates for the rescue guys. “Joe, turn your beeper on now.” I fixed right over the beacon and said, “OK, Joe, turn it off, and if I just flew right over your position, turn it back on for two seconds, then back off.” The reply was just like the survival movies and I knew that I was right and that Joe was both in good shape and as sharp as he could be.
I relayed the coordinates, and since the rescue system had been alerted by Tomahawk lead on his way out for fuel, it was not too long before a pair of Nomads arrived on the scene and went to work like a couple of old pros. They took over and my job reverted to that of top cover. The memory of the fiasco of an hour ago was with me as much as my aching seat and my weary head and back, but this one was already farther ahead than the other one had ever been and these Nomads were doing it properly.
“OK, Tomahawk four-—Nomad here. Turn your beeper on for ten seconds.” He lined up arid said encouragingly, “OK, good steer, I’m lined up on you. Turn your beeper on and leave it on till I tell you to turn it off.” Completing his pass, he got a good low-level swing and was able to bend his little bird around in a tight turn that allowed him to keep the area in view. “OK, Tomahawk, beeper off. Are you on top of that ridge I just flew over?”
“Nomad—Tomahawk. I am on the east side of the ridge you just flew over, about halfway down to where it levels off into a little plateau. I have plenty of flares. Over.”
“Rog, Tomahawk, hold your flares.” The flares are a good spotting device and can be a big help to the searcher. By the same token, they can be a big help to those searching from the ground. We have lost people by the premature use of flares that have allowed the bad guys to get there before the rescue people. Sometimes it is necessary to use them, but they are better held until the choppers are on the way or until the Nomad feels the area is clear enough of enemy to use one to pinpoint the downed man in the thick tree cover, so that the Nomad can set up a quick in-and-out run for the choppers. The multiple layers of trees go as high as 200 feet, and a man gets pretty small under them. “Spread your chute out as well as you can, Tomahawk. I’m on the way back in.”
This Nomad showed a completely different picture of the rescue pilots than the one we had just attempted to work with. He was’sure enough of the position and condition of his man and knew how critical the time was, so he called the controllers on his second radio and directed that the choppers start inbound on the now relatively short trip that they had to make. All the terrain there was relatively high as far as ground elevation was concerned, which would make the choppers’ job more difficult, but all in all, things smacked of possible success. Pulling up abruptly over the suspected spot, Nomad announced, “Rog, Tomahawk, think I’ve got you. The choppers will be here in a few minutes. Get ready for pickup and give me a red smoke flare now so I can be sure I get them to the right spot from the right approach direction.” Joe, like many of us, figured that those flares and the radio were two of the most valuable pieces of cargo you could carry, and he had several extras strapped to the outside of his anti-G suit. He took one out, carefully selected the end that would emit a thick red smoke that would float up through the
(trees to stain the twilight sky and momentarily show both his position and the direction of the wind before it drifted away into nothing, held it skyward and pulled the lanyard. “Rog, Tomahawk four, I’ve got your smoke. Sit tight for a couple of minutes.”
But the minutes dragged, the sun sank lower, and the haze thickened. I had been stooging around on the deck for quite some time and could not delay too long before departing for the night rendezvous with the tanker that I now had to have, or else I would have to park this bird of mine in the jungle. But I knew the tankers would be there. I knew it because Tomahawk lead and two were on the way back in and told me so. Joe should be picked up by the time Tomahawk got here and I could blast for the tanker while they escorted the rescue troops out. Where in hell were those choppers?
’Tomahawk four—this is Nornad. I hate to tell you this, old buddy, but one of the choppers thinks he has a rough engine and has turned back and the other one has decided he will go with him hi case he has any trouble. We can’t get another one up here tonight so I guess you better pull up a log and try and get some rest. We will try and get back in the morning—and by the way, there is a stream about fifty yards downhill from you if you get low on water. CHI Dooey, old buddy.” At least the Spad driver got right to the point. He knew we were screwed and so did Joe.
“Roger, this is Tomahawk four, understand. Thank you. I’ll be waiting for you in the morning.”
I couldn’t believe it. So what if one of the choppers did have a rough engine—we’d had rough engines all afternoon. If the first one decided he was going to crap out, so what— why did the second one want to go back in case of trouble? We had trouble we hadn’t used yet right here, and we had the rescue in our hip pocket. I still can’t believe it. I try to think nice things about the situation and about the actions and decisions I saw that day, but I can’t.
Tomahawk lead couldn’t believe it either but it was dark and the deed was done. He headed for home with his still goodly fuel load and I stumbled off to find the tanker that would give us what we needed for the trip back to base. But we weren’t through yet. Nomad’s wingman split the evening ether with “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday—Nomad lead is hit and on fire.” He had wandered too close to someone on the ground, and once again unseen small arms had scored a bit.
Oh, boy, what next! I knew that Nomad was far slower than we were and the only place that he could be was behind us, so I forgot the fuel and wheeled 180 degrees and back we went.
“Nomad—this is Nomad four. You’re on fire. Bail out, bail out, BAIL OUT!” I was ready to commit us to another attempt at cover, knowing; before It started that this one would not have a chance. When an airman in trouble calls, you have no choice, and one of our people was in trouble. I got a feeling of encouragement from the next two transmissions. The wingman repeated his call, “Bail out, you’re on fire.”
With lots of calm, Nomad came back and said, “Negative.” Not negative because he was not on fire, but negative because he was not about to park his Spad over the dark noplace where he knew four fellows had withered in the sunlight. He was not about to leap into what would have been either death or prison, knowing there would be no rescue for him that night. He knew what the odds were, and he was going to take his chances with the machine. He had apparently wandered into the wrong area at the wrong altitude as he egressed from the messed up effort that had left the guy he had located and talked to and even flared sitting on a stump waiting for the bad guys to pick him up. He knew that there was no rescue this day and he was not about to become number five if he could help it. There is little doubt that he knew he was on fire. Iff a bird like the 105, you cannot see the wing, and besides the wing seldom burns. In the Spad you can see the wing, and he was burning severely from the wing root. Very close to the sort of thing that causes wing separation and rapid departure from the scene. His judgment was swift, and I am sure that his head was filled with many thoughts of things other than himself as he made his move.