We were all hot to trot the next morning and anticipation even took some of the sting out of the two-thirty alarm clock. The plan was simple. We would have two flights of Phantoms in the area and they would patrol between our force and Hanoi so we could feel relatively sure that the Migs would not get in our hair. I wanted to be able to concentrate on getting this job done completely the first time, and for once I was content to leave the Mig-sweep work to someone else. We would refuel and all drop off the tankers together, and I would lead into the area and give a go or no go on the weather. The rest of the flights would displace themselves behind me so that we would not bunch up in the limited airspace over the valley, and after I had worked I would call the succeeding flights in one at a time. I intended to orbit far enough away from the target to stay out of their way while they were working, but close enough so I could monitor their work and insure that we got the areas I wanted.
I was disappointed that the weather was not holding to the forecast we had received the night before and it did not look too great. At first the headquarters folks did not want to release us, but I got on the horn and was able to talk them into letting us go, and shortly afterward I pulled into the number one spot in the arming area with my strike force in tow.
The arming area is a strange little piece of concrete adjacent to the end of the runway that provides the last respite and physical check of both man and machine before the launch. It is a hectic spot, saturated with ground crews and supervisors who must constantly hustle to insure a smooth flow of aircraft onto the runway. They have to hurry carefully to guarantee that the aircraft is completely ready for the challenge ahead, yet they can’t afford any delay in the flow of traffic. A few minutes wasted in this crucial spot compounds rapidly into delayed takeoffs and delayed tanker rendezvous, and can compromise the timing and success of the entire effort. The crew is under the control of a senior sergeant who positions himself midway between the yellow painted lead-in lines that each pilot follows as he places his nosewheel on the spot that will line him up parallel to the next bird, with his nose pointing out into the boondocks to guarantee maximum safety should some piece of ordnance misfire during the arming process. It is always hot out there and as each fighter swings into and out of the pad, the stinging exhaust from the tail pipe adds to the heat. The noise and vibration is so intense that the standard ear protectors provide only minimal protection to the ground crews working there, and it is necessary to rotate the arming crews constantly to preserve their hearing.
As the crewman assigned to each particular spot directs the pilot into position, the first move is up to the pilot. He checks all his cockpit switches and when he is satisfied that all ordnance is in a safe condition, he merely holds both hands up in the air to say, “OK, men, go to work. I won’t shoot you or drop a bomb on your toes.” Once the signal is given, the ground crew swarms all over the bird. One group checks all the external weapons to be sure that nothing has vibrated loose while moving from the parking area to the runway, and then they pull the safety pins or set the switches that bring the bombs, rockets and guns to life, ready to detonate on command. Another crew covers every inch of the outside of the bird, looking for hydraulic or fuel leaks, loose panels, cut tires or any little unnoticed flaw that could cost us a man and machine over hostile territory. If they find something wrong, it represents the height ojf frustration to be sent back to the chocks when you have done all the preparation that is required to get to this point, but in this spot rank means nothing. If a two-striper says he doesn’t like the looks of the machine about to launch, colonel or lieutenant, back to the parking area you go. There is no telling how many people and machines this system has saved for us, as there are many things that can go wrong with a temperamental machine from engine crank to takeoff, and the old routine of simply kicking the tire and lighting the fire is definitely passe.
The pilot is busy during this period racing through the checklist to be sure he has not overlooked even one small switch setting, as once he pulls out of this pad it is too late to worry about details. It is also the spot to take a big suck on the plastic tube that leads to the thermos full of ice water behind the seat, and shift into the mental high gear that the next several hours will demand. This is a serious moment inside you, too. Fighter pilots are like racing drivers in that disaster always happens to someone else—not them. Yet, here for a few moments things sit still and the immensity of the personal challenge is very real.
Although I never bothered to inquire into the religious habits of my pilots, I was impressed by the numbers who made it to the chapel for one service or another, and I can tell you for sure there are very few atheists in the arming area. When you watch comrades fall from the sky day after day you realize that it is going to take some help and guidance from a level above your own to hack the course.
We always had at least one of our chaplains in the arming area, and day or night, rain or shine, they were there for every launch. While the crews were bustling about the birds the chaplain would move down the line from one aircraft to another, bless the man and the machine and give you a cheery thumbs-up signal. I usually showed the arming area and the launch of a strike to our important visitors, and I was surprised to find that a few of our supposedly more important types found the sweating men of the cloth somewhat hilarious as they moved amid the din of battle preparations. (Many of these visitors were the kind that usually traveled in the back end of a super gooney bird and got only close enough to the war effort to collect the same sixty-five dollars a month combat pay that the fighter pilots earned.) But nobody sitting in the driver’s seat of a Thud thought it was at all funny.
Two of our chaplains stood out from the crowd. I confess to being an Episcopalian snob who finds the-general run of military chapel activities less than completely attractive, but during this tour I was greatly impressed by a quiet Armenian Baptist and a charging Irish Roman Catholic. They were both very much a part of our operation, and they considered the pilots and ground crew on the flight line their primary charges for the year they worked with us. The Baptist was from California, and like many Airnenians from that area epitomized by J. C. Agejanian, automobile racing’s most colorful promoter, shared with me an interest in automobile racing. He was the kind of man I liked to talk to, and he seemed to impress all of us the same way. I did not spend as much time with the Roman Catholic, but when things got sticky he was always there to help. I always got a special sense of well-being from their thumbs-up.
My Irish friend was usually quite jovial around the air base, but he was never anything but serious in the arming area. Because it was a bit difficult to get a smile from him at that point, Ken determined to do it one way or another, and he carried an empty beer bottle with him one day as he strapped into his aircraft and taxied into the arming area. When, with his usual stern expression, the father approached in his tennis shoes and fatigues to bless Ken and his bird, Ken feigned a big swig on the empty beer bottle and handed it over the side of the cockpit to the amazed priest, who almost collapsed in a fit of laughter.
I tried to get my Baptist friend a Bronze Star for the tremendous effort he put into his tour, but I ran into trouble from our support headquarters in the Philippines, who could see nothing unusual about his accomplishments. Things are too comfortable down there, and the majority of those people never got with the effort. When he left for the States, he was replaced by a short plump little man, who from our first meeting reminded me of my grandmother. He took over as the boss chaplain and since he couldn’t preach, couldn’t sing, apparently considered the pilots, the crewmen and the arming area as somewhat bothersome details, and griped constantly about being overworked and persecuted, our relations with the chaplains went downhill. It was a shame, and I understand that my Roman Catholic friend ran head on into his new boss after I left and got hurt in the shuffle. They were great guys, and with their blessing I marshaled my forces on the runway and launched for the area where I had found a superior target the day before, and been hit in the process.