Both Jake Grafton and Marty Greve, the bombardier for this flight, spent much time looking outside the aircraft. On most flights they were too busy to sightsee and over the ocean there was little to observe except clouds.
The radar controller in some anonymous hut near Da Nang directed the two warplanes south. On the left the South China Sea reflected the sunlight through the tears in the cloud blanket, while to the right they could see swatches of solid green jungle. As the earth slipped beneath them, the open spaces between clouds grew larger. The controller passed the flight to a forward air controller, a FAC, who would be flying a light plane with the call sign “Covey” somewhere up ahead. Greve toggled the radio to the assigned frequency, and Grafton keyed the mike twice to let the skipper know he was with him on the new frequency.
“Covey Two Two, this is Devil Five Oh One.”
“Five Oh One, Covey Two Two. Go ahead with your lineup and ordnance, please.”
“Devil Five Oh One is a flight of two Alpha Sixes, side numbers Five Oh One and Five Oh Five. Five Oh One has the lead. Each aircraft has sixteen Mark Eighty-Twos, over.”
“Copy your lineup, Devil. Say your position.”
“We’re about five minutes north of your location.”
“Roger. Here’s the situation. We have troops in contact, maybe two companies of Victor Charlie dug in along a tree line. We’re going to let you try and blow them out of there. The tree line runs north and south. About three hundred meters to the east we have friendlies. Your run-in will be from north to south or vice versa, as you prefer. Best bail-out is to the east, out to sea. No reported flak in the area. Do you copy, over?”
“Roger. Copy all.”
“How many runs can you give me?”
“Two each.” The skipper never took unnecessary chances; two runs were the most he would ever make. He felt that if you couldn’t hit the target in two attempts, you were just hanging out your ass to no avail, Marty leaned over and set up the ordnance panel to release eight bombs. Grafton consulted a card on his kneeboard and made the necessary adjustment on the 106 E bombsight mounted on top of the instrument panel in front of him. To see straight ahead he had to look through the glass of the bombsight. The pilot raised his seat slightly so his right eye aligned perfectly with the yellow cross hairs in the sighting glass. He double checked the switches on the armament panel; except for the master armament switch, which would put electric power to the panel and weapons circuits, all was ready. The skipper led Jake down from 22,000 feet in a gentle, descending turn.
Only a few low clouds dotted the scene below. Inland from the white-sand beach, road ran parallel to the coast. From three miles up, the airmen saw the stream that meandered toward the sea and the bridge that crossed it, and the rice paddies that lay near the road and stretched as far south as they could see.
“The point of interest today, gents,” the F A C said “is the rice paddy on the western side of the road, south of the stream.” A single line of trees edged the western side of this paddy. Behind the trees was low vegetation spotted with pools of stagnant water. From this height the landscape looked like a meadow, but it was probably swamp and tall grass. The V.C. had a backdoor if they wanted to use it.
“Okay, Devils, the Charleys are in that tree line south of the stream. I want the lead plane to start at the stream and march his bombs along that tree line. Number Two, you pick up where lead left off an march yours on down the tree line. Plaster the whole line. Got it?”
The skipper rogered and continued to descend. By now, the Intruders were down to 15,000 feet an inscribing a circle counterclockwise around the target. Grafton knew the men on the ground could hear and make out the white specks in the blue sky. The VietCong, or maybe North VietNamese regulars, were probably trying to dig into the earth and pull the hole in after them. The ARVN commander was undoubtedly watching the warplanes circling like hawks and grinning to himself. Viet Cong, you will die cheap.
Jake pulled back the throttles and dropped farther and farther behind the flight leader. He wanted to see where Camparelli’s bombs fell before he turned in for his dive.
“Devils, do you have Covey in sight?”
Both the A-6 pilots craned to find the little spotter plane. They saw it circling to the east, over the beach. As they watched, it turned and fired a smoke rocket into the tree line. Jake watched the smoke intently. It seemed to be drifting slowly toward the northwest. Maybe ten knots of wind. He would need to allow for the wind as he alined.
“That’s the target, guys.”
Both attack pilots Acknowledged.
“Okay, Devils, you are cleared in with Covey in sight. Call in hot and off safe.” The hot and safe calls referred to the position of the master armament switch. With the friendlies so close, an inadvertent weapons release for any reason could be disastrous.
The skipper angled in toward the target. Now the sun flashed on Camparelli’s wings and he was in his dive. “Lead’s in hot.”
Jake watched the accelerating airplane streak toward the earth. He saw the vapor condensation pour off the wingtips as Camparelli laid on the Gees to pull out of the dive. Yet nothing happened along the tree line.
“Lead’s off safe but we didn’t get a release,” Camparelli reported. A malfunction somewhere in the weapons- release system had kept the bombs firmly attached to the bomb racks.
Jake trimmed the plane for 500 knots. After a last glance at the altimeter, he locked his gaze on the trees and came in toward the line at an angle, trying to find that precise spot in space where he could roll and end 108 E up in a forty-degree dive on the proper run-in bearing with his nose just short of the target.
When it felt right, he keyed the mike. “Two’s in hot. He rolled the plane over on its back and pulled the nose down to the tree line as Marty flipped the master armament switch to the armed position.
He rolled upright and adjusted the throttles. The airspeed increased dramatically, and as he monitored the indicator and the altimeter without conscious thought he felt intensely alive. The yellow cross hairs on the bombsight glass were tracking just to the left of the trees. He made a small right turn to allow for the crosswind, then leveled the wings again. Marty was on the ICS: “Ten thousand … nine thousand. You are shallow. Eight thousand, thirty-eight degrees….
Jake eased in a correction for the shallow dive, and the airspeed approached the 500-knot trim setting, he felt the pressure on the stick neutralize.
Now! He mashed the stick pickle with his thumb. The plane shuddered as the bombs were kicked free. When the tremors stopped, he hauled back on the stick and the G forces drove the men down into their seats. As the nose climbed above the horizon Jake searched the blue for the white speck that would be the lead Intruder.
The bombardier lifted his left arm against the Gees and pulled the master armament switch down, then keyed his mike. “Two’s on safe.”
“Nice hit, Devil Two. Right on the money.”
Jake glanced back. The trees were enveloped in black smoke roiling aloft in the clear air. He dropped the left wing and soared up and around for another run. He was back at 15,000 feet when he saw the skipper’s plane racing earthward, then pulling off. “No soap today, Covey. They won’t come off.”
It was Jake’s turn again. Trim set, he rolled. Once again Marty caught the master armament and called the altitude. This time Jake was right on forty degrees.
The tree line grew larger and larger in the sight and he began to distinguish individual trees. At 6000 feet he pickled. On the pullout, he checked the altimeter. It stopped unwinding at 3700 feet and began to register their progress upward as the nose of the aircraft pointed ever higher.
Jake saw the skipper’s plane ahead and kept the throttles full forward to catch him. As the two planes headed northward, the F A C came back on the air: “Devil Two, I give you one hundred percent on target. Nice job. Devil One, sorry you couldn’t get your rocks off.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Have a safe flight home. Toodle-loo from Covey Two Two.”
He held the photo under the desk lamp. It shook slightly in his hands so he tightened his grip. He and Linda and Morgan and Sharon sat on the hood of his Olds 442 with the Olympic Mountains in the background. They had taken a day trip to Hurricane Ridge. When was it? Oh yes, that day in August 1971, after their first cruise. The faces in the picture were all young, all smiling.
A long time ago.
He laid the picture on the desk and stared into the shadows of the stateroom. He took a sheet of letter paper
