Jacksel Broughton: Thud Ridge

The landing was uneventful. I just backed way off from the runway and came driving in on a flat approach using minimum control pressures. There were many “ohs” and “ahs” as I taxied in and parked my wounded bird, and we found on looking at her on the ground that I had taken several small hits along with the big one. Our information man wanted a picture of me standing there with my head through the hole for a news release, and the maintenance guy and the factory representative wanted one for their bosses, but I refused. I have never allowed a picture to be taken of me with any one of my shot-up aircraft. I have had several friends who have posed for some rather spectacular photos of that type, and an amazingly high proportion of them are very dead from subsequent battle damage. I confined my activities to telling my crew chief to go steal an aft section off some sick bird that was down for maintenance, slap it on our rear end and get the painter to change the numbers. Of the F-105’s flying today there are few that do not exist on parts from other F-105’s.

We debriefed very thoroughly to be sure that we had all seen the same things on the ground and then got the intelligence staff working on all the pictures and background information that they could dig up on the area. What their effort boiled down to was some third-rate pictures that were extremely old and the information that the area had been a live target some time ago but had been dropped from active to inactive because of damage reported in the past and lack of recently reported activity. We were obviously not up to speed on developments in that little valley and that made our find all the sweeter. It might have gone inactive for a while, but it was obvious from the trucks, guns, buildings and secondary explosions we had observed that morning that this was no longer the case. I got on the horn to the big headquarters, described my jind in the most glowing terms I could conjure up, and asked for permission to take an entire strike wing into the place the next day to see what I could do about cleaning all that equipment out while it was still sitting in one spot. Response was not immediate, but I eventually got the go-ahead and my wing was delegated to my own control for only the second time in the entire tour. The headquarters intelligence types went to work for us also but only managed to come up with a few more outdated photos of the general area. I put the planners in my operations section to work, checked their initial efforts and gave them the go sign, and went about some of my other duties while looking forward to the early morning mission the next day.

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.