Chapter 16: Settling In

After the frantic activities of my first day in-country, things slowed down to a slightly more reasonable pace for a while. The next morning I flew a FAC mission in the back seat of Pappy's little O-1. There wasn't much going on but he did talk an F-100D pilot from one of the other squadrons into making a pass at a supposed target in a remote area to give me a feel how it was done. I suspect it was what we fighter pilots called a "Monkey Bombing" mission; I had a feeling all we did on that strike was terrify the local population of the chattering little primates.

At 1330 hrs, I took off at the controls of an F-100F, call sign Sidewinder Lead, with Pappy strapped into the rear cockpit. We were carrying a full internal load of fuel and ordnance consisting of four napes and two 500 lb HE iron bombs, as well as a full load of 20mm ammunition for our nose cannons. The plan was for us to establish a high-orbit about thirty miles northwest of the base, and then loiter until our FAC acquired a target for us.

After about twenty minutes, our FAC, call sign Eagle Eye, called saying a platoon-sized group of enemy irregulars were moving down a dirt road about five kilometers west of our position. I asked him if he had confirmed that the people were actually hostiles. His answer was that they had fired at him with automatic weapons as he'd made a pass along the road to determine what they were up to.

That was good enough for me but I checked with Pappy to see if he concurred. His response was, "If they opened fire on a passing American light aircraft with automatic weapons, they probably aren't just a bunch of poverty-stricken farmers out looking for a lost water buffalo."

I told Eagle Eye to stay on station and that I was on my way. Less than a minute later, Eagle Eye called again, saying he had me in sight and that he was rolling in for a marking run on the enemy's position. I saw a flash of white as he winged-over and dove for the road below him, releasing a marking rocket. "Strafe the right side of the road for a hundred yards or so, starting at my smoke. Then pull a one-eighty, come back around and chew up the other side," he said.

As I dove on the target, I noticed a large four-wheeled farm cart, with what appeared to be a huge wooden packing crate lashed to the wagon bed. It was sitting unattended by the side of the road with two water buffalo hitched to it, but I didn't think much about it.

I was well into my run when the sides and top of the crate fell away revealing a four-man gun crew and what appeared to be a quad-barreled, 20mm anti-aircraft weapon mounted on its bed.

By the time both FACs screamed "FLACK TRAP!" simultaneously, my reflexes had already kicked in and I had the trigger of my guns depressed, raking the cart and the surrounding area with cannon shells. I thought I felt some rounds impacting my aircraft, but as it was still handling normally and my gages were still indicating no problems, I continued to press the attack. Their little surprise did piss me off though, so pulling up and reversing my course, I dove on the road once more, this time releasing two of my napes on the wreckage of the cart while strafing the opposite side of the road.

As I pulled off the target, Eagle Eye made a low pass over the road and the now blazing remnants of the cart, reporting no signs of life in the area.

The rest of the mission passed uneventfully, and when we returned to base a little after 1530 hrs, Pappy suggested we retire to the club for a cold Fosters or three after our debriefing. Hell, it sounded like a plan to me. I was still coming down from the adrenaline high of the firefight.

As we were heading for the club, my Maintenance Officer caught up with me and told me my aircraft had sustained some minor battle damage during the encounter. The preliminary report was that I'd taken several hits, either from small-arms fire or shrapnel, in the aft fuselage area. His people were pulling the aft section and checking it now, but since I'd brought it home with no problems, it looked liked it would probably be safe to fly back to Clark for some serious sheet metal repair. I told him to let me know as soon as he learned more about its status, as we had a bird at Clark that had just completed its hundred-hour inspection. If my craft was sufficiently airworthy, I'd fly it to Clark tomorrow afternoon and bring the freshly inspected one back the following day.

Pappy was getting restless, so I told him to go on ahead and save us a booth. I had to make a phone call but would join him shortly. Returning to my office, I closed the door and placed a call to Mae. When she answered, I told her of my planned flight to Clark tomorrow and that I should be able to stay overnight. She was excited about my unexpected visit and before I hung up, Buzzy insisted on talking to me also. When his mother handed him the phone, he started jabbering something about a new airplane 'Uncle Andy' had given him, but I couldn't make out what it was all about, so I told him I'd see him tomorrow afternoon and he could show it to me then. That seemed to satisfy him because he handed the phone back to his mother. I told her my schedule hadn't been firmed up yet, but that I should be back at Clarke by at least 1500hrs and that I'd call her after I'd talked to my maintenance folks. She said she would wait for my call and pick me up at our detachment's area on the flight line.

Making my way to the club, I found that Pappy had gotten a head start; he'd already finished off one Foster's and was well into his second. "Flying in those fast-movers is thirsty work," he observed wryly.

I agreed and motioned for the bartender to bring me two Foster's also.

As we sat sipping our beers and discussing our mission, I commented that I'd heard that the Vietnamese were very superstitious about symbols, especially birds of prey, snakes and dragons. I had given it some thought and decided that we should explore the idea of having some artwork painted on our aircraft that would strike terror into the hearts of the enemy. We kicked the idea around through another round of beers and finally settled on the fact that we couldn't agree, so we'd postpone it until I returned from Clark. One of my maintenance men there had been a commercial artist in civilian life, so I told Pappy I'd run it past him tomorrow and see what ideas he could come up with.

The next morning, I decided I really should check out my .45 before I had to rely on it in a firefight. Asking around the orderly room, I learned that the Marines operated a firing range in an isolated area on the far side of the runway. Taking the squadron jeep, I drove over that way and finally located the range by following the sound of rifle fire coming from behind a high earthen berm.

Rounding the berm, I found the range. It had about twenty firing positions occupied by Marine troopers firing rifles at targets 200 yards downrange. Off to the right was a smaller pistol range, the targets only a hundred feet from the firing line.

Pulling up to a small building near the pistol range, I stepped out of the jeep in time to meet the Gunnery Sergeant from the Dining-In ceremony.

Throwing me a sharp salute, he said, "I didn't expect to see you out here in the boondocks, sir. Can I help you?"

I told him I had recently acquired a new personal protection weapon and was wondering if I could use their pistol range to sight it in. Removing it from my shoulder holster, I handed it to him.

After removing the magazine and jacking the slide to clear the chamber, he inspected it carefully before handing it back to me. "I personally prefer the standard Government Issue M1911A1, but I guess this one would be easier to carry if you have to spend all your time in the tight confines of a fighter cockpit. Where did you ever find this little jewel?" he asked. "I've heard of them, but they are so rare I've never actually seen one before."

"It was a gift from the Provost Marshall at Clark. He had it issued to him several years ago when he was working as an undercover investigator," I replied.

"Just let me get some ear protectors and a box of ammo," he said, moving toward the building. He returned a moment later with two sets of "Mickey Mouse Ear" sound suppressors, a 50-round box of ball ammunition, and two large paper silhouette targets depicting a hulking figure aiming a handgun at the shooter.

Attaching the targets to the frames at the end of the range, he returned, loaded two magazines with five rounds each and said, "OK. Let's see what this little baby will do."

Assuming a combat stance, he held my little automatic in a two-handed grip, aimed at the target and snapped off five rounds in rapid succession. When the slide locked open after the last round he pressed the button on the side of the receiver and ejected the empty magazine before laying the weapon on bench.

"Well, let's see how I did," he commented as he stepped down- range to retrieve the target. One round was dead center in the bull's eye; the other four were higher but only by a fraction of an inch. A quarter would have covered all five holes. "Sweet little weapon," he commented. "It has a little more muzzle snap than the full-sized version, but that's to be expected with the shorter barrel."

Having said that, he rammed a fresh clip into the weapon, released the slide, set the safety and handed it to me.

I tried to emulate the stance he had taken and squeezed off a round. It not only didn't come anywhere near the bull's eye, it barely nicked the edge of the large human silhouette.

"I don't think you're getting the proper sight-picture, sir. You have to position the top of the front sight blade even with the top of the slot in the rear sight. Then the round will impact whatever the top of the front sight is pointing at," he explained, as he used a stick to draw a diagram in the sand to illustrate his point.

I followed his instructions carefully and by my third clip I was at least grouping my shots within a four-inch circle.

While we were policing up the brass in preparation of leaving the range, I asked him how he got to be so good with a pistol. He allowed how his marksmanship was grounded in his long career in competitive shooting with the Corp, twice having won the Marine Corp World Championship Trophy for Pistol Marksmanship. He then made the observation that shooting was just like making love; if you want to be good at it, you had to keep practicing.

When I slipped my weapon back into my shoulder holster, he looked at me askance and said, "We still have one more thing to take care of, sir." When I asked him what he meant by that, he explained, "If you want that weapon to take care of you, you have coddle it by cleaning it thoroughly after each use."

First he showed me how to field-strip it down to its major component parts, then he carefully cleaned each part, leaving only a thin film of oil on its surface. Producing a short rod, he put a few drops of solvent on a patch of cloth and pushed it through the barrel several times until it came through clean. Finally satisfied, he reassembled it, carefully wiped all the excess oil and solvent from it and handed it back to me.

As we were preparing to leave, he stepped back into the Range hut to store the cleaning supplies and returned with a box of .45 caliber ammo marked 'Hi-Impact Soft Point'. Handing it to me, he said, "Ball ammo is fine for target practice, but when it comes down to you or them, these babies will give you the edge." When I asked him how much I owed him for the ammo, he scowled and observed that I was now a card-carrying Marine; Marines were issued combat ammo, they didn't buy it!

Before we left the range, I took our two targets, folded them and stowed them in the map pocket of my flight suit, thinking Andy might be interested in what his .45 was capable of.

By 1100 hrs I was nearly ready to go, so I dropped by the maintenance hangar to check the status of my aircraft. When I asked the Maintenance Officer what he thought about its airworthiness, he replied that I'd been damn lucky yesterday. They had pulled the aft section and found that of the fourteen rounds that had punctured it, not one had impacted any critical components. When I asked if it was safe to use the afterburner, he chuckled, "You might hear some strange whistling noises, but it's nothing serious. We checked it out on the trim pad and it works just fine."

Looking at the aircraft carefully for the first time, I noticed the last three digits of its serial number, painted on the top of the stabilizer, were 555. Thinking of how well it had taken care of me yesterday, I decided to make 'Triple Nickel' my own personal aircraft as much as possible.

After telling him I was planning to fly it back to Clark today, I said I was going to get some lunch before I left and requested he have it ready to go in one hour. He replied that wouldn't be a problem, all it needed was fuel and should be ready in less than thirty minutes.

Following a quick lunch at the club, I stopped by the office and called the hospital at Phu Cat to check on Major Wilson's progress. The receptionist put me through to one of the doctors handling his case, who told me he was making better progress than expected and would probably be air evacuated to Naha in a few days.