War For the Hell of It: A Fighter Pilot's View of Vietnam Read online

  A Fighter Pilot’s View of Vietnam

  War for the Hell of It

  by

  Lt. Col. Ed Cobleigh

  United States Air Force (Retired)

  Call Sign “Fast Eddie”

  War for the Hell of It

  A fighter pilot's view of Vietnam

  Second Edition

  Copyright 2016 by Ed Cobleigh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written approval by the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use the trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner's trademark.

  ISBN 0-425-20244-5

  This book is published by Check Six Books, Paso Robles, CA

  Cover design by Bespoke Book Covers LTD, UK

  All inquires are directed to: Check Six Books, 3750 Sky Ridge Drive, Paso Robles, CA 93446, USA

  First edition published by Caliber Imprint of Penguin Books, 2005

  Also by Ed Cobleigh;

  The Pilot: Fighter Planes and Paris. IBSN 0692392068

  Dedication

  Dedicated To

  Colonel Edward E. Cobleigh Jr.

  United States Army (Retired)

  He joined the U.S. Army Cavalry, with horses,

  serving his country in World War II.

  He was proud to

  see his son fly supersonic jets.

  Table of Contents

  Pre-Mission Briefing

  Sewer Doer

  MiG Night Cap

  In the Absence of Fear, Bravery is not Required

  Firecans and Spectres

  Trouble in Paradise

  And to All, a Good Night

  Steve Canyon and Me

  The Wild Blue Yonder

  War for the Hell of It

  The King of Venice

  Laser Pilot and the Cosmic GIB

  A Nickel on the Grass

  Sailing, Sailing

  There's No Business Like Show Business

  Test Hop

  Amazing Grace

  Pre-Mission Briefing

  This book is a series of brief accounts (some would say not brief enough), retelling some of the most significant/interesting aerial combat that I experienced during the Vietnam War as well as descriptions of what happened to me on the ground there. By significant I mean significant to me, not to the overall war effort. I served two tours of duty in "C' flight, the 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadron, "Satan's Angels," assigned to the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing, the "'Wolf Pack.'' My two combat tours were in the late 1960s, each a year long. I logged 375 combat sorties and more than 1000 hours of combat time in the F-4D Phantom II fighter-bomber.

  The purpose of this book is not to relate a historically comprehensive or even a strictly accurate view of the whole Vietnam War or of any part of that war, including the war in the air. Nor do I claim to speak for anyone but myself. I don't pretend the episodes I have included are anything more than my own fallible impressions, views, and memories. I had a very restricted view of the war from the cockpit of my F-4 Phantom. I was never based in South Vietnam, but rather at the Ubon Royal Thai Air Force Base in Ubon Ratchathani, Thailand. This book attempts to tell what I saw from that myopic vantage point.

  I take some liberties with the calendar in this book. I make no distinction between my first and second tours and have not placed the chapters or events in historical order. The various stand-alone chapters are sequenced so the ideas they represent unfold to hopefully give the reader some insight as to what it was like to be a fighter pilot during that time and at that place in the war. The order is jumbled also because memories return to us, not in an ordered sequence, but as a series of unconnected recollections. The events described happened to me, were witnessed by me, or were caused by my actions. I have tried to remain faithful in tone to what happened, if not in exact detail. No war story is immune to a bit of creative tweaking. No personal account can be completely objective. Remember, my aim is not to provide a textbook or document useful to historians but rather for me to use a series of war stories as a vehicle to illustrate my perceptions and to illuminate my state of mind then. I will vouch for the emotions and thoughts described herein; they are mine and they are true.

  There are plenty of books available to the interested reader on the cold facts of the air war over Southeast Asia. Other individuals have put their experiences down on paper, perhaps better than I. Nearly all of these personal accounts fall into the "There I was . . ." school of writing. These are interesting and are often exciting accounts of combat action, of engagements lost, or most often, won. I have not been able to totally resist the siren call of this sort of writing. You will find plenty of accounts of aerial combat in this book, but I hope there is more than that here to discover. I believe there is a dearth of information out there on what it was like to live through such an experience. What did fighter pilots think and feel in the war? What was their state of mind? What were their motivations and frustrations? What did they care about? How did they relate to the men and women around them?

  I can't speak for my squadron mates' thoughts and emotions. All I can do is try and express my own. Insomuch as my feelings and values are, I think, typical of most of my fellow aviators, the reader just might get a handle on what it was like to be there.

  Instead of trying to add to the existing body of literature in kind, I attempt to tell, by means of a few isolated accounts, what it was really like for me. More important, I try to give the reader my views on what factors made the war experience the way it was. It is always hard to put your emotions and inner thoughts down on paper, particularly those from the way distant past, but I have tried my best. Hopefully the reader will gain some insight on the motivations and feelings of, if not all, then at least one fighter pilot.

  For simplicity, I have also taken certain liberties with minor facts, beyond ignoring the historical sequence of events. For example, the members of each flight were given a unique call sign. Even if I could remember all these call signs today their use would confuse the reader and detract from the story itself. So, I have used the call sign "Satan" after my squadron's nickname, as a universal call sign for the flights I flew.

  I refer to my navigator not by his real name but instead use the nom de guerre "Jack." In fact, the individual described as my friend Jack is in fact an amalgam of several individuals with whom I had the honor of flying.

  In my accounts, I show a marked disdain for the senior command elements of the U.S. military who ran the Vietnam War. This goes beyond the normal grousing of military personnel about the top brass. I feel strongly that our politicians horribly mismanaged the war, regardless of the reasons for which it was supposedly fought. However, one can't expect civilian politicians to know anything about fighting a war; that is the job of the generals and admirals. I believe the military folks that ran the war deserve a full helping of blame for not standing up to the Washington crowd when ridiculous orders were sent down the chain of command.

  During the decade between the Korean and Vietnam Wars, the country was normally at peace, engaged in only the Cold War with the Soviet Union. Most senior U.S. Air Force (USAF) officers of that era came from a bomber and strategic missile background as former members of Strategic Air Command (SAC).

  Personal promotion in the old SAC was based
on effective staff work, obsessive unquestioned loyalty, attention to detail, and on not rocking the bureaucratic boat. Few SAC generals knew how to fight a war using fighter planes, or how to fight an extended, non-nuclear war period. Without real life or death combat to roil the organizational waters, the lightweights floated to the top of the USAF personnel pool.

  To those of us actually fighting the air war in Vietnam, many decisions made by higher headquarters were patent nonsense. Nonsense that got our friends killed. Even the few fighter pilots who managed to achieve the rank of general, and who should have known better, were co-opted by the bureaucrats and eventually joined them. This is what I believed when I was flying and fighting and what I hold true now. The accounts of this book accurately reflect that myopic viewpoint.

  So, what should have happened? How could we have avoided the idiocy? Civilian control of the U.S. military is a cornerstone of our democracy and must not be compromised, no matter how dire the situation. However, any senior military officer can always resign in order to protest grossly stupid commands from politicians if he or she isn't successful in injecting reality into the process. Ours did not, assuming that they did indeed recognize the follies attempted. From my cockpit, it seemed that the senior leadership of the USAF and the U.S. Navy (USN) cared more about their own careers and promotions than about the lives of the men they were sacrificing, throwing away.

  I can gratefully say now that the painful lessons of Vietnam were learned and hoisted aboard by all the senior leaders of our military who came afterward. Things are much, much better now. The captains and majors who saw the absurdities of Vietnam, vowed never to let such moronic events happen again. By and large they have been successful and have handed those hard-earned lessons down to their replacements. Lessons painfully acquired are long remembered.

  In contrast to the miserable Vietnam era, the American military of today does realistic training. We fight to win. We cooperate and communicate across service lines much more now. Our senior leaders stand up to the politicians and most politicians tend to listen to the experts. Perhaps our elected officials have learned their lessons as well. The positive outcome of the Vietnam War isn't that we prevented the reunification of North and South Vietnam because we didn't; rather, it is that we learned how not to fight a war.

  The reunited and benighted country of Vietnam is now enjoying the socialist paradise they have worked so hard to create, despite our best efforts to prevent it. Even with the loss of Vietnam to the forces of political darkness, we did prove the domino theory to be valid. Due to our blood and sacrifice, we kept the dominos from falling, at least they stopped tumbling at Thailand.

  Thailand, in my opinion, is the only country in the Southeast Asian region worth saving and we seem to have done that rather well. Continued freedom for Thailand isn't the only accomplishment we can take pride in. We also took another look at who is called upon to fight in our wars.

  Since the Vietnam period, the USAF has changed the role of women in uniform. When the events occurred of which I speak in this book, female officers were pretty much limited to a very few military career fields, such as intelligence and nursing. Now, I am proud to say American women are free to undertake whatever they want in the USAF, they fly fighters and command fighter squadrons. They fly and sometimes they die for their country. This is as it should be.

  It will not escape even the most casual the reader that I, like most male fighter pilots, was not unmoved by a pretty face and/or trim figure, even in the midst of mortal combat and in a hot war zone. No disrespect intended to the female gender; that's just the way it was then and I have to believe that is the way it is now. Some things don't change, nor should they.

  This book complains loudly about the ridiculous political and leadership aspects of the Vietnam War. But, it is really about local absurdities. I fought for my life over North Vietnam and returned to air-conditioned comfort at my base. I saw men risk their lives trying to blow up a single truck. Later, I complained when I got chocolate ice cream on my apple pie at the Officers' Club. I fought to the best of my ability in a war that I knew was unwinnable and I enjoyed doing so. Why I enjoyed such will be revealed in the book.

  Lastly, I am well aware that Jack Daniel's is not true Bourbon, but is rather Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey, a distinction which has only recently become more apparent. During the time frame of the book, the late 1960's, it was considered to be Bourbon by most and thus I have retained that nomenclature. I hope them good ol' boys in Lynchburg, Tennessee forgive me.

  I hope you enjoy what is a highly personal view of a strange and exciting time in our nation's history and in my life.

  Ed Cobleigh, call sign, "Fast Eddie"

  Lt. Colonel, United States Air Force (Retired)

  Paso Robles, Calif.

  Sewer Doer

  Passing silently beneath me in the pitch-black night is the hidden Kingdom of Laos. Overhead, a myriad of stars shines unblinkingly in an uncommonly clear Southeast Asia sky. From 25,000 feet above the night ground, there is no twinkle in the stars; they burn as blue-white points in an inverted bowl of black. The black is reflected below me as well. The low mountains of Laos resemble crumpled velvet heaped against the distant horizon. This velvet land is also speckled with light. The stars are mirrored on the ground, but as angry red dots, not blue-white points. The night sky above is sprinkled with millions of the thermonuclear fires of far-off suns, while below Laos is strewn with hundreds of the smaller fires of war. The red dots are streamed along areas corresponding to invisible roads and are absent in other more mountainous terrain. The Milky Way is reflected in black and red along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. It is a vivid scene of incredible and terrible beauty, suspending me between the two light fields, one blue-white on the black of space and one angry red on the ebony velvet surface of Laos.

  It's two o'clock in the morning and I'm in the sewer yet again. Only this sewer pipe is a U. S. Air Force F-4D Phantom II fighter-bomber suspended in the night sky, traveling at 500 miles an hour. How could a vista of such expansive beauty be sullied by comparisons to a sewer? The fighter jocks in my squadron have read about the U.S. Army's self-named "sewer rats" in action in South Vietnam. These small, wiry soldiers, stripped to the waist, descend into tunnels armed only with a .45 caliber automatic pistol, a Bowie knife, and a flashlight. Their job is to clear the Viet Cong out of the tunnels, or if that is too suicidally difficult, to set off charges collapsing the complex. It is the ultimate in hand-to-hand close combat, mano-à-mano in the dark. We pilots hold such men in professional awe. Perhaps out of rival bravado, maybe hoping we can rub off some of their aura on ourselves, we who regularly fly combat at night dub ourselves the "Sewer Doers" and speak of another night in the sewer.

  That combat role analogy may hold true in terms of dark, danger, and aloneness, but not in the world of visual perceptions. The sky and land of Laos are incredibly beautiful tonight. The Phantom jet seems to hang suspended motionless between the immense Milky Way and the long track of fires delineating the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The only visual indication of speed and travel is the inky landscape's slow drifting under the jet's nose; the stars don't seem to move. To preserve my night vision, I have extinguished all the cockpit lights, save one map light dimly illuminating the main instrument panel. If I look closely, I can just discern the indicated air speed of 450 knots. Outside, with my night-adapted eyes I can see the stars as no ground-bound human ever has or ever will. I put my sweat-stained, leather-gloved hand flat against the clear cockpit canopy and I can feel the faint echo of a howling maelstrom of air tearing past the aircraft at a large fraction of the speed of sound. Outside, it is minus thirty degrees Fahrenheit and the air is so thin that, unprotected by cabin pressurization, I would be dead in minutes.

  Inside the cockpit, it is peaceful and quiet despite the terrible environment half an inch away on the other side of the canopy. All I can sense is the remote vibration of the engines burning through fifteen gallons of fuel each minute. All I ca
n hear is the sound of my own breathing amplified by the intercom microphone in my oxygen mask. If I hold my breath, I can hear the sounds of my navigator's breathing in the rear cockpit as his soft wheeze is fed into the linked communication system. It is one of life's ironies that modern fighter planes are perceived by nearly everyone to be thunderously loud. There is no doubt that people on the ground 25,000 feet below us tonight can clearly hear the noise of our passage. Yet, all I can hear inside this screaming machine is the soft sounds of two men breathing. My tight-fitted helmet, rubber ear phones, and the efficient insulation filter out the intense noise.

  The night cockpit is a secure and safe place; warm, dry, quiet, snug. I would hate to leave it and I wonder how many guys have stayed in their aluminum sanctuary when it was long past time to get out of a dying aircraft. When an airplane is coming unglued, I'm sure the common emotional tendency is to want to stay in it. It occurs to me that likewise when your personal life is coming unglued, flying is an addictive refuge. Many pilots under personal stress hide in the sky. For some, the sour fear of combat is more familiar and more comfortable than the terror of a deteriorating martial relationship. But, tonight, no one is contemplating ejection from the aircraft and there are no personal, ground-bound demons from which to hide.

  As scenic as it can be, night flying isn't for everyone, hence the self-defined exclusive clique of us Sewer Doers. It is disorienting and unfamiliar, with precious few of the visual cues which mankind has evolved to use for the maintenance of physical and mental balance. For eons, people have depended on their sense of sight to identify danger, to keep from colliding with things, including the ground. However, tonight the hazards of the jagged terrain are largely invisible; it would be easy to fly out of the sky and into the world. Ground targets are also hard to spot, and intentionally so. The Bad Guys, the guys in the symbolic black hats, move under the cloak of darkness to avoid detection by the Sewer Doers. After dark in Southeast Asia, the weather can be intimidating, with thunderstorms climbing in fury to 50,000 feet. It is not uncommon to have lightning playing over the canopy like a green plasma spider web, the light show known as St. Elmo's Fire. At night it is harder to find the airborne tanker aircraft full of transferable fuel to prolong flying time and life, or are those the same things? On the upside, the sparkle of antiaircraft fire and the rocket motors of surface-to-air missiles are so much easier to see at night. If you believe that what you don't see won't hurt you, then fly in the daytime.