BY Jack Broughton
First published in 1969 at the height of the Vietnam War, Thud Ridge became an instant classic. The author, Jack Broughton, was an F-105 Thunderchief (“Thud”) pilot who had survived the experiences he wrote about. What he had to say was startling to an American public unaccustomed to acrimonious debate about the proper use of fighting forces from the military leaders who led us during wartime.
Broughton’s indictment of the criminal stupidities of the upper echelons of the U. S. Air Force and the Department of Defense has since been expanded into almost countless volumes by other writers, but it was raw, powerful, and fresh when Thud Ridge first exploded on an American public stunned at the sacrifices being demanded to prosecute the war. Broughton also posed a moral ques-
Tion for which our-nation still has not found an answer — should American lives and treasure be sacrificed by political leaders in limited wars that they have no intention of trying to win? Alas, this is the burden of empire, a burden that most Americans still instinctively reject.
In the selection from Thud Ridge that follows. Colonel Broughton and his wingman, whom he refers to as Ken but who was at the time Major, later Brigadier General, Kenneth Bell, fight the system to rescue a Thud pilot who ejected over Laos. They almost die in the attempt and ultimately fail. Here is the entire Vietnam experience in fifteen pages.
Joe came to us as an administrative ofiBcer, even though he was a rated pilot. He was not a Thud driver by trade, but he scrounged an hour here and an hour there until he could leap all the hurdles and qualify himself for combat. He had a hell of a time mastering the art of hanging behind a tanker and refueling in flight, but he did it. Joe — another one of my boys who had not managed to graduate from the toughest postgraduate school in the world, the school that demanded a hundred missions over the North
In a Thud for a diploma. He was now simply Tomahawk four, down over the North.
I split my flight into elements of two to search more effectively and headed for the coordinates that were supposed to represent the spot where Joe was down. As I entered the new area, I knew even more than before that time would be a big factor. It was a fantastic-looking spot. The hills rolled up into small mountains and farther south leaped into the sheer saw-toothed karst that dropped violently to the winding riverbed far below. The sawtooths were already shading the huge trees rolling from ridge to ridge underneath them, and my first thought was of two big hopes. I hoped he hadn’t landed on top of one of those sharp knobs, and I hoped we had a good, gutty chopper driver sitting in the wings. I hoped half-right.
I swung my element a bit north of due west and started a gradual turn that would allow me to get a good look at the land below and would bring me out of the orbit about over the sharp peaks to the south. I did not have long to wait, and halfway through my first turn a new, strong, and definite rescue beeper came up on the inside of my turn. I grabbed a quick directional steer on him and called my number two man, who verified both the beeper and the steer. We wrapped
Those Thuds around to the left like we were driving midget racers, and although the force of the turn nearly knocked them out of the sky, we were able to roll straight and level before we got to the spot on the ground where the beacon was telling us our fourth downed comrade of the afternoon was waiting for us and for the help we could bring.
The steering needle swung to the left and then to the tail and I knew I had him pinpointed. “Tomahawk four. Tomahawk four — this is Waco on emergency. If you read me, turn your beeper off.”
Like the cut of a knife the screecher shut off and the small, clear voice said, “This is Tomahawk four. I read you loud and clear, Waco. I am okay and awaiting pickup.”
I almost pulled my beast into a stall as I told the world on the radio that I had found Joe. “Waco two, I’ve got his position spotted. Get up to altitude and get us some Spads and some choppers in here on the double. Tell them no sweat on MiGs and tell them we have to hurry. We’re far enough south so they ought to be able to get the job done without making it a big production.” I swung around for the spot and yanked my sweaty map out from under my left buttock, which is still the best map holder ever devised for a fighter plane, and prepared to get some
Good coordinates for the rescue guys. “Joe, turn your beeper on now.” I fixed right over the beacon and said, “Okay, Joe, turn it off, and if I just flew right over your position, turn it back on for two seconds, then back off.” The reply was just like the survival movies and I knew that I was right and that Joe was both in good shape and as sharp as he could be.
I relayed the coordinates, and since the rescue system had been alerted by Tomahawk lead on his way out for fuel, it was not too long before two different Spads, but still using the call sign Nomad, arrived on the scene and went to work like a couple of old pros. They took over and my job reverted to that of top cover. These Nomads were doing it properly.
“Okay, Tomahawk four — Nomad here. Turn your beeper on for ten seconds.” He lined up and said encouragingly, “Okay, good steer. I’m lined up on you. Turn your beeper on and leave it on till I tell you to turn it off.” Completing his pass, he got a good low-level swing and was able to bend his little bird around in a tight turn that allowed him to keep the area in view. “Okay, Tomahawk, beeper off. Are you on top of that ridge I just flew over?”
“Nomad — Tomahawk. I am on the east
Side of the ridge yoi> just flew over, about halfway down to where it levels off into a little plateau. I have plenty of flares.”
This Nomad showed a completely different picture of the rescue pilots than the one we had just attempted to work with. He was sure enough of the position and condition of his man and knew how critical the time was, so he called the controllers on his second radio and directed that the choppers start inbound on the now relatively short trip that they had to make. All the terrain there was relatively high in elevation, which would make the choppers’ job more difficult, but all in all, things smacked of possible success. Pulling up abruptly over the suspected spot. Nomad announced, “Rog, Tomahawk, think I’ve got you. The choppers will be here in a few minutes. Get ready for pickup and give me a red smoke flare now so I can be sure I get them to the right spot from the right approach direction.” Joe, like many of us, figured that those flares and the radio were two of the most valuable pieces of cargo you could carry, and he had several extras strapped to the outside of his anti-g suit. He took one out, carefully selected the end that would emit a thick red smoke that would float up through the trees to stain the twilight sky and momentarily show both his position
And the direction of the wind before it drifted away into nothing, held it skyward, and pulled the lanyard. “Rog, Tomahawk four. I’ve got your smoke. Sit tight for a couple of minutes.”
But the minutes dragged, the sun sank lower, and the haze thickened. I had been stooging around on the deck for quite some time and could not delay too long before departing for the night rendezvous with the tanker that I now had to have, or else I would have to park this bird of mine in the jungle. But I knew the tankers would be there. Where in hell were those choppers?
“Tomahawk four — this is Nomad. I hate to tell you this, old buddy, but one of the choppers thinks he has a rough engine and has turned back, and the other one has decided he will go with him in case he has any trouble. We can’t get another one up here tonight, so I guess you better pull up a log and try and get some rest. We will try and get back in the morning — and by the way, there is a stream about fifty yards downhill from you if you get low on water. CHI Dooey [Thai for ‘sorry about that’], old buddy.” At least the Spad driver got right to the point. He knew we were screwed and so did Joe.
“Roger, this is Tomahawk four, under-
Stand. Thank you. I’ll be waiting for you in the morning.”
I couldn’t believe it. So what if one of the choppers did have a rough engine — we’d had rough engines all afternoon. If the first one decided he was going to crap out, so what — why did the second one want to go back in case of trouble? We had trouble we hadn’t used yet right here, and we had the rescue in our hip pocket. I still can’t believe it. I try to think nice things about the situation and about the actions and decisions I saw that day, but I can’t.
I stumbled off to find the tanker that would give us what we needed for the trip back to base. But we weren’t through yet. Nomad’s wingman split the evening ether with, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday — Nomad lead is hit and on fire.” In his frustration he had wandered too close to someone on the ground, and once again unseen small arms had scored a hit.
Oh, boy, what next! I knew that Nomad was far slower than we were and the only place that he could be was behind us, so I forgot the fuel and wheeled 180 degrees and back we went.
“Nomad — this is Nomad four. You’re on fire. Bail out, bail out, bail outr The wingman repeated his call. “Bail out, you’re on fire.”
With lots of calm. Nomad came back and said, “Negative.”
Not negative because he was not on fire, but negative because he was not about to park his Spad over the dark noplace where he knew four fellows had withered in the sunlight. He was not about to leap into what would have been either death or prison, knowing there would be no rescue for him that night. He knew what the odds were, and he was going to take his chances with the machine. He was not about to become number five if he could help it. There is little doubt that he knew he was on fire. In a bird like the 105, you cannot see the wing, and besides the wing seldom bums. In the Spad you can see the wing, and he was burning severely from the wing root. His judgment was swift, and I am sure that his head was filled with many thoughts of things other than himself as he made his move.
He rolled his flaming Spad over onto her back and dove for the deck. His wingman got the natural impression that he had lost control of the machine, and that resulted in a few more panic-stricken calls in the black, unfriendly night. Down he went, pointed at the hills, the hills he could not see but those he knew were there. If he got the ancient warrior going fast enough, he could blow the
Flame out. He could starve the fire, he could divert the airflow, and the fire would go out and he could limp home. And if not — why not try. He did, and it worked, and while it was working, his wingman and the Thud drivers still left in the area marveled and wondered what the next step would be. The next step was a big batch of silence and lots of hard breathing. After what seemed like four hours and could not possibly have been more than a minute, the not-so-calm-but-ever-so-pleased voice of Mr. Nomad announced that the fire had gone out, that he was pulling the nose up, and that he had plenty of fuel to get back to his homedrome. The night was black, but not nearly as black as my thoughts. I wheeled once again, and more than seven hours after I left Takhli I touched down on that remote piece of concrete and unstrapped from the belts that bound me to the machine. I was beat but I was not through fighting.
I got on the hot line to the big bosses as soon as I got into the operations building and found them ready to talk. They were, of course, anxious to hear what had happened from my view, and I told them. I was anxious to know what had happened from the rescue guy’s point of view, but nobody was ever able to explain that to my satisfaction.
While I cleaned up the details and grabbed a bite to eat, we got the word “go” on my proposal for a combination rescue effort and MiG sweep for the next morning. It was already close to midnight, and morning meant something like 4 A. M. for this one, so the press was on again.
Morning came quickly, but the challenge pushed aside the need for rest. The weather in the area where Joe had parked was as advertised — rotten. The clouds had stacked up against the hills, and the electronic guys who had been watching the spot all night reported no signals, but cloud right down to the deck.
Despite the fact that Joe was in a rather lightly populated region, there are very few areas up there that don’t have enough people to give a downed airman a rough time. There was little doubt that they knew exactly where he was, and his chances of getting out were diminishing by the hour while the weather that hampered us made it that much easier for the bad guys.
When nothing good had been reported by Tuesday morning, we realized that if we were to do any good on the now slim hope that Joe was still on the loose and still waiting for us, we were going to have to get the ball
Rolling ourselves. The afternoon mission seemed to provide a good vehicle, and I loaded it with our best people. It was an interesting one as it was headed for one of the better targets right in downtown Hanoi, and although everyone knows that your chances of coming back from one of those are not the greatest, there were always people crawling over each other trying to get on them. That is something about a fighter pilot that is both unique and hard to describe. Tell him you are going to send him to hell, and that things will be rougher than he’s ever seen, and he will fight for the chance to go. He may be petrified half the time, but he will die rather than admit it, and if he gets back, most of the time he will tell you that it might have been a bit rough but not so rough that he doesn’t want to go back and try to do it just a little bit better next time.
This mission was especially attractive as we were to be allowed to provide our own MiG cover flight for a change. On an approach somewhat similar to the sweep of the day before, we were to take one flight without bombs whose only job was to fly like the normal strike aircraft but go get the MiGs if they showed. I was forced to take that flight in the face of the wails of my three squadron commanders. My flight call sign for this one
Was Wabash, and I picked myself three sharp flight leaders from the squadron and put them on my wing. That’s how I wound up with Ken on my wing as Wabash two. We charged around the course despite the fact that the weather forecast was quite dismal. (The weather is seldom what you would call really good, but there was quite a bit of doubt that we would get in that day.) We got down into the MiGs’ backyard, but they did not rise to the bait. They knew better than we did what the weather was downtown and figured we were just spinning our wheels and would not be able to get in to our primary target; there was little sense in exposing themselves. They were right. We had to divert about three-quarters of the way down the Ridge and eat another frustration pill.
The rest of the flights went to their alternative targets. As soon as I canceled the primary strike, I headed for the last spot we had seen Joe. Once in the area, it was no problem to identify the exact position, and I split my Wabash flight again, to cover more area, and set about the job of trying to raise some sign of Tomahawk four. I switched to the emergency channel I knew he would be monitoring — if he still had his radio, if the battery was still working, and if he still had the freedom to operate
The radio as he wished. All three were pretty big ifs by this time, but the events of Sunday had left such a bitter taste in all of our mouths that we wanted to exhaust every possibility. As I moved, I alternated radio calls with “Tomahawk four. Tomahawk four — this is Wabash lead. If you read, come up on your beeper,” and the next circuit I would give him, “Joe — this is Wabash lead. If you read me, Joe, come up on emergency channel. Give me a call on emergency, Joe.” And up came the beeper. Weak to be sure and with nowhere near the piercing tone that it had belted out a couple of days ago, but it was there. It was so weak that I could not home in on it the way I wanted to and thus could not get a really accurate fix, but it was very close to the same area. “Tomahawk four — Wabash. I read your beeper. If you read me, shut your beeper off now.” There was always the possibility that Joe, or whoever had his beeper, had not actually read my earlier transmissions but had simply turned it on when he realized that the Thuds overhead were looking, not simply passing by. Of course, if the wrong people have the beeper and you sucker in a little too close, you are liable to be met with a blast of ground fire. Even though we all knew this and even though we have lost some machines and peo-
Pie to this ruse, when you pick up the scent that could be one of the guys, you acknowledge this possibility and press on regardless.
The beeper operator responded perfectly and the pitifully weak beep left the air as directed. I called my element lead and told him to get back to the tankers as fast as he could, pick up a load of juice, and come back to relieve me. While he was gone, I continued to work the beeper but could not pin it down to a specific ridge or group of bushes. I would start in on it, get my directional indication, and then it would fade, just like a weak radio when you are trying to catch the prime line or note of music on your favorite radio program. Try as we might, neither my wingman, Ken, nor I could get what we wanted out of the beeper, nor could we get any voice contact.
While we were working our hearts out in a vain attempt to get the specifics I knew so well I would need if I was to persuade my bosses to launch the rescue fleet again, my element was encountering delays on the tanker rendezvous, and this was the first indication that a more exciting afternoon was ahead. I did not want to leave the scene until I had at least the other part of my flight in the area where they could give one more try for something that would be a firmer hat
Hanger when I tried. to sell the case. We played our fuel right down to the minimum and they were not back yet. The time of day indicated that we would not be able to get the show in gear and get back that night, but there was time for the element to work a bit longer. They did not show, as they were hung up on the tanker, and I played the fuel to the point that everything would have to work just right on the way back, or Wabash one and two were in trouble.
I had in effect bet heavily on the fact that the ground controllers and the tankers would appreciate the seriousness of the situation, and that they would do their job of getting me where I was supposed to be, and get a tanker up to us in time to avert fuel starvation and the resultant loss of machines and maybe people — like me and my wingman.
When I could wait no longer, I called the element and brought them up to speed on my results so far. I told them to get back in as soon as they could and repeat my efforts. If they got nothing better than I did, they were to hit the tankers again and head for home where we would recap the situation and make our pitch for another rescue attempt. This accomplished, Ken and I reached for all the altitude we could get and I started screaming for ground control to
Get me with a tanker, quickly.
As we leveled at maximum altitude, we should have been within voice range of the control people. We called and called but received no answer. I knew we were transmitting okay, as I could hear and talk to other fighters and tankers in the area, but none of us could get the control guys to answer or assist. I turned my internal radio gear to the emergency position, which is supposed to knock every ground controller right out of his chair as he sits in his darkened room and surveys the air picture, but to no avail. We desperately needed help and nobody would help. As Ken and I tried not to believe the story our gauges were telling us, we both knew that it was most doubtful that we would be able to get ground-control direction to a tanker in time. We didn’t know why they wouldn’t answer, but we knew time was eating fuel, and things looked grim as Ken punched the mike button and passed that simple phrase that means more to a fighter pilot than all the fancy emergency calls: “Boss, I’m hurting.”
One of our tanker friends was listening and was trying as hard as we were to rock someone off his seat and get some steers going. He advised us that he was blasting away with both of his big radios on all chan-
Nels and, like us, could get nothing. We started to try a freelance rendezvous and hookup with him using his internal gear and ours, but it became immediately apparent that we were just too far apart and that there was not enough fuel left to get us together.
Then someone awoke to that lonely cry of emergency to the north and the radio spoke to us, “Aircraft on emergency, what’s your problem?” I spit out my answer as tersely as I could, but I obviously did not have the regular crew chief, as I got the most frustrating of answers, “Stand by.”
I couldn’t stand by and barked back, “Listen, I can’t stand by, I have two Thuds at minimum emergency fuel and I have got to get to a tanker right now. Give me a steer to the nearest tanker, quickly, or we are both going to flame out.”
As I looked over the side at the rough green carpet below, I subconsciously remembered that this was the area where the little people skin captives alive. Some of the more vivid horror stories I had heard made a fast lap around my head, only to be jarred out of position by my friendly controller’s reply to my desperate plea: “Emergency aircraft — this is control. I am having trouble hearing you and don’t quite understand your problem. Proceed further south and give me a
Call later and I will set up a tanker for you.” Balls, better that clod should have been looking down at these headhunters than me. I hoped he fell out of his swivel chair and bumped his little head on his scope. The tankers screamed at him and Ken and I both screamed at him and he wouldn’t come back up on the air. But someone in that center must have heard and understood, because within about thirty seconds a new voice came booming through loud and clear from the center, but unfortunately as he shoved Clodley out of the way and took over the scope, he must have alerted all other control agencies within a zillion miles that he had two birds about to flame out, because all at once we had more help than we could use. They all wanted to help now, and they all wanted to do it at once. Within sixty seconds we had calls from every ground operator who could get a hand on a mike and who could make his mouth work. They each wanted us to cycle the emergency equipment, they each wanted an identifying turn or a dogleg, and they each wanted a detailed explanation of the problem. It was tough to get a word in edgewise, but Ken finally managed to get through with, “Boss, I’m down to five hundred pounds.” I had seven hundred, and either quantity is about enough to take a
Thud around the block, and that’s all.
The next two minutes were critical and it was clear that the controllers were out of control. I held the mike button down for a few seconds hoping to cut a few people out and announced, “Okay, all control agencies shut up and listen. This is Wabash lead. I’ve only got a couple of minutes of fuel left and I must have a tanker. Now, whichever one of you has good contact with me and has me identified for sure, take control of me. Sit back and take a deep breath and go to work. You’ve got to do it right, and if you don’t. I’m going to park these two birds in the jungle, and so help me if I do. I’ll walk back and kill you. The rest of you get off the air.”
One kind soul accepted the challenge and tried to get with the program, but he was unsure of himself and his resources and he was stumbling. When Ken came through with, “Two hundred pounds, boss,” I figured we had about had the stroke.
Then out of nowhere came the clear voice of White tanker. “Wabash — this is White. I think I have a beacon on you. I’ve passed all the gas I am authorized to for the day, and I just have enough to get back to home base, but if you are hurting as badly as I think you are. I’m willing to give it a try. Have to land at an intermediate base and get my wrist
Slapped. Deviation from plans, you know.” At last. Someone who sounded like he knew what was going on. “Rog, White — Wabash here. You call the shots, but make it quick.”
“Okay, Wabash, turn to zero nine zero and drop down to twenty-four thousand. I should be about forty miles back on the inside of your turn. Okay, Wabash, roll out, roll out. Steady on. Now look at eight o’clock. Eight a little low.”
“Okay, Ken, we’re going past him. There he is about seven to you. A little low.”
“I got him and I’m showing zero on the fuel.”
“I’ve still got two hundred pounds. Go get him. Pull your nose up and roll back to your left. You’ll fall right down on top of him.”
As Ken rolled up over his left shoulder and let the big nose fall through, there that big fat beauty was, and Ken’s engine started chugging as the pumps reached for the last drops of fuel.
“White — Wabash two. Got you in sight and I’m flaming out now. Toboggan. Go down. Go down. I’m flamed out. Hold two fifty and go down. Come on, fellows — give me a chance — toboggan.”
“White, he’s flamed out, stujf that nose
Down. He’s got to co-ast up to you. Don’t miss, boomer.”
As the big load with the lifesaving fuel pushed over into a dive, the now silent Thud coasted into position behind him, and Ken almost sighed as he said, “Come get me, boomer.” And the sarge in the back end of the tanker lay on his belly, took hold of the controls of his flying refueling boom, aimed one time, and rammed the boom into the Thud’s nose. As the hydraulic locks bit into the receptacle, Ken was hooked up and being towed along for the ride. As the fuel poured into his tanks and the engine restarted, I was delicately charging into position on his wing as my fuel needle bounced on and off the empty mark. As his tanks registered a thousand pounds, he disengaged and slid to the side while I moved into the slot, and before I chugged to silence, the same expert gentleman stuck me and the fuel flowed. After I filled up, Ken came back on the boom and filled up and we left for home.
“Nice save. White. Where are you going to land?”
“I’ll have to go into your place.”
“Good, we’ll see you on the ground. Beautiful crew, and that boomer is absolutely gorgeous.”
“Glad we could help. See you later.”
All the way home I didn’t even talk to all the various control guys whose areas we passed through. They were all very efficient now that we didn’t need them, and it was not because I was pouting that I didn’t talk. I just didn’t trust myself to speak to them at the moment, as I am sure that I would have hurt someone’s feelings. My next task was to get on the phone to my big bosses, which I did as soon as I got on the ground and again thanked White Tanker for his save.
One of Ken’s additional duties, for he was a wing staff weenie, was running our Standardization and Evaluation program. The program directed that masses of records be kept on each pilot certifying that each was up-to-date on all the recurring courses of instruction and examinations as the various headquarters saw fit. Even in war we got inspected by inspection teams of as many as forty-five men from each of our headquarters, as often as four times a year. They stayed in Bangkok and commuted to the jungle daily in our C-47 gooney bird. It was an almost unbelievable farce, but they got combat pay for it.
A few days after we landed from this particular flight, Ken stopped by the office and advised, “Boss, you were due for a headquarters proficiency flight check,” and
Handed me my report. card. It said, “Colonel Broughton was given a proficiency evaluation while flying as Force Commander on a combat strike mission. His demonstrated ability to command and control an entire strike force is outstanding. He was able to cope with several critical and unforeseen problems with cool and decisive action. Flight was debriefed.” We almost laughed ourselves sick.
It takes a lot of maneuvering of forces and some significant changes in plans to mount a sizable rescue effort such as we would need to try what I wanted to try. I thus had to convince those further up the line that we could be relatively sure of gaining something from the effort. If you launch for this purpose, you have to give up some more routine mission that you are scheduled for, and this often causes raised eyebrows in some quarters. I guess they knew I felt quite strongly about this one, and since we had verified that signals were coming from the area, and since we knew that Joe appeared to be in good shape, I got the okay for the next day. We provided the fighter cover and configured for that specific mission. The rescue people came up with the Spads and the HH-3C Sikorsky choppers, better known as the Jolly Green Giants, and we prebriefed to
Rendezvous crossing the border. We staggered our fighters so we could have good cover through both the search and the rescue, should that come to pass. It didn’t come to pass. The Spads looked and got nothing. No noise and nothing visual. We escorted them back out through the quiet countryside where nothing moved, and nobody even fired a round that we saw. That was officially the end of the attempt. We had done all we could.
The next day, leading a flight, Ken was able to swing back over the area again. He repeated our previous pattern, and bigger than hell the beeper came up on command. He called for voice contact expecting the same void that we had received two days before, but this time the beeper talked to him on the emergency channel. Only problem was that it was talking in an oriental voice. It was not until then, on that Thursday afternoon, that the mission we had started on Sunday was finally all through.
World History
