Surviving Hell. Leo Thorsness
me listening to Harry, and Harry listening to me.
Suddenly Jerry and his wingman—Kingfish 3 and 4—were attacked by MiGs. The F-105 Weasel was never intended to be a dogfighter; it was designed to deliver nuclear weapons in a highspeed, low-altitude maneuver. Thud drivers called it a “great big airplane with itty-bitty wings.” The aerodynamically superior MiG —an aircraft built for air-to-air combat—could out-turn us, but we were faster and could outrun them.
When Kingfish 3 and 4 were attacked, Jerry in Kingfish 3 called out: “Kingfish 4, burner.” Jerry knew they could outrun and then outmaneuver the MiGs in afterburner. But Kingfish 4’s afterburner failed. His Thud couldn’t outrun the MiGs without his burner—his speed advantage was gone. Jerry, however, using all his skilland-cunning, was able to evade the MiGs and got himself and the crippled Kingfish 4 out of the area.
By now, Harry and I and Kingfish 2 were just rolling in to bomb our second hot SAM site. “Kingfish lead,” came the call from my wingman, “Kingfish 2 is hit!” As we pulled up out of our bomb run, I radioed him, “Kingfish 2, head southeast toward the hills, plug in burner, keep transmitting, and I’ll home in on you.” Pilot Tom Madison and EWO Tom Sterling kept transmitting. Madison soon said, “I’ve got more warning cockpit lights.” His voice echoed the tension; things were going from bad to worse fast.
As my automatic direction finder homed in on Tom’s transmission, it put them at my eleven o’clock position. As we reached the foothills I heard him again: “It is getting worse!” Within a few seconds, I heard the sickening sound of the beeper. Each parachute is equipped with a small radio transmitter attached to the lanyard of the chute. When a pilot ejects and his chute opens, the radio is activated. Each time I heard a beeper in North Vietnam, it knotted my stomach: Another American aviator had been shot down. The only good thing about hearing a beeper was that the aviator’s chute opened successfully. He had a chance. Within a few seconds we heard a second beeper—both flyers were out of the aircraft and had good chutes.
I saw them floating down about two miles ahead of us, their white chutes standing out clearly against the green foothills below. Off to my left, at about 10:30, I saw movement. It was a MiG-17. There was no doubt that he was beginning a strafing run on one of the parachutes. “Harry, keep your eyes peeled, I’m setting up on the MiG!” I cranked to the left, pulled up and rolled back right, ending up a bit higher than the MiG and in a nose-down, rightbank pursuit curve. The enemy pilot was concentrating on killing our pilots in their chutes and did not see us.
At 500 mph, I quickly overtook the MiG. I squeezed the trigger of the Gatling gun, but the one-second “buzz saw” burst missed. My nose-down path took me just below the MiG and slightly to his left, about 700 feet behind him. I pulled the trigger again. This time I saw his wing come apart.
As the MiG spiraled downward and crashed, Harry called, “Leo, we got MiGs on our ass!” I snapped my head left and saw the belly of a MiG about 1,000 feet back—a bad sight. If he was a good pilot, we were dead. I snapped to the right, dumped the nose and plugged in the afterburner. For a few seconds we were in the MiG’s range, but its bullets missed. In a few more seconds we were supersonic, and the MiGs quickly gave up the chase.
Our SHRIKE missile and bombs were used, and our 20mm ammo and fuel were both low. We were over the mountains west of Hanoi, out of SAM range and where MiGs were not a threat. We climbed southwest toward northern Laos and a refueling tanker.
“Brigham Control, this is Kingfish lead,” I radioed to the airborne command post orbiting over southern Laos out of harm’s way. “Kingfish 2, an F-105F with two crew, is down at 20’52” north latitude and 105’24” east longitude.”
“Roger Kingfish lead, copy: Kingfish 2 is down. Did you see parachutes?”
“Affirmative, and two good beepers.” I responded. “Advise any rescue aircraft there are a bunch of MiGs around, and the location is in SAM range.”
Brigham called up the rescue aircraft—World War II-era A-1E Skyraiders, nicknamed Sandys—and a rescue helicopter. The Sandy was a great rescue plane because it could absorb heavy ground fire and fly a long way at low altitude. The Sandys’ job was to make contact with the downed aviators, keep the enemy troops at bay, and direct the helicopter in if the aviators were alive and evading.
We were going out for fuel at the tanker as the Sandys were coming in. I gave them a call: “Sandy, be on your toes as you near the bailout area, there are MiGs in the area, and it is in SAM range.” This rescue effort was closer to Hanoi than any other they had yet attempted; they had never even encountered MiGs or seen a SAM. Over the radio I gave the Sandys a fast “SAM evasion” briefing.
As the tanker pumped us full, we talked to Brigham, stressing again that we had to have a flight go back in with us. But the 16 Thuds, the four flights of four that had bombed Xuan Mai complex, were finished refueling and heading home to Takhli.
As we broke off from the tanker, Harry and I had a very serious, very short conversation over the intercom. “Harry, if we go back, we go it alone,” I said. He was thinking the same thing that I was: Bad odds. But our two buddies were on the ground. The longer we waited before giving them cover, the greater the odds they would be captured or killed. Harry didn’t object when I turned back toward North Vietnam.
As we headed in, the knot in my stomach tightened. I had promised myself never to lose a wingman in combat. I had failed. Had I made a mistake? Should I have attacked the second SAM site differently? A dozen questions posed themselves: none of them with answers.
As we approached the bailout site, Harry’s voice came over the intercom: “SAM acquisition radar has us, Leo—still safe range.” On Guard channel, I was periodically calling, “Kingfish 2, lead here, do you read?” Again, “Kingfish 2, lead here, please come up.” After the third call, we picked up a weak transmission. There was a voice but so garbled with static that I couldn’t tell if it was speaking English or Vietnamese. I knew to be careful: the Vietnamese had learned how to use our survival kit emergency radios and occasionally they tried to talk us into an area where MiGs were waiting for us.
We came over the site heading northeast just above a wafer thin cloud layer at about 18,000 feet. Looking straight down I could see the green mountains. “Leo, MiG eight o’clock!” Harry shouted. I saw another MiG at eleven o’clock. We had flown right into a “wagon wheel”—four or five MiGs in a large circle orbiting the downed pilots. Following the circle of MiGs clockwise, I picked one up and squeezed off the last burst of my Gatling gun. Pieces of the plane came off. My gun film was used up but later we were credited with a probable kill.
For the second time we had to plug in the burner, roll inverted, point 45 degrees down, and outrun the MiGs. Once we were clear, we turned north, flying just above the mountains, and headed back west toward our two downed pilots. I passed on information about the one garbled Guard transmission to the Sandys and warned them again about MiGs.
Near the shoot-down site, I started calling for Kingfish 2 again. There was no response, but then a frightened high-pitched call broke the radio silence. “Sandy 1 is going in, Sandy 1 is going in—MiGs got ’em.”
“Get on the treetops,” I radioed Sandy 2, “get as low, slow as you can, turn as hard as you can, and the MiGs can’t get you.” The Sandy was a propeller fighter with a top speed of maybe 350 knots; it can fly slower, lower, and turn tighter—that was its only advantage over the MiG. The Sandy’s pilot responded, “Copy, I’ll try.”
Trying to sound confident, I added, “and keep talking, keep your mike button down, and we’ll home in on you.” He said, “Okay, but hurry, there’s at least four of ’em.” I dropped our nose toward the trees, grabbed about 600 mph, and wondered what I’d do when we got there.
We quickly picked up three of the MiGs. I turned hard into one of them at one o’clock. I was out of ammo—but he didn’t know it. A couple of thousand feet out, I suddenly cranked hard back to the left toward a second MiG. When I was sure he saw us, I hauled back on the stick and pulled the nose up sharply and rolled inverted. My hope was that they’d think I was armed but confused and didn’t