The weather in North Vietnam got pretty bad.  We didn't fly at all for three days, and the rain came down.  My mood was ugly, matching the downpour outside the quiet Operations Shack.  I busied myself making big charts to be hung in the main briefing room.  They provided a graphic, quick method of adjusting the sight picture while in the bomb run.  In a nut-shell, they showed;  "If you are too shallow, go lower before you pickle the bombs off."  Along with that was a big red warning;  "3,000 feet--Minimum Altitude for 3,000 pounders!"  If you dropped lower than that, you would blow yourself up. 
We'd been having some problems with bombing accuracy because of being forced into shallow bomb runs by various things, mostly MiGs, SAMs, and guns.  These charts were supposed to help.  It had been Ed's little job that he never got to finish..
It was good to have something to do, something to keep my mind off the sadness that was a physical pain.

   Then the rain stopped and we prepared to launch again.  Now, it was my time to lead the Force.  This was my Check Out as Force Commander.  If I came back, I'd be one.  Jack Hart, old "Magnet Ass," was the Deputy Commander, and my check pilot.  He was flying as number three in my flight.  Bob Kennedy was on my wing, flying as number two.
We were Bear Flight.  I was thankful for that . . . sort of thought "Bear" was my own personal call sign.  Not to seem superstitious, you understand, but no less than five Zebra leaders had been shot down in the last month.  Coincidence, of course, but . . .

I pulled the same old tricks on myself as we approached the tanker, trying to convince someone inside that this wasn't happening, I wasn't really going to Hanoi, again.
"Air refueling is a very, very tricky business.  The fuel intake manifold could be cracked and the cockpit could fill up with Jet fuel.  I'll have to go back to Takhli, then Jack will have to take the Force on into Pak Six.  Let Jack do it."
I tried hard to break these thoughts and concentrate on the job at hand.  My mind raced, trying to think ahead, to anticipate any problem, large or small.  I had to be ready.
"Don't think about the sky over Hanoi, the soaring missiles, the instant overcast, the black 85 millimeter stuff that creeps up and up as the gunners feel for your altitude . . . or the idea that you could get hurtled into cold space, alone; to be captured, tortured or killed.  Killed."
The refueling was half over.  I could see that the Force was converging on the point in space just about on time.  Nothing was going wrong.
"It could happen right in this snug cockpit.  A fragment could penetrate the canopy, shattering the glass and making an awesome noise.  It could enter at the left eye and probably exit at the back of the head, fracturing the camouflaged helmet, and ending all thought.
The last of the Thuds were topping off.  Everything was on schedule.  We would be at the drop-off point in thirty seconds.
"Or . . . much  worse, the plane could be hit and burning, and you could be sitting there burning with it and unable to do anything about it . . . and you finally would know what they thought . . . what Cappy thought, then."
I shook my head roughly.  Enough of these thoughts!  Think about the mission, you are leading this whole shiteree, for Christ Sake!  Get it together.
"And still worse . . . don't think about your wingman . . . more vulnerable than you -- and probably more scared.  He is hit and needs your help.  He's burning and calling, but your duty is to bomb the target, leave him.  Don't think about what you might do."
I took off my mask and rubbed my nose.  Did I smell gas?  No.  Well, don't worry, the weather is terrible up there.
The Force was congregating behind me, an odd feeling -- having nothing ahead but air.  I adjusted the throttle gently and took up the planned heading, watching the tankers disappear in the mist to the south.
"Bear Force, strike freq, Go."  My voice sounded calm, authoritative, and laconic.
Just a lovely day for flying.  See that silky white overcast below us?  It goes all the way to Hanoi.  We'll just fly on up there and take a look from a safe distance, and then turn back.  It's a weather abort, boys, don't worry. 
My various electronic companions in the cockpit told me we were crossing the border into North Vietnam.  The clouds covering the ground below gave no visual clue.
"Bear . . . Green Up . . . Music on."  I had no sooner spoken when I saw Jack nod.  We had indeed crossed the border.
We raped the NVN air.  Uninvited, we rammed along, twenty tiny minnows dwarfed by the vast silvery rug below us.
The Weasels moved out ahead, four flechettes probing our path with radar fingers.  "No signals, Bear.  No threats to the Force."
Twelve minutes to the target.  We were coming in from the west, the same route Cappy had taken.  I didn't like it, but was stuck with it.  We were to roll in right over the city,  striking the big rail yard at Duc Noi, two miles north.  Our exit was north to Thud Ridge and out.
The white carpet of clouds stretched to the horizon ahead.  It looked more and more like a weather abort.  I had briefed carefully how I wanted to do it.  Too may aborts had been a Chinese fire drill, every man for himself.  Somehow, it was the hardest time of all to keep control and discipline, and flight integrity.  The panic of escape is an instant thing.
When I gave the word, it would be a hard right turn, diving to keep speed, and full afterburner, just as if under attack.  We, the lead flight would hang back to cover the Weasels' escape.
Ahead, the clouds appeared to break just a little.  Nothing serious, just a "Sucker Hole."
"Sweeping Guns, twelve o'clock.  SAMs at two; no threats, Bear."  The Weasels were five miles ahead.  "Weather looks bad, Bear."
"Rodge, one more minute."  Then, we gone!
My hand was beginning to creep to the mike button for the abort order, the call that would send us all scurrying for home, when I saw the Red River and that damnable Y that marks Hanoi.
From my higher altitude, I could see what the Weasels couldn't.  There was a hole in the clouds over Hanoi.
"Bear, target is clear at ten o'clock!  Afterburner . . . Now!"
The Force acted as one and jumped ahead.  The 85 millimeter flak began dirtying the soft white carpet, and I eased back on the stick, nursing us to a higher altitude.
"One minute, Bear."  I angled over toward the target.  No shallow run today!
Then came the missiles, out of the north first, then from the east and some from behind.  The flak was getting heavier and was moving up toward us layer by layer.  They knew we were coming and were as unhappy about it as I was.
We flashed into the clear, the sprawling black city was right under us, glittering from muzzle flashes everywhere.  The Red River Valley turned into a Yankee Doodle Fourth of July just for me.
An angry orange SAM whipped underneath from the left and I called,
"Comin' through . . . heads up!"  A useless call, but absolutely necessary.  Two more zipped by and then the sky filled with them. 
Most flew overhead at unbelievable speed and came down on us, while the flak was exploding in ever increasing altitudes, near and nearer.  It always seemed to work that way.  SAMs starting high and squeezing down, flak starting low and squeezing up.  Soon you were in a corner with no place to go, and  (oddly), it usually happened at the roll in point.
I was mesmerized, watching the soaring SAMs.  The distance and speeds involved defy description.  A SAM lifted leisurely off the pad at Phuc Yen, fifteen miles away, and accelerated furiously.  In ten seconds, it flashed by at twice the speed of sound.  I watched them and gauged the distance to the rail yard.
"Any second now, don't rush it.  Let's get a Dive angle!  Jeezus, look at the missiles!  Flak moving up, climb a little . . . look at the Goddam SAMs!"
"Bear's In!"  I rolled hard left and pulled the nose straight down.  Too steep!  The sky was dirty,  Wham! Something hit the airplane hard.  Filthy air.  The target rotated sharply in my windscreen as I rolled out and began to track. 
My target was the SAM site next to the rail yard.  The rest of the Force was going after the yard.  The yard was full of cars -- a bonanza -- big ones, little ones, red, black, and brown.
I was much too steep, 70 degrees at least and going like hell.  I popped the speed-brakes to give me a second more of time.
My vision focused only on the bomb-sight.  I knew I'd been hit on the roll - in and some warning lights were on, but I didn't know which ones, couldn't take eyes from sight.  The SAM site had fired on me . . . straight up.  The missile only got a few feet in the air, turned sideways and exploded, an ugly yellow splash of fire raining down on the heads of the controllers.
I pickled my bombs and pulled off just as my three wing-men flashed past me.  I'd forgotten to retract my speed-brakes!  I was amazed then, when I saw all three open their speed brakes.  I call that camaraderie -- to stop over downtown Hanoi to let me catch up. (There they go, and I must hasten to catch them, for I am their leader!)
the sky was filled with gray and black explosions as we folded our speed brakes and shot north towards Thud Ridge.  I took one quick look over my shoulder.  Devastation.
The entire rail yard was blowing up and spewing debris and thick black smoke into the sky.  Those box cars weren't loaded with rice.  We must have caught a year's supply of missiles and ammunition and fuel in that yard.
My Thud kept acting up as we jinked our way to Thud Ridge.  The warning lights were not serious, just irritating, sitting there glaring at me.  the fuel gauges were frozen, and the speed brakes opened and closed at their own whim.  A black box somewhere was broken, but the main parts of the plane were okay.
The Weasels were having trouble.  They were still under fire, and were covering our escape.  Erik Lunde was losing part of his wing from excess speed.  His leader told him to slow down.  "No."  Erik said, emphatically.  He was making about 800 knots.
I called them, reporting we were out and safe.  Once they were out, too, they slowed down.  Erik's wing stopped trying to peel itself off the plane.
I called for a check in.  All twenty answered roll call, sounding like a bunch of seals trying to sing "Jingle Bells."  They all had made it!
The Big Voice in the Sky called me personally as we neared the tankers.
"Bear leader, you guys really did a helluva thing.  The place is still blowing up.  Korat had to turn back, too much smoke.  Good job."
I gave him a "Roger, thanks."  Ho hum, all in a days work.  Part of the image thing, while I cheered at the top of my voice in the cockpit, (off radio).

On the way home it was time to thank God for good luck.  They were all safe!  And I was now a live Force Commander, more than I ever dreamed I'd be.

It was a little hole, but too damn close to where my head was.  About six inches long and an inch wide, where a fragment had gone into the electronics bay behind the cockpit.  They had it fixed in a few hours.  Hanoi Hanna reported nine "Yankee Air Pirates" down in the Duc Noi raid.  

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