Don’t Mess With the FACs!

One of the best things about being in the aviation gun platoon was the sense 
of superiority we felt over all things living. I mean, you take the age of
each individual flying in a light fire team, add them up, and then divide
by the amount of rockets aboard both ships, the rounds of 7.62 and 40 mm,
and then subdivide by the pounds of fuel; and the sum result is the
average age of maturity aboard the aircraft. And then, the rules we lived
by didn't particularly cause a certain conservative lifestyle. Let's see...

Rule 1: You can have all the ammo you want.
Rule 2: The vast areas that you will fly over are considered your domain,
where you are free to kill and burn as you want.
Rule 3: The two aircraft together are worth over $1,000,000. If you break
them, we will give you brand new ones. So anyway, here we were cruising 
down life's highway -- actually Highway 13.

I had my door gun unhooked from the bungee, barrel out and laying on
the floor, as did my gunner. My feet were up on the cabin bulkhead; and 
I was slumped down, smoking a cigarette, drinking a beer from the cooler, 
and listening to rock and roll on AFVN via the ADF radio ... probably pretty 
much like I would have been doing at home in my 64 Chevy SS; but in this 
case, we were six feet off the highway, and doing 90 knots.

I casually glanced over at my gunner in time to see him sit up and stare
out to the right front of the aircraft.
"Sir, aircraft 2 o'clock about two miles, looks like a FAC."

I sat up and looked across the aircraft through the pilot's window and
could see him slightly higher then us, and we were catching up to him.

The FAC was a Forward Air Controller flying in an O-1 Birddog. It was a 
small, fixed-wing, observation plane. The Air Force used them to control
the jet fighter bombers during air strikes, while the Army used theirs to
correct artillery fire.

The aircraft commander in the left seat in front of me, reached down to
the radio console and flipped his selector to Channel 3.  

"Crossbow 31, 33. Close on us and join up in trail."

And then he turned and grinned at the pilot.

"Let's scare the **** out of the FAC!"

 Our wingman called, "Formation up."

 The AC said, "I've got it" and dropped the nose, picking up some speed.

 We started closing on the FAC from slightly below his six o'clock position.

As we closed on him from behind and low, we had built up our speed to a
face-stretching 100 knots. The AC keyed his microphone and spoke with our
wingman. "31, 33. We're going to pass under him and get out in front by a
hundred yards or so, then climb out in front of him. Climbing now, then
diving under him."

Then we did. We swooped up and then dived down with Crossbow 31 right
beside us. As we passed under the FAC, I was laughing in glee as was
Johnny my gunner. We zoomed ahead and then climbed swiftly; and, as Johnny
and I looked back, we could see the O-1 Birddog hit our rotorwash and
bounce all over the sky.

With a friendly wave out the back, we once again resumed our trip down
Thunder Road leaving a trail of ditched pedicabs and vengeful-minded FAC
pilots.

We were almost home, and I was debating whether or not to open another
beer, when our wingman frantically called us.

"THREE THREE, THREE ONE!!!!"

As my pilot started to flip the radio selector to answer him, I saw Johnny
sit up straight and rigid and stare straight out to the right. I tried to
see what he was looking at, but I suddenly felt the hairs on the back of
my neck stand up; and I slowly turned to look out my side.

There were two, F-4 Phantom II's, gear down, speed brakes open, with full
flaps, cruising right along side me. They were probably doing twice our
speed; but time seemed to stand still, as the front seater in the Phantom
closest to us, casually raised his left hand with the middle digit raised.

As they passed to the front of us, they joined up with two more of their
buddies, who had overtaken us on the right. With the precision of the
famed Thunderbirds, they closed up a quarter mile in front of us, back
into a finger-four formation. You could almost hear the flight call the marks...

"Gear up....NOW!" 
"Boards in...NOW!"
"Flaps up.....NOW!"
"Afterburners..NOW!"

And then suddenly they were gone, hidden from view by the burning 
explosion of eight General Electric engines at full military power. The
only thing we could see was the smoke trails as they zoomed up out of
sight. I could plainly hear the Aircraft Commander as he yelled, "OH,
****!!!!!"

Then we hit the little present that the zoomies had left for us. We went 
up and then down, and then up, down, up, down as the pilot fought to
control our bird.

Ten minutes later, we had quietly hover taxied down the active runway to 
our revetments at Lai Khe. As we sat down, the FAC started his flyby down
the length of the active runway, cheerfully giving us, out his open
cockpit window, that special salute to fellow aviators that seemed to be
used Air Force wide.