Every veteran has a good story to tell, you do too.
My Introduction to Rolling Thunder - Episode 1 (This is about 5 pages long.)
In 1959 the U.S. Navy commissioned the first of six large aircraft carriers. At this time they were the largest in the world. The first Super Carrier was the USS Forrestal (CV-59), followed by the Saratoga (CV-60), Ranger (CV-61), Independence (CV-62), Kitty Hawk (CV-63), and the last of the group, the USS Constellation (CV-64). Measuring over one thousand feet in length and carrying over 80 aircraft, these ships were 25 percent larger than World War II carriers.
Built, launched and commissioned during the same four year period I spent at the U.S. Naval Academy, the class of ’64, the Constellation held a special attachment to me because it was “CV-64”. Never would I have guessed that exactly two years after graduation I would land on the deck of this big, new supercarrier.
The Constellation had arrived in the Vietnam war zone in May of 1966. Initially, they operated in an area called Dixie Station, an undefined area off the coast of South Vietnam. The targets in South Vietnam were not defended heavily, so the newly arriving pilots flew on targets without much fear of being shot down. After two weeks of operating in the south, the ship was sent north into the Tonkin Gulf to another undefined area called Yankee Station, the northernmost operating area, for Operation Rolling Thunder, the air war in North Viet Nam.
The war escalated and the pilots of the Constellation were supposed to stay in the southern part of North Vietnam. It was more dangerous than flying in South Vietnam, and as if to show how much more dangerous, Anti-Aircraft Artillery (AAA) shot down and captured one of the pilots from Attack Squadron 155 (the Silver Foxes) on the first day of North Vietnam operations.
The Department of the Navy, in all of its wisdom, immediately called on yours truly, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Michael Foley, to proceed directly to the war zone as a replacement pilot for the downed officer. Sent directly from the Training Command, I was a green, uninitiated, scared, totally inexperienced pilot. I did not even have the benefit of practice bombing in South Vietnam. My first flight with my new squadron was into North Vietnam to bomb a bridge with the squadron Administrative Officer, Lieutenant Commander Tony Karpaitis. Selected as my instructor, he had one primary objective-- keep me alive.
Almost all bridges in North Vietnam were defended by Anti Aircraft Artillery, so I was only over North Vietnam for about 10 minutes before I realized I was being shot at by AAA. White puffs of smoke signaled the artillery fire, and that was all I needed to see before I flew more erratically so they couldn’t keep their gun sights on me. We dropped our bombs on (or near) the bridge, withdrew posthaste, and flew back to the ship. Exhilarated but exhausted, I made my first landing on the Constellation.
Each of the next two days was nearly identical: Catapult off the front end of this enormous warship, fly over the Gulf of Tonkin for 25 minutes, cross the coast into North Vietnam, and then fly erratically (not in a straight line) when near the target. We called this maneuvering “ jinking”. Jink right, then left, always watching your wingman to avoid colliding with him. The targets in this area were relatively lightly defended, so we would drop our bombs and get out quickly, returning to the ship for the always exciting carrier landing.
The Air War in North Vietnam was being totally planned in the White House. Every morning, President Lyndon Johnson would personally select the targets; bridges, railroad yards, airports, and petroleum oil storage areas were his favorites.
When President Johnson authorized Air Strikes in North Vietnam, his first authorization was to selectively bomb targets in the southern part of North Vietnam. We were not authorized to bomb the Iron Triangle area in northern Vietnam, Hanoi, Haiduong, and the largest port city of Haiphong. These cities were very heavily defended by Russian built Mig fighter jets, all kinds of Anti Aircraft Artillery (AAA), and Surface to Air Missiles (SAMs).
As luck would have it, in early June, 1966, President Johnson decided to put more pressure on the North Vietnamese, so he approved the bombing of Hanoi and Haiphong. Well, after three flights in the less defended area, my fourth flight with my squadron would be the next day, and the target was the Russian MiG fighter base located near Haiphong. In addition to their MiGs, the base was surrounded by AAA and four known SAM sites.
At this point it is pertinent to mention that up until tomorrow’s flight, no Navy pilot had ever seen a SAM fired at him. There were no SAMs in either the Korean War or in World War II. The Russians had supplied the North Vietnamese with loads of SAMs. Because we were not embargoing Viet Nam, the missiles could be imported right in front of us on the deck of any ship, from any country, and as long as we were not at war with them, we had to let them pass. I saw Russian SAMs on the decks of Canadian cargo ships pass right by us on our aircraft carrier-- missiles that would soon be used to shoot at us .
The SAMs presented an enormous challenge to the Navy and Air Force pilots. We did not know how to avoid them. We had no experience. Our only help was a device in the airplane that could recognize a radar signal associated with the launch of a SAM. The radar the enemy used for the SAMs, a Fan Song Radar, was on a certain frequency that could be detected by the Black Boxes on our aircraft. When a missile launched, the missile would follow the track of the Fan Song Radar to the target (me!)
When our Black Box would recognize this signal, it would turn on a red light on the cockpit display and sound an aural tone in our helmets. It could not tell us the direction that the missile was coming from, or which airplane the signal was locked on to, but it did warn us that a missile was in the air. Therefore we could only fly into the Iron Triangle area when the skies were clear because our only defense against the missile was to see them coming at us and then dodge them.
As you fly into a target area with a red light and an aural tone sound, you can imagine the “pucker factor” goes way up.
Dodging decisions involved physics. The missile, which is about the size of a telephone pole with small control fins on the end, flies much faster than our jets. In fact, the missile can fly at Mach 3, or three times the speed of sound, almost 2,000 miles per hour. Our airplanes, loaded with bombs, could only fly between 350 and 400 miles per hour. Our advantage was that we had larger control surfaces on the wings of our aircraft, and flying more slowly allowed us to make much sharper turns than the missile.
Using these physical properties, we would look outside the airplane, turning violently left and right, looking at the ground and hoping to see a big white telephone pole with bright yellow flame coming out of the tail. Our hope was that it was not tracking our own airplane. But if it was aimed at you, you waited until the missile got about a thousand feet away, turned very sharply into the upcoming missile, and tried to get underneath the missile by causing it to pass behind you; it could not turn as fast as your airplane.
The technique was very successful…..if you saw the missile. Not so much if you didn’t see it.
On the morning in question, all of the pilots assigned to the first launch assembled in their respective ready rooms to be briefed by the Air Intelligence Officer ( a.k.a. Air Ignorance Officer). He told us about the target, the location of known SAM sites, and the larger AAA sites, the direction that we would drop our bombs from, radio frequencies, and any other essential information.
A lot of times we would go out and fly road reconnaissance missions with just two or maybe four airplanes. The strike today involved 38 airplanes, hopefully coordinated to arrive at the target seconds apart: 16 fighters, to protect us from the Migs, attack airplanes to drop bombs on the runways, and other planes doing things necessary to accomplish the mission like SAM suppression missions and in-flight refueling.
I was to be one of the 16 attack airplanes. I was flying an A-4 Skyhawk, single engine, single pilot, dive bomber carrying eight 500 pound bombs with concrete busting fuses. There would be eight pilots from my squadron, VA-155, which means Attack Squadron 155, and eight pilots from our sister A-4 squadron, VA-153. We would be accompanied by 16 F-4 fighters and 6 A-6 attack airplanes.
After the briefing, we put on our anti-g suits to prevent black outs during high G maneuvering, then put on our ejection/parachute harness, then our survival vest along with whichever pistol we chose to carry. Lastly, we grabbed our Squadron helmet as we proceeded to the escalator leading to the flight deck.
At the briefing we were assigned to an airplane. Once on deck we walked up to our airplane, inspected the outside of it, paying particular attention to the wiring going from the bomb and bomb holder to the aircraft. If any of this was amiss it could cause serious problems. Then we climbed up on a ladder into the cockpit.
The plane captain accompanied me on my walk around the airplane. The pilot and the plane captain were a team. He was always a young enlisted man, most younger than 20 years old, and he was assigned to make sure that his aircraft was ready for flight. After the pilot got into the cockpit, the plane captain would climb the ladder and help the pilot strap in to the ejection seat, ensuring that the ejection seat rocket was armed before he left.
Once the pilot was ready, and the Operation tower had announced for the pilots to start their engines, the plane captain would attach a starter unit to the plane, give signals to the pilot to start and then do a flight control check to visually inspect the movement of the flight controls. Finally the plane captain took the chains off of the aircraft that were holding the airplane on to the deck of the carrier.
The Operation Officer would give instruction to the pilots from the carrier superstructure, the tower. As your number was called, you would taxi the aircraft forward to one of three catapults and get “hooked up” for departure. The Catapult Officer would ensure the correct weight of the aircraft and the amount of fuel so the correct settings could be made to guarantee flying speed at the end of the deck. Then he would raise his hand above his head, making circles with his hand to signal the pilot to go to full engine power. The pilot would check his instruments, and if everything looked good, the pilot would salute the Cat Officer, the Cat officer would bring his arm down pointing forward, and BOOM-- you’re off. You never get used to that ride.
When all 38 aircraft were catapulted into the morning sky, each squadron would fly to a different area and altitude to rendezvous. When all of the squadrons acknowledged being together the strike group would head out toward the coast in point, in this case, just south of Haiphong. The strike group loosely strung out across the horizon for almost two miles. Keeping track of other airplanes was critical. The only pilot who did not have to watch out for others was the strike leader in the front aircraft as he was navigating to the coast and then the target.
As I mentioned earlier, none of us had ever seen a SAM. None of us had actually used the “dive into the missile” technique. On this mission, we were all rookies. Everyone, I am sure, had cotton mouth. Every one of us had written a “last letter” home the night before. Some pilots could not sleep. Others got sick and vomited. All of us were anxious and hyper. But now it was time for a reality check and there was no turning back.
It was a clear and hot morning in Haiphong. Naturally, the enemy radars had picked up our 38 plane gaggle. The MiG pilots had taken off and dispersed according to their defensive plans. Artillery gunners were loading ammunition. Neither side knew what to expect. This was the beginning of what was to be years of flying and shooting, diving and dying; in short, major league hostilities.
Thirty miles from the target the Strike Group pilots could see the city of Haiphong. The strike group was flying at a planned six miles a minute rate of attack (360 knots). We were five minutes from bomb drop. Because Haiphong was a seaport located directly on the Gulf of Tonkin the arriving airplanes would be over land for a very short period of time. The airfield was also very close to the sea. That was very important for the attacking pilots because if they got hit they could probably turn quickly out to sea and eject someplace where a friendly helicopter could pick them up.
What happened next was not anticipated. At two minutes (12 miles) from the target, the formerly clear skies turned cloudy. Not the wet clouds one normally sees. These were the white puffs of smoke from anti-aircraft artillery burst. There were so many bursts that the target became obscured. We would have to dive through this cloud of artillery fire.
Less than a minute later the red light in my cockpit display lit up and the aural sound much louder in my earphones. A missile was in the air. Our equipment could not tell us whether it was one missile or several. Mild panic set in. Everyone jinked, rolled hard over to the right looking for the ascending weapon, then rolled over to the left looking below for the flaming telephone pole. The problem was complicated by the clouds of AAA bursts obscuring the ground.
All pilots were jinking. All pilots were trying to stay in a relative formation to avoid a mid-air collision. Less than one minute to our dive point I saw a missile. For just an instant I happened not to be looking at the ground, but rather I was looking ahead. The missile I saw was approximately 20 feet in front of my airplane. It was wider than a telephone pole, it was painted white, and it had Russian Cyrillic writing on it. And it exploded. And I flew through the explosion.
The airplane moved up and down and sideways all at once. My head was thrown from side to side in the tiny cockpit hitting both sides of the Plexiglas canopy. I instantly keyed my microphone and yelled, not calmly, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Simultaneously I turned right to head out to the ocean to eject, and I reached down and jettisoned all of my bombs to lighten my load.
I did not reach the dive in point. My leader saw the explosion and turned to see me heading out to sea. He followed and tried to keep up with me. He jettisoned his bombs as well. I was descending to pick up speed and avoid more missiles. I crossed the coastline and felt relieved. If the airplane would take me there, I would go out to sea as far as possible to eject.
I could hear my leader yelling at me now. He was saying, “Slow down, slow down, I can’t catch you!” So I slowed down. In such cases we are to rendezvous at 250 knots of airspeed. When we did get back together Tony did a thorough close-up inspection of my exterior. He asked me about my engine indications. I said, “Everything seems to be normal.” Then he said, “Well, I don’t see anything wrong with your airplane, except the paint is all peeled off of the nose of your plane! It’s all black.”
You cannot imagine how embarrassed I felt. There was nothing wrong with my plane. I could have continued the mission, but I didn’t, and Tony didn’t get to drop his bombs. And because I was only on my fourth flight with the squadron, I would be viewed as a wimp. And I was. When I got back to the ship, the other pilots in unison yelled, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” Big joke. Needless to say, six weeks later when we got to go to Subic Bay in the Philippines for a week of Rest and Relaxation (R&R), I had to buy a lot of drinks at the Officer’s Club.
Post Script
As it turns out, the SAM that I saw was going so fast, and the actual warhead of the missile was above me when I saw it, that the shrapnel and rocket debris was carried up above me and I did not fly through that portion of the explosion. I flew through the explosion of the rocket propellant.
Built, launched and commissioned during the same four year period I spent at the U.S. Naval Academy, the class of ’64, the Constellation held a special attachment to me because it was “CV-64”. Never would I have guessed that exactly two years after graduation I would land on the deck of this big, new supercarrier.
The Constellation had arrived in the Vietnam war zone in May of 1966. Initially, they operated in an area called Dixie Station, an undefined area off the coast of South Vietnam. The targets in South Vietnam were not defended heavily, so the newly arriving pilots flew on targets without much fear of being shot down. After two weeks of operating in the south, the ship was sent north into the Tonkin Gulf to another undefined area called Yankee Station, the northernmost operating area, for Operation Rolling Thunder, the air war in North Viet Nam.
The war escalated and the pilots of the Constellation were supposed to stay in the southern part of North Vietnam. It was more dangerous than flying in South Vietnam, and as if to show how much more dangerous, Anti-Aircraft Artillery (AAA) shot down and captured one of the pilots from Attack Squadron 155 (the Silver Foxes) on the first day of North Vietnam operations.
The Department of the Navy, in all of its wisdom, immediately called on yours truly, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Michael Foley, to proceed directly to the war zone as a replacement pilot for the downed officer. Sent directly from the Training Command, I was a green, uninitiated, scared, totally inexperienced pilot. I did not even have the benefit of practice bombing in South Vietnam. My first flight with my new squadron was into North Vietnam to bomb a bridge with the squadron Administrative Officer, Lieutenant Commander Tony Karpaitis. Selected as my instructor, he had one primary objective-- keep me alive.
Almost all bridges in North Vietnam were defended by Anti Aircraft Artillery, so I was only over North Vietnam for about 10 minutes before I realized I was being shot at by AAA. White puffs of smoke signaled the artillery fire, and that was all I needed to see before I flew more erratically so they couldn’t keep their gun sights on me. We dropped our bombs on (or near) the bridge, withdrew posthaste, and flew back to the ship. Exhilarated but exhausted, I made my first landing on the Constellation.
Each of the next two days was nearly identical: Catapult off the front end of this enormous warship, fly over the Gulf of Tonkin for 25 minutes, cross the coast into North Vietnam, and then fly erratically (not in a straight line) when near the target. We called this maneuvering “ jinking”. Jink right, then left, always watching your wingman to avoid colliding with him. The targets in this area were relatively lightly defended, so we would drop our bombs and get out quickly, returning to the ship for the always exciting carrier landing.
The Air War in North Vietnam was being totally planned in the White House. Every morning, President Lyndon Johnson would personally select the targets; bridges, railroad yards, airports, and petroleum oil storage areas were his favorites.
When President Johnson authorized Air Strikes in North Vietnam, his first authorization was to selectively bomb targets in the southern part of North Vietnam. We were not authorized to bomb the Iron Triangle area in northern Vietnam, Hanoi, Haiduong, and the largest port city of Haiphong. These cities were very heavily defended by Russian built Mig fighter jets, all kinds of Anti Aircraft Artillery (AAA), and Surface to Air Missiles (SAMs).
As luck would have it, in early June, 1966, President Johnson decided to put more pressure on the North Vietnamese, so he approved the bombing of Hanoi and Haiphong. Well, after three flights in the less defended area, my fourth flight with my squadron would be the next day, and the target was the Russian MiG fighter base located near Haiphong. In addition to their MiGs, the base was surrounded by AAA and four known SAM sites.
At this point it is pertinent to mention that up until tomorrow’s flight, no Navy pilot had ever seen a SAM fired at him. There were no SAMs in either the Korean War or in World War II. The Russians had supplied the North Vietnamese with loads of SAMs. Because we were not embargoing Viet Nam, the missiles could be imported right in front of us on the deck of any ship, from any country, and as long as we were not at war with them, we had to let them pass. I saw Russian SAMs on the decks of Canadian cargo ships pass right by us on our aircraft carrier-- missiles that would soon be used to shoot at us .
The SAMs presented an enormous challenge to the Navy and Air Force pilots. We did not know how to avoid them. We had no experience. Our only help was a device in the airplane that could recognize a radar signal associated with the launch of a SAM. The radar the enemy used for the SAMs, a Fan Song Radar, was on a certain frequency that could be detected by the Black Boxes on our aircraft. When a missile launched, the missile would follow the track of the Fan Song Radar to the target (me!)
When our Black Box would recognize this signal, it would turn on a red light on the cockpit display and sound an aural tone in our helmets. It could not tell us the direction that the missile was coming from, or which airplane the signal was locked on to, but it did warn us that a missile was in the air. Therefore we could only fly into the Iron Triangle area when the skies were clear because our only defense against the missile was to see them coming at us and then dodge them.
As you fly into a target area with a red light and an aural tone sound, you can imagine the “pucker factor” goes way up.
Dodging decisions involved physics. The missile, which is about the size of a telephone pole with small control fins on the end, flies much faster than our jets. In fact, the missile can fly at Mach 3, or three times the speed of sound, almost 2,000 miles per hour. Our airplanes, loaded with bombs, could only fly between 350 and 400 miles per hour. Our advantage was that we had larger control surfaces on the wings of our aircraft, and flying more slowly allowed us to make much sharper turns than the missile.
Using these physical properties, we would look outside the airplane, turning violently left and right, looking at the ground and hoping to see a big white telephone pole with bright yellow flame coming out of the tail. Our hope was that it was not tracking our own airplane. But if it was aimed at you, you waited until the missile got about a thousand feet away, turned very sharply into the upcoming missile, and tried to get underneath the missile by causing it to pass behind you; it could not turn as fast as your airplane.
The technique was very successful…..if you saw the missile. Not so much if you didn’t see it.
On the morning in question, all of the pilots assigned to the first launch assembled in their respective ready rooms to be briefed by the Air Intelligence Officer ( a.k.a. Air Ignorance Officer). He told us about the target, the location of known SAM sites, and the larger AAA sites, the direction that we would drop our bombs from, radio frequencies, and any other essential information.
A lot of times we would go out and fly road reconnaissance missions with just two or maybe four airplanes. The strike today involved 38 airplanes, hopefully coordinated to arrive at the target seconds apart: 16 fighters, to protect us from the Migs, attack airplanes to drop bombs on the runways, and other planes doing things necessary to accomplish the mission like SAM suppression missions and in-flight refueling.
I was to be one of the 16 attack airplanes. I was flying an A-4 Skyhawk, single engine, single pilot, dive bomber carrying eight 500 pound bombs with concrete busting fuses. There would be eight pilots from my squadron, VA-155, which means Attack Squadron 155, and eight pilots from our sister A-4 squadron, VA-153. We would be accompanied by 16 F-4 fighters and 6 A-6 attack airplanes.
After the briefing, we put on our anti-g suits to prevent black outs during high G maneuvering, then put on our ejection/parachute harness, then our survival vest along with whichever pistol we chose to carry. Lastly, we grabbed our Squadron helmet as we proceeded to the escalator leading to the flight deck.
At the briefing we were assigned to an airplane. Once on deck we walked up to our airplane, inspected the outside of it, paying particular attention to the wiring going from the bomb and bomb holder to the aircraft. If any of this was amiss it could cause serious problems. Then we climbed up on a ladder into the cockpit.
The plane captain accompanied me on my walk around the airplane. The pilot and the plane captain were a team. He was always a young enlisted man, most younger than 20 years old, and he was assigned to make sure that his aircraft was ready for flight. After the pilot got into the cockpit, the plane captain would climb the ladder and help the pilot strap in to the ejection seat, ensuring that the ejection seat rocket was armed before he left.
Once the pilot was ready, and the Operation tower had announced for the pilots to start their engines, the plane captain would attach a starter unit to the plane, give signals to the pilot to start and then do a flight control check to visually inspect the movement of the flight controls. Finally the plane captain took the chains off of the aircraft that were holding the airplane on to the deck of the carrier.
The Operation Officer would give instruction to the pilots from the carrier superstructure, the tower. As your number was called, you would taxi the aircraft forward to one of three catapults and get “hooked up” for departure. The Catapult Officer would ensure the correct weight of the aircraft and the amount of fuel so the correct settings could be made to guarantee flying speed at the end of the deck. Then he would raise his hand above his head, making circles with his hand to signal the pilot to go to full engine power. The pilot would check his instruments, and if everything looked good, the pilot would salute the Cat Officer, the Cat officer would bring his arm down pointing forward, and BOOM-- you’re off. You never get used to that ride.
When all 38 aircraft were catapulted into the morning sky, each squadron would fly to a different area and altitude to rendezvous. When all of the squadrons acknowledged being together the strike group would head out toward the coast in point, in this case, just south of Haiphong. The strike group loosely strung out across the horizon for almost two miles. Keeping track of other airplanes was critical. The only pilot who did not have to watch out for others was the strike leader in the front aircraft as he was navigating to the coast and then the target.
As I mentioned earlier, none of us had ever seen a SAM. None of us had actually used the “dive into the missile” technique. On this mission, we were all rookies. Everyone, I am sure, had cotton mouth. Every one of us had written a “last letter” home the night before. Some pilots could not sleep. Others got sick and vomited. All of us were anxious and hyper. But now it was time for a reality check and there was no turning back.
It was a clear and hot morning in Haiphong. Naturally, the enemy radars had picked up our 38 plane gaggle. The MiG pilots had taken off and dispersed according to their defensive plans. Artillery gunners were loading ammunition. Neither side knew what to expect. This was the beginning of what was to be years of flying and shooting, diving and dying; in short, major league hostilities.
Thirty miles from the target the Strike Group pilots could see the city of Haiphong. The strike group was flying at a planned six miles a minute rate of attack (360 knots). We were five minutes from bomb drop. Because Haiphong was a seaport located directly on the Gulf of Tonkin the arriving airplanes would be over land for a very short period of time. The airfield was also very close to the sea. That was very important for the attacking pilots because if they got hit they could probably turn quickly out to sea and eject someplace where a friendly helicopter could pick them up.
What happened next was not anticipated. At two minutes (12 miles) from the target, the formerly clear skies turned cloudy. Not the wet clouds one normally sees. These were the white puffs of smoke from anti-aircraft artillery burst. There were so many bursts that the target became obscured. We would have to dive through this cloud of artillery fire.
Less than a minute later the red light in my cockpit display lit up and the aural sound much louder in my earphones. A missile was in the air. Our equipment could not tell us whether it was one missile or several. Mild panic set in. Everyone jinked, rolled hard over to the right looking for the ascending weapon, then rolled over to the left looking below for the flaming telephone pole. The problem was complicated by the clouds of AAA bursts obscuring the ground.
All pilots were jinking. All pilots were trying to stay in a relative formation to avoid a mid-air collision. Less than one minute to our dive point I saw a missile. For just an instant I happened not to be looking at the ground, but rather I was looking ahead. The missile I saw was approximately 20 feet in front of my airplane. It was wider than a telephone pole, it was painted white, and it had Russian Cyrillic writing on it. And it exploded. And I flew through the explosion.
The airplane moved up and down and sideways all at once. My head was thrown from side to side in the tiny cockpit hitting both sides of the Plexiglas canopy. I instantly keyed my microphone and yelled, not calmly, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Simultaneously I turned right to head out to the ocean to eject, and I reached down and jettisoned all of my bombs to lighten my load.
I did not reach the dive in point. My leader saw the explosion and turned to see me heading out to sea. He followed and tried to keep up with me. He jettisoned his bombs as well. I was descending to pick up speed and avoid more missiles. I crossed the coastline and felt relieved. If the airplane would take me there, I would go out to sea as far as possible to eject.
I could hear my leader yelling at me now. He was saying, “Slow down, slow down, I can’t catch you!” So I slowed down. In such cases we are to rendezvous at 250 knots of airspeed. When we did get back together Tony did a thorough close-up inspection of my exterior. He asked me about my engine indications. I said, “Everything seems to be normal.” Then he said, “Well, I don’t see anything wrong with your airplane, except the paint is all peeled off of the nose of your plane! It’s all black.”
You cannot imagine how embarrassed I felt. There was nothing wrong with my plane. I could have continued the mission, but I didn’t, and Tony didn’t get to drop his bombs. And because I was only on my fourth flight with the squadron, I would be viewed as a wimp. And I was. When I got back to the ship, the other pilots in unison yelled, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” Big joke. Needless to say, six weeks later when we got to go to Subic Bay in the Philippines for a week of Rest and Relaxation (R&R), I had to buy a lot of drinks at the Officer’s Club.
Post Script
As it turns out, the SAM that I saw was going so fast, and the actual warhead of the missile was above me when I saw it, that the shrapnel and rocket debris was carried up above me and I did not fly through that portion of the explosion. I flew through the explosion of the rocket propellant.
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