From Emerson to Ming

Part two. For context read the previous post first.

***********************

Emerson Douglass Wright

No one liked him.

Actually, there were those of us who liked him just fine, but within his squadron, where it counted most, he was not liked. Let me explain.

I transitioned in to the 388th Tactical Fighter Wing of the Seventh Air Force stationed at Korat, Thailand, in mid-October 1968. I was a kid. I was in the Air Force illegally because I was technically under aged. Everyone around me knew I was young, but everyone around me seemed to have the good sense not to ask. Such were the times.

I had earned a reputation in flight school and in training of being a red-hot pilot. Please understand that pilots don’t use the term ‘red-hot.’ The exact expression is ‘shit-hot,’ but I’m trying to keep language to a minimum here.

But when you enter a combat situation, no one is impressed with what you did in flight training. The attitude was, here’s the real world kid, now we’ll find out if you really have what it takes, or if you end up dead. I struggled a little bit with arrogance and pride in those days, but I had the good sense not to show it. I listened. I learned.

I had actually been given a choice as to which fighter I wanted to train in. I chose the F-105 because it was the fastest aircraft anywhere in the world at low altitude. Sure, others could take its speed claim away when up in the stratosphere, but this aircraft was designed to hug the terrain and deliver a big nuclear weapon on Moscow and then get away. There was only one problem. We weren’t delivering nuclear weapons in a surprise attack. We were dropping conventional ordinance which had to be carefully targeted over a city that was more heavily defended against aerial attack than any city had ever been defended in the history of warfare.

And the Thud was not an aircraft you wanted in a dog fight. It just couldn’t turn and pursue. So, we formed up in groups of four and took our ordinance into the heart of Route Pack 6, Hanoi.

The tour of duty was 100 missions. After a successful 100 missions, you could go home, or at least somewhere other than combat missions over enemy territory. There was a saying among pilots that after 66 missions you should expect to have been shot down twice and picked up once. It didn’t occur to me until sometime later that the formula of that expression leaves a pilot one journey short of home. Presumably augured into the ground or held captive in a bamboo cage somewhere.

Emerson, or just Emers to people who knew him, was about as good-looking as a guy could get. He too was a stellar performer in training and additionally had proven that he had what it takes in combat to deliver his ordnance and get back alive. No one minded flying with him.

It was much later when I really figured out the rub between Emers and the rest of the squadron. Remember, I was just a new guy, I didn’t really agree or disagree with anyone in this regard. I merely tried to figure out who thought what? But the rub was this: Emers had everything required to be a General Officer. A lot of the guys in the group would love to have been on a fast track for high rank in the service. But Emers didn’t want it. He wanted to do his tour and leave the service for a nice comfortable life flying people from Tokyo to San Francisco, or something equally tame.

I was somewhat lucky, but then I wasn’t. I was lucky because I started my tour only two weeks before a moratorium was called on bombing Hanoi. That would have been November 1, 1968. I became legal to be in the service on that day.

The first three days on the flight schedule I had been sent with the squadron to Route Pack 1. On the fourth day it was to Route Pack 6, “going downtown” as they would say. I was the group leader’s wingman since I was the most junior in the squadron. Lead was a Major named Gus Wise. Emers led the other pair with Jake Rathbone as his number 2. I’d go into more detail about the actual mission, but I don’t think I could sustain your interest. Suffice it to say that things happened fast and furious once we got in close to our target. A squadron of F-4 Phantoms flew high cover for us and chased away the MiGs. But the anti-aircraft guns were relentless. A burst of AA fire spread flak through the air and destroyed the hydraulics of Gus’s 105 about 20 miles from target. He had his hands full controlling the aircraft and turned back for Korat. He wouldn’t be able to land the craft, but the further he was from Hanoi when he ditched the aircraft, the better for him. He had to, at the very least, make Thud Ridge.

I formed up with Emers and became a third member of a two-man flight. It was all I could do to keep with the flight lead. He constantly jinked, moved, and jolted through the sky to avoid being an easy target. I had to anticipate his moves. I was so busy inside the aircraft my only hope was to watch flight lead and when he dropped his ordinance, I would drop mine. So much for all that bomb training. I’d have been terrified had I time to think.

Immediately off target we pulled up and made the sharp turn for Thud Ridge and safety. Pedal to the metal, as they say, hell bent for leather, going as fast as we could to make safety. Flak was everywhere. We continued to jink our way through the sky.

A burst immediately in front of the cockpit blinded me. It ripped a large hole in my left wing and fuel was dumping at an alarming rate. The airplane wanted to roll over to the left and it was all I could do to keep it upright. That same burst, I found out later, punctured the fuel tanks in several places of Jake’s ship, but somehow he managed to make it home. We had not reached Thud Ridge.

Emers came over the radio with a voice so calm you could swear he was asking where we kept the peanut butter in the kitchen.

“How you doin’ there, Packer?”

“Kinda got my hands full at the moment, Sir.”

“You’re loosing a little altitude there, any chance you can get the nose up a little,” so calm it could put you to sleep.

“Uh, I’m tryng, I’m afraid it’s getting away from me, Sir.”
“You ever bailed out of an aircraft before?”

“Only in simulation, Sir.”

“Well, I’ve got some great news, Packer. You’re going to have a story to tell the grandchildren. I’m going to need you to get ready for an ejection. You won’t clear the ridge at this rate. See the clearing two clicks ahead to the left?”

“Yes Sir.”

“We’ll try for that.”

Emers was right along side. A sane man would have dashed for home.

“Are you ready? I’m going to count to three then I want you to eject. You got your emergency radio all ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“OK, you’re going to want to keep the earpiece in your ear once you hit the ground. I’ll be in touch. Make sure you’ve got your flare ready to go.”

“Yes sir.”

I don’t believe I’ve ever bragged about not being scared. I was terrified. Emers kept me cool. He was in control of a tough situation.

“One. Two. Three.”

I pulled and left the aircraft. I watched as it plummeted to the ground and exploded. I hadn’t made 66 flights yet.

I hit the clearing dead center and tore away my chute. It would be imperative that I find cover quickly. I went through the survival gear and found the little hand radio. I plugged in the ear piece.

The sound of gunfire erupted. I couldn’t discern the direction. I was a little stunned but knew I needed to keep my mind working and sharp. That’s when I realized that the gunfire was coming FROM Emers and was pulverizing a spot just to the east. His voice came over the radio.

“Packer, I’ll need you to move to the west at this time. Don’t get in a hurry, but now would be a good time to get moving.” Still calm.

Emers would stay on station and protect me until he had only one ounce of fuel more than what was needed to make the refueling tanker. At several intervals he loosed his canons on an enemy I could not see but he could.

We had been the last flight of the squadron and there was no one left to help Emers cover my position. He would do it alone.

I know, I know. You’re getting bored of war stories. But I had to tell you this part so you would understand how I met her.

The Sandys—the gunships—would not get there in time to afford a vertical extraction from one of the big choppers that pulled the hapless and the unlucky out of the jungle.

I made my way into the thick of the nearby jungle, radio in one hand, pistol in another. Tripping over a root, I fell face first onto the jungle floor. My gun went flying but I managed to hold on to the radio.

Dazed and disoriented, I looked around for the pistol. When I looked up, there was a figure standing in front of me wearing an outfit that looked like pajamas. The figure was holding my gun.

This would be the end.

Then the miraculous happened.

In perfect English this very small woman said to me, “If you want to live, Joe, follow me. Quick.”

She kept the gun.


Faithfully submitted,
Teddy Packer