For years, as electronic countermeasures (ECM) officers aboard Strategic Air Command bombers (B-52's and B-58's), we trained repeatedly on the audio characteristics of enemy radars. On certain types of ECM receivers, an important signal output is the sound corresponding to the pitch of repeated radar pulses and the scan patterns of radar antennas.
We were tested on our ability to recognize the types of radars and required to identify what operating mode (search, track, etc.) they were in. We learned how to recognize changes in radar operating modes. For with that knowledge, we could be more effective as ECM operators in taking countermeasures.
When I got to the RF-4C tactical reconnaissance fighters, which we flew over Viet Nam in l968 and l969, I was again expected to use a radar detection receiver. It was a simple one, compared to those in SAC bombers, but adequate to our needs.
RF-4C's carried a radar jamming pod to protect us. It contained a transmitter that would respond in the presence of enemy radar signals. It was supposed to deny the enemy certain information about our position, so they could not shoot us down. The pods were not very effective against some threats, however, the principal one being enemy surface-to-air missile radars. About all they really did for us was put so much background noise into our detection receivers as to make them useless.
On one mission over North Viet Nam, we were operating the jamming pods, as instructed, while en route to our photographic target. The radar detection receiver, as usual, was giving us nothing but the noise from our own pods.
Somehow, and for some reason, I was moved to turn off the jamming pod and listen to the radar 'environment' in which we were flying. Just as I began to hear clear sounds of enemy radars around us, I heard the distinct change of frequency caused when a missile threat radar switches from search to track mode. Someone was about to launch a missile, at us.
I quickly told my pilot to make an evasive maneuver. He dove toward the ground, just 400 feet below us, and leveled off barely above the trees. I glanced over my left shoulder just as he began the maneuver and saw two missiles heading for us.
They looked as big as telephone poles, but I had only a couple of seconds to see them. Soon they passed by our eight o'clock position and disappeared into the clouds above us.
Whew ! That was close. If I was ever a believer in all that training and hours of listening to audio tapes, from then on I would be a missionary, an evangelist and preacher advocating more of that training. We probably wouldn't be here to talk about it, if 'someone' hadn't figuratively tapped me on the shoulder and said "You'd better listen, young man. You're in trouble."
Another recce flight, to be remembered, took us east of Saigon one clear and starry night. The mission called for a low level area coverage using our infrared (IR) sensors. That meant completely photographing, with our downward-looking IR scanner, an area of about 10 by 10 miles. A dozen or more north-south flight lines were required, spaced less than a mile apart.
The terrain was not a problem. It wasn't particularly mountainous, so flying that night was relatively easy. There was no moon, but stars provided good illumination. We could see the terrain and even a few landmarks, especially streams and distant hills.
What startled us after about the fourth pass across the area was artillery and small arms fire. Tracers left brilliant tell-tale streaks above us. The shelling wasn't aimed as us, rather it arched over us, from the east and west. Two opposing forces were exchanging fire and we were in the middle. It was like being under a 4th of July fireworks show, not in imminent danger, but well aware of what was taking place. We hoped they wouldn't alter their gun elevation angles.
We completed the ten lines of coverage, zipping back and forth at 480 knots, going from line to line at 400 feet, until we had the whole area on film. Our navigation lights were turned off, so as not to make it any easier for the enemy to target us, but in this case we knew not which guns were the enemy's and which were friendly. If we'd gotten hit, it probably wouldn't have mattered.
Another time, also on a dark star lit night, we were taking IR photos down along the Cambodian border, west of Buon Me Thout and north of Saigon. We were looking for evidence of activity on the many trails that crossed from one country to the other. And once more, we were on the deck, with lights out and zipping along at nearly 500 knots.
The terrain was hilly, but difficult mountain flying was not a real hazard. In the clear night sky, far away from cities or even major villages, we saw only blackness below and brilliant stars from horizon to horizon.
My pilot suddenly spoke up, "What's that up ahead? Is that a star or another airplane? Look out there at about our 12:30 position. Do you see anything?"
I strained to look around the back of my pilot's ejection seat, directly in front of me. "Nope, I can't see anything but the stars ahead. What did it look like?"
Before Bill could answer, we found ourselves far from alone in that remote border area. Even though we'd checked in with artillery and airspace controllers, who'd given us an All Clear to fly low through the area, we knew that something was amiss.
We were startled to find ourselves in the midst of a formation of four to six low-flying helicopters. They weren't supposed to be there, or else someone had dropped the ball and neglected to tell us about them.
We chanced to pass right through that formation just as the lead chopper pilot turned on his navigation lights briefly, to allow his formation mates to adjust their positions relative to the lead ship.
It scared the heck out of us, and very likely did the same for the helicopter pilots, who probably knew nothing of our presence either. In just seconds we were well past them, leaving behind the roar of our twin engines and a wake of jet wash that might have bounced them around a little. It could have been a mid-air disaster.
Confusion about what air traffic was in or out of various regions in South Viet Nam never disappeared. The command and control centers, charged with keeping track of what planes were where, somehow missed plenty of traffic. This presented a real hazard to the transports, jets and helicopters flying everywhere.
Part of the problem stemmed from different radio equipment. Some of us used UHF radios, others VHF and still others FM equipment. Common frequencies didn't always exist, so we depended upon the traffic controllers and monitors to keep things safe.
One day, a hot summer day with lots of cumulus clouds lying low over the hills, we descended into a photo target area northwest of Saigon. It was near Tay Ninh, not far from the Cambodian border, that we were tasked to get post-strike pictures of the B-52 drops devastating miles of terrain. Those big birds dropped strings of 500-pound bombs for miles, close to the border. Our job was to document the effects.
It was a nearly solid undercast below, as we began our letdown to low level. We were always taking pictures at low level, because our 6-inch focal length cameras seldom allowed higher flight to get scale factors acceptable to our Army customers. Low level was also necessary to get under the clouds. Otherwise our pictures would be just white puffs of little intelligence value.
We dropped into the clouds, and approached 1000 feet above the ground before seeing the terrain.
"Look out," I shouted to my pilot. "There's an OV-10 right below us." The propellor-driven Army reconnaissance plane was just ahead of us, looking as large as a Boeing 747, as we bore down upon him.
"Got him," Bill responded. "Missed him by a mile."
"Yeah mile. If he had another coat of paint, we'd have bought it. What in the hell is he doing here? Artillery control told us there wasn't anyone else here," I complained.
We flew past the startled pilots of that low-flying two seater. We surely scared them as much as we'd scared ourselves. The adrenalin flowed for both of us for some momemts afterward.
The B-52 strike zone was just a few miles farther north of our level-off point. We headed for it and waited for the rain of terror to stop before moving closer for pictures.
Yet even from our position ten miles away, and parallel to the path of the dropping bombs, we felt the shock of the bursts blasting one after the other for several miles. We could only imagine what terror existed for those poor souls on the ground.
When the bombing stopped we moved in to get several strips of post-strike photography. The craters down there looked new, lighter colored than the older ones now filled with rain water. It's interesting how you learn to judge the age of bomb craters and hillside scars by their color.
Probably the most unique of the many hairy experiences, of flying low-level photo recce in Viet Nam, occurred in the hills just south of Danang, not far from the eastern coastline.
Our target was a set of coordinates in a narrow valley. Steep hills ringed the valley, except for the southern end, where we made our low level entry. We knew it was a dangerous area, not only for the hazards of flying into the rocks but also because enemy ground fire was very heavy.
We expected to receive ground fire from the valley floor. That was, after all, where the target lay. We had to get down there to get the essential pictures. It was a trade-off though. Do we fly fast to make it harder for the bad guys to hit us, or do we fly slow enough to maneuver through the valley and then climb out before the hills crowded our escape?
What we didn't expect was to get ground fire from above.
As we screamed down the valley, between the lofty hills, we saw the enemy shooting from the peaks above us. The puffs of smoke from a variety of guns clearly indicated that we were the center of attention. We were glad to have chosen a very high speed approach to the target.
Just to make it hairier yet, we found it necessary to make a second pass. Our first one had only partly covered the target zone. One more pass was needed to ensure complete film coverage.
The gunners above were shooting at us like fish in a barrel. Only our high speed kept them from accurately judging where to aim.
Screaming at low level through a narrow mountainous valley at over 500 knots, while being shot at from above and below does keep you alert. Otherwise, you become either a grease spot on a hillside or a pile of wreckage from a sharpshooter correctly judging his target.