by Phil Rowe
U.S. Air Force planes often get shot at by enemies. But, we don't really expect to get shot at by our friends, especially here at home. Yet, that's what happened to my crew during our Texas training, preparatory to going to Vietnam.
In 1968, my pilot and I were undergoing transition training at Bergstrom AFB near Austin, Texas. We were learning the techniques and procedures of aerial photo reconnaissance in twin-jet RF-4C fighters, modified to carry cameras and other intelligence gathering gear. Upon graduation we were headed for Vietnam, a real combat zone. Little did we realize that we were already in one.
Our six-month transition program included a variety of academic, simulator and flight training. Early missions in the new airplane, a two-seater with pilot and a reconnaissance systems operator in tandem cockpits, meant separate flights with instructors. Some days my pilot would fly with an instructor, then it was my turn. It was days until my pilot and I flew together as a crew. Then we flew several times in formation with our instructor in a second plane.
Training flights followed standard routes. We flew both day and night missions, each calling for mastery of different equipment and techniques. But the routes flown, especially at low altitude, were fixed. The Air Force had to obtain a variety of agency clearances to secure authorization for low altitude training routes, so routes did not change much.
Low altitude training was usually accomplished at heights above ground of 500 feet or less, and speeds up to 600 knots ( 690 miles per hour ). The roar of our twin jet engines past rural communities and isolated farm houses was not particularly welcomed by residents. Yet, day-after-day and many times each day and night, training planes regularly flew the same routes.
One daytime, low altitude mission will not be soon forgotten. It was a routine flight, south and east of Austin, to photograph a target on the western shores of the Sam Rayburn Reservoir. The terrain is flat and heavily wooded, with only a few open pastures and farms.
We were back on the ground, de-briefing our mission with the instructor, when we first heard about our close call. Our crew chief, the mechanic who cared for our plane like it was his personal baby, stormed into the squadron operations area in a real tiff. He was really upset and demanded to know why we damaged his pride and joy.
"What in the heck are you talking about, sergeant?" my pilot asked in total puzzlement. "We didn't do anything to your bird."
"Well, sirs," the irate crew chief exploded, "you better come out and see. There's a bullet hole in my plane, and it wasn't there this morning."
We followed the sergeant back out onto the flight line, and by now had a small entourage in tow. The squadron operations officer and several others followed along. This was something very much out of the ordinary.
Sure enough. There on the right side, just aft of the engine inlet, was a six-inch long gash in the skin of the airplane. It could not have been caused by our flying into a bird or other object, because the gash was nearly vertical. And there was the tell-tale copper-colored mark of a jacketed rifle bullet. We had indeed been hit. But when? and where?
The Office of Special Investigations (OSI) soon got involved. This was a reportable incident, a potentially lethal one that could have gotten someone killed. That someone was this writer, because the impact of the bullet was just two feet to the right of my seat. Boy, war is hell. The OSI demanded that I re-plot my navigation charts with minute by minute details of our two-hour training flight. They wanted to know exactly where we were, how high and at what speeds all along the route.
It happened, by dumb luck, that the photography from the flight included one frame that captured the shooter. There in the picture, with the aid of a photo interpreter's magnifying lens, we could see someone pointing a rifle at us. With that picture and the detailed re-plot of the flight, authorities were able to track down and arrest the guilty farmer.
What happened to him, or if they were ever able to prove that he was the one who hit us, we never learned. Clearly, our noisy low-flying jets were disliked by at least one person.
While not commonplace, incidents like this have happened before. But, is actual combat any safer? This writer flew 168 combat missions in Vietnam and never once took a hit from ground fire.