Wizards of Aviation

     As I was growing up, mama always said that I was a daddy’s girl.  Daddy’s girls, by definition, believe their fathers are supremely handsome, all-knowing, and absolutely perfect.  What she may not have realized was that second only to daddy, was his kid brother Bobby.  Like daddy, Uncle Bobby has always been extremely handsome, sagacious, and beyond compare.  Uncle Bobby is a strategically placed guidepost between daddy and me, close enough in age to daddy, to be his sidekick, and close enough in age, to me to be a mentor.

Daddy is back center. Uncle Bobby is front center.

            Daddy and Bobby have a treasure-trove of adventures predating my arrival, but through the years I have gathered my own nest-egg of tales.  One summer morning, mama asked them to babysit while she went to the grocery store, and they agreed.  She cleaned out the refrigerator, made a grocery list, and hesitantly left me in their care.  Daddy and Bobby, like their predecessors Orville and Wilbur Wright, decided to spend their day experimenting with the science of aviation.  They began by making paper airplanes.  Of course, these were not typical paper airplanes.  These were tiny- smaller than the end of your finger- and they had an imaginative energy source, which allowed them to zoom freely around the kitchen in varying arrays.  Daddy and Bobby loitered around garbage cans, ambushed their prey, and placed it quickly in the spotless refrigerator to slow its movement.  Next, they carefully prepared the folded paper airplane, quickly removed a prisoner from its frosty cell, and meticulously glued its legs to the tip of the aircraft with quick-drying model airplane cement.  While the glue dried, the houseflies slowly warmed up to room temperature and then soared into the air hauling the miniature airship.  Bobby remembers, “We weren’t able to perfect the landings.”  Laughingly, he claims, “When a crash was imminent, the ant fire department quickly sprayed the runway with foam.” I would love to have heard their sheepish explanations to mama when she returned from shopping and found her immaculate refrigerator filled with houseflies.

            During the summer of 1968, Uncle Bobby, at age twenty-one, carried his aviation experience a step further by becoming a Cobra pilot, for the First Cavalry in Vietnam.  A young man named Bobby Towe was the pilot, Uncle Bobby was the copilot, and the mission was to fly the Ho Chi Min Trail, a route which supplied the enemy, the Viet Cong, with ammunition, troops, and medical supplies.  Their plan was to take off at 7:00 p.m., about one and a half hours before dark, but the preflight check revealed gun system failure.  After replacing the gun system and preparing to take off, only a sliver of red sun remained in the sky, crowning the treetops.  Their aircraft, the Bounty Hunter was forty minutes behind the others.

            Within a horseshoe-shaped range of mountains, referred to by the Vietnamese as “The Seven Sisters,” was the holy mountain of Nui Coto.  The Vietnamese people believed the gods of South Vietnam lived in a pagoda atop this mountain, and whoever controlled the mountain would win the war.  As a result, the fighting was heavy in this region.  Because it was impossible to fly over these mountains, the Bounty Hunter had to maneuver around the mountains, into bordering Cambodia, and back into South Vietnam.

           Suddenly, while the Bounty Hunter sailed at 2,000 feet, the “gods” from the pagoda on Nui Coto attacked, shooting balls of fire, which pierced an oil line, created a hole the size of a silver dollar, caused heated oil to gush onto the burning jet engine and plummeted the aircraft to the jungle below, without the slightest chance to return fire. 

            Radio signals travel in a straight line- a line–of–sight that does not curve with the horizon or arch over mountaintops- and so, maintaining radio contact in such mountainous terrain is difficult.  Consequently, as the helicopter dropped below the mountains, their communication was isolated from the outside world.  The flames from behind the cockpit raged and cast an eerie red glow onto the windshield, making it difficult for the pilot to see the terrain ahead. 

            With one minute before impact, flying at 200 miles per hour, it was vital to radio their location and status, keep control of the aircraft during the landing, and fight the engulfing flames.  The scream of the engine and the roar of the blaze deafened their ears.  Bobby recalled, “Mayday!” “Mayday!” Radio location; check for fire; lock seatbelts; push collective down.” At 150 feet: Turn on the landing lights, try to stretch out the glide, don’t hit the treetops!”  At 100 feet: “Flare, nose up, turn forward speed to rotor, increase pitch, try to gain control.”   At 15 feet: “Nose-down- still traveling at 37 miles per hour- keep the nose up, touch down!”  The aircraft crash-landed in a rice paddy turned 180 degrees, and slid twenty to thirty feet, slinging mud and trash over the cockpit.

            The heat from the fire was so intense, both pilot and copilot believed the other was being burned alive.  Bobby Towe exited from the left of the craft, just as Uncle Bobby exited from the right, and both men ran around the front of the helicopter, hoping to save the other from the flames.  In the darkness and confusion, they collided head-on, knocking each other flat to the ground.  After catching their breath and getting to their feet, they fled towards the jungle, to a creek about 55 yards away, still insight of the aircraft, to hide from the enemy.  To conceal themselves they rolled in the muck and spread mud over their faces and hair.  Between them, they had two, 38 pistols, with six shots each, a radio to call for help, and a quart thermos of cognac mixed with hot tea. 

            They attempted to radio for help, hoping to be picked up soon, but found their pack radio was broken.  Reluctantly, they hid in the jungle, five or six hours, waiting for sunrise to inspect the remains of the Bounty Hunter.  The Cobra’s cockpit was in good shape, the radio was still working, but the batteries were almost dead.  They transmitted their location, confiscated the “green book”- pilot’s logbook filled with critical information- and returned to the jungle to hide.

            They hid all day, sweltering in the heat, slapping at mosquitoes, and swatting at flies.  The creekbed was inhabited by leeches, a parasite that sensed the reflected heat from their bodies, attached itself, and sucked their blood.  To force the leeches to turn to lose they had to burn the leeches’ heads with the tip of their cigarettes.

            Late in the afternoon, in the middle of a Cambodian jungle, lying in the slime of a rice paddy, two civilized gentlemen- Bobby Towe and Bobby Buffington- observed the old English custom of an afternoon tea by drinking the brew of cognac and hot tea, making elaborate plans to get home, and writing absurd remarks in the green book, concerning the last flight of the Bounty Hunter. 

            The sun went down, night fell, and once again they waited for help to arrive.  They heard bombs in the distance and wondered if they would be safe.  Around 3:00 a.m., even though the power level on the radio claimed there was no power left, they attempted to call for help.  “Mayday!” "Mayday!”  Bobby’s signal had managed to clear the mountain top and was intercepted by an air force pilot flying at 30,000 feet, 600 miles north of their location.  If Bobby had radioed five minutes earlier, or five minutes later, the air force jet would not have been in a position to hear the signal.  The pilot, in turn, radioed the Bounty Hunter’s position to a “Spooky”- a C47 airplane, like in the old World War II movies.  The two-engine, propeller plane was gutted inside and manned with six mini-guns on each side, which fired 8,000 bullets per minute.  The two survivors were told to listen for the airplane, which would be flying “on the deck”- fifty feet off the ground- and without lights, to avoid being shot down.  When they heard the engines they were instructed to pop a flare.  Then the plane would turn on the landing lights, fly over, and climb to 1,000 feet in order to confirm their position.  The First Cavalry would quickly send a helicopter to pick them up.  The Army of the South Vietnamese burned the aircraft to avoid vital information and radio systems from being captured.  Bobby Towe and Bobby Buffington were rescued the following morning.

            Uncle Bobby finished his tour of duty in Vietnam and returned home safely.  In 1968, the same year he was shot down, one-fourth of all the pilots in his class were killed.  Bobby reflects now, “The war was wrong, but we weren’t wrong.  No one wanted to go, but they either went and supported their country, or they deserted their country.”  As a nine-year-old when he left, I did not understand the war or why he was leaving, but, from his example, I learned the importance of duty, patriotism, and family.

  

          Today, I find myself in a sixth-grade classroom saying the Pledge of Allegiance each morning.  As I look at the flag and reflect on those words, I find myself thinking about the men and women who have given so much to secure and protect our freedom.   Thank you is not enough, but it is all I have.  So, I will remember, and vow to do my best to pass on this legacy to my children, grandchildren, and students.

PS- Daddy says that the flies were in a glass jar, but I don't remember that part of the story.