Stories and Illustrations of combat airplanes, missiles and the people that flew them

HA!

Sometimes a blind squirrel gets a nut!

And that blind squirrel is ME. Being frank, I thought my last WW2 bird was done. Two weeks ago, someone asked me what "new WW2 airplanes I was working on?" and the answer came out like a cough of sorry dust, "None."

But. Never taunt Fate. Circumstances can turn in the damnedest ways...

Behold, Steve Pisanos' Spitfire Mk.Vb. The one he flew with the famed "Eagle Squadron*" in WW2. In case you don't know who the Eagle Squadrons were, they were a group of American pilots who enlisted in the RAF to fly against the Germans BEFORE the United States declared war.

In case you don't know who Steve Pisanos is, well, suffice it to state, he was a Greek who fought for the British against the Germans and later became an American.

Confused? Don't be. I'll explain it all later. But for those of us who want a REAL American success story, bookmark this one.

Stay tuned...and this one will move REALLY fast! My apologies to "Sweet Marlene" below but something tells me, Marlene can play Patience tuned like a finely tuned instrument...

*A sharp-eyed reader informed me there were three Eagle Squadrons flying with the Brits in the early days of WW2 and he is correct (of course, too as he's a PhD in history). Thank you, Jerry!

Finished—the Spitfire Steve Pisanos flew after the Eagle Squadron transferred into the USAAF's 4th Fighter Group. It's hard to believe that was over seventy years ago.

Read again. Seventy years ago.

Of course, the world was different back then. But when you talk to someone who was there, the decades between shuffle back and forth at lightning speed and suddenly, the distance in time seems insignificant.

Steve Pisanos is 93. But you'd never know it. At least, Steve will challenge preconceptions one might have of what a 93 year old is supposed to be like.

By any stretch, the man's life is amazing. No, make that AMAZING. Immigrant, fighter pilot, ace, fighter with the French resistance, test pilot... Steve Pisanos wrings 'life' out of time like I wring water out of a dishtowel!

Suffice it to state, when you ask Steve the question, "How did you accomplish so much?" you need to listen to the answer. But his answer, at first, disappointed me.

"Determination," he said in his Greek-tinged accent. "Determination, my friend."

Of course, I'd heard THAT before. It was so pat, so hackneyed, it was white noise. You can buy the word "determination" in any one of a hundred self-help books at Barnes and Noble.

"So what does that mean? Tell me how it came about," I asked.

"I'll tell you how I came to America. By freighter. And I was on that ship working. Shoveling coal into wheelbarrows (for the coal-fired engines). And I knew nothing of English but I wanted to be a pilot. And in Greece? I was not going to be a pilot. So I came to America."

Sensing there was more to the story, I asked him to flesh it out a bit more.

"Ok. I found out we were going to Baltimore. Baltimore?! Where is that!? I knew New York City, I knew Chicago was full of gangsters and everything west was Cowboys! That's it! So I wondered how I was going to get to New York City from Baltimore. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I learned the English to say, "Ticket. To. New York."

"Okay..."

"See, I knew I had to take a train from Baltimore to New York. So I learned the words: Ticket. To. New York. I must have practiced it a thousand times while shoveling coal. Ticket. To. New York."

"That's all you knew? Of English?"

"Yeah. Basically. That's it."

And I realized that he gave me a dynamic definition of what determination is. If you want something, you need to be willing to shovel coal, land in the wrong town and learn a new language to take a train to where you wanted to go in the first place...in order to achieve it.

Determination, indeed.

Click here.

Though there's more to share here, it'll have to wait. I don't want to keep Sweet Marlene waiting any longer.

8,000lbs of power. That's the burden this beast could carry.

It struck me while listening to Rich describe his service, that this man, a farmer, a dad, a husband, average guy, had the destructive power of a WW2 B-17 bomber under his thumb. And I had no idea what that meant other than, "a lot."

Most of us, in fact more than 99.99% of us, can't comprehend what that kind of power really means.

But! I'd say most of us CAN comprehend a football field.

So, to give you an idea of what this airplane could do, I've created a little graphic below. It's a typical football field that happens to find itself on the wrong-side of four Skyraiders*; each one carrying eight 500lb general purpose bombs with a lethal blast radius of about 60 feet.

Now you've got an idea of what kind of power Rich and any other Skyraider pilot could wield. And judging from my conversations with Rich, it was indeed, a burden.

Ok - hold that thought for a second.

A few weeks ago, I had the idea to get more people involved in my interviews by having little "contests" to get a free pilot-signed print. Judging by responses, the idea was a good one. In this case, the winner of the "Ask a Skyraider pilot" contest won with the question, "What types of missions were your most interesting?"

So, to Mark K**, here's your answer: "Sandy."

In Vietnam, Skyraider mission callsigns were called "Firefly" or "Sandy" depending upon the type. Firefly missions were close-air support; bombing, strafing, blowing stuff up. Sandy missions were protecting downed pilots; keeping the enemy at bay until a rescue helicopter could come in and take the pilot home. Rich flew 200 missions in Vietnam. Of those 200, 193 were Firefly missions. In case you're not good with math, that means only seven were Sandy missions.

Why Sandy? He explained, "Sandy" was by far and away the most interesting and rewarding mission I flew. EVER. When we got a guy out, it was as if every little idiotic rule ever set to print was only a bump in the road. The Rescuee's smile made it all worth while."

"So tell me. What were they like?"

"Well, I'll tell you one." Rich cleared his throat, leaned forward in the chair and brushed invisible dust from the table between us. "Tom was Sandy 1, I can't remember Sandy 2 but I was Sandy 3. Loren was Sandy 4 but he got hit and had to head for home."

"He got hit?"

(Sandy 4, flown by Loren Alfred)

"Yeah. (And that left the rest of us). The downed pilot was somewhere away from a cliff area and there was a (Viet Cong) gunner down there. (Tom) was doing his best (to find the gunner) but I knew where he was. At the base of the cliff, there was this hole and he must have had a .50 cal in there. So...you know what a Flechette Round is?"

"Yeah."

"So I rolled in on him. You have to get really close (with a Flechette). And he had me bracketed! Everything is coming up at me (from this hole) lazily. In glowing balls. Those are tracers, so in between those balls are bullets too. And I'm boring in..."

I could see it in my minds eye. The A-1, her monstrous bulk and all that power hanging from her wings; an oil-belching green pterodactyl winging in on an angry mouse...

"Everything (he had) was coming up at me and you know something?"

"Yeah?"

"All those tracers coming up at me were inside my gunsight reticle!*** I fired, my flechette blew about 30 feet in front of him. Obliterated that hole. His last tracer round passed my 2 o'clock and to this day, I think it went through my propeller arc. I have vivid, vivid memories of that day..."

Indeed, if you talk to Rich, by virtue of the stories he wants to share, you'd think that Sandy missions were all he flew. But they were just 5% of his total.

"So tell me about one of the 193. What were they like?"

Gawd, what a look I got and I will never forget it! It wasn't mad. It wasn't angry. It wasn't sorrowful. The quality that made Rich's expression so indelible was it's utter blank-ness. The instant Rich processed my question, it was as if a switch suddenly flipped to a mental channel of white noise.

[insert static sound: kkkshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh]

It had to be three seconds before he snapped too. And then, he answered deliberately, "Unproductive." He paused, got his mojo back and chagrinned, "I blew up evil trees."

Another pause and Rich went back to sharing anecdotes about the guys in his photo album, "And that's so-n-so. He was a great guy! Let me tell you about that picture. It was a Tuesday..."

I'll be finishing Rich's Skyraider by the end of the month and if all goes to plan, the last post will be a surprise. Probably as much for me as it is anyone else (if that makes sense)...

_______________________________________

*Yeah. I know. That's only a quarter of the A-1's payload. It makes the airplane's power all the more awesome, don't you think?

**And yes, you won a print of my artwork, and it will be shipped right after our print signing which will be in a few weeks or so.

***The gunsight reticle is a circle that's displayed on the glass panel of a gunsight. It's about 4" in diameter. So, when you imagine Rich in his cockpit, crouched behind his gun sight, imagine seeing the return fire come up within that small space. This moment truly was a mortal game of Chicken.

And here she is— Sweet Marlene, circa 1968.

One of the peculiarities of doing Vietnam-era aircraft is the ordnance. It's one thing to do the airplane itself. But the stuff under the wings? That's another project in and of itself.

See, a WW2 airplane might carry one or two of a handful of options. But by the time the mid '60s rolled around, a veritable junk-drawer of lethality was available to fill the Skyraider's 15 hard-points.

So, when it came time to load-up Sweet Marlene, I didn't have a clue where to start. Rich didn't either. I asked him what the typical loadout was and he replied with a question, "Typical?"

However, Skyraider Association historian Byron Hukee (also a former Skyraider pilot) laid out my answer when I asked him about the dark colored, cylindrical missile-pod under the wing of the only photograph that showed Rich's A-1E in whole.

Byron described the object as the LAU-3 Rocket Launcher. It contained nineteen 2.75" rockets with warheads of high explosive, anti-tank, white phosphorus or flechettes. The launcher unit was reusable and could be filled with any number of varieties. Have a look at the closeup below (photo: Mike Maloney).

Anyway, Byron asked me how I wanted to do the rest of the loadout on Miss Marlene and I replied that I was thinking about doing it just like a picture I had of Sweet Marlene in-flight. Byron had the same picture on screen while we were conferring over the phone.

"Oh." Byron stated thoughtfully. He was staring at the image on his computer screen. "You want to do it coming home then."

Ok. Hold that thought.

Guys name stuff they like. Or respect. Or fear. I have a buddy who names his cars, another who names his tools, another who has names for his wife (depending upon her mood)...at first glance, someone might think it's a way for us to "possess" something. But I don't think that's quite true. If all of my experiences are correct, the act of naming is actually to show that some how, that object possess us.

It's hard to explain, but if you've ever talked sweetly to your car in the hope of getting some measure of extra performance, you know what I mean.

Anyway, one of the great questions to ask a guy who had a named aircraft is, "What's the story behind the name?" In this particular case, I asked Rich, "So. Was Sweet Marlene someone you knew?"

"Yes." He replied matter-of-factly and waited for the next question.

"Is she...still... around ??" I asked leadingly, hoping to coax the full story.

"Yes." Same perfunctory reply. There was something to this "Marlene" thing but it wasn't going to come out easily. My story-alert sense was starting to flash more quickly.

"And...so...whatever happened to her?"

Ok, I realize that poking questions into as-yet dark holes can be, well, surprising. And, I know when to quit. At least I'm working on that. But I figure that if a guy is man enough to fly combat in the first place, agree to an interview and top the stack of combat photos with a big 8x10 of SWEET MARLENE, he could handle the questioning.

He waited a couple of seconds before leaning forward to command, "She's home." Then after a beat or two, he grinned and laughed. I got the low down on all the kids and grand kids, too. Whew. Happy story. No tragic heartbreak, no pain, no suffering. Sweet Marlene remained.

But. My story-alert was still flashing.

"So. Can I talk to her?"

Pause.

"Maybe." And I could tell we were back to one-word replies. But after some thought, Rich added, "That'll be up to her." It was clear that this line of questioning would end for the day.

Well, another day came and I was able to connect with Marlene via email. These are her words:

"It was one of the worst years of my life...lots of worries about his safety. Plus he missed a whole year of our little son's life. Our 9 mo. old son and I stayed with my family during this year (1968) and they were extremely supportive. We were not part of any (established) squadron or anything as Rich left right out of pilot training. We exchanged tapes every day. And letters...I looked forward to the mail every day and if we didn't hear anything that day, I automatically worried more. I believe we had only 2 phone calls during this time....

...and it goes without saying that this was tough on (Rich) especially when he didn't get any of the 'thanks' that he and the others were so deserving of."

And that's all she wrote.

Just this past week, I finally finished David Halberstam's book, "The Best and the Brightest." It chronicles the people and decisions that lead to American involvement in Vietnam. It's a brilliant peek into the minds and egos behind this culture-shifting moment in our history. But the thing that struck me most was just how common, how ordinary, how logical and how human it all was. Change the names, change the terrain, remove the dead and "Vietnam" now looks like a handful of situations I've experienced from clients to cub scouts.

So many intentions, good and bad, and in the end, people just wanted to quit and go home.

And so, my artwork is shown, as Byron pointed out, "coming home."

And here's the photo. Miss Marlene, returning to base after a mission, empty, save for the single store. And look closely at the LAU-3. There are a few rockets left.

There's a weird poetry here. The Skyraider, so capable, a pilot who, despite a frustration with the circumstances, fulfills his duty 200 times in a war that had long swallowed and digested its purpose...

...and named for a miserable beauty thousands of miles away.

I really want to learn everything I can about Vietnam.

Sweet Marlene deserves that. And so do her boys.

There's more to come.

Oh yeah...

Just look at it—do you think the aeronautical engineer's art could get much wickeder?! When I think of my left hand on the throttle, pushing forward—I hear Hades' fire roaring like a blow torch until I've left the sound far behind...I like this airplane.

Sadly though, there's just not many around anymore. Of the 2,294 built, only 80-some survive. Fortunately for me, there's one nearby and I make a pilgrimage to it every once in a while. But, it's not a fulfilling event as the thing is just a carcass of its fighting form; engineless, gunless and bolted to concrete pads.

I'm lucky to have at least one to look at though. It is, after all, a tool of war and ultimately expendable. Yeah, yeah, the idealist in us wants to believe that war is won by preserving life but in fact, it's won by invoking death. Or, as Patton is quoted as saying, "The point is not to die for your country but to make the other son-of-a-bitch die for his."

It's a quote to raise a cheer, that's for sure. But the irony is, the 'other son-of-a-bitch' is cheering the same line!

Anyway, have a look at "647" above. It's a dead son-of-a-bitch.

In fact, 647 is one of 198 F-100s lost to combat in Vietnam. If you noticed the date, it's there because on December 20, 1968, 647 was buried in a violent ceremony in the country of Laos. In other words, she was shot down.

Ok, hold that thought.

The more I "do this," the more I see War and Peace as more alike than not. Yet, the main difference is that War is hyper-compressed timewise and amplified in volume while peace ambles on in between. In other words, ten years of peace equals something like a month of war. Both periods contain their horrors, injustices, moments of glory, hope...it's just that said moments are diluted in peace, but concentrated in war.

You may not agree with my musing but it helps me get my head around whatever can be learned by these crucial, game-changing moments in Life. When I meet people who've survived War, I think, "Hmmm. What can I learn?"

Ok, back to 647.

When I was going through Rich Hall's Vietnam photo book (see Profile 75), one of the photos that brought the most animated and positive response was of three grimy guys in front of an H-53 "Jolly Green Giant" helicopter.

Rich pointed to the guy in the middle, John Carlson and remarked, "Great, great man!" Rich recalled a handful of anecdotes about Carlson that confirmed in his mind that John was a true leader of men. Then, Rich tapped the guy on the right and said, "And that's Major Fenn. Lucky, lucky man!"

The short of it is this—the photo was taken just after the "Jolly" dropped Forrest onto friendly soil. See, Forrest was flying 647 when he was hit and forced to eject over northern Laos, smack dab in unfriendly territory. Rich, John and two others were part of the team of Skyraiders that buzzed around Fenn, allowing the "Jolly" rescue helicopter to swoop in and snatch Fenn from certain torture and likely death.

Ok, hold that thought. One more time.

In War and Peace, the one thing that everyone can relate to is the concept of "Luck." To some people it's a capricious thing that "just happens." To others, it's conjured by an alchemy of actions and thoughts... and to the rest, "Luck" is a tool to be harnessed and used.

Have another look at 647. That's Forrest Fenn's old bird. It died. But Forrest did not. He was rescued by people and systems that planned, prepared and thought-through the likelihood of just that horrible moment. And Forrest didn't just get rescued, he... thrived.

Look, I'll save you the "google." If you've watched the Today Show or any other news headline, Forrest is the guy that hid a MULTI. MILLION. DOLLAR. FORTUNE. in New Mexico. Really. Click here if you don't believe me.

And he wants someone to find it.

In other words, Forrest went on to redeem the death he was spared by making a success of himself as— of all things—an art dealer. And he wants to share it with someone who is...

Lucky?

Hmmm.

That Forrest was rescued was really out of his control - guys like Skyraider pilots Rich Hall, John Carlson, Jim Jamerson, the Jolly crew and the "PJ" (the the guy who pulled Forrest into the hovering helicopter) did the critical work.

But what of the moments in between being shot and rescued? What happens to a person between the impact of horror and deliverance? Is it Luck? Is it Fate? Is it...?

Forrest explained, "I went over my bail-out procedures every night before going to sleep. I initially went into shock, but I knew how to correct it. 30 minutes later, I was 100%."

Funny thing. Rich Hall said something interesting about Forrest's rescue.

"Forrest was ready for the Jolly."

Alright. This story doesn't seem to be over. There are elements at work that aren't formed yet, but don't be surprised if I write/draw more about the Rescue of Forrest Fenn.

In the meantime, I hope this story conjures up a spark of hope for you. And whatever War you're in, there are people who are able to rescue, provided you're prepared and ready.

Though the thing that brought you to the moment is dead.

Photo courtesy Rich Hall.

You know, they're all interesting. And they're all thought-provoking.

And they're all important.

"They" are The Stories I get to hear. And the more I hear, the more I become convinced that Combat and Peace are more alike than not. Both have their moments of bone-chilling fear, horror, courage and victory... as well as monotony and, ironically, peace.

For me it works like this—I'll be in the thick of something, from business to yard work and suddenly, I'll remember a story and my perspective will change; somehow, inspiration will come and a fresh outcome will occur.

Maybe that's why studying History is so important—it's the story of "us." Minute by minute, we climb a little higher atop the shoulders of giants of the past.*

But, there are those stories that somehow separate themselves from the grit, grime and guts and take on a glow that's almost, well... holy.

Last week, I received a commission to do one of the most fantastic moments in combat aviation. The moment is regarded in aviation circles as "Pardo's Push." In short, an F-4C pilot named Bob Pardo literally pushed his stricken wingman's dead Phantom fighter out of enemy air space in order to give the the crew* a better chance of surviving a bail out and avoiding the hell of a POW camp.

You can google "Pardo's Push" yourself. If you know anything about aviation, aeronautics, physics or that quality called cojones, you'll shake your head in disbelief. But it's all true and right now, I've got the chance to dig a little deeper and learn more about the man himself. This is going to be so cool!

Oh. And the guy who commissioned me? There's a story in that, too. He stated, "(Bob's) selfless act of love and compassion for (his) wingman and complete disregard for personal safety, is among the greatest acts of valor ever exhibited. Quite simply (Bob is), and will always be, my hero."

In short, he wants a picture of Pardo's F-4 on his wall for inspiration. He too get's the "standing on the shoulders of giants" quote.

This story would normally just end with two like-minded guys toasting a minor business deal. I'd get to work while he cleared space on the wall of his den and you'd see the final work. For better or worse.

But like Pardo's Push, the story isn't a normal deal. Instead, the Commissioner is someone who ended up with the very fate that Pardo risked so much to avert.

Yeah, my Patron was a POW himself.

Stick around.

This one is important. For more reasons than you might be thinking...

*Interesting!

*F-4's had two people aboard - pilot and weapons officer.

Do you remember when President George H. Bush talked about the "Thousand points of light"? The actual quote was something like, "...America moving forward, always forward—for a better America, for an endless enduring dream and a thousand points of light."

In today's glitterati world, there are thousands of points of light going off every second—they're called "paparazzi." No disrespect to President Bush or even the hard work of those who follow Miley Cyrus around but I haven't seen so many points of light as I've seen points of Bullsh*t.

Whatever. My point of view isn't anything new. But I will say this much—at some point or another a person comes to the crossroad that their actions either matter for the greater good or they don't.

But even then, what does something good look like? Does it look like Miley Cyrus?

Hmmm. Well, as far as I've learned, if you turn your eyes toward Texas, and squint really hard, you can see a point of light named Bob. Pardo. That's him on the left.

This isn't the place for the back story of the famed "Pardo Push." Click here for that. Instead, this is the place for you to learn a quirk of the story that might brighten your day. Especially if you're in the dark of cynicism.

A couple nights ago, Bob and I were talking about his defining moment and I was trying to figure out why Bob did what he did. Offhandedly I asked, "So, (Lt. Earl) Aman was your wingman..."

Bob interrupted, "No. Earl was not my wingman."

"Somewhere I read that Earl was a wingman..."

"That's wrong. I was #2. Earl was #4. My leader and Earl's leader had head back to base."

Hmmm. Headed back to base, eh?

"What do you mean headed back to base? You mean they left?"

In case you don't understand the significance of what Bob just said, look at the illustration below. The leaders are second and third from left. These are the guys that are supposed to lead—both the mission and the example.

To be fair, I haven't talked to either of the leaders that flew in that four-ship on March 10, 1967. All I know is this—Bob Pardo and his backseater Steve Wayne, though flying a combat-damaged F-4 themselves, stuck around to help Earl Aman and his backseater Robert Houghton when the 'leaders' didn't.

Anyway, I wondered why Bob stayed with Earl.

"You and Earl must have been good friends, yes?"

Bob replied, "No. Well, sure, I guess. Earl was in my squadron..." In other words, Earl was just a guy in Bob's squadron. Cordial, friendly, sure. But best buds? No. Kind of like the guy from work who rounds out your golf foursome a few times a summer.

Anyway...

"So why did you do it? Why did you risk everything (your life, your military future, possible imprisonment) to save Earl?" My pen was ready...

"Well. I guess...my dad. Yeah. It was my dad. He taught me...I guess, that..."

Ha. Bob Pardo didn't have a pat answer. At least nothing other than a tangental ramble of how his old man taught him this and that. In listening to Bob's Depression-era family and having to work hard, there were enough aw-shucks moments that I wondered if Bob wasn't a little too good to be true. See, I remember something about WW2 ace Pappy Boyington saying that behind every hero was a bum.

And that's fine. I can accept that Bob Pardo is human. In fact, I'm sure he's flickered a few times. Maybe gone-out altogether, too. I don't know.

But I do have another picture to show you. Look below.

That's Bob on left, Earl at right. The quality of the photo isn't great but I think you can see for yourself that Earl is in a wheelchair and on a ventilator. Here's the backstory - in 1994, Earl was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease and by the 28th anniversary of "The Push," was being fed through a tube.

Photo courtesy: http://www.8tfw.com/pages/earlaman.htm

And the T-shirt on Earl's lap is one of 3,000-some t-shirts that Bob and a network of friends bought and sold to raise money for Earl's chair, ventilator, computer...

"Did you know Earl was in one of the first classes of The Air Force Academy?" Bob asked conversationally. Of course I didn't. And there's no way I could have - Earl died from the disease in 1998. But Bob sounded pretty alive when he proclaimed, "We got him a van so he could go to his reunion (in 1996)."

Did you catch what happened here? The friendship? The continued sense of duty? The strength of the brotherhood? The, dare I state it, "leadership"?

Bob's no point of light.

Bob's a torch.

And I tell you what—I think this was the kind of stuff President Bush was talking about.

Ok. Back to the guy who commissioned me to do this piece, he's an ex-POW who thought Pardo's "push" was a momentous act of humanity and worthy of space on his office wall. "You're going to like Bob. He's the real deal."

He is. And now I know what a point of light looks like, too.

Meet Dick Francis. Read about him here. His story isn't so much about being a "point of light" as it is igniting new ones.

I start his F-4E next and hopefully, when we're done, Dick will have lit three more.

PS - Bob has asked that I work with him to benefit his charity, the "Air Warrior Courage Foundation." There are a very limited number of prints of my artwork, signed by Bob, available and a sizeable portion of each sale goes to the AWCF. SOLD OUT.

You never know.

Until you're there.

But, you can prepare.

Ok. This post marks the beginning of "314" - an F-4E Phantom shot down over Hanoi, Vietnam. Just to be clear, when I wrote "over Hanoi..." I meant directly over Hanoi. Smack-dab.

Pilot Lt. Col. Farrell Sullivan and Weapons Systems Operator, Capt. Dick Francis were blown out of the sky by a North Vietnamese "SAM" missile during a mission over the city—a city that has, to this day, the distinction of having the most formidable anti-aircraft defenses ever developed for a country 'at-war.'

Dick became a POW. One of 766.

Sullivan became KIA. One of 47,378.

Yeah, they're sobering numbers. But really now, how many of us are really effected by them? After all, they're someone else.

Hmmm.

I'm going to ask Dick to describe what it was like—to go from utter power to utter helplessness in the span of minutes. From having more firepower than a WW2 B-17 under-thumb to having the dirty barrel of an AK-47 assault rifle shoved under-chin.

Having heard a few of these stories from others, I know you're going to find Dick's story to be fascinating.

But there are three people out there who have a surprise coming; I have no idea how that's going to go.

Kind of like Dick how felt the morning of June 27, 1972.

For him, it was, just another mission.

For someone else...?

Stay tuned.

It's a question that is so difficult to ask but impossible to leave behind...

"What was it like?"

It's the question that everyone seems to want to know but for a writer, it's a diabolically difficult one on account of the fact that what I'm really doing is interpreting someone else's perceptions. Believe me, it can be mind-melting to bring a moment of the past to life and keep the integrity of events and people intact.

So, I'm going to take a different course with this post. You have a chance to hear Dick Francis describe what it was like to be shot down and taken captive.

Click here.

I'll never forget the start of The Iraq War—March 20, 2003.

Not because the moment engendered any kind of patriotism or political rash but because of the reaction I got from others. See, I was preparing to go to Europe with a few WW2 vets and the media was rife with stories of anti-American this and that.

I can remember distinctly one person, a family friend, being astonished that I didn't cancel my trip outright. "You're taking a big risk!" she warned in a hiss as if to thwart the piqued ears of foreign spies.

And then there were...maybe, ten, fifteen more people who offered similar advice. I remember another, "Well, if it was me, I'd sure think twice about going!"

Normally, I'm not the brightest bulb in the room. So, I've developed the good habit of seeking advice when it comes to matters of question. And the advice I seek is usually from those whom are counter to the first proposition. In this case, I asked a man who was quite familiar with war, Europe and 'risk.'

I asked Punchy Powell, one of the WW2 fighter pilots I was intending to accompany. "Punchy?"

"Yeah?" he replied in his collard-green drawl.

"This war in Iraq. How you feel about that in light of our trip. I mean, are you..."

"Wur-ud?" He interjected quickly.

"Well..."

"We go! I learned a long time ago that if I was afraid of the little things, I'd be afraid of everything!"

In a flash, the well-intentioned but fretful faces of all those folk flashed before my eyes—teachers, weight lifters, managers, doctors—and I realized. These people were afraid. And it wasn't so much the fear of something real, it was the fear of something possible. And it struck me—they didn't seem to have the internal confidence that Punchy had. They hadn't learned to control the fear of little things that was necessary to see the big things as—not fear—adventure.

Bottom line, I went and had a BLAST. New friends, awesome sights, amazing history...and I was even cursed by a Parisian grocery store clerk (evidently, my American-ism was rather obvious). To think that I would have lost all of what I gained on account of prudent possibilities makes me shudder.

I learned: "Adventure" is not so much an act as it is an attitude.

Ok. So what does this have to do with Dick Rutan's F-100F? In the event you don't know the name, you may remember that strange, spindly white airplane that flew around the world back in December of 1986. That airplane was called The Rutan Voyager and he and fellow pilot Jeana Yeager flew it around the world, NON STOP.

It took nine days, entirely in the air, in a cockpit smaller than a farmyard propane tank!

Nine days of eating, breathing, pooping without touching earth—much of it over water—pretty much qualifies as an "Adventure." And I wonder how many people thought the act was madness. "Dick, really now. Isn't just a little foolish to get into that thing and..."

In a few weeks, I get to sit down with Dick and learn what it takes to live a life of obvious risk, boundary pushing and accomplishment. Of course, I'll share what comes of that with you, too.

But, I suspect that such a life begins in-spite of all the admonishment with the words, "We go!"

Stand by...

The following is from Dick Francis' son, Gavin. He responded to my request for insight into what it was like to experience his dad's POW event.

It is unedited and presented in its entirety.

There are 17 paragraphs, but I suspect they'll be worth your time.

*************
"I apologize for taking so long to get this to you. It has been a busy time. I am on vacation now, so I’ve had an opportunity to reflect and focus. This all happened long ago, so the actual details may have been a little different than I remember them. But this is what I recall:

I remember the day that we found out that my father had been shot down. I guess I was about 6 years old. My father had received his next assignment to the Philippines, and my mother, my younger brother, and I were staying with my maternal grandparents in Tulsa, Oklahoma, awaiting our move while my father was away on temporary duty, flying missions in Vietnam.

It was a sunny day, and from the backyard where I was playing, I could see a blue Air Force staff vehicle pull into the driveway along the side of my grandparent’s house. Two uniformed men got out of the car, put on their caps, and I immediately ran inside to tell my mother that some Air Force people had arrived. She met the two men at the front door, and then quickly asked my grandfather to take me back outside to play.

Although I didn’t fully comprehend the situation, I realized deep down that something was wrong. And later that evening when my mother explained what had happened to my father, I cried. I didn’t really understand where Vietnam was or why my father was there. I just knew that my father flew airplanes for the Air Force.

Not long afterward, the North Vietnamese released propaganda film footage of my father receiving medical attention in a Hanoi hospital after having been captured. One of the Tulsa television stations, KTEW-TV, acquired a copy of the footage for their news broadcast. Jack Morris, a local anchorman, invited us down to the station to see the film. In the darkness of the viewing room, we all watched the film to see what my father looked like, searching for some sign that he was okay. I was disappointed that seeing the film didn’t bring me any real assurances, and I still felt sad that my Dad was far away in a strange place where people didn’t like him.

Jack Morris, KTEW Anchorman (1921-2010)

(on)...reflecting on how television news had changed from his time as an anchorman, Morris noted that “there’s a little more show business than there was in those days. We were dead serious about the news. When you’re talking about death and taxes and all the sadness that makes up the news, it’s no laughing matter.”

Source: Tulsa World

After that, I began watching Jack Morris in the evenings with my grandfather to learn what was happening in Vietnam. Anytime there was film footage, I would scan the background to see if I could see my father, hoping that he had escaped and was trying to get home.

That was a difficult and confusing year for us. My mother had her hands full taking care of me and my brother, Ryan, who was only 9 months old. We’d already shipped our car and belongings to the Philippines. The military was able to ship everything back to the U.S., but we had to find a place to live. And without my father around, it was hard to know exactly what the future had in store for us.

Initially, my mother rented an apartment near my aunt and uncle in Shreveport,Louisiana, where she had grown up. I started the first grade there, but within a month my uncle was transferred to a new job out of state, and without any family support in Louisiana, my mother decided to move us back to Tulsa.

In Tulsa, my mother rented a house a few blocks away from where my grandparents lived. All of our belongings were shipped there. And that’s where everything stayed, in cardboard boxes stacked up around the otherwise empty house. We never actually moved into the house. My Mom and I really didn't want to live there. I think that setting up house again was just too much for my mother to deal with. Instead, we stayed with my grandparents and would occasionally visit the rented house.

I started school in the neighborhood at Robert Fulton Elementary. I was having problems learning to read, so my teacher put me in the remedial reading group. I was embarrassed by this, and the fact that my teachers and all the other kids knew that my father was a POW only made me feel more self-conscious.

During that time, I became increasingly frustrated with the folks over in North Vietnam because of their unwillingness to let my father come home. At one point, I devised a plan to go to Vietnam myself and bring my father back. I told everyone my intentions, packed a suitcase, and dragged it down the street a block or so before my grandfather came after me and helped me carry the suitcase back to the house.

One day, we went with a number of other local families of POWs to Oklahoma City, probably to Tinker AFB, where I met with a psychiatrist along with the other kids. The psychiatrist was obviously there to evaluate us, and he asked us to talk about how we felt about our fathers being held captive. I was one of the younger kids in the group, but I think I was able to express myself pretty well. I was glad to be able to talk to someone about how sad I felt.

My mother became friends with another local woman whose husband was a prisoner in Vietnam. She had a daughter about my age, and we would sometimes get together with them. I was vaguely aware that the woman was an activist of sorts, who had become involved with the National League of POW/MIA Families. Although her daughter was a little older than I was, we would sometimes play together, and I remember being jealous when we found out that her father was being released. But it was also exciting because it meant that Dad might also be coming home soon.

There was a group called VIVA (Voices in Vital America) which made bracelets, which a lot of people were wearing back then. The bracelets had the names of service members on them who were listed as POW or MIA. You were supposed to wear the bracelet until your loved one came home. I wore my father’s bracelet. It was a constant reminder to me that he was far away in a prison cell somewhere, but wearing it was a way for me to stay connected with him, and to keep hope alive that he would return someday.

Eventually, a cease-fire was declared, the war ended, and we found out that my father would be coming home. My father was released in March 1973, three days after my seventh birthday. We went to Wichita Falls to meet him when his plane arrived. I remember how anxious I was waiting for him to step off the plane. I was so excited. My paternal grandmother and grandfather were also there. And although it was a joyous occasion for all of us, it was also very stressful. My grandfather had been taken prisoner by the Japanese during World War II, and had been part of the “Bataan Death March” in the Philippines. I think we thought that his presence might help to make things a little easier for my Dad because of their similar war-time experiences. But my father had been through a lot, he was very thin, and I think he may have been dealing with severe emotional issues. None of us really quite knew what to expect, but all that mattered to me was that my father had come home and I was glad to have him back.

It’s hard to say how the war and his imprisonment affected my father. After he returned to active duty, we ended up at Seymour-Johnson AFB in Goldsboro, North Carolina, where my parent’s marriage soon fell apart. Although my parents had been married for 10 years, they married very young, and I believe they’d always had problems. Indeed, my father was still in his twenties at the time he was shot down and captured. Obviously, such a traumatic experience would have a profound effect on anyone, especially someone of that age, and I’m sure that it affected him deeply. But after 40 years, it’s hard to know these things for sure.

At any rate, I’m very proud of my father and of his service to our country. I have a great appreciation for him and for all the men and women of the Armed Forces who have put themselves in harm’s way.

Thanks very much for asking about my memories. I’m glad to have the opportunity to share this part of my father’s story with you."

Gavin

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

Pictured: Gavin, Dick, Betty and Ryan Francis, c. 1973, shortly after Dick's return the United States.

Note: My editor read this post and made the comment that Gavin's story illustrated to him how no single man or woman goes to war alone.

Last week, I was asked, "Is drawing airplanes hard work?"

Hmmm. Interesting question.

Have a look at my pencil sketch above—it's an F-100D of the 531st TFS based at Misawa AB sometime in 1963.

The hardpart, getting the markings established, is pretty much done. Thanks to a half-a-dozen people around the world, I was able to learn that 879 had as many as seven combinations of markings applied between 1960 and 1965. And the stakes were high to get it right for 1963—the finished piece will go on display as a testimony of gratitude between one guy to another. In this case, historical precision is no mere feature, it's an integral part of the commission.

I can't begin to count how much 'work' went into these people's sifting, sorting and cross checking pictures, dates, places... researching markings is hard work. It takes experience, intuition and, of course, a stack of photos.

Now, it's time for the hardpart, actually doing the artwork.

Have another look.

Right now, 879 is, of course, a gray pencil doodle. But, she'll come to life as she was—a sharp silver shark splashed with slices of red, white and blue. Such paint jobs (there are some really wild pre-'65 color schemes out there) were the order of the day. Looking through hundreds of F-100, F-101 and F-102 photos, it's tempting to believe that the USAF had a graphic-design department staffed with Art School beatniks.

And how hard will actually doing the airplane be? (laughs). No idea yet...I joke that the busy parking lot outside my Studio is a time machine. I park my car in the bright of morning and fifteen minutes later, it's night time and the only car left. So...maybe...45 minutes of hard work?

(joke)

Anyway, by appearance, 1963 seems like an easy time. But I know better. There are no easy times. Ever. The illusion of hard vs. easy is simply a matter of choosing which details to pay attention to.

In 1963, America was RIGHT on the bubble between the prosperity and paranoia of the Cold War and the rage and change of The Vietnam Era...and if you want to "see" what it looked like when the bubble popped (click here)...

Did you click?

Really...do so (it's not that hard).

So. Is drawing airplanes hard work?

Not really. It's just life.

Oh. And here are a few wild F-100's. Before they received the much more workman paint jobs of green, dark green and tan.*

Photo: Vince Reynolds via Replica In Scale

Photo: Phillip Friddell via Replica In Scale

Photo: R. Franke, via Replica In Scale

*That'd be the other side of the bubble called "Vietnam."

"I was out of my body, looking down... looking down at the war beneath.

I saw two armies. One of life, the other, death. And they clashed.

I knew they were fighting over me."

A thousand regrets for not having something to record the audio! Dick Rutan, adventurer, inventor, warrior was describing an utterly outrageous experience, one that defied reason. And my hand's ability to keep up. Damnit!

"And this was in the Voyager!?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes. One of our training flights."

"You were...breaking down..?"

"Yes." Dick's reply was crisp, abrupt; a statement of fact. But there wasn't any shame in the apparent loss of control. Instead, Dick spoke with the analytical detachment of a scientist. I knew then that this was a guy who had learned to keep his cool even when things got insanely hot.

"(They were) Gremlins. The Voyager was not a safe aircraft and it tested our limits of endurance. I was tired, hadn't slept for 30 hours and hallucinating, seeing Gremlins. I had to learn how to manage those stresses.

I can tell you this, if we hadn't trained and learned like we did, there would have been no Voyager mission."

And that's what my first conversation with Dick Rutan was like.

In December of 1986, Dick and fellow Voyager pilot Jeana Yeager flew the spindly Rutan Voyager on a non-stop flight around the world. Though I vaguely remember the headline-making moment, it had little significance to me until this year's commission. In my youth, my distraction of the moment, I'd just figured a team of airplane nuts got together to set a record.

However...

...when the project came along to do Dick Rutan's Vietnam F-100F and Voyager, I was gobsmacked within the first 15 minutes of research. The round-the-world record was no lark. Instead, it was the culmination of five years of science, engineering and forced mastery of the black art of "Human Factors" - the study of how humans interact with the systems they create.

Ok, have another look at "837" above— it was one of the F-100's Dick flew as a "MISTY" Forward Air Controller (FAC) in Vietnam. It bears a clue into what it took to mint the mind that could, on one hand, hallucinate in the cockpit of an experimental aircraft and on the other, retain the rational presence pull his faculties back into sanity without losing control in the process.

MISTY was the callsign for the FACs who loitered their F-100Fs above the North Vietnam countryside spotting targets for the whip crack of an air strike. But while the air strike came and went, the MISTYs stuck around snooping out the next target. This nearly constant battle-field presence cost them; MISTY's suffered a stunning 23% loss rate.

I can only imagine that, 20 years later, while trying to tame his exhausted faculties, the Vietnam jungle reached out from beyond sanity and tempted him with doom. How & why he overcame the trouble is mine to discover because in a couple weeks, I get to spend more time with Dick. In fact, I'm taping him for my "Old Guys and Their Airplanes" project (yes, I'll post it). It'll be ready (probably) by the end of November.

I realize there are readers 'out there' that are like me and would really appreciate the chance to meet the man but the opportunity isn't likely to present itself. So. If you'd like to ask Dick Rutan a question, here's the next best thing: Email me (click here). If your question is chosen, you'll get a print showing both the 100 and the Voyager and I'll also ask Dick to sign it for you, too.

And, make it a good one, too. I suspect he likes challenges.

PS - get your question in before October 3, 2013.

He stated it three times in expressing the one thought. Each time, he spoke the word in that old-school fashion of putting the emphasis on the last syllable. Like a command. Like a privilege.

"They gave me responsibility. I was 22 and had responsibility. The responsibility of 9 men and of killing thousands of Japanese."

But I didn't hear the word at first. I was still stuck on the "9 men" and "Killing thousands of Japanese."

He held eye contact for another brief moment—crisp blue eyes in a face of delicate features, chiseled and smoothed from 92 years of life—then returned to buttering his pancakes, allowing my mind catch up to what my ears had brought. It was then that I understood what he was saying. Responsibility is not a thing or a task.

Responsibility is power. And if you have responsibility for something, it's a big deal.

Ok. Have a look at the B-24 above. It's going to change a lot as I'm not quite sure on the particular serial numbers, nose art and model. Drawing the oddly shaped B-24 is an additional challenge because the type had so many different variations...

I'm not complaining. The B-24 that I settle upon will be one flown by Lt. Raymond Plank of the 64th Bombardment Squadron, 43rd Bombardment Group during the final but shockingly vicious months of war against Imperial Japan. This morning's breakfast with Raymond generated six pages of notes including one particular story that I'll share in the next post.

However, the most fascinating aspect to this story is not the moments of terror and hours of anxiety over ocean and enemy but Raymond's whole life of...

... responsibility.

Stay tuned.

Have a look. I'd say it's maybe... 40% done. Maybe. I'm kind of grumpy about it. I loathe the "middle" of a difficult project as it's too late to turn back and too much left to do—rather ironic considering the story you're about to read.

The next and final post will show Raymond Plank's B-24 in her sex and booze fueled glory. (smirk) At least a B-24 that Raymond flew. Once or twice. Regardless, you'll just have to wait as I'm just not that good at drawing topless women. (Too distracting).

However, to know anything about WW2 in the Pacific, one of, if not the dominant forces dictating American military strategy was the sheer size of the Arena. Aside from continental Asia, WW2 was fought over islands sprinkled over the earth's largest ocean. Look at the map below. The battlefield was HUGE. And no one appreciated the expanse below like the airman.

There are no landmarks over open ocean. Get lost? The choice is brutal: ditch the airplane and risk being smashed upon impact or bail out and hope the life preserver holds air (by the way, the water was full of teeth and a speck of yellow bobbing in millions of square miles of rolling ocean is nigh impossible to spot).

Thousands of men, airplanes and bombs shuttled their way to and from targets over and over and over. Being war and all, the efforts of both sides to destroy the other were mighty; it's impossible to tell how many aircraft (Japanese and Allied) were downed over open ocean but it's safe to put that number in the thousands, too.

Frankly, it's impossible for 21st Century folk to fully appreciate what it must have been like for Raymond Plank and his crew of nine to do their work. To know that the next five to ten hours would be marked by monotony over open water, punctuated by a few fast minutes of terror at the target, only to return home in a potentially damaged machine is jarring.

Yet last week, Raymond attempted to fill me in.

The time was early 1945. Japan was, of course, losing the war in a big way. The Japanese Army Air Force was a shred of its former self and the Navy's aircraft had long lost their sea legs due to the decimation of her aircraft carriers. But, as the Japanese were nowhere near admitting defeat, they defended their targets against the Allied aerial armada with legendary ferocity. Namely, "Ack Ack" or, anti-aircraft guns.

On this particular mission—the actual date lost for the moment, but we'll get that figured out—the target was a Japanese air field on the island of Formosa (now Taiwan). From the freshly recaptured Clark Air Base in the northern Phillipines, the trip was approximately 1,000 miles round-trip. In case you're wondering, that's a 6 hour trip. Half over water.

Ray remembers the approach rather well. The flak began as the peppering of black smudges in the tropic sky and soon rose to a crescendo of unusual violence. Though a 30 ton giant, Ray's B-24 still shuddered under the impacts of supersonic shards. Against the roar of the engines, the delicate "tink!" and "dunk!" of flak pieces were deceptively subtle.

Want to get a feel for it? Click on the movie below, (it might take a second to load) turn your volume up all the way and imagine small handfuls of rocks being tossed at your window...(I made that little film while riding in a B-24, btw).

"We were taking very heavy flak. Very heavy." Raymond stated in his distinctive, scholarly drawl. "And then, a 120mm (guessed) shell perforated our right wing. The entry hole was about the size of the projectile but the exit blew all to hell. So much that the rubber seals in our wing tanks were obliterated and gasoline streamed out."

Stop there. The Japanese 120mm gun fired an explosive round. In Raymond's case, however, the round did not explode. It simply passed through the wing like a hot poker through a candle. Had it exploded, Raymond Plank and crew would have been blown to pieces over the China Sea.

With reflexes honed by repetitive training, Raymond quickly feathered the #1 engine to eliminate the chance of a spark igniting the raw spewing into the atmosphere. Did they complete their bomb run? Jettison their bombs? Raymond doesn't recall. All he remembers is the gentle, ginger sway out of the formation to get out of the combat area and head for home.

With one dead engine, a dramatic loss of fuel and hundreds of miles to fly, the return flight was, to say the least, nervous.

I tried to capture the moment with my iPad using my brand-new Wacom pen. It's cheesy, but I think you'll get the gist of what it might have looked like to take a hit in the wing....*

What I couldn't draw is what was happening in the cockpit. In the fury of the moment, Raymond began to realize that, in addition to the seismic damage to the airplane, three men in his crew were wounded; casualties of the blizzard of metal they'd flown throw.

"Our nose gunner took a piece of metal to his foot. He was screaming like mad..." Raymond explained. "Our bombardier pulled him back to behind the flight deck. He was bleeding a lot, so he decided he needed a tourniquet. (Once that was applied), he pulled off the boot and worked the jagged metal through the foot. It had to hurt like mad! He loaded him up with (morphine) and sulfa powder."

One of the waist gunners took a piece of flak to his head. Fortunately, he'd put his combat helmet at the first sign; the piece dented the helmet and bruised the soft tissue. Surely without the helmet, the gunner would have been killed instantly. The tail gunner too was hit, his specific injury lost to the the passing of seventy years of life...

"We'd made it back to base. An ambulance, a fire truck and a Chaplain were waiting for us,' Raymond explained. 'But our left tire was in shreds. It'd been hit by flak. We couldn't land with only one tire or else we'd ground loop (essentially a high-speed spin-out on the airstrip). We knew we had to equalize the landing gear somehow so I got out (Raymond was co-pilot on this mission) and went back to the waist gunner's spot where we held one of the crew out the window into the slipstream where he could blow out the tires with a .50 cal."

Yes, I asked. "Really!? You hung a guy out with a .50 cal. machine gun to shoot the tire?!"

"Yes." Raymond replied matter of factly. "I held onto him and someone else was hanging onto me!"

(Note: If the sight of a man trying to manage the explosive power of a Browning .50 heavy machine in the raging slipstream is too fantastic to imagine, please know the crew tried to shoot out the tire with a .45 sidearm pistol. The taught, reinforced rubber only deflected the big bullets, necessitating the raise in calibre.)

Minutes later, the B-24 ground its way to a halt at Clark, a battered wreck. With the wounded quickly Jeeped to the base hospital, the crew stood back to appreciate their mount; it was holed 367 times. Unworthy of repair, a few necessary parts were stripped and the rest of her pulled to the side and tagged for scrap.

Raymond, on the other hand, had no idea that he had inaugurated a charmed life...

And, you'll read about THAT in the next and final post of Raymond's B-24.**

* ** Update: Just got off the phone with the man (Raymond). He and I had a miscomm; in the little animation, I drew the #3 taking a hit when instead, it was the #1 (outboard). Also, Raymond wanted to make sure I got the point across that he flew a number of B-24s; three of which were written off. The B-24 to follow will be no more "his" than any of the other crews that flew her.

She's finished - it's "Cocktail Hour"!

Though I can't verify exactly how many times Lt. Raymond Plank flew her, this particular B-24 has become a most interesting symbol of his service.

Let me explain.

If you can get past nose artist Sarkis Bartigian's obvious high points, the piece itself is a brilliant look into the closing months of WW2, especially as seen through the eyes of war-weary soldiers. Note the bright lights, big city, stars, music (and of course her). Now, close your eyes and imagine rhythmic blasts from a swing Band in the corner, clinks of drinks and the excited, optimistic chatter of people blowing off the steam of a week's stress...

Or, as a buddy of mine is wont to proclaim around 4:30pm on a Friday, "Hey! It's 5'oclock somewhere!" and then announce the Watering Hole in which he'll be holding court.

"Cocktail Hour" was a late-war B-24. Though Bartigian is no longer around to interview, it's easy to see how his artwork represented the sentiment of so many; "It's time to get this damned war over and onto better things!" Indeed, the first recollection of WW2 that Raymond shared with me was not a combat mission but of a historic moment that, in his mind, sealed the end of the war.

The day was August 9, 1945, the location was an air base within the Okinawan island chain called "le Shima." The day's missions were scrubbed, the 43rd's B-24s grounded. Raymond, never one to sit still and always reading between the lines, was quick to figure that 'something was up,' and managed an impromptu and unauthorized check flight in a C-46 Commando transport plane that an old buddy, Joe Sharpe, had flown in a day or two earlier.

Sneaking off like kids in their father's car, the two climbed over the ocean to the north. Toward the crumbling empire of Japan. "It seemed like we were flying a long time, (but that was probably) due to us doing something we weren't supposed to do!" Raymond laughed. "We didn't know where we were going but I wanted to see if I could see it!"

What was "it"?

Fueled by a hunch, the two scanned the northern horizon, growing more anxious with each career-killing minute until, a few minutes after 11am, poking up from the gentle curve of the earth, they saw IT— the boiling rise of a mushroom cloud. "By gawd, that's where the sum-bitch* is!" Raymond exclaimed, laughing. "We flew on toward it for another 20 minutes or so but then got the hell out of there!"

Raymond knew then, beyond a shadow of doubt, the war was over.

(photo: National Archives)

The next week, on August 17, three Japanese G4M "Betty" bombers, freshly painted in the universally accepted color of Surrender (white) landed at le Shima. Though the moment was just a punctuation in the awkward, complicated process of ceasing hostilities, it was a momentous one for all present in that it was an undeniable punctuation to the times.

(photo: Raymond Plank)

"So you were there with your camera?"

"Yes. I took that picture."

"That had to be an incredible moment! Describe it for..."

"Yes! I went up to the Major. 'Major Parker? It looks like my services are no longer necessary! May I hitch a ride to Manila?!"

"Huh?!" I asked, confused by what Raymond was saying. I was expecting something about the sweetness of surrender, the defeat of the enemy, the triumph of the American will...but Raymond was on another track altogether.

"...and he said FINE! What a guy. Major Parker was a great guy! He cared more about getting what was needed to get done than how it got done."

"So. Wait a second. You just...quit?"

"Well it was more complicated than that, but yes. I had my Points (a method of scoring that would allow prioritization of returning to home based on wartime service) and I wanted to go home. Finish my degree. Start a business."

In other words, for Raymond Plank, the winding down of defeated engines was not the sound of victory but a metaphorical shriek of a work whistle signaling the end of one thing and the beginning of another.

Lt. Raymond Plank caught the first ship home and did exactly as he'd planned.

So, how did that work out? Click here. That's the business Raymond started— the Apache Corporation. Those aren't millions of dollars, they're billions of dollars. In other words, Raymond Plank had one helluva Cocktail Hour.

It's rare enough for me to talk to WW2 bomber pilots. Rarer yet to talk to ones that were there at momentous moments in history. And, of those that went on to create and lead billion-dollar companies? Raymond is the only one. And will likely be the only one.

Ok. Hold that thought.

People say to me all the time, "Geez it must be great to get all those old stories!" It is! Flak barrages, atomic bombs and topless women on B-24s are sexy topics.

But...

The more time I spend with 'old guys,' the greater my belief that we Americans are living in tragically deficit times. Not the deficit of money, natural resources or international prestige but of the the thing that is eminently more valuable: Wisdom.

Think about it—from Social Security to Boca Raton, FL, the removal of the elderly from daily life has been so systematic, it reeks of a conspiracy to keep the rest of us in a state of foolishness. Disagree? Well, this past week, during the clamor of our government shutdown, very few people I talked to actually seemed to understand that we elected those people...

Look. 80% of my interview-time with Raymond has been spent on learning about the things that took him from a $250,000 ball of venture capital to over $50 Billion in market revenue. I have hours of notes on topics like ethics, character, risk, energy policy, opportunity, reward, regret... I know it can be argued that Raymond's success is an anomaly but the truth is, I've heard it all before from old guys like Wendell Hanson, Don Bryan, Bill Creech, Steve Pisanos, Claude Hone, Punchy Powell, JD Collinsworth...and my list of Vietnam-era 'old guys' is growing at a priceless rate, too.

There's so much to be learned from how others have minted success from molten adversity. That's the truly great stuff to me and I wouldn't have gotten a bit of it had I not talked to Old Guys; it's how I make up my own tragic deficits in wisdom and heartily recommended to others as a tonic for the times.

A toast to Lt. Raymond Plank the bomber pilot and Raymond Plank the Captain of American industry.

It's Cocktail Hour.

Time to get to work.

NOTE: Raymond wrote a book. If you want to learn something, you can buy it here. Or, if you really want to make his day, buy it here or here.

AND...if you'd like to buy a print of Cocktail Hour, signed by Raymond, go here.

*That'd be the second atomic bomb blast over Nagasaki.

It is one thing to write about an enemy. It is yet another to buy him dinner.

And yet another to salute to his honor.

Recently, I was able to spend a few weeks in Vietnam. The experience was a cannonball-dive into the culture; I got to know Vietnam's higher education system by lecturing at several universities*, dined outside of the stream of tourists, slept with all the modern conveniences of home and quickly learned to suspend all previous notions of what vehicle traffic should look and act like.

And of course, I managed to meet a few "old guys and draw their airplanes."

The sketch above is the MiG-21 flown by Nugyen Hong My, pilot, warrior, victor and victim. He is the first "enemy" pilot that I have met and the first enemy pilot that I will record via my artwork.

Watch this space as Hong My's fighter takes shape and his story is told. And recognize that 5018 merely the first of at least three (maybe more) to come.

Strap in. We're going North.

Really North.

PS - The sketch above is rougher than my usual roughness as I did it while trying to work through a translator. It's incomplete and vague, a reflection of the opening of a relationship that spans so many years. The blurring in the upper right hand corner is the name and email of a USAF pilot who may or may not become part of this series.

And... thank you to General (Ret.) Dan Cherry and Stuart Maas (334th TFS) for getting this ball rolling. You'll be hearing more from them, too.

Oh! As for Hong My, that's him below looking at my opening sketch. Our translator, Huyen is getting a crash-course in all-things MiG...

*Foreign Trade University, Hanoi University, National Economics University and University of Language and International Studies

Imagine a penny.

I know what probably came to mind—coppery, somewhat dingy and Abraham Lincoln’s profile. And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if the 40-some percent of readers that come from elsewhere in the globe, imagined the same thing. The American penny is ubiquitous.

But what of the back? How many of us imagined that side? Probably a smaller number. And of those that imagined both sides of the penny at the same time? Minuscule, I bet. Yeah, yeah, the “History is like a coin because it has two-sides” phrase was minted long ago. But that doesn’t mean it’s no less true.

Alright, pause for a moment and have a look at the MiG above.

The picture shows my progress-shot of a MiG-21 fighter that Hong My flew during the 1972 air war over Viet Nam. Hong My was put into the spotlight a few years ago when General Dan Cherry wrote a pretty-cool book about how he shot Hong My down and later on, met him and became friends. The book is called, “My Enemy, My Friend.” Read it. It’s good for you. However…

One more time...I need to digress again.

So, Dan, upon learning of my trip to Viet Nam, suggested that I meet Hong My and helped get us introduced. It was a supremely cool experience save for the vast language barrier. Hong My knew about five times more English than I knew Vietnamese (I know how to say 'Hello,''Shrimp' and 'Beer'). In other words, the conversation quickly degenerated into my ridiculous attempts at pantomime and Hong My’s gracious patience.

I felt utterly foolish and feared that I was wasting Dan’s endorsement and Hong My’s time. But toward the end of our “conversation,” I asked the question, somewhat absentmindedly, “You? Shoot down? Any of…us?” I pointed at my heart.

Momentary silence...

His eyebrows raised, then lowered. Then, in a quick gesture, he flicked his finger across his chest and stated firmly but quietly, “Yes.”

Boom. I understood. And with the kind of clarity that transcends all language, all emotion, all logic. I was sitting next to a real, bona fide, in-the-flesh, enemy. Granted, an ex-enemy, but the first one at that I ever met who had not only fired at America in anger but had been victorious at it, too.

And I was in his town. His country. And I had just agreed to draw his MiG. Not the one that Dan shot down, but the one that he used to shoot down Bob Mock and John Stiles, January 20, 1972. In other words, “US.”

Ah yes. The other side of the penny.

Have another look at the MiG. We’ll see how far we can push this “My Enemy, My Friend” stuff in the next post.

And, I’d like to introduce you to John Stiles' RF-4, the airplane that wound up in Hong My's missile-lock.

Stand by—Stiles is preparing to give his perspective on the matter...

Here it is —"5018" as flown by Lt. Nguyen Hong My, Vietnamese Peoples Air Force, on 19 January, 1972.¹

It's a sinister looking thing don't you think? For me, it seems more like something out of a 1960s Japanese Godzilla movie than an actual, historical fighter plane. But in fact, the MiG-21 is the single-most produced jet fighter plane, ever. If you count the Chinese copies, nearly 14,000 of the metal dragons were built with the last ones coming off the line in 2013.

To the North Vietnamese Air Force, however, such numbers were pure fantasy as the VPAF only received about 220 MiG-21s between 1966 and 1973. Based on typical jet serviceability, total fighter numbers, rates of delivery and a little one-eyed guesswork, it's easy to believe the common legend that the VPAF only had about 60 jets² in-service at one time. Tops.

It seems ridiculous to think that such a small force would be even worth the effort against the massive amount of American airpower at-hand. Yet, they were, and they were utilized rather well. Depending upon the source, the US:VPAF kill ratio in air-to-air combat was very close to 1:1.³  A far cry from the WWII days when Navy F6F Hellcat pilots could boast of a 13:1 ratio over the Japanese A6M Zero!

The reasons behind the VPAF's comparative success are not mysterious. For one, the VPAF had an excellent but frugal command and control system. In other words, the MiGs weren't scrambled without good reason, good timing and a good chance for success. For two, the American pilots had the burden of the attack. Managing the target, weapons systems, battle plan, avoiding missiles, AAA and MiGs was simply more to manage than the defender's single focus.   Yet, it's perhaps the third reason that is most revealing; the VPAF had achieved the Warrior's Zen. Pilot Nguyen Hong My said it best, "We (felt like) were going to die. We accepted this. So, we didn't fight to survive any longer. Instead, we fought to merely lengthen our life, moment by moment."

Understanding this statement may seem like an exercise in semantics but it's rather clear if you think about it; the Vietnamese air force created an ethos of efficiency. And, like any organizational culture, it couldn't tolerate those who didn't fit in. For any reason.

Ok, time for a rabbit trail.

The American "Sidewinder" missile is one of the great weapons of all time. It's simple, cheap and so effective, its obsolescence is still at least twenty years away. Pretty good for a 1950s design! It is also so good that the Russians, when they got their hands on one in the early '60s, didn't bother to improve it. They just copied it lock-stock and fin and called it the K-13. NATO, on the other hand, called it "Atoll."

If you've ever wondered if anyone ever really used high school trigonometry after graduation, the guidance system designers of the Sidewinder did. In a nutshell, a little temperature-seeing "eye" is in the nose of the missile taking regularly spaced "pictures" of the target ahead. When the eye sends a picture to the missile's "brain," it compares it to the previous one; the differences result in rapid flicks of the missile's fins to keep the missile following the trail of heat generated by the other jet's exhaust. This is why Sidewinder missiles are called "heat seekers."

Anyway, MiG-21s used Atoll missiles. Most 21's carried but two. But the MiG-21MF, like Hong My flew, carried four.

Ok, so to the VPAF bean-counters, four missiles should be four times as effective. Right? Well…maybe not. See, missiles are a lot like your wife buying a dress on the internet - it looks one way on the screen but when the dress is removed from the cardboard box and held up in front of the mirror? Maybe n0t-so-much.

Under ideal conditions, the Sidewinder generated a 90% success rate. In combat practice, it only had an 18% success rate. That’s a 72 point spread! So, in other words, the Sidewinder system was one that depended on a large number of variables for success. It's a lot like how hamburgers almost never look exactly like the photograph on the menu board. No one says they NEVER look EXACLY like that, but we all know they don't!

Now the above numbers were for American-made Sidewinders. The Russian-made Atolls were supposedly far less effective due to manufacturing inconsistencies. Kind of like what would happen if Burger King tried to copy the Big Mac.

Follow me?

Ok. Back to Hong My's MiG-21.

Now, remember the Vietnamese penchant for efficiency? This meant that their time-on-target was carefully calculated to be the least amount of time with the greatest chance of success. At first blush, Hong My's 4-missile MF variant, with twice the regular firepower, should have doubled the chance of success. But it doesn't necessarily work that way in an environment that is constantly dynamic and a system that operates under complicated variables.

In other words, a practical x% hit-rate might be expected for two missiles, but four would not necessarily generate a 2x% hit-rate. It's quite possible that, on a missile by missile basis, 4 missiles may actually have been less efficient than 2!

Follow me?   That’s ok. I’m sorta lost too...

'It's time to bring Hong My back into the conversation.

"On 17 January (1972), I was in flight with Khuong Le (another VPAF pilot). We were directed towards a large formation of, maybe, 30+ US aircraft. We maneuvered in and each of us fired our missiles. Eight in all…”⁴

Alright ONE MORE rabbit trail.

The Vietnamese weren’t foolish. As precious as the missiles were, as valuable as the MiG-21s were, the pilots were even more so. The VPAF weren’t going to put their best and brightest against an American formation in a suicide mission. So, if Hong My were to survive against long-odds, he was going to have to take a 4-missile pot-shot and get the HELL OUT OF THERE!

“…but no shoot-downs! I landed and was disciplined (by my superior officers). 'You can't fire missiles and not hit!' Me being a good pilot was not good enough; I had to prove it.”

To some people, there's an inherent unfairness in being chastised for "bad luck." Yet, those who have accepted the mantle of Responsibility understand that luck ~~doesn't~~can't exist. Responsibility can only be born by a human being. Looked at another way, if a missile success would bring glory, a missile failure, no matter how intangible the cause, should likewise bring shame.

And so it was, 17 January, 1972.

Ok. Time to introduce you to Lt. John Stiles...

...and my artwork of his RF-4C Phantom.

Now. Have another look at 5018 and notice the date. Obviously Hong My got another chance to fly with four missiles.

But this time, he would only use two.

Stay tuned...

¹There is some question between records whether the event was on the 19th or the 20th. More research is going into this question at a later date.

²Jets of all varieties - MiG 17, 19 AND 21s.

³My sources varied between 1.2:1 and 2:1 in favor of the Americans. There's a LOT more to this and I'll cover it in a later post.

⁴Hong My remembers having a number of missiles shot back at him, too. That he or his wingman weren't hit only adds to the mercurial nature of the technology.

The peasant in the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail was correct-rocks really do float. And not just the really small ones but the big ones, too.

It's a bizarre process. A complicated recipe of forces shift, blow and nudge to move big rocks upward through the earth where they breach the soil like a released cork popping to the surface of a lake. But, to be clear, it's not as dramatic. The process moves itself along at a glacial pace, millimeter by millimeter.

Don't believe me? Ask a farm kid if the Spring job of "picking rocks" ever ended. Or, ask if the rocks got progressively smaller over time. The answer to both will be "No." (and followed by a groan of frustration).

Alright. Have a look at 573. It's an RF-4C Phantom flown by pilot Bob Mock and weapons systems officer John Stiles during the Vietnam War. The "R" in the name stands for reconnaissance; the military application of the word is taking recording activities of the enemy for future action. In other words, the RF-4C was a camera plane and its job was to take incriminating pictures.

Look at the nose. See the black trapezoidal shape? Notice the subtle bumps under the nose? These are the portals for cameras—brilliant cameras that could focus and record tiny actions with incredible detail. As a point of reference, the picture below was taken in 1944 by recce pilot (pronounce: recky) Burt Hawley. I have an original print and the clarity is AMAZING. Imagine what the cameras of nearly thirty years later could do!

Anyway...

On January 20, 1972, Mock/Stiles were out looking for SAM (Surface-to-Air Missile) launchers. The missiles were mobile, pulled by trucks, and protected like a Mad Max convoy of anti-aircraft guns and ground personnel. Spotting these convoys was obviously a high-risk job; alone, unarmed, the R-F4's only real defense was moving fast and returning to base with the damning proof.

So, spotting such a convoy, the duo made a camera pass—about 4,000 feet above—and turned to reposition themselves for one more photo run...

Ok. Time to switch gears for a moment.

SAM missiles were complicated, expensive and, if I can use the word, precious to the North Vietnamese. Acquired from the Russians, these giant rockets were no mere deterrent; they were intended to destroy American airplanes with a surety and terror that couldn't be matched by a hail of smaller calibre machine gun bullets or artillery shells. Remember, as wasteful as War can be, it does tend to honor efficiency!

So, ironically, the SAM convoy was protected by smaller calibre 37mm cannon. These guns would spew their explosive bullets, about 1 to 2 per second, at the enemy aircraft above. Now, the ratio of 37mm shells fired to each one that actually hit a target, has to be a ridiculously lopsided number. Likewise, like hunting ducks, the job of being an anti-aircraft gunner required natural ability as well as practice. Being that this was war, gunners varied in quality. Inevitably, the mediocre were many and the expert were few. So, when Mock and Stiles noticed the glowing darts reaching up like fireworks, they weren't afraid. They had learned to adapt to the gesture via a combination of simple maneuvering and the practical knowledge that the gunners would, most likely, miss.

(Click to enlarge)

But then...

BANG! 573 was smacked sideways as if hit by a titanic baseball bat! The force required to move 19 tons, moving at 500-some miles per hour sideways is enormous—imagine what it would take to do something similar to a car speeding down a highway! However, the explosion didn't merely move the Phantom into the other lane, it also flipped it over, sending it spinning like a frisbee. Upside down. It was pure, unmitigated chaos. BANG! Just like that! And in case you're trying to visualize what 573 is doing in the air, know that 19 tons of flightless metal doesn't glide. It plummets.

Ok. If anyone doesn't believe in the value of "practice," they have either never understood Success or they are absolute idiots. What happened in the cockpit of 573 after that incredible hit is yet one more testiment to the Boy Scout motto of "Be Prepared." Spinning, upside down, disoriented, dropping to earth like a rock, Mock and Stiles spent their next SIX SECONDS readying for the ejection. Keeping calm, going through procedure, taking stock...

What exactly did they do? No idea. The specifics are lost to the ether of time. But this much is known—Bob managed to flip the dead Phantom onto its belly, allowing the ejection sequence to trigger just as the tips of the trees were crossing the edge of the cockpit...

And BLAST! A wave of heat pushed smoke, cinders and, of all things, insects into John's face as he caught, snapped and swung from a tree, just over the flaming metal carcass below. And the enemy, of course, saw it all happen and were hot on the trail.

Fast-forward: Fortune favored Mock and Stiles. Though deep within enemy territory, they were snatched up by mercenary helicopter pilots flying under the CIA "Air America" program and hauled home. But the RF-4C was buried where she landed. The official cause of death for 573 was listed as 37mm cannon fire.

Ok. If you've been reading this blog at all, you know that there's a MiG in this story. 37 years later, while researching his own Vietnam story, General Dan Cherry (ret.) met the North Vietnamese fighter pilot that he had shot down, NVAF fighter pilot, Nguyen Hong My, in Hanoi. The MiG was Dan's one documented aerial victory. However, Dan discovered that Hong My had an aerial victory himself.

Time for a pause.

You probably get where this is going, so I'll be brief: for 37 years, John Stiles was under the impression that he had been shot down by anti-aircraft fire. But in 2009, through Dan's meeting with Hong My (and a little digging here and there) resulted in the inescapable conclusion that 573 was actually Hong My's aerial victory.

So what does this mean?

Getting back to those rocks that inch and ache their way to the surface, it meant that John Stiles was not the victim of a spray of semi-random shells but the willful, single intention of a man. To a Warrior, there is a difference. One could be rationalized as a roll of numbers. Bad luck, perhaps. But to know that the killing blow was calculated and delivered by an unseen stalker, and know that that same stalker was still alive...?!

Hmmm.

I can't imagine what it must be like to revisit an uncomfortable, but resolved past with a new host of could-haves, should-haves, what-ifs and why-nots. John, in fact, didn't like it. And it only got more distasteful when Dan called him up one day and suggested John actually meet Hong My!

HOLD THAT THOUGHT.

In a few weeks, John Stiles is going to Hanoi to meet Hong My. Now, it won't be the first time the two have met; they got that awkward moment out of the way back in 2009. But it will be the first time John has set foot on Hong My's home turf.

It took 37 years for the truth of John's shoot-down to come to the surface. That is a long time. Do you think though, that anything else has worked its way up, too?

Hmmmm. I wonder. And, to that end, I plan on finding out because I get to go along. With a video camera.

Stay tuned.

NOTE: The expenses of this trip are, as you might figure, rather enormous. That we have managed to raise so much of the money to go is a testimony to the incredible interest this story has generated. But, if you would like to participate (as in please do!) click here.

Profile 76: BEGINNING/UPDATE: "XR K" as flown by Steve Pisanos, 334th FS

Profile 76: FINAL - "XR K" as flown by Steve Pisanos, 4th FG

Profile 75 - UPDATE: "Sweet Marlene" as flown by Rich Hall, 602nd FS

Profile 75 - FINAL: "Sweet Marlene" as flown by Rich Hall, 602nd FS

Profile 77 - FINAL: "647" as flown by Major Forrest Fenn, 309th TFS, 31st TFW

Profile 78 - "Pardo's Push"

Profile 78 - FINAL: "Pardo's Push".

Profile 79 - BEGINNING: "314" as flown by Lt. Col. Farrell Sullivan and Capt. Dick Francis

Profile 79 - UPDATE - "314" as flown by Lt. Col. Farrell Sullivan and Capt. Dick Francis

Profile 80 - IN-PROGRESS: "879" as flown by Dick Rutan, MISTY 40, 612 TFS

Profile 79 - FINAL: "314" as flown by Lt. Col. Farrell Sullivan and Capt. Dick Francis

Profile 81 - BEGINNING: "879" F-100D Super Sabre of the 531st TFS

Profile 80 - FINAL "837" as flown by MISTY FAC Dick Rutan + Rutan Voyager

Profile 82 - BEGINNING: "???" as flown by Raymond Plank, 43rd BG, 64th BS

Profile 82 - UPDATE: "548" as flown by Raymond Plank, 43rd BG, 64th BS

Profile 82 - FINAL: "Cocktail Hour" as flown by Raymond Plank, 43rd BG, 64th BS

Profile 83 - BEGINNING: The MiGs of the North; "5018" as flown by Nguyen Hong My

Profile 83 - UPDATE: The MiGs of the North; "5018" as flown by Nguyen Hong My

Profile 83 - FINAL/UPDATE: The MiGs of the North "5018" as flown by Nguyen Hong My and "573" as flown by Bob Mock and John Stiles.

Profile 84 - FINAL: "573" as flown by Bob Mock and John Stiles