World: Into the Barrel

Most of the planes that went on last week’s deadly missions into North Viet Nam flew out of Thailand, from which 80% of all U.S. Air Force strikes over the North originate. Of the U.S.’s 40,000 military men stationed in Thailand, some 28,000 are Air Force pilots, mechanics and othsr ground-support personnel who maintain or fly 300 strike aircraft and 250 support planes from six U.S.-operated bases. Under Thailand’s “gentlemen’s agreement” with the U.S., the bases are considered Thai bases and are commanded by Thai officers. Thai air police control access to the bases; U.S. air police who help them cannot even carry guns. Command of the American units, however, lies with U.S. wing commanders and their Seventh Air Force headquarters in Saigon.

Detecting Fingerprints. Out of the Thai bases flies the most extraordinary air-combat team that has ever been as sembled. From Udorn, just 40 minutes by air from Hanoi, supersonic, unarmed RF-101 and RF-4C reconnaissance jets streak into target areas immediately before and after a raid to click pictures. From Korat, Takhli and Ubon come the F-105 Thunderchiefs and F-4C and F-4D Phantoms that actually deliver the bombs. From U-Tapao airfield in the Gulf of Siam, the largest jet field in Southeast Asia, four-engine KC-135 refueling tankers take to the air and gas up the bombers just before and after they hit the North. From Takhli fly EB-66 electronic-warfare jets with special equipment that can detect the “fingerprints” of enemy radar in the sky and then send out a signal that fouls up the screen below. Flying out of Takhli, F-105s armed with radar-guided Shrike missiles have the job of knocking out SAM sites.

Finally, from Nakhon Phanom comes every pilot’s best friend: the air-rescue-and-recovery team. Flying ungainly looking, green and brown CH-30 choppers, or “Jolly Green Giants,” R. &. R. pilots have even gone into Hanoi’s outskirts to rescue downed fliers. Every pilot carries a small radio to bring in rescuers—along with a Jolly Green Giant calling card that has rescue instructions and the pledge: “The bearer of this card, upon being suitably rescued, agrees to provide free cheer at the nearest bar for those making said rescue possible.” More than 200 American pilots have been glad to pay off that debt.

Tunnel Vision. On their bombing runs, U.S. pilots need all the sophisticated hardware and know-how they can get. Never have they gone up against such a dense and withering air-defense system. There is flak, small-arms fire from rooftops, increasingly frisky MIG fighters and portable surface-to-air missiles. To complicate their mission, Washington demands high-precision pinpoint bombing to avoid endangering civilian populations; pilots must get in close, fast, and make no mistakes.

Conscious of such restrictions, the North Vietnamese often park their SAM units right in the middle of proscribed areas. “The other day I went in to hit a bridge,” one F-105 pilot at Takhli told TIME Correspondent Louis Kraar, who was permitted last week to make a rare, one-man visit to the Thai bases. “But I couldn’t strike a SAM site because it was near a harbor. We lost two planes as a result.” The hottest, most heavily defended area, of course, is the 60 sq. mi. surrounding Hanoi; American pilots call it “the Barrel.” “You just develop tunnel vision,” says Captain Richard E. Guild, 27, “and simply goright in.” Pilots have only 20 or 30 seconds to lay their bombs on target, and they cannot afford to think about anything else.

The job is even trickier for Major Dick Desing, 36, who flies night missions out of Ubon; he must swoop low through enemy fire, seeking out moving trucks and barges with only the glow of his flares to guide him. “You see all the flak coming up, all the guns flashing on the ground,” he says. “But you’re too busy to be afraid. You’re tracking, moving, dropping bombs and climbing.” When it is all over and the pilot heads back to Thailand, the reaction is almost always the same: a dry, cotton mouth. “After that, the rest is a piece of cake,” says Colonel Daniel (“Chappie”) James Jr., 36, the three-war Negro fighter ace who was affectionately nicknamed “Black Panther” in Korea. “You fly back to your base, and go through all the work still to be done—the reporting, debriefing, ironing out the mistakes you made. We try to profit by each other’s mistakes. It’s a sort of aerial confession.”

A Red Carpet. Some pilots, of course, do not get back. So far, the U.S. has lost 689 planes. Their pilots either “buy the farm” (get killed) or end up at “the Hanoi Hilton” (get captured). The three out of four who do get back and manage to complete 100 missions win membership in an elite club that now numbers in the hundreds. When a pilot hits the magic mark, his fellow pilots and flight mechanics roll out the red carpet for his return, give him a rousing, horn-honking parade of fire trucks and maintenance vehicles. In turn, he provides a bottle of champagne, then forks out a month’s combat pay that night for drinks all around.

The party may adjourn to the gaudy strip of nightclubs outside the base. Or there is always the officers’ club, where one of the favorite drinks is a MIG-21, a paralyzing concoction consisting of three jiggers of Scotch and one jigger of Drambuie on the rocks. Some base areas have their own bowling alleys, miniature-golf courses and radio stations that broadcast American pop music. Between their briefings, missions and postflight critiques, however, many pilots are often too busy or too tired to care much about recreation. The schedule is so hectic, in fact, that the Ubon officers’ club feels compelled to post a sign each week reading: “Today is Sunday.”