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June 1966,
over South Vietnam.
“That’s twenty-seven.” Called a voice over the headset.
The C-130 piloted by Capt. Joe Brandenburg circled the
low hills Northwest of Saigon for the twenty-seventh
time that night. His aircraft was part of a squadron of
specially fitted C-130’s taking part in Operation: Ranch
Hand. A somewhat demeaning nickname that some top brass
made up for the cycle of “defoliation” flights across
South Vietnam. The infamous Ku Chi tunnels were east of
his assigned flight, and there was nothing here. Of
course, someone thought such “pacification” of empty
jungle swamps was important, otherwise why would the US
Air Force divert an entire field worth of cargo aircraft
and group crew? Important to someone, but not to Capt.
Brandenburg.
“That’s good enough. This shit’ll eat through concrete
after twenty-seven passes.”
The name Ranch Hand was as demeaning as the work. Ground
crews often came up with derogatory and infuriating
nicknames for the squadron pilots. But boy, his squadron
did have some bad pilots. He wasn’t a bad pilot of
course, he just got unlucky. Right?
“Nah Joe. We’re supposed to do thirty passes. Besides,
the Iron Triangle is a no fly zone ‘till 0600.” Called
the voice again. Joe looked over at his co-pilot.
“There’s nothin’ down there I tell ya. B-52’s have been
hammering this area for weeks. Charlie’s either blown to
hell or ran back to the DMZ by now.” The co-pilot lifted
off his mic set and looked across the cockpit.
“I donno Joe. I heard Saigon lost an A-1 over there just
last week.”
“That’s just rumors. Don’t worry about it, it’ll be
fine.”
The C-130 pulled out of its slow circle and angled
toward the east. A heavy black silhouette against the
moon lit predawn sky. Capt. Brandenburg flipped on the
auto pilot settings and sunk back in his seat.
“Now we just sit back and chill.” The co-pilot laughed
back nervously
The navigator called through the mic set, “Hey, someone
put some tunes on.”
It was 0459 and radio Saigon was playing Nowhere to Run
by Nelson and the Vendettas. No one heard the missile
lock alarm.
Under a hole in the jungle canopy, next to a concealed
tunnel entrance stood a group of three Viet Cong
guerillas. One tossed a Russian made SA-7 missile
launcher to his companion and whispered something in
Vietnamese. They all looked up and watched as the black
silhouette of an American plane burst into flame and
fell from the sky. |
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