BAT-21

By William C. Anderson

Copyright © 1980 by
William C. Anderson

Digital Edition Published
by Waking Media 2011

All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means,
except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without
permission in writing from the publisher.

I am deeply indebted to many people for their
assistance in developing this book, especially the following, who
made vital contributions to the project:

Lieutenant Colonel C.B. Kelly, Chief of the Los
Angeles Office of Information of the Secretary of the Air Force, who
first brought the Hambleton story to my attention after its
declassification by the Air Force.

Colonel Donald Burggrabe, who carried through with
unflagging enthusiasm upon Colonel Kelly's retirement from the
Air Force.

Brigadier General H. J. Dalton, Director of Air
Force Public Affairs, who shared our enthusiasm for the project and
opened many doors.

Donald Baruch, of the Public Affairs Office for
the Secretary of Defense, who was instrumental in providing
Department of Defense cooperation.

Marjorie Johnson, whose help in researching and
drafting the book is deeply appreciated.

I acknowledge the invaluable assistance and
cooperation of Lieutenant Colonel Iceal E. Hambleton and his gracious
wife, Gwen, without whose help the miraculous story of a true Vietnam
hero would never have been told.

- William C. Anderson

First Day

Second Day

Third Day

Fourth Day

Fifth Day

Sixth Day

Seventh Day

Eighth Day

Ninth Day

Tenth Day

Eleventh Day

Twelfth Day

Thirteenth
Day

Author's
Afterword

The hammer fell on Easter Weekend, 1972. Soon
after midnight, in the early-morning darkness of Good Friday, 30
March, thousands of Communist mortar, rocket and artillery
rounds began battering South Vietnamese positions along the northern
border of the Republic. By mid-day, multitudes of North Vietnamese
regulars had moved across the so-called Demilitarized Zone (DMZ),
assaulting fire bases and linking with other Communist units already
to the south. Bewildered by the mass and ferocity of the attacks
...the defenders quickly fell back from the advanced posts.

—
from "Airpower and the 1972
Spring Invasion," United States Air Force

Hambleton squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

It always amazed him that a big plane like an
EB-66 could be so cramped inside. Maybe it was because his
six-foot-two frame was never intended to fit into the tight space
that made up the navigator's position. But probably, Hambleton
thought ruefully, it was just because he was simply too old for this
kind of thing. At fifty-three he shouldn't be flying combat, and
doubtless wouldn't be if the Air Force hadn't been in need of his
special skills right now.

In fact, now more than ever. The new North
Vietnamese offensive was only two days old, but already three
divisions of enemy troops, strongly supported by Russian-made tanks,
had overrun the DMZ and were driving rapidly south toward Quang Tri
City. Until—and if—the situation could be stabilized, every Air
Force plane and flier in South Vietnam would be needed on the line.
Even Hambleton's hopes of taking the brief, long-planned R and R with
Gwen were now in ruins. As matters stood, it would probably be quite
a while before he and his wife would be able to soak up the sunshine
on Bangkok's Don Maun golf course.

But at least the present mission didn't seem too
bad. Takeoff had been right on the money and the tanker refueling had
gone as smooth as goose grease. The objective—electronically
sweeping an area south of Ban Kari Pass just prior to the arrival of
a cell of B-52's—would only require the two EB-66's in Hambleton's
flight to be over the target for about fifteen minutes. And as long
as they stayed south of the former DMZ, they wouldn't have to worry
about SAMs. All in all, a piece of cake.

As if reading his mind, the voice of the pilot
came into his headset. "Helluva way to spend Easter Sunday.
Right, Ham?"

Hambleton thumbed his intercom button. "I'll
drink to that."

"Might get back in time to do nine holes. You
buy those new clubs you've been ogling at the BX?"

"Had to. Self-defense. Wanted to be ready for
Don Maun. Great course. You should play it sometime."

"Not with you. I've lost so much money
playing with you I'm listing you as a dependent on my income tax."

Hambleton chuckled. "It's all in how you keep
score. I lie a lot."

"How're we doing on our ETA?"

Hambleton checked his navigational log. "Holding
good. ETA over station at sixteen-forty. Ten minutes."

"Roger. You crows in back wake up. Crank up
your jamming equipment. Wouldn't do for SAC to get their tail
feathers ruffled. Stand by to dispense chaff."

A microphone click by one of the electronics
officers in the rear of the plane acknowledged the pilot's
transmission.

Hambleton addressed himself to his electronic
monitoring console. He knew the "crows" in the back of the
plane—four electronic warfare officers—were doing the same.

The mission of the old Douglas EB-66
airplane—lovingly called Souieee by its crews (among other names
not so loving)—was the highly classified, unsung, and unglamorous
job of radar surveillance. This was used in support of nearly every
Air Force combat mission. It was the task of an EB-66 crew of six to
sweep for enemy radar and jam it, to clear a path for the fighters
and bombers that would follow.

Hambleton, seated behind and to the right of the
pilot, was the busiest of all the crew members. He served as copilot,
engineer, navigator, and part-time electronics officer. In this
latter capacity he now routinely turned on the modes to activate the
equipment that would detect the launching of any deadly enemy SAM
(Surface to Air Missile) fired from the ground. In the unlikely event
that any SAM's were in the area, this information would be
invaluable. It provided as much as a ten-second warning, allowing the
pilot to whip over into a SAM break—a violent flying maneuver that
caused the homing missile to exceed its gimbal limits and destroy
itself as it tried to follow the wild gyrations of its target.

With the set warmed up, Hambleton switched to the
High Power mode, lit a cigarette, and relaxed. After sixty-three
missions it was all boringly routine. For seven months he had been
cramming his cranium into a brain-bucket helmet and crawling
into an antiquated EB-66 blowtorch like some addled Don Quixote off
to joust with the rice paddies. Stupid goddamn war! So hedged in with
stupid ground rules and political misgivings there was no hope of
winning it. And now, just when Gwen...

"SAM ON SCOPE!"

The words from the rear of the aircraft smashed
into Hambleton's headset, jerking him upright. He scanned his panel.
There was no warning light indicating a launch. How in hell could the
crows in back paint a missile on scope? As he reached for his mike
button to verify, the pilot was already whipping over into a left SAM
break. And then, looking down, he saw it. Incredibly, the missile was
coming straight up at them!

The rocket struck and exploded with a thunderous
impact. Stunned with the realization that the missile had detonated
in the rear of the plane where the EWOs were staioned, Hambleton
froze in his seat. He was vaguely aware of the pilot's hand reaching
for the bail-out button. And then the harsh jangle of the bail-out
bell jerked him to his senses. He fumbled for the firing mechanism of
his ejection seat, found it, and—following long-rehearsed bail-out
procedures—squeezed the trigger. The compressed-air cylinder under
him exploded with the jolt of a mule's kick shooting him out of the
top of the plane.

And suddenly he was alone in the air, six miles
above the alluvial fields of Vietnam.

Spinning through space, Hambleton felt his seat
separate from him as the ejection cycle continued. At thirty thousand
feet the thin air was numbing cold as it lashed at him, resisting his
five- hundred-mile-an-hour velocity. Then his problems compounded: He
found himself in a flat spin.

His training had taught him that the centrifugal
force of a fast spin could quickly black him out. Normally it would
be wise to free- fall through the cold, rarefied atmosphere until his
chute popped open automatically at fourteen thousand feet. Down there
the environment was much warmer and friendlier. But it had not been a
normal ejection; something had gone wrong and sent him spinning out
of the aircraft. Should he risk the exposure to cold and anoxia at
that high altitude? Or should he try and snap himself out of his
spin?

Growing dizzier by the second, he made the
decision. He pulled the manual rip cord. The nylon whooshed from his
backpack, billowed out, and popped with a shock. His free-fall
was abruptly stopped with a neck-snapping jolt. He hung now at the
end of the chute's risers, gently swinging in wide oscillations like
the pendulum of a great-grandfather's clock.