The Misty Pilots
Nearly 40 years ago, the Air Force headquarters in Saigon formed a top-secret unit called Commando Sabre—radio call sign "Misty"—that flew risky, often terrifying missions over North Vietnam's Ho Chi Minh Trail in two-man F-100 jet fighters, scouring the terrain for targets. The Misty pilots had no laser targeting pods or smart bombs or night vision goggles, yet they developed many of the tactics the Air Force still uses today over Iraq, Afghanistan, and other hot spots. For their contribution to aerial warfare, the Mistys paid a price—of 157 pilots who served in the unit, 34 were shot down, some twice. Many were saved in spectacular rescues. Four were captured and imprisoned in Hanoi. Seven were lost and listed as missing, then ultimately declared kia: killed in action. This is the story of one.
During his first few missions over North Vietnam, Brian Williams experienced more fear, excitement, and frustration than he had during dozens of bombing runs in the South. When Misty pilots flew into the sights of North Vietnamese antiaircraft artillery—scarce in the South—the supersonic shock waves from the shells would beat against the fuselage like a demon hammering madly at the metal. There was the constant frustration of bad weather, the best camouflage the North Vietnamese could wish for. And the drivers of the trucks and construction vehicles down on the trail were remarkably brazen. Often they would race right along even as bombs came flying down upon them.
By mid-March 1968, B. Willy, as he was known, was one of the more seasoned Mistys. On March 18, he was scheduled to fly with Howard K. Williams, a pilot new to the unit who would be on his first mission in the front seat of the two-man f-100f, piloting the jet. B. Willy would be in the back seat, scouting for targets. Howie, as they called him—no relation to the other Williams—was a welcome addition. He had earned the Top Gun award in fighter training—first in the class—and had been recruited to Misty by his buddy Dick Rutan, one of the most aggressive and skilled of the Misty pilots. Howie had an upbeat, infectious personality, often attracting a crowd to his hooch when he'd take out his guitar and start strumming "Puff (the Magic Dragon)" or other favorites. Howie desperately missed his wife, Monalee, and his 6-year-old son, Howard Jr., back home in Columbus, Ohio. But he felt dutybound to do his share in Vietnam, and besides, he adored flying. "I have a mistress," he had written to Monalee in one letter. "It's called an F-100!
The two Williams boys flew for about an hour over the trail before they found an opening in the overcast. Then, near the jagged Ban Karai mountain pass—a key choke point on the trail—a glimpse of the ground beckoned. "Look on the left," Brian said. "There's something that looks like a bulldozer."
"I got it," Howie replied. "I'm gonna come around." Howie had just started to roll the jet into a circle when it felt as though a sledgehammer slammed into the bottom of the plane. Suddenly, they were in deep trouble. Brian looked in the mirror and saw big flames trailing from the left side of the jet. He quickly made a Mayday call, then jettisoned the spare fuel tanks. Howie, meanwhile, turned the plane toward the highest, most remote area he could see, so they'd be easier to spot and rescue if they had to bail out.
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