The Misty Pilots
For an elite group of Vietnam War fliers, the risky work was made a bit easier by knowing that a lot of people were looking out for them
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.
Target scout. 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.
Within seconds, the flames had spread to within 5 feet of the cockpit. Both pilots prepared to eject, pulling down their helmet visors to protect their eyes. Brian could feel the heat on his back. "We better get out now!" he shouted. "Ready?"
"I'll be right behind you!" Howie answered.
Then there was noise, sky, and a rush of cold air. Brian looked toward where he guessed the plane was headed and saw smoke rising up out of the jungle. He also looked for another parachute. He didn't see one.
Brian hit the treetops hard less than a minute after ejecting. He tumbled upside down. His pistol holster snagged on a branch, and he ended up suspended in the tree like a diver, head first. But he was OK. It took about 10 minutes to cut his way out of the tree with a knife, heart pounding. The moment he hit the ground, Brian clawed at the survival radio in his vest and quickly contacted an F-4 pilot. The pilot had heard the emergency beeper that had automatically activated once they ejected. One of the rescue teams, always on alert, was on its way. But instead of waiting patiently, Brian picked up his survival kit and ran--in case anybody on the ground had seen where he came down.
Every movement seemed to create a crashing noise. Then Brian discovered he had left his radio on a stump, back where he had first landed. He had another one but realized he was on the verge of panicking. I've been here only a few minutes, he told himself, and already I've made a goddamn mistake.
He calmed down, and moved more deliberately. As far as Brian could tell, no enemy forces were on his tail. He tried to make voice contact with Howie over the radio. There was no response.
Rescue mission. Don Shepperd and Lanny Lancaster, two other Misty pilots, had taken off earlier in the day and were gassing up on an aerial refueling tanker when they heard Brian's emergency call. "Disconnect now!" Shepperd shouted over the radio to the boom operator. Shepperd banked the F-100 directly toward the Ban Karai Pass area and pushed the throttle forward to attain maximum speed.
They got lucky. Shepperd and Lancaster flew right over Brian on their first pass into the area. "Hey! I'm right under you!" Brian shouted into his survival radio. Lancaster saw the chute immediately.
"Gotcha, buddy!" replied Lancaster. He fixed the location, then they moved off about 4 miles to study the crash site, which was still burning. They buzzed low, peering into the smoldering jungle, but there was no sign of Howie.
When the rescue choppers came into view, Shepperd and Lancaster showed them Brian's location. A couple of A-1 "Sandy" prop planes--suppression aircraft meant to pinpoint survivors and fight off the bad guys who often opened fire on the vulnerable rescue helicopters--began to buzz overhead. They were shooting at some enemy troops on the ground who might pose a problem, but opposition was light. Then a huge "Jolly Green" rescue chopper lumbered into place. Brian talked the chopper in close. A winch lowered a rescue seat into the jungle, and it was a textbook snatch--quick. The helicopter absorbed only a couple of small-arms rounds before hauling Brian to safety, less than two hours after he had ejected.
Once Brian was on board, the chopper commander said, "Let's go look for your copilot." It was an agonizing search. At some point after Brian had been hauled up, the rescue aircraft started picking up a strong parachute beeper signal that they figured could only be coming from Howie's chute, since no other aircraft were down in the area. But they were unable to make voice contact, which was the only way to determine where he was and get him out. There was some sporadic groundfire, and the chopper Brian was on took a couple more hits. The rescuers scoured the area for another hour, looking fruitlessly. Finally, with nothing more than the tantalizing beeper to guide them, the rescuers turned south and left the crash site. The incident was over. The search for Howie would continue, however--and take a number of startling turns that nobody anticipated.
This story continues online at www.usnews.com/misty
This story appears in the March 6, 2006 print edition of U.S. News & World Report.