Recollections of a Marine Attack Pilot

Six pilots sat in a building similar to our new hootches, about one hundred and fifty feet away from the planes. Four lounged in their flight suits while the other two sat sweating in full flight gear, ready to run towa “We were airborne in a matter of minutes, booming southward down the coast at 400 knots. Butch called the airborne "FAC" (Forward Air Controller) as we neared the target area and we were briefed on the mission. An American army unit was pinned down by heavy fire and had already taken casualties. Our mission was to take out the enemy who was separated from the "friendlies" by only 100 meters. That raised concern because of the danger of hitting our own troops.
Normally, the airborne FAC would mark the target with a smoke rocket to show us where to commence bombing. We would not have this luxury today as he said the ground fire was so intense he couldn't get near the target. I thought to myself, "Oh, boy. He can't even get near the target and I've got to pull out directly over their guns at 100 feet!"
Butch informed him that we had ten 250 pounders each. The FAC asked him how he wanted to drop his bombs and Butch replied, "We'll drop two bombs per pass." That was gutsy! He could have said we would drop them all at once. That would have minimized our exposure but if we missed the target our effort would have been wasted and the friendlies would still be under fire.
Butch fishtailed his plane, signaling me to separate for our individual attacks. He then rolled in from about two thousand feet, commencing his first run. And that is when it happened. In some 250 combat missions, most of them encountering ground fire, this was the only moment I ever felt fear. And it lasted at least three seconds. Okay, maybe only two. After all, within the next minute I could be ejecting from a shot-up airplane, or worse, be part of the wreckage in the target area.
The gunners on the ground were about to have a clear shot at an A-4 diving straight at them, pulling out at only 100 feet over their heads. I didn't dwell on it but concentrated on what I had to do. As I rolled in, the FAC said, "Move your bombs twenty meters to the left of his hit." Approaching the target, I saw the ground fire commence and the yellow tracers began flashing past the cockpit. I released two snake-eyes and pulled out, banking left in a climbing turn as Butch rolled in on his next run. The momentary fear was gone.
Now we settled into our routine attack procedures. We continued our runs, covering the target area in response to the FAC's directions. After expending our bombs we strafed the area with our 20-mm guns. When we were done, the FAC reported that the ground commander said they were no longer being fired upon. I joined back up on Butch and we flew more leisurely back toward home, completing what was to become one of my most memorable combat missions.”
rd the planes on a moment's notice. I was one of these pilots when the phone rang. The responder turned and called, "Snake-eyes!" and my flight leader Butch Miller and I ran for the planes.
We were airborne in a matter of minutes, booming southward down the coast at 400 knots. Butch called the airborne "FAC" (Forward Air Controller) as we neared the target area and we were briefed on the mission. An American army unit was pinned down by heavy fire and had already taken casualties. Our mission was to take out the enemy who was separated from the "friendlies" by only 100 meters.

That raised concern because of the danger of hitting our own troops.
Normally, the airborne FAC would mark the target with a smoke rocket to show us where to commence bombing. We would not have this luxury today as he said the ground fire was so intense he couldn't get near the target. I thought to myself, "Oh, boy. He can't even get near the target and I've got to pull out directly over their guns at 100 feet!"

Butch informed him that we had ten 250 pounders each. The FAC asked him how he wanted to drop his bombs and Butch replied, "We'll drop two bombs per pass." That was gutsy! He could have said we would drop them all at once. That would have minimized our exposure but if we missed the target our effort would have been wasted and the friendlies would still be under fire.

Butch fishtailed his plane, signaling me to separate for our individual attacks. He then rolled in from about two thousand feet, commencing his first run. And that is when it happened. In some 250 combat missions, most of them encountering ground fire, this was the only moment I ever felt fear. And it lasted at least three seconds. Okay, maybe only two. After all, within the next minute I could be ejecting from a shot-up airplane, or worse, be part of the wreckage in the target area.

The gunners on the ground were about to have a clear shot at an A-4 diving straight at them, pulling out only 100 feet over their heads. I didn't dwell on it but concentrated on what I had to do. As I rolled in, the FAC said, "Move your bombs twenty meters to the left of his hit." Approaching the target, I saw the ground fire commence as the yellow tracers began flashing past the cockpit. I released two snake-eyes and pulled out, banking left in a climbing turn as Butch rolled in on his next run. The momentary fear was gone.

Now we settled into our routine attack procedures. We continued our runs, covering the target area in response to the FAC's directions. After expending our bombs we strafed the area with our 20-mm guns. When we were done, the FAC reported that the ground commander said they were no longer being fired upon. I joined back up on Butch and we flew more leisurely back toward home, completing what was to become one of my most memorable combat missions.