Rustic Romeo’s Tale
submitted by: Alva Leon Matheson
|
Remember water cannons? Take old-fashioned tin beer or soda cans, cut all the tops and bottoms out (except one on top with a church key opening) and tape them all together. Pour lighter fluid in one end and swirl it around until it becomes vapors, stick the open end in a bucket of water, and light the other end with a cigarette lighter. Instant water mine. Well, one night the cannon was made and Si sat down in a chair with a bucket of water between his legs. Just as an accomplice lit the cannon, Jim Lester (Rustic 01) walked through the lounge door. The cannon went kaboom! Lester and the rest of the lounge were soaked. Si had let go of the cannon and it propelled upward and stuck in the acoustical ceiling tile.
That’s the only time I ever saw Jim Lester really pissed.
Mr Nude Male Throttle Jockey Contest!
On one of those “rare” occasions during the wee hours of the morning, we had two visiting doughnut dollies in the lounge up from Saigon and were politely trying to entertain them in the best Rustic fashion. Without warning, all or part of either the RAP or DOG A-37 pilots from the hooches next door came traipsing into the lounge stark naked. Most were so drunk they didn’t even realize the Red Cross workers were there, and those that did were too drunk to care. Much to the credit of the doughnut dollies, they never batted an eye.
Back-up Systems are a Must
This story is old and, historically, has probably happened several times, but it did occur between a Rustic pilot and backseater, but I don’t recall who was involved. A Rustic pilot was taking a new backseater on his orientation flight.
After being strapped in by the ground crew, the pilot came over the intercom and asked, “How do you read?” “Loud and clear” replied the back seat. Then, the pilot informed the backseater that they were going to test the back-up system using the long black tube with cone-shaped head between the backseater ‘s legs (looking much like a ship’s helm-to-engine room comm). The pilot again came over the intercom and asked,
“How do you read me now?”
The backseater dutifully picked up the relief tube, put it to his mouth and replied
“Loud and clear Sir.”
A Negative “G” Results in a Negative “P”
Speaking of relief tubes, one of the pilots with whom I became close friends, and remained so for many years, was Lt. Jim Seibold (Rustic 13). I had the stick and asked Jim to take it while I relieved myself. I was just beginning to feel good when Jim put the OV-10 through a series of maneuvers that would have made Wiley Post proud. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before I had the opportunity to repay the favor. Despite repeated promises on both our parts to cease and desist, we gave up promising after a time and were probably the only crew to consistently exit the cockpit cross-legged and cross-eyed.
German Pilot Sabotages Intelligence System
One of my favorite early Rustic pilots was fair-haired “Baron” Paul “The Torch” “Von” Riehl (Rustic 06). The “Baron” handle was obvious. He looked every bit a Luftwaffe fighter pilot. The “Torch” moniker came as the result of a single incident. One evening when most of us had had too much to drink (rare occasion), Lt. Col. Lester (Rustic 01) entered the lounge and posted some sort of mission directive on the bulletin board. Several pilots gathered around to read it and as they were turning away, Lt. Riehl took out his cigarette lighter and torched it. Must not have set well with him. The fire quickly spread to other documents on the wall and several beers were needed to extinguish the conflagration. Fortunately, Jim Lester had already departed.
Why We Had No Gunnery Proficiency Markings on Our Aircraft
Captain Mike Wilson (Rustic 08) was, as I remember, the son of a preacher man. He didn’t smoke, didn’t cuss, didn’t drink, and didn’t smell the flowers of the orient. But in the cockpit, he was the meanest, most ruthless pilot I ever flew with (and that is not a criticism). He was simply focused.
On one particular mission, we spotted a guy on a motorcycle kicking up the dust in a Category A LOC (Line of Communication). We rolled in for the normal strafe, which would normally result in the immediate disappearance of cycle and mount into the rice paddies. Instead, this brave fellow looked back over his shoulder, hunkered down over the handlebars, and kicked into high gear. Again we strafed, and again and again, until all of our 7.62 mm ammunition was expended. We then went through our WP (white phosphorus), then HE (High Explosive) rockets, until there was nothing left.
Charlie rode off into the sunset and we rode off “Winchester” towards the building storm clouds on the border. It was the only time I heard Mike utter an expletive.
Scariest Mission
I can’t honestly say I was ever scared in the cockpit, but I probably should have been. I was just too stupid to know it. Actually, every pilot knows there really isn’t time to be scared. I remember scaring myself before the fact, in bed at night, thinking about home, and wondering how I got myself into this mess in the first place. And after the fact, thinking about how lucky I was to be back in the hootch scaring myself. However, with only one exception (whose name will remain anonymous), I had tremendous trust and respect for every Rustic pilot with whom I flew, including occasional support pilots from 19 TASS, etc. Having been assigned to Rustic for all but two months of its existence at Bien Hoa, I suppose I flew at least once with just about every pilot who flew with Rustic from there. And that includes some real challenges.
This is a true story: I was flying back seat with a 2Lt who had less stick time than I did (in real time). It was his first “solo” mission in the AO. As we approached the ever-present line of thunderstorms that built along the Vietnam- Cambodia border on our return to base, he confided in me that during all of his flight training,
he had never flown through a storm, and asked me if I had. REASSURING!
I responded that I had flown through many (I had about 175 missions under my belt at the time). He asked me to take the stick, and I flew the rest of the way home, through some pretty nasty weather. That didn’t scare me. What would have scared me is if he had had control of the aircraft. But there were some other missions that, in retrospect, give me a shiver.
Asleep at the Wheel
Providing convoy cover is tedious and boring, but it’s not supposed to be this boring. I had an early morning go with one of my favorite pilots who was obviously groggy from a hard night of partying and little sleep. Our mission was flying cover for a huge water convoy stretched out over many miles of river. We had no contact with the convoy commander and even the two Navy “Black Pony” OV-10s in the area wouldn’t talk to us. So, up and down the river we went. The pilot soon tired of this and gave me the stick.
Up and down the river I went – for what seemed like an eternity. After a considerable time, I realized that I hadn’t heard a word from the pilot. I called to him on the intercom without response. I yelled, whistled, and rocked the wings. Still nothing. Then it dawned on me. He was out cold (or had died of boredom!). At first it was amusing, then something else dawned on me. I had flown enough missions to know that we fueled out of the centerline fuel tank first so it could be punched in a emergency, and I realized that it had to be very close to that time. I didn’t know for sure whether the aircraft would transfer to the wing tanks on its own or not, but I wasn’t going to wait until the engines started sputtering to find out.
I began pulling Gs and pushing negative Gs, realizing all the while that I was using more fuel. It took forever (probably about 60 seconds in real time) to bring him back to life. When he awakened he asked what was going on.
I replied “Oh, nothing sir – how’s our fuel status?”
His only comment was “Ah! Time to switch fuel tanks.”
WHEW!
Bingo Isn’t Always a Game But it’s Still a Gamble
(Mission #192, 12 Feb 71, A/C Tail #659)
I was flying with Claude Newland (Rustic 19) around Kompong Thom on an otherwise uneventful mission, when he informed me that we were unusually low on fuel. In fact, we were in serious trouble. It didn’t make any sense. We hadn’t been up all that long, were sure we hadn’t taken any ground fire, and couldn’t see any leaks.
Nevertheless, we were in deep do-do. He explained that he seriously doubted we could make Bien Hoa, so we decided to set down at Cu Chi. Trouble was, we couldn’t raise Cu Chi on the radio. As we got closer the reason became apparent. Cu Chi had been turned over to the ARVN and the strip was strewn with choppers. Now we had no choice but to press on. It’s really tense when your “LOW FUEL” light is on and the base isn’t even in sight. But we declared an emergency, tightened our harnesses, talked about egress, and I prayed a lot.
The “FUEL FEED” light (50 pounds of fuel left) came on just as the wheels hit the tarmac at Bien Hoa. According to my notes, there was less than four gallons of fuel in the entire system after maintenance drained the tanks.
Lt. Col. Dick Wood (Rustic 11) flew the plane five hours the next day with no problems. Strange!
“Magnet Ass” Siebold Didn’t Get His Name For Nothing
(Mission #448, 23 November 1970, A/C Tail #626) As I said before, Jim Seibold (Rustic 13) and I were good friends and I often flew with him. But, I have to say I took more hits flying with him than with everyone else combined. Maybe that’s because Jim never flew above 500 feet (except when he flew 1,505 feet over the top of Nui Ba Den Mountain, but that too is another story). The worst, though, came the day Don Brooks (Rustic 02) and Gil Bellefeuille (Rustic Tango) were shot down in Kompong Cham province. Jim and I were on standby and scrambled to replace them. We immediately flew to the area where the ground fire had reportedly come from. There was what appeared to be a ground convoy, which had been wiped out during the night. We hadn’t been over the target more than a few seconds when all hell broke loose. We took several hits, the worst being a 12.7 mm round through the cockpit just forward of Jim’s right rudder pedal. We di-di-maued out of there immediately. My biggest concern was that, with the cockpit filled with smoke, soot, and the smell of cordite, and a few functioning instruments, I couldn’t raise Jim on the intercom.
ED note: The round entered the cockpit in front of Jim’s right foot and then transited the backside (through) of the instrument panel and exited where the canopy and the glare shield meet on the left side, leaving a trail of scrambled wires...
For a fleeting second, all sorts of things ran through my mind. Being the first non-rated Rustic to land a crippled aircraft from the back seat with an injured pilot and no instruments was not a distinction I wanted. Fortunately, Jim was uninjured but was too busy to talk immediately.
After some function checks we squawked 77 and picked up a “Hawk” fighter escort. I was shaken, and to calm myself, I got out my camera and began taking pictures of the A-37. That evening, in the hootch, the Hawk pilot came by to find out whom the fool was in the back seat taking all the pictures. I still have 11 8x10 glossies of the battle damage taken by the 600th Photo Lab.
When the aircraft came out of maintenance in December 1970, the words “JAMES ‘MAGNET ASS’ SEIBOLD” were stenciled on the starboard nose gear door.