On Yankee Station by John B. Nichols & Barrett Tillman

Author:John B. Nichols & Barrett Tillman [Nichols, John B. & Tillman, Barrett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612512860
Publisher: Naval Institute Press
Published: 2013-03-11T04:00:00+00:00

MiG Engagement, 9 July 1968

I quickly followed with a repeat, “We have a MiG out here,” to the shipboard controller. Well to the south, orbiting in another F-8, was Tico’s air wing commander, Phil Craven. A former squadron CO and long-time friend, Phil never carried any strain. His deep voice penetrated the chatter: “All right, settle down. Come on up with your call sign.”

“This is Feedbag One. Stand by, I’ll get him!”

While all this conversation went on, Kocar pulled a fantastic hard port turn, causing the speeding MiG to overshoot badly. I had already started a hard nose-low turn as tracer sparkled past my right wing. So there were two bandits. I ignored the wingman to gain position on the leader.

I got a good Sidewinder growl with about five Gs on the airplane and a look-down of about 30 degrees. Those extra feet of insurance altitude were now evident as a mistake; I was just a shade too high to get a really good angle on the MiG.

The AIM-9 tried hard. It guided toward the 17 and almost made the turn. Flying outside the MiG’s tilted starboard wingtip, the ’winder exploded but inflicted no visible damage.

Then the MiG driver made a fundamental—and fatal—error. He reversed his turn from port to starboard, lighting his afterburner as he rolled wings-level. I fell directly in trail at one mile, one G, and fired my second Sidewinder. It was a direct hit, I believe, right up the tailpipe. The sky suddenly filled with what looked like small pieces of metal but the MiG was still flying in one piece.

However, the 17 was decelerating very fast and I was closing quickly. I popped the speed brakes to avoid an overshoot and, in the limited time available, acquired a decent sight picture. With the pipper on top of the MiG I fired 167 rounds, scoring about six to ten hits. The airplane was raked from fore to aft across the top and came apart. I passed close aboard, cleaning up the F-8 and accelerating to start looking for the MiG’s friend. Later we learned that when the wingman saw his leader go down, he called it a day.

Kocar saw the 17 fall and exclaimed, “Way to go, Feed-bag!” Thirty-five seconds had passed.

I was pumped up, working on an adrenalin high. It took Phil Craven to bring me back in the cockpit with a calm, “Come on, let’s settle down a little bit.” Kocar and I briefly discussed prospects of photographing the wreckage but we decided to head out. We rejoined, cleared one another’s six, and headed for the tanker. Phil drawled, “Think you can get that airplane aboard now, John?”

My voice was now down within three octaves of normal: “Goddam, CAG, I’ll sure try.”5

That little set-to wasn’t won over the Song Ca river. It had been won in 2,800 hours spent from Norfolk to Jax to Gitmo and Miramar. It was won in hundreds of passes at towed banners in 30,000-foot gunnery runs, developing a feel for the airplane and an eye for weapons use.

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