Bury Us Upside Down: The Misty Pilots and the Secret Battle for the Ho Chi Minh Trail by Don Shepperd & Rick Newman

Author:Don Shepperd & Rick Newman [Shepperd, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-17T22:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

A HOLE IN THE JUNGLE

ike most of the Mistys, Brian Williams had been practically scared silent by his first few missions. “B. Willy,” as he was known, to distinguish him from Howard Williams and Carroll Williams, had come from the 416th, grew up in Seattle and was commissioned through ROTC at the University of Washington. He had gone to pilot training in Florida and Oklahoma, then flown F-100s in Nevada, New Mexico, and the United Kingdom. By the time he arrived at Misty he was an old head, an experienced fighter pilot. But on his first flew flights, he shook like an innocent, young “green bean.”

His first flying day with Misty had been a breeze—it was January 1, when bumper-to-bumper traffic clogged the Trail, and the New Year’s truce prevented any bombing. But on his second day he had flown with Ed Risinger, who gave him a real-life tutorial on the effects of 57mm flak. Risinger saw a gun site on the ground, then said he was going to roll in and shoot to see if he could elicit some AAA fire. He did, and B. Willy was terrified by the tongues of orange flame erupting from the ground. He could barely breathe as the supersonic shock waves from the AAA shells beat against the fuselage, like a demon hammering madly at the metal.

B. Willy had also gulped at the constant frustration of bad weather, which provided the North Vietnamese with better camouflage than anything even they could devise. On one typically overcast day, he and Jonesy Jones had flown farther and farther north over a socked-in Pack until they found a hole in the clouds. They dipped down and immediately spotted five trucks motoring south in broad daylight. They called for fighters but none were available. So Jonesy, flying the plane in the front seat, decided to make a strafing run. “Oh, shit,” protested B. Willy in the back. Not to worry, Jonesy assured him. The Hun they were flying happened to have a busted gun sight, so Jonesy improvised by drawing an X on the windscreen with his grease pencil. They made a run for the trucks, Jonesy trying to aim with the aid of the makeshift gun sight. The bullets plowed into the top of a hillside, so far off the mark that the pilots chuckled to themselves. The truck drivers probably thought the Hun drivers were drunk or shooting at something else. The pilots called it a day and headed home.

The two Williamses, Brian and Howard, had first met when they were at the 416th. Howie’s guitar was the icebreaker. B. Willy was one of the guys who fancied himself a musician—despite a lack of talent— and he loved to sit outside with Howie and listen to him croon “The Alligator Song” and other favorites. B. Willy noticed the same thing as many others—Howie had an upbeat, infectious personality and a knack for getting a party started.

By mid-March, after more than two months in the unit, B.

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