The Mother’s Day mission

Published May 21, 2009
By Howdy Stout
Tinker Public Affairs

TINKER AIR FORCE BASE, Okla. -- "Mayday, mayday, mayday," called the forward air controller. "Manual four two is down. Manual four two is down. One good chute."

Marine 1st Lt. Gary Bain hit the ground hard, his arm and leg already broken from the ejection. There was no sign of his fellow crewman from the F-4 Phantom and Lieutenant Bain's survival radio wouldn't work. Unable to move, Lieutenant Bain was down behind enemy lines. It was Mother's Day May 11, 1969 and his 213th bombing mission of the war. It would be his last combat flight.

Forty years later, almost to the day, Capt. Gary Bain USMC (Ret.) brought together many of the participants of that day to his Wellston, Oklahoma farm, to remember, to reflect and to give thanks.

Air Force Maj. John Johnston, the forward air controller with the call sign Nail 16, remembered the area of eastern Laos well. A former reconnaissance pilot, he flew the area a number of times in the days leading up to the strike, searching for targets along the parts of the Ho Chi Minh trail that the North Vietnamese Army used to filter supplies from the north to their guerrilla fighters in the south.

The trail skirted through Cambodia and Laos, both ostensibly neutral and theoretically off limits to American bombing. The enemy had fortified the trail with numerous anti-aircraft guns just in case it wasn't.

"I was very much aware of the area that I was putting Gary into," Mr. Johnston remembered. "It was one of the hottest areas on the Trail. I flew over it the previous four or five days. And in those four or five days I'd get shot at just about every time. We learned to duck and never fly straight and level."

The day of the strike, Nail 16 directed Lieutenant Bain - call sign Manual 42 - and his wingman to hit one of the anti-aircraft guns protecting the area of Tchepone, Laos.

Called Steel Tiger, these were then-secret missions to stop the flow of supplies along the trail and Tchepone was the most hostile and heavily defended part of the hidden highway to South Vietnam. A year later President Richard Nixon would order the invasion of Cambodia in an effort to stop the flow of men and materials. But in 1969, bombing missions outside of Vietnam were a closely-guarded secret.

"I rolled in at 500 knots and fired all my rockets," Mr. Bain recalled.

Nose down in a 60-degree dive angle, Lieutenant Bain started to "jink" after firing to throw off the aim of any return enemy fire. "In this case, I flew into it, I guess," he said. "In the vulnerable pull-out phase, I was hit."

The hit was a devastating one.

Major Johnston could see the 37 millimeter shell explode in the rear cockpit where Lieutenant Bain's Radar Intercept Officer, Marine Lt. William C. Ryan, sat.

"The aircraft went uncontrollable," Mr. Bain continued. "I called for Ryan to eject three times, and then I punched out in excess of 500 knots - that's the equivalent of two Force 5 tornados slamming into you. Rhino, as we fondly called Lieutenant Ryan, never ejected. We had close to a hundred missions together."

Ejecting inverted at high speed, the force of the airstream ripped the helmet and oxygen mask from Lieutenant Bain's head and face and threw his left arm behind his back, snapping the upper arm bone in two. The force of the ejection also ripped the pistol off his hip and ripped the pockets from his G-suit. The 80-pound ejection seat malfunctioned, the restraint lines wrapping around his left leg, breaking it either then or when he landed.

After less than 10 seconds in the air, Mr. Bain said, "I hit the ground like the proverbial ton of bricks. The amazing thing is I never lost consciousness and I never felt pain."

"His chute blossomed and seconds later he landed extremely close to his exploding aircraft," Mr. Johnston said. "The fact that Gary got out was a miracle. He was still on the way down when I made the mayday call."

Armed with small machine guns on his OV-10 Bronco and smoke rockets used for marking targets, Major Johnston made multiple passes for well over an hour to keep the Viet Cong and NVA at bay until the heavily armed A-1s could arrive on station.

"I'm down there firing smoke rockets like they're real rockets," he said, "pretty close to Gary."

Major Johnston manned three different radios, talking supporting aircraft, fire support centers and Lieutenant Bain, keeping him and the enemy in sight all while making low passes over the downed pilot.

Fellow Marine Corp pilot Capt. Edgar "Roy" Moore, piloting a TA-4F and acting as a fast forward air controller in a close-by area, heard the call and closed the distance. He had more than 220 missions at the time as a Skyhawk pilot.

"It was an area I worked quite often," he said. Just the week before he'd directed air strikes in the same area. "And a week later, I'm flying a rescue mission there over Gary Bain."

But, as a forward air controller already low on fuel, Captain Moore only had smoke rockets and a pair of 20mm cannons. Unfazed, Moore flew low over the Lieutenant Bain and fired, hoping the sight and sound of the 5-inch Zuni rockets would keep the enemy's head down.

"When it comes off the rails, it sounds like a freight train," he said.

Both Captain Moore and Major Johnston stayed on target until lack of fuel forced them to leave. For Moore, a Marine KC-130 tanker had flown across South Vietnam to reach the area, saving Moore in the process. "He had flown a course directly to us so all I had to do was zoom up, hook up, refuel and come back down."

Unequipped for in-flight refueling, Major Johnston was forced to turn for his base at Nakon, Phenom, Thailand. "That was not by choice," he said. "That was by absolute necessity. I was almost out of gas when I left." But he didn't leave until giving Spad 01, the inbound On Scene Commander, a full briefing and a positive ID on the survivor.

After hitting the ground, Lieutenant Bain tried to use his survival radio to contact the aircraft overhead. It didn't work. But, being the squadron's Safety and Survival Equipment Officer and a self-confessed survival nut, he had brought a second radio. It worked.

With it, Lieutenant Bain remained in contact with both Nail 16 and Playboy 13 - Captain Moore - until a flight of A-1 Skyraiders reported inbound. Help had arrived.

The first flight of A-1s, call sign Sandy, was looking for trouble as they flew low and slow to provoke enemy fire. Their job was to make an area dangerous enough to down a fast Phantom safe enough for the Air Force's HH-3 rescue helicopters, the famous Jolly Green Giants. Two more four-plane flights of A-1s, call signs Hobo and Spad, followed.

"Rescue support was our primary mission," said Don Dunaway, a retired Air Force Captain and a former Sandy pilot with 155 missions and six successful rescues to his credit.

Based in nearby Thailand, a pair of Sandys would wait on standby, able to get airborne within five minutes of receiving a rescue call. A full flight of four was ready for action from dawn until dusk. And they were busy.

"It kept us pretty sharp and lethal," Mr. Dunaway said.

The aging, prop-driven A-1s were perfect for the job. Able to carry a large amount of weapons, they could stay on station for an extended period of time. On their 15 hardpoints, the A-1 Skyraiders carried napalm, rockets, machine guns, cluster bombs and even a form of gas, at the time called "special weapons."

But, they weren't the only ones on call.

"They could and often did call in any fighter aircraft in the theatre," Mr. Dunaway explained. "You don't want to leave one of your own in the field."

An F-100, call sign Misty, and two flights of four F-4s, call signs Boxer and Litter, also provided cover.

Sandys or the other A-1s would also escort the rescue helicopters to the crash site, circling the choppers and keeping the enemy under fire. It was dangerous work.

"A lot of times the enemy would wait until the rescue chopper got there before they'd open up," Dunaway said. "We'd call that a helicopter trap."

"The NVA got really smart on the pick-ups," recalled Dennis Palmer, a former airman and pararescue jumper (PJ) on the Jolly Green Giants with the 37th Aircraft Rescue and Recovery Squadron. "They'd sit and wait until we came in."

"It was pretty much a normal day in that type of situation," remembered Pete Hall, then a captain and the aircraft commander of Jolly Green 15, the rescue chopper in this mission. Normally based on the coast at Da Nang, they were operating that day from a fire base along the De-Militarized Zone in order to be closer to the border in the event of a rescue mission. Ironically, this same unit had already rescued Lieutenants Bain and Ryan in January 1969 after their F-4 Phantom caught fire, forcing them to eject at night in the South China Sea.

"I went ahead and took off early in case we were needed," Mr. Hall said. They were already half-way to the area when the call for help came.

Lieutenant Bain popped a smoke canister to mark his position and the lumbering helicopter moved in. The A-1s set up a "Daisy Chain" around the chopper, firing and flying throughout the rescue. The rescue chopper's Flight Engineer, James Thiebodeau, who would normally man the machine gun, was working the hoist and cable. With Lieutenant Bain wounded, it would be Airman Palmer's job to ride the cable to the ground and retrieve him. The helicopter was taking hits but with both he and Thibodeau busy, no one was returning fire.

"Someone had to do something, and that was me," said Martin Reichert, a former Air Force captain and the helicopter's co-pilot. Reichert pointed his CAR-15 out the window and began shooting.

Airman Palmer, having flown his first combat rescue mission on his 20th birthday, reminded himself to take his own rifle with him before descending on the cable. He wasn't sure what he would find once he was on the ground.

While still only 30 feet below the helicopter, the aircraft rocked as enemy fire hit the chopper, destroying its nose gear. The helicopter oscillated and Palmer held on to the swaying and twirling hoist.

"I thought it was going to crash on top of me," he said.

But Hall steadied the helicopter and Palmer made it to the ground. "Then I realized I didn't have my AR-15," he said. "I just had a .38 and a hand grenade." He hoped it would be enough.

Airman Palmer got Lieutenant Bain to the hoist and, without bothering to strap him in, gave the signal to bring them up. Still taking fire, the helicopter climbed away as Airman Thiebodeau reeled them in.

"He got me on the hoist and we were swinging in the breeze," Bain said.

The helicopter climbed through 7,000 feet before both were hauled on board and Captain Reichart finished firing. Captain Hall unstrapped himself and went to the rear of the cabin to check on his crew and Lieutenant Bain.

"That's when I got to meet him," Captain Hall said. "He was all smiles."

Although doctors told Lieutenant Bain he wouldn't fly again, he defied the odds. In 1971 he became one of the Marine Corps' first 10 Harrier pilots and retired as a Captain ten years after being shot down.

But Mr. Bain never forgot the Mother's Day mission or those who saved him. He made it his mission to give his thanks. And on another Mother's Day forty years later, it was mission accomplished.

"This story is not about me," said Mr. Bain. "I was on the ground for almost three hours and always very close to being captured or killed. All of these pilots and air crew put themselves in harm's way to rescue me. They are all heroes. And don't let them tell you any differently. My presence at the reunion was testimony enough of the A-1s and Jolly Green's creed, 'That others May Live.'"

"It was probably the most exciting day of my tour," recalled Mr. Reichart, who won the Distinguished Flying Cross that day. "After we got back to base I remember going back to my room, sitting on the edge of the bed and just shaking. It was a fulfilling day. I was glad I was over there because my mission was to save lives and not take lives. That really hit home on this mission, picking up Gary."

"I knew when I left the area that Gary would remain safe and the choppers would make it," said Mr. Johnston., who received the Distinguished Flying Cross for his efforts during the rescue. "I was damn glad he was picked up."

"We always figured it was his mother's Mothers Day present," said Mr. Hall, who earned the Silver Star for the mission.

"I remember two missions very clearly," said Mr. Moore, who flew 330 missions in his tour. "This one because it went so well and another one that didn't. This was an incredible feat."

"I remembered him right away," said Mr. Palmer, who won a Silver Star for his efforts. Both had met in 2006 and Mr. Palmer returned the name tag he had removed from Lieutenant Bain's flight suit during the rescue. At the reunion, Mr. Bain returned the name tag as the centerpiece of a commemorative plaque.

Mr. Thibodeau, who earned the DFC on this mission, had given Lieutenant Bain a lighter during the rescue. At the reunion, Mr. Bain returned it as well.

The camaraderie of Mr. Bain and his rescuers, who met once 40 years ago, is clear.

"Combat bonding makes you closer than brothers," explained Mr. Dunaway. "It's a celebration of life over death and the exuberance that it creates."

The Mothers Day Mission

The Mothers Day Mission

The Mother’s Day mission