Jay Lacklen: Bomb run

December 21, 2009 9:49:00 AM

Jay Lacklen - [email protected]


When asked if I killed anyone during the Vietnam War, I have to answer that I don''t know. I may have, and probably did, since my B-52 bomber crew dropped several thousand pounds of bombs on the Cambodia jungle, but I will never actually know. 


I only flew two live bombing runs in 1973 before President Nixon''s final bombing halt prior to the negotiations that ended our involvement in the war a few months later. But the first mission captured all the terror, anticipation, wonder and angst of flying into a war. 


The mission began after dark at Andersen AFB, Guam in the western Pacific Ocean. The crew bus dropped us at the hot loading zone on a far corner of field, a remote location that would provide some protection for the base if something went wrong while loading 108 500-pound bombs in the bomb bay and on wing pylons of our B-52D. 


A full moon painted the bristling war bird in a ghostly light, a formidable black metal dragon that would righteously drop explosive mayhem onto America''s enemies, or so I thought at the time. I paused and slowly put down my flight bag to stare in awe. Was I really a part of this? What was I about to do? 


Six hours after takeoff we approached the target area over the Parrot''s Beak region of Cambodia as one of a half dozen, three-ship, bomber formations. Each cell was named for a tree. We were Oak Flight, others were Pine, Maple, and Birch. 


As the lead aircraft copilot for my cell (for some unknown reason, I got to be lead on my first mission) I had to announce the impending bomb drop on "Guard," the international radio frequency all aircraft monitor. This would allow aircraft in the vicinity to vacate the area and avoid the "rain" of our falling bombs. (As an aside, this is the same rain referenced in the Credence Clearwater Revival song "Have you ever seen the rain?"). 


I had been warned to switch my radio toggle from the interplane frequency to the "Guard" channel before transmitting the warning. Being a raw rookie, however, I gave the entire two-minute spiel on interplane, to the great amusement of the other copilots. "Hey, lead, want to try that on Guard!" they snickered on the interplane frequency. 


Then the bomb run began in the early morning darkness over an Asian jungle. Our three-abreast, triangular shaped, formation banked steeply, ominously, on to the bomb run heading. The radar navigator, who would throw the switch to drop the bombs, informed the crew we were approaching the IP, or Initial Point, to begin the run. 


Just as we passed the IP, a male Asian voice began transmitting in Cambodian on our radios. He sounded as if he were babbling in an opium den and his voice disturbed and frightened me. I feared he might be an apparition warning us off our task, a voice of doom giving a last opportunity to save ourselves, or a soon-to-be victim in the target zone making his last hopeless statement to his slayers. He continued talking, as if relating a story to a fellow opium smoker, as our formation approached the target. No matter what I did to my radio controls, I couldn''t make the voice stop. 


In the near distance 33,000 feet below us, the ground glowed, eerily, from explosions from preceding bomber cells. A mist hung over the terrain that gave the area the look of a graveyard in a horror movie. 


The radar navigator began the count-down, "ten...nine...eight", the apparitional voice continued his drunken soliloquy on the radio, "three...two...one...bombs away!" 


The aircraft shuddered lightly as the bombs unhooked from the wings and dropped from the bomb bays of the three aircraft in our cell in a five-second release sequence that would obliterate an area equal to three football fields, and unleash a shock wave that would kill any creature within half a mile. 


We waited as the radar navigator counted down to impact, about 40 seconds for the bombs to fall 33,000 feet, "three...two...one, impact!" The clouds around our aircraft reflected hundreds of small bursts of light from below. It was done. 


The radar navigator announced the closing of the bomb bay doors. 


We flew on in the darkness in silence as I pondered what we had done. I ponder it still. 


Jay Lacklen is a retired Air Force Reserve pilot, who flew missions in Vietnam and Iraq. Presently he is simulator instructor at CAFB and is writing a book about his experiences in the Air Force.