“Just Not Our Day!”

 

A Tribute to Major Carl R. Dice

By

Bruce N. Cox

Lt Col, USAF (ret)

 

 

During the Vietnam War, flying the F-105 was a fighter pilot’s dream.  This huge single-seat, single-engine aircraft was officially called the Thunderchief, but those who flew it affectionally called  it the Thud.  Flying the Thud in combat was truly a remarkable accomplishment for the six young Lieutenants beginning their Air Force careers in the 354th Tactical Fighter Squadron at Takhli RTAFB, Thailand.  I was one of those young and eager Lieutenants.  Before arriving in Thailand, we had all gone through our F-105D training together in early 1969 at McConnell AFB in Kansas.  There was no secret what our follow-on assignments would be after our training.  We all would be going to either Korat or Takhli to fly in the only war in town.  The six of us left the United States together on a Flying Tigers DC-8.  After a stop at Clark Air Base in the Philippines for Jungle Survival School, we flew on to Bangkok before taking the final leg of our journey to Takhli on a C-47.  We started flying combat missions in September 1969.  All six of us completed our tours and came home alive.  But we left with experiences that were sometimes tragic when aircraft enter the arena of war. One of us ejected when the Thud’s big J-75 engine decided it would run no longer without oil.  And one of us rode through a spectacular crash landing and lived to tell about it.  That was me.  This story is about what happened when Major Carl R. Dice and I flew together in an F-105F on December 8, 1969.

 

 First of all, let me tell why I was flying on this particular mission.  Truthfully, I had no business being there! Aircraft 63-8352 was an F-105F Wild Weasel aircraft which was used primarily for attacking surface-to-air missile (SAM) sites at night.  The Weasels were two-seat aircraft that were originally built as trainers but were later used for the electronic warfare mission.  Each squadron in our Wing had several Weasel aircraft.  A specially trained crew of a pilot and an Electronic Warfare Officer flew the Weasels at night while the daytime pilots slept.  I was not trained to fly the Weasel mission.  I was one of the daytime pilots who was trained to fly single-seat Thuds on bombing missions against the bad guys.  It was unusual for a Weasel aircraft to be placed on the daytime schedule that was normally filled with F-105D single-seat aircraft.  However, on this particular day the schedule apparently could not be met with single-seaters.  As a result, a Weasel aircraft was used as the lead aircraft of Scotch flight.  Major Dice was to lead this flight.  There was no Electronic Warfare Officer, or “Bear” as we nicknamed them, to fly in the rear cockpit of his aircraft.  Rather than have the seat go empty, the squadron asked if any of the other pilots wanted to go on the mission.  If not, the rear cockpit seat would have been strapped down, and Major Dice would have flown the aircraft by himself.

 

I was at the Runway Supervisory Unit, or "mobile" when the squadron called and asked me if I wanted to go on the mission.  I said yes.  I had already flown 46 combat missions, but how could I turn down an opportunity to fly another?  My motive was to increase my Thud time ‑ we needed 250 hours to upgrade to element lead ‑ and to observe Major Dice lead a combat mission.  He was one of our most experienced combat pilots, and the Lieutenants looked up to him.   I knew very little about the Wild Weasel mission that the aircraft usually performed.  I merely went along on a "sandbag" ride to learn a little more about flying combat.  Major Dice and his wingman, Lieutenant Emerson Taylor, had already briefed the mission when I returned to the squadron.  I went directly to our life support section to get my flying gear, and I then met them at the duty desk.  After a short briefing, the three of us went to the flight line.  Em Taylor went to his F-105D, and Major Dice and I went to our F-105F.

 

Scotch Flight took off at 1340L and proceeded to the Orange refueling track to refuel with a KC-135.  After both aircraft refueled, the flight proceeded into northern Laos to work with Raven 41, a Forward Air Controller (FAC).  The FAC marked the target, and both aircraft rolled in for the first attack.  “Good bombs, one.”  “Two, hit ten meters west of lead’s bombs.”  “Good bombs, two.”  Things were going good today, I thought.  The FAC shot another smoke rocket to mark a different target.  “One’s in, FAC in sight.”  Major Dice was a pro at this, and I relaxed a little to let it all sink in.  I felt our remaining bombs release, and Major Dice calmly transmitted, “One’s off to the east.”  I looked to the right to watch my classmate drop his bombs.  And then it happened.  During the pullout from our second attack, we felt several thumps in the aircraft.  Immediately we observed a red warning light in the landing gear handle, three unsafe gear indications, and a left main gear safe (down) indication.  We then heard a loud whine, which was the utility hydraulic pump cavitating, and utility hydraulic pressure dropped to zero.  Major Dice immediately turned to a southerly heading while I began reading emergency checklist procedures.  I then noticed that we had lost P2 hydraulic pressure, and I suggested that the Ram Air Turbine (RAT) be extended.  Major Dice agreed and did so.  I then noticed that we had also lost Pl hydraulic pressure.  We were flying solely on the emergency hydraulic system powered by the RAT.

 

Lt Taylor had joined on our wing as we exited the target area, and he inspected our aircraft as we climbed.  He saw several holes in the left wing close to the fuselage.  I looked out and was able to see a line of holes in the top of the wing.  I said to myself that the holes were much too close to me for comfort.  To make matters worse, there were blue flames coming from them, and the area behind the leading edge flap was also blackened.  It was apparent that there was a fire in the left wing.  There are no fuel cells in the F-105 wings, and Major Dice had jettisoned the 450 gallon external wing tanks.  The source of the fire was highly flammable hydraulic fluid.  The engine was running fine, and we continued south toward Udorn RTAFB in northern Thailand.   All that I could do to help was to read the checklist to Major Dice and to pass along anything else I could remember about the aircraft’s systems.

 

We discussed our options as we flew toward Udorn.  If the flight controls began to fail, we would eject.  In preparation for this possibility, we both stowed loose items in our cockpits.  Our first choice was to make an emergency landing at Udorn.  We knew this was an F-4 base and would be well-equipped to handle our crippled Thud.  The fire in the wing appeared to have stopped, so our concern shifted to lowering the landing gear and preparing for a possible crash landing if the left gear did not extend or failed at touchdown.  We began a gradual descent, and Major Dice pulled the handle for an emergency landing gear extension.  At first nothing happened, then we felt the clunk of the gear extending.  We had three green lights indicating the gear were down and locked safely.  Lt Taylor, who was now flying a close chase formation, looked at the left gear and reported that it appeared to be intact.  The trailing edge flaps would not extend, and we held 250 knots until we turned on a final approach.  We then slowed to 220 knots, which was the approach speed for a no-flap landing.  As the Thud slowed, the airflow across the RAT decreased, causing very sluggish flight control response because of the reduced hydraulic pressure.  Major Dice nonetheless kept the aircraft flying on a precise approach.  About a mile from touchdown, I reminded Major Dice to lock his shoulder harness.  I locked my harness also and braced for impact by putting my hands on the instrument panel in front of me and lowering my head.

 

Touchdown was firm, and the left gear held.  What a relief!   I knew we would still have to stop the aircraft, and I reminded Major Dice to delay deploying the drag chute until we had slowed below 200 knots, which was the drag chute limit.  Major Dice said "Roger, hook's down."  He then shut down the engine, which was the procedure for landing with a utility hydraulic system failure.  A few seconds later, we felt the tail hook engage the midfield cable.  There was a deceleration, then we felt something give, and we continued down the runway at nearly 150 knots.  We assumed that we had broken the midfield cable and that we would be able to engage one of the remaining cables at the departure end of the runway.  Wheel braking was intermittent at best because of the loss of all of our hydraulic systems.  As we approached the end of the runway, we realized that we would not be able to stop.  Major Dice transmitted on the radio that we would be going off the end of the runway.  Looking to the side, I saw the stripes of the overrun pass beneath us, then I saw grass.  Major Dice then said "Oh, Jesus."  In spite of my limited forward visibility, I looked forward and saw a large drainage ditch in front of us.  I again braced myself just before I felt a tremendous impact.

 

The aircraft impacted the large flood control ditch, or "klong" at about 75-80 knots.  The plane's nose dropped and impacted the far side of the ditch, shearing off the nose gear, the radome, and about ten feet of fuselage.  Momentum continued to carry the mighty Thud forward, and the two main landing gear sheared off as the remainder of the fuselage gouged the earth on the far side of the ditch.  The aircraft continued past the ditch, skidding on the remaining portion of the fuselage and its wings.  It came to a stop well past the ditch, but inside the base perimeter road.  I remained conscious throughout the crash sequence.  When the aircraft came to a stop, I knew I had to egress quickly.

 

I had flown the F-105F during my flight training at McConnell, and we were trained that each person had to individually accomplish their own egress.  I no longer had intercom contact with Major Dice, but that was not a deterrent.  My first action was to unlock my canopy and attempt to raise it electrically.  It would not raise because the aircraft battery was destroyed during the initial impact.  I then instinctively pulled the canopy jettison handle to explosively release the canopy.  That worked as it should, and I then unstrapped as fast as I could while I looked around to determine which would be the best way to exit the aircraft.  There were flames coming from beneath my cockpit.  It was deathly quiet, and I could hear the flames as well as see them.  I decided to egress to the right, and I climbed onto the canopy rail and jumped through the flames to safety.  I was met by two medics as I ran from the burning aircraft.  They helped me get further away, then put me on the ground and examined me.  For what I had been through, I had no life-threatening injuries.  I was taken to the base hospital so the doctors could be sure I was still in one piece.  I survived a spectacular crash with relatively minor injuries.  I can only attribute this to the strength of the Thud, the training I had received on how to ground egress during an emergency, and the grace of God.

 

I did not know Major Dice's fate until later that day in the hospital.  Three military chaplains came to visit me while I was on the examining table being stitched back together.  When I asked about the other pilot, they told me he had died during the crash.  I had never seen him during my egress, and I had only a brief glimpse of the aircraft, still in flames, as I left the scene.

 

 

The next day I was allowed to return to the crash scene and recover the personal gear I had left in the cockpit during my hasty departure.  It was then that I saw that there was nothing left of the aircraft from the front ejection seat forward.  All that remained of the front cockpit was a broken canopy frame.  Fifteen feet of the Thud had been sheered off when the Thud nosed over into the ditch.  Major Dice died as a result of this impact.  He was thrown from the aircraft and was found on the left side of the wreckage.  I was the only person remaining in the aircraft when it came to rest near the perimeter road.

 

 

I also returned to Takhli the next day on a C-130.  Ironically, the wreckage of aircraft 63-8352 returned to Takhli several months later on a large flatbed truck.  I saw it arrive, but never made an effort to see it again at the base storage area.

 

During the weeks following the crash, I was able to reconstruct what actually caused the accident.  In the target area, we were hit by several rounds of small caliber, anti-aircraft artillary.  One of the rounds apparently hit the left main landing gear downlock and ricocheted through an area where P1, P2, and utility hydraulic lines were closely routed together.  The P1 and P2 hydraulic systems powered the aircraft flight controls, while the utility system powered the landing gear and other accessories.  By design, these hydraulic lines were normally separated throughout the aircraft.  The wheel wells were the only places where they were close together.  A lucky shot severed all three systems, and they were depleted in a matter of seconds.  Remarkably, Major Dice was able to fly the damaged aircraft over 150 miles to Udorn and land it safely.

 

The actual crash occurred after the aircraft had landed, partly because of the damage to the aircraft, and partly because of Major Dice's unfamiliarity with the runway at Udorn.  The arresting cables at Udorn were configured for F-4s, and there were five cables strung across the runway: two at the approach end, two at the departure end, and one at midfield.  The F-105 arresting hook, however, was not capable of engaging anything but a departure end cable.  High speed arrestment capability was not part of the Thud's original design.  The hook was intended as a last chance method of stopping the aircraft after using the drag chute and the entire runway to slow down below the hook's maximum engagement speed.  Major Dice lowered the hook shortly after touchdown, and our Thud engaged the midfield cable at about 175 knots.  We assumed we had broken the cable.  In actuality, the cable pulled the arresting hook and its supporting structure off of the aircraft.  It remained attached to the midfield cable as the aircraft continued down the runway.  With no hook, there was no way the aircraft could have engaged either of the remaining two departure end cables.  The aircraft could not be steered nor could it be stopped.  If Udorn had been an F-105 base, where there was only a departure end cable, we could have stopped the aircraft on the runway, walked away from it, and told a great story at the Officer Club that night.

 

But that wasn’t how the mission ended.  It was just not our day.

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2009 Bruce Cox

 

Takhli Website

posted 12 Mar 2009