Buzz's Bedtime Stories

Tonight’s chapter of “Buzz’s Bedtime Stories.” My first combat experience. Grab a blanket, get cozy, and pour the warm drink of your choice. 1) After 12 months of USAF pilot training, I asked for and received an assignment to fly C-141 Starlifters out of Charleston AFB, SC. A few months later, on October 25, 1983, I was launched off of alert to fly the 82nd Airborne into the first night of Operation Urgent Fury, the Invasion of Grenada. It was only my third mission as an Air Force pilot. President Ronald Reagan had ordered this Swift military intervention because of a violet Cuban and Soviet coup on the Caribbean island that threatened to create a new base of Soviet influence on America’s doorstep, and more immediately threatened a group of American students who are trapped at the St. George medical College. My squadron was assigned to fly into Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina, to pick up and carry into combat soldiers of the Army’s elite 82nd airborne division from neighboring Fort Bragg. We received no intelligence briefing. It was “ here are some guns, there are your soldiers, there’s your jet, go.” This was the first conventional US military operation in eight years, most of which had been years of the deconstruction, and it showed. As we were about to board our aircraft, an Army sergeant major in full combat gear and with the subdued 82nd airborne patch sewn on his uniform shoulder, pulled me aside under the wing and said “Lieutenant, just get me down there safely. I’ve got a silver bullet for the first coming bastard I see.” As our flight approached the island, clouds developed over the setting sun. On the ground, the Air Force combat control team, among the first American special operations forces inserted on the island, was coordinating all military aircraft, and the skies were full. The airfield was held and defended by the Cubans, and we looked down at tracer bullets streaking across it. Explosions and small fires blazed along the rolling hills nearby. We circled at 12,000 feet, just off the coast, waiting for the call to come in. American military craft of various types were stacked vertically like pancakes at 1,000 foot intervals. Very little thought had been put into sequencing aircraft by operational priority. Worse, we couldn’t communicate with one another. Navy aircraft were on one frequency, some AirForce aircraft were on another frequency, and yet even more Air Force aircraft were on a third frequency. We were all in circular holding pattern over the same point. I hadn’t been an Air Force pilot long, but I knew this wasn’t an intelligent aviation. It was a cluster fuck. At one point, I was number eight in the order, somewhere near the top of the stack. I was carrying the soldiers, the fighters who needed to reinforce our special operation troops and Rangers engaged in serious firefights. There airplanes below me carrying less important loads, such as water containers. support personnel, and materials for sustaining troops for larger periods of time. The combat control team was doing its best, but chaos, confusion, and internal service rivalry ruled the day. I keyed the ready and said we’ve got the guys with the guns, but we’re number eight.” The ground aircraft controller, returned my transmission and directed, “Mover 15, we need you now. Come on in.” Darkness had set in. We decided to make an unconventional descent in a tight spiral down the middle of the holding pattern. Tracer bullets streaked through the night as we came in. On our approach to Point Salinas airfield, I noticed on our right an AC 130 Spectre Gunship strafing enemy fire positions. Positions that would have been targeting us. Our airplane was defenseless if not for that gunship.