True Story!   For you non-aircrew guys, just call this "Four Beers!" ~~ (I was 
there at the same time...Bill)~~("Aeroplane" is the correct British/Canadian 
word).
 
One of the best flying tales I've read in a long time. It's from the Osprey book 
B-57 ~ Canberra Units of the Vietnam War.  The B-57 was in high demand due to 
its loiter time, weapons loads and usually its accuracy.  It was one of the few 
a/c that carried the M35/M36 Funny Bomb that was a good weapon against truck 
targets. 

THE RELUCTANT BACK-SEATER 

Ed Rider was a Canberra pilot who had come up through the enlisted ranks, having 
done a stint as an Airborne Electronics Technician on the B-57 in the late 
1950s.  Ten years later he was a captain flying the Canberra out of Phan Rang.  
Rider was known for his aggressive flying and his own particular tactics that 
were more suited to a nimble fighter-bomber than the big B-57.  And by Rider's 
own admission, 'there were only about two navigators left who would fly with 
me'.  Before the war was allover he had completed more than 400 combat missions. 
The following is Rider's account of one such mission in 1968: 

'The "Yellowbirds" were back at Phan Rang flying night interdiction missions in 
the southern part of North Vietnam and along the supply routes down through 
Laos.  I had a patch on my party   flight suit that said "Laotian Highway 
Patrol".  'Other than the two navigators in the squadron who would willingly fly 
with me, the others did not like my highly unorthodox tactics. I tried to point 
out to them that other pilots were getting shot up — or shot down — while I 
never took hits and killed more trucks than most. Those idiots were coming back 
with their aeroplanes full of holes and getting medals for it. Anyway, my 
navigator came down with a bad case of "Ho's Revenge" and the other navigator 
was already flying, so someone had to be volunteered.  The hand of fate laid its 
clammy finger on Bill. After an earlier adventure that ended in a belly landing 
due to hydraulic failure, he had sworn never to fly with me again. We had to 
drag him scratching and spitting, so to speak, to the aeroplane. 

'We were taking off at midnight to hit a truck park way up in Laos.  I asked the 
crew chief if his aeroplane was ready, and when he said yes I gave him four 
beers to put into the rear compartment and told him to button it up (close all 
inspection doors).  I didn't insult him by inspecting the jet. The crew chiefs 
liked for me to fly their aeroplanes and I never had one let me down. I went 
around with the armourer and checked the fuzes on the bombs for proper settings 
and the arming wires for proper routing.  Then I spread my maps on the ramp and 
showed the crew chief and armourer where we were going and what we were supposed 
to hit. 

'We were in the northeast monsoon season and had 40 knots of wind blowing down 
the runway.  The standard night departure called for a right turn to the south 
after take-off until reaching the coast, then a turn to the east and then follow 
the coast to Cam Ranh Bay and turn on course. This was supposed to keep you out 
of the outgoing artillery, but it wasted about 3000 lbs of   fuel, so naturally 
I didn't follow it. After I raised the gear I turned off all external lights so 
that the air traffic controllers in the tower could not see me. When I was high 
enough to drop a wing, I turned right 270 degrees so as to cross the west end of 
the runway headed northwest.  I roared across the 101st Airborne encampment and 
shook all the grunts out of bed and then   headed up the valley that led to 
Dalat in the mountains. The hills on either side were invisible as there were no 
lights on the ground, but if I maintained the proper heading I would not run 
into any rocks before I got high enough to clear them. Bill was somewhat unhappy 
with this exercise. In due course we climbed out of the valley and turned north 
to Pleiku, and points north.' 

'We checked in with "Blind Bat", our C-130 "flare ship", and from more than 50 
miles out we could see his flares and the anti-aircraft fire he was attracting. 
The gunners must have just gotten a fresh supply of ammo because they were even 
shooting at his flares. We let down and coordinated altitudes so that we would 
not run into each other.  We made eight vertical dive-bomb passes dropping our 
"funny bombs" — this was the name that FACs gave to the M35 fire bomb. 

'This was the same bomb used to start the firestorms in Tokyo in World War 2.  
It was a large cluster bomb that opened up a few thousand feet above the ground.  
The falling bomblets made a fiery waterfall until they hit the ground.  Then 
they spewed out burning white and yellow phosphorus like roman candles.  Really 
something to see at night. 

'We stirred up a hornets' nest and the flak was thick - when it got close you 
could hear it popping like popcorn.  We left the "flare ship" to count the 
burning trucks and then headed for home. Just another routine mission.  But we 
still had our 20 mm ammo left and I hated to take it home. I called the airborne 
command post and asked if they had any gun targets.  They told me to contact a 
FAC at Tchepone. He had spotted trucks on a ferry crossing the river there. 

'We contacted the FAC to coordinate altitudes before we got into his area. We 
used a secret "base" altitude which changed every 12 hours so that   the enemy 
could not listen in and find out our heights and then set the fuzes on his 
shells for that altitude. That night base altitude was 8000 ft. He said he was 
at base plus four, or 12,000 ft. I said. "You must mean   minus four?" He said 
no. I asked what the hell he was doing way up there and he replied that his 
Cessna O-2 wouldn't climb any higher! His flares were   floating so high that 
they did not illuminate the ground, and I had to circle until I got their 
reflection on the river before I could see it.  Bill kept saying something about 
"bingo" fuel (the minimum required to get back home with 2000 lbs of fuel 
remaining).   'A few guns were shooting at our sound, but not coming close. I 
knew there were no radar-controlled guns because otherwise we would have been 
tracked and fired on accurately while we were circling. I finally got it worked 
out and caught the ferry in the flare reflection on the river and rolled in. I 
fired about a three-second burst in a 30-degree dive from about 1500 ft. The 
muzzle flashes lit us up like a Christmas tree and said, "Here I am! Shoot me!" 
and did they ever!  Now I knew why that FAC was so high.  I pulled about 5Gs to 
get pointed straight up.  'A small part of my mind registered a red light 
flashing somewhere in the cockpit but I was too busy to look at it.  When I ran 
out of airspeed at the top and had figured out up from down and was upright 
again the light was out. 

'The FAC was encouraging, saying he had seen lots of hits on the ferry with his 
night vision scope, so I got set up to go in again. Bill didn't think it was a 
good idea. Indeed, there were lots of guns protecting the ferry. Most of them 
were twin barrel 37 mm weapons. I could tell because the "red   hot beer cans" 
streaking past the aeroplane came up in strings of eight.  The 37 mm gun fired 
clips of four rounds, so eight meant twin barrels. I was worried about 
radar-controlled 57 mm twin barrel units mounted on tracked vehicles that often 
accompanied large truck convoys, but there was no evidence of them. The most 
spectacular show was provided by the many 23 mm ZSU units. These were four 
barrels mounted on a tracked vehicle, and they put out a string of tracers that 
waved around the sky like a kid playing with a high-pressure water hose. 

'My normal tactic at night over a well-defended target was to get directly over 
it at about 8000 ft, roll inverted, and pull the nose down to the target, drop 
my bomb at about 5000 ft and then pull up into a vertical climb (essentially a 
loop beginning at the top).  Just before I ran out of airspeed, I would pull the 
nose down to level and roll upright. This faked out the   gunners because they 
expected me to be off to the side of the target. I was   only vulnerable in the 
first part of my pull-up. Under very heavy fire I sometimes varied this by not 
pulling up immediately but by turning 90 degrees   and continuing down to low 
altitude with low power and coasting a few miles away from the target (and the 
guns).  When using my guns, I would dive   slightly off to the side, go lower 
and pull up to a 30-degree dive before firing.  'Bill kept bothering me with 
this "bingo" fuel business but I didn't have time to discuss it with him. On my 
second pass, I had to use the same heading as the first run in order to see the 
target - not a very smart thing to do. When our muzzle flashes lit us up again, 
I had the feeling that   if I pulled up as usual every gun would be aimed at our 
recovery path, so I   didn't pull up. I used my alternate tactic. The sky behind 
and above us was filled with a spectacular display of fireworks. The FAC was 
figuratively jumping up and down because we had torched off some of the trucks 
on the ferry and on the south shore of the river, where the vessel was now 
resting. Now we did not have to circle around to catch the reflection of the 
flares to locate the target. 

'We still had 600 rounds left — six seconds worth of firing. We could approach 
from any direction since we could see the burning target. Bill was getting a 
little shrill now and yelling something about "bingo minus two". I told him I 
would wind it up with two more passes and then go home. After each pass, when I 
was pulling 5-6Gs to fake out the gunners, there was that pesky red light in the 
cockpit. I was so busy trying not to   join up with those strings of "red hot 
beer cans" that I didn't notice what it was.  We left the FAC to add up the 
damage and headed home.  'Relieved of all ordnance and most of its fuel, the 
B-57 climbed like a homesick angel. In short order we were passing 35,000 ft and 
I had Bill tighten his oxygen mask and check his system for pressure breathing. 
As we   passed 45,000 ft, we had to forcefully breathe out and just relax and 
let the pressure blow up our lungs to breathe in.  At 53,000 ft we were above 
over 95 percent of the atmosphere. At that altitude the engines used very little   
fuel. When we arrived over Pleiku we were 150 nautical miles from home and had 
just 800 lbs of fuel!  Normally, when you land with 2000 lbs that is considered 
an emergency, but I had been through this many times before, and was only 
concerned with having enough fuel to taxi to the ramp. 

'At that altitude, when you reduce power to idle, it only reduces slightly 
because the engines cannot reduce fuel consumption very much without flaming 
out. So, in order to reduce power and expedite our decent, I had to shut off one 
engine. I shut down the right engine because we would be flying a left hand   
traffic pattern. Bill was somewhat unhappy.  I maintained a 0.84 Mach descent,   
which meant that the descent got progressively steeper as you got into the 
denser air at low altitude. This let us down inside the hole of the artillery 
doughnut at 12,000 ft, keeping us out of the arc of outgoing artillery fire.  We 
were approaching from the north and had to land to the east. Once inside the 
hole, I extended speed brakes and pushed the nose over to maintain speed.  
Extending speed brakes at 500 knots is like running into a brick wall, and we 
were thrown forward hard enough to lock our automatic shoulder harnesses.  That 
is when that pesky red light in the cockpit came on again.  This time I 
determined what it was.  It was the low fuel pressure light. This was confirmed 
by the unwinding of the left engine. 

'I was at a critical point in my traffic pattern and had no time to deal with a 
double engine flameout, so I shut off the left throttle, banked 90 degrees right 
and pulled the nose around to a heading 180 degrees from the landing   heading. 
Then I rolled inverted, and with about 5Gs pulled the nose down the   line of 
approach lights to the end of the runway and then up the centre-of   the runway 
lights, varying the Gs to complete my split-ess at about 1500 ft and at about 
400-450 knots.  'While I was busy doing this I asked Bill to inform the tower 
that we had a   double engine flameout and might need a tug to tow us in. Bill 
had lost his voice and never did make the call. When I leveled off from my 
split-ess I hit both air-start ignition switches and advanced both throttles to 
idle. After a 4G break to downwind, I lowered gear and flaps and both engines 
were making the low moaning sound they made when running at idle. After 
touchdown I   raised the flaps and added power so I could hold the nose up. With 
40 knots of headwind it was a long taxi to the far end of the runway. I tried to 
get Bill interested in betting on whether I could make it all the way into the 
de-arming area without lowering the nose wheel to the ground. For some reason he 
was not interested. Anyway, I did make it with the nose wheel in the air, and 
scared the bejesus out of the de-arming troops. 

'While they were de-arming my guns I figured it out. It had to be an inoperative 
forward boost pump in the main fuel tank. When I went to full power and pulled 
lots of Gs at Tchepone, one fuel pump could not handle the load and the pressure 
dropped — not enough, thank God, to flame out the engines.  When I extended the 
speed brakes in my descent to Phan Rang, what little fuel we had left splashed 
against the forward wall of the tank, uncovering the rear fuel pump and 
resulting in a flameout.  There is an old saying, "There are old pilots and 
there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots".  Not so, but we bold 
pilots need more luck than most. 

'We had enough fuel to make it back to the ramp. After we had parked and 
deplaned, I made an inspection tour with the crew chief, armed with powerful 
electric torches.  Not a scratch on her! Again, skill and cunning triumphs over 
ignorance and stupidity.  The crew chief brought out the four beers from the 
tail compartment, ice cold from their sojourn at 50,000 ft, and I spread   my 
maps on the ramp, giving a blow-by-blow description of the mission for my crew 
chief and armourer.  I had an additional audience of most of the crew chiefs and 
armourers on the ramp who were not otherwise busy. Bill did not want his beer so 
I drank it too.  Needless to say, Bill never got into an aeroplane with me 
again.'