NATO wanted Montenegro to remain “neutral.” Yugoslav forces normally did not use Montenegrin territory for their operations, and our ROEs reflected that Serbian discretion by normally precluding attacks in that territory. Early in the conflict however, the Serbs positioned a long-range acquisition radar on a narrow peninsula on the Montenegrin coast. From that position the radar provided the Serbians important intelligence as it tracked all NATO aircraft flying through the southern Adriatic and Albanian airspace. Serbia’s action forced NATO to make an exception to its normal ROEs and directed that the radar be eliminated. Our experiences while we hunted for that single radar on the coast of Montenegro were typical of both our frustrations and our successes during the Hog’s participation in Allied Force.
We could not determine whether the Serbs kept the same radar, or even the same type of radar, at that strategic coastal location. At different times it appeared to be a Flat Face (Soviet-built) radar, and at other times it exhibited the characteristics of a Giraffe (Swedish-made) radar. It was clear, however, that the CAOC wanted to remove that Serb capability (no matter what kind or how many radars) to track NATO strike packages and KEZ-bound aircraft.
The Serbs weren’t stupid enough to operate their radar continuously and expose it to a classic NATO interdiction attack. Rather, they emitted unpredictably—just long enough to get the information they needed—and then relocated their equipment to a different residential or wooded area near the Montenegrin coast. Therefore, the aircraft that got the opportunity to kill the radar was simply the aircraft that happened to be in the area at the time the radar was detected.
The CAOC, we believed, had decided that our A-10s at Gioia del Colle were the preferred weapon system to kill the radar. We would be able spend more time in the target area, had the best chance of finding the radar, and had a wide range of weaponry with which we could engage it. The radar’s location in Montenegro made identifying the target essential and minimizing collateral damage even more critical. The CAOC’s choice of the Hog’s low-tech binoculars reflected the earlier success that Coke, our operations officer, and others had during Desert Storm knocking out Flat Face radars while they hunted for Scuds in Iraq.
The good news was that we were the privileged few to be allowed to go after this elusive and high-priority prey. The bad news was that it was both elusive and high priority. It was the focus of the CAOC’s attention, and that meant we would fly many frustrating sorties without finding it. Some of our pilots started daydreaming about being the lucky one to see the radar in his binos, move it to his gunsight, and hammer down on the trigger.
Fighter pilots are naturally aggressive and generally avoid looking for the definitive answer to an ambiguous rule that would remove all ambiguity—and their flexibility. Thus, most fighter pilots worth their salt have done something in the course of their careers that they would rather not have to explain to their commanders. These natural tendencies, coupled with our pilots’ desire to succeed in the difficult hunt for the Flat Face and Giraffe radars, almost resulted in a tactical victory and a strategic disaster.
I began my tour as squadron supervisor at 1800 on the evening of 4 May and would be on duty until 0600 the next morning. The poor weather over Serbia precluded the launch of our normal interdiction strike packages. The CAOC planners, however, had checked with their weather forecasters and believed that the cloud layers over the Adriatic Sea and the Montenegrin coast would be scattered enough for our crews to draw a bead on the Flat Face radar.
Capt Edward D. “Sped” Sommers was a highly qualified weapons-school instructor, generously sent from Nellis to participate in a strategic planning cell headed by Col Daniel “Doc” Zoerb. He also helped our unit representatives at the CAOC explain the finer points of A-10 employment to the CAOC leadership. Sped called from the CAOC to ask if our two CSAR (ground- and airborne-alert) two-ships could be retasked from covering strike packages to a radar-hunting mission. “Yes,” I replied. Although in my enthusiasm I may have said something more colorful.
I gathered the four pilots together and told them of their new tasking. Capt Stu Stuewe, who was the highest qualified of the four pilots and had been scheduled as Sandy 1 that night, volunteered to lead the mission.
The weather was the biggest unknown. The forecast for the ceiling on the Adriatic changed several times during the night, but the one I believed that we all had settled on was broken at 4,000 feet. “Broken” denotes at least five-eighths cloud cover—unless the clouds are very thin, it is practically impossible to find and attack a target from above. To attack the Flat Face in that weather meant having to descend through and attack from below the 4,000-foot broken cloud deck. Doing so would directly conflict with our altitude ROE. General Short’s exact words on ROEs were seared into my brain, and his voice was still ringing in my ears from my trip to Tirana three days before. Never in my life had my understanding of my superiors’ direction been so lucid. Our current ROEs limited our altitude to no lower than 5,000 feet to identify a target and to no lower than 8,000 feet during our attacks.
The following is an example of what Clausewitz meant by “fog and friction.” Worried about the weather, Sped, Stu, and I had all independently checked it several times during the two hours from the start of mission planning to the pilots stepping to their aircraft. It was several days later before I was able to piece together each of our differing perceptions of the weather and the ROEs that applied to that night’s hunt for the Flat Face radar. I was convinced that the definitive forecast was for a 4,000-foot broken ceiling, which would require the CAOC’s approval to deviate below the ROE-established minimums. I told Sped, “Confirm for me that we have been cleared to go below the weather.” On the other hand, Sped, who was getting his weather information at the CAOC, was convinced that the ceiling was forecasted for 8,500 feet and saw no conflict staying within the current ROE and operating “below the weather to either identify or attack the radar.” Stu, the flight lead, had received several projected ceilings during the planning process from our Gioia del Colle forecaster and stepped with the conviction that the forecasted ceiling was at 2,000 feet. So when I told him, “Go below the weather,” he believed that meant he was cleared to operate below 2,000 feet.
There is one recollection on which Stu and I differ. I had required Stu to brief the flight’s attack plan to me in detail since I was clearing my guys to descend to low altitude at night, over water, and in potentially cloudy weather. Their plan called for a first pass using Mavericks and, if unsuccessful, a second pass at 2,000 feet for a level CBU attack that Sped and Stu had worked out over the phone. I approved the plan, with an additional restriction of maintaining at least 2,000 feet above the water since three of the pilots in the flight had not yet completed training at night below that altitude. If they encountered weather at 2,000 feet or below, they were to abort the mission and return home. Stu did not recall my 2,000-foot restriction and therefore interpreted my clearance to “go below the weather” as clearance to descend to any tactically safe altitude. I’ll leave the details of the mission to the stories in the chapter, but the unsuccessful attacks on this night occurred below 2,000 feet.
When the four intrepid aviators returned from their unsuccessful sortie, they identified the weather as the reason for their lack of success. They did not mention altitudes—there was no reason to mention them since they had adhered to the altitude ROE as they understood it. “Flat Face fever” hit the squadron. All of the pilots eagerly listened to tales about that night’s mission and hoped they might have a shot at the radar. A couple of days later, each of the same four pilots found himself leading an element when Stu spotted the infamous radar from medium altitude on the way home. He received CAOC clearance and shifted the entire KEZ package to the west to provide SEAD cover. Once again, there was a low-weather deck. Based on their experiences during that first night attack and their mistaken belief that to kill this radar they had been given an exception to the normal altitude restrictions, they flew another attack below the “real” ROE altitude. On this mission, Stu’s gun malfunctioned just as he lined up the enemy radar in his gunsight. We all listened raptly to their mission debrief.
Col Al Thompson (40th EOG commander), Maj Scratch Regan (74th EFS commander), Lt Col Coke Koechle (81st EFS operations officer), and I were the normal ROE gatekeepers at Gioia. Perhaps this sounds like a scenario from The Emperor’s New Clothes, but none of us had heard about anyone flying below 2,000 feet during that one night mission against the radars or below standard ROE altitudes during the day missions. We learned afterward that those altitudes were well known to the line pilots, who “assumed” it was an approved exception to the ROEs for that target.
The disconnect between what various pilots understood to be minimum-allowed altitude during an attack on the radar site was illuminated as a result of the debrief of a Flat Face mission flown by Scratch and Maj Dirt Fluhr. Due to the weather along the coast and with CAOC direction, they were forced to fly between cloud decks to search for the radar. As they neared the suspected coordinates of the elusive target, they dropped through a thin “scud” layer at about 4,500 feet. Once below the clouds, they searched the area along the coastline for the radar, threats, and a way back up through the weather, which they knew they would eventually need. During this search the Serbs shot a heat-seeking missile at them. Scratch and Dirt promptly defeated the shot, popped up through the clouds, and returned home.
Following their close call, Scratch and Dirt conducted the standard debrief with our squadron’s intel personnel. They stated that they were probably at about 4,000 feet at the time of the missile shot. Our excellent intel troops faithfully recorded their details and dutifully forwarded the mission report to the CAOC. That statement of flying at 4,000 feet—below the normal ROEs’ 5,000-foot minimum altitude for identifying targets, and 8,000-foot minimum used during attacks—without an operational explanation was certain to draw attention from anyone without our earlier understanding of the ROE “exception.” I learned an important lesson and noted that a timely operations review of the unit’s mission reports by its supervisors will provide a clearer picture of what is actually taking place and help reduce friction and fog. I had suffered a miscommunication on what I thought was a “onetime exception.” to the minimum attack-altitude for that firstnight sortie to use while they attacked the radar. I had understood that we were back to adhering to the normal ROE altitudes. If I had reviewed the mission reports, I would have been alerted to the squadron pilots’ inconsistent understanding of the ROEs’ minimum altitudes. We fixed this immediately. Although it seemed contrary to letting the intel troops do their job, in a shooting war with highly politicized ROEs, it is essential to use every available means to stay informed and ensure a good information flow at all levels.
The lightning bolt from the CAOC was swift and unequivocal. The two pilots involved, plus a supervisor, would be provided a dedicated C-21 aircraft for transport to Vicenza to personally explain the violation of the ROEs to General Short. We understood his concern. He didn’t need “wayward aviators” upsetting the delicate politico-military balance and the alliance’s commitment to the air campaign. Nevertheless, we weren’t looking forward to the encounter, especially since Colonel Thompson, Coke, and I thought we were sitting on a “command ejection seat” with General Short’s hand on the handle after our dressing-down in Tirana.
We had to get the details together fast. We heard pilots express surprise that the CAOC was upset about Scratch and Dirt inadvertently flying at 4,000 feet in daytime since the CAOC had already approved flying below 2,000 feet at night on that target. That’s when I realized the disconnect between the ROEs the CAOC understood to be in place and the ones our pilots were using. I interviewed all the pilots involved and looked over the mission reports from the previous two Flat Face sorties. They all told the same story—they had assumed that low-altitude attacks on the radar were approved. They had not listed their attack altitudes in their mission reports since that data was normally sought only for weapons-release conditions and threat reactions. These were the same guys who had routinely put themselves at risk to comply with the ROEs—as they understood them. They had enforced the ROEs to ensure that they, and the NATO fighters they controlled, would never come close to hurting civilians in Kosovo. I had no reason to doubt their integrity, professionalism, or sense of duty. When it came to accepting a higher personal risk to take out an important target, they went all out. I concluded that a couple of pilots had let their fangs get a mite too long and had taken unnecessary risks. They were grounded a day or more as a result—not to punish them because they went below any particular altitude but to recalibrate their in-flight and on-scene assessment of risk and payoff. These same great pilots justifiably earned important medals for heroism during other sorties.
Colonel Thompson had to decide who would accompany Scratch and Dirt to see “the Man.” I was the commander, present at the beginning of the misunderstanding, and offered to go. Stu nobly offered to explain to General Short his previous sorties and the source of any misunderstanding. Colonel Thompson, although thankful for the offers, doubted General Short would have time to understand all of the convoluted details before grounding our entire group for insubordination. Colonel Thompson had worked for General Short before and decided to lead the two majors to Vicenza. General Short carefully explained to them, Colonel Thompson reported afterward, that he could not tolerate any more ROE deviations, intentional or otherwise. He would expressly approve any exceptions.
Capt Joseph S. “Joe Bro” Brosious’s story provides a happy ending to this tale. One of the guys who had twice been after the Serbs’ pesky Montenegrin acquisition radar finally strafed it with his mighty GAU-8 Avenger cannon. The Hog had proved its versatility once again, showing that it is well adapted to handle some particularly knotty missions. All the guys who had gone after the radar survived, maintained an aggressive edge, and continued to take the fight to the enemy. However, we all learned an important lesson—we could do the enemy’s work for him if we dropped our guard on the ROEs.
I’ll warn you up front that this is a long narrative. I’ve told this story only a handful of times and have found that it’s best received at the bar on a Friday night over a couple of beers. Its telling usually involves a lot of fighter-pilot hand gestures, and a good deal of profanity—sometimes it even evokes audience participation. A buddy of mine describes this as a story about a few days of “knife-in-your-teeth combat flying,” and the attitude—aggressive or foolhardy—that one can develop while attempting to accomplish the mission. It is an important story, however, that has existed only in the memories and personal journals of a few pilots. Even though it will lose a little in translation, it should be preserved in print.
I was “Sandy 1” on the night of 4 May 1999, sitting 30-minute CSAR alert with Maj Dice Kopacz as my number two. I had arrived at the squadron around 2000 hours, in time to be ready for our normal ground alert from 2100 to about 0500. I noticed a buzz in the air about a “priority target,” and Kimos, the squadron commander, was on the secure telephone for a long time. Most of the night flyers had already launched on their sorties, and everyone else was in pilot rest for the next day’s missions. Finally, after a half hour of pondering, Kimos came to me with a set of coordinates on an orange sticky pad. He simply stated, “There’s a Flat Face radar here. Go kill it.” As it was shaping up, the only available bodies for this priority target were the guys on CSAR alert.
Attack pilots find nothing better than having their squadron commander tell them to go kill a target. We tried to plot the coordinates on our maps only to learn it was too far west. We grabbed a computer and found out that this early warning radar wasn’t in Kosovo, or even Serbia for that matter. It was located on the coast of Montenegro—which, incidentally, was supposed to be a third party during this bombing campaign. Not only did the politically sensitive nature of attacking targets in Montenegro worry me, but also I had concerns about the three unlocated SA-6 batteries that intel claimed were in the area.
I put everyone to work: building maps, working on timing, and getting our night-vision goggles ready. Then I went to the weather shop. The weather forecaster explained that the ceiling was low—real low—2,000-foot overcast with four kilometers of visibility, to be precise. There was not much we could do except fly below the clouds, which would put us well below the altitude prescribed in the ROEs. While I was planning the attack, the weather guy changed his forecast several more times. The lowest forecast was for a 2,000-foot ceiling, and the highest called for a 10,000-foot ceiling. It seemed that the CAOC and Kimos considered this priority target important enough that the normal ROE altitudes would not apply, and I was cleared to go “below the weather.” I found out later, however, that the forecast ceilings that the CAOC, Kimos, and I were planning with were all different. Therefore, the attack altitude that corresponded to the below-the-weather approval meant different things to each of us.
Our planning turned to ordnance and formations. Because our Mk-82s were wired for a high-altitude delivery, they would not have time to arm if we dropped them that close to the ground. I therefore requested that the Mk-82s be replaced by CBU-87s on all four of our aircraft because of their low-altitude employment options and their ability to provide us good firepower and mutual support. A well-respected A-10 rep at the CAOC sent down his attack plan. Unfortunately, this particular evening’s fog and friction prevented most of his ideas from reaching me.
I launched with Dice on my wing, along with Capt Corn Mays and Capt Joe Brosious as my numbers three and four. Capt Larry D. “LD” Card II suggested a little tactical deception which caused the NAEW to make bogus radio calls that indicated to all who were monitoring the transmissions that Sandy flight was going to rendezvous with a tanker and sit airborne alert. Halfway across the Adriatic, we hit the solid-undercast cloud deck that had been predicted by the weather forecaster. We turned off our squawks, blacked out, and “stealthed up” as much as a Hog can. I led the boys down through the weather and leveled off in a black hole at 1,500 feet on the radar altimeter. NAEW played its role perfectly and began giving us phony traffic advisories and then vectors towards an actual tanker that was airborne over Macedonia. We hit the Albanian coast at our control point (CP) and turned north towards the IP. The IP itself was an illuminated boat dock with a 1,500-foot ridge behind it. Finding the IP would update us on the drift of our navigation systems as well as provide us some indirect terrain masking from any radar. With the poor visibility, I couldn’t see the IP until I was right on top of it. I then had to fly a very hard turn to keep from being scraped off on that ridge. Kirk said later that he got much closer to that particular piece of the Balkans than he would have liked. I had the boys throw the master arm switch to “arm” at the IP as we turned west towards Montenegro and the radar.
The ceiling dropped to about 1,500 feet and, with the high humidity and moisture, we couldn’t see anything with the Maverick or NVGs except straight down. I nearly passed over the top of the target coordinates without seeing anything. Kirk did likewise one minute behind me. We proceeded out to the rendezvous point over the water. I’m here to say that India ink cannot compare to the blackness I encountered when I pointed my Hog’s nose out over an open ocean in the middle of the night below a solid overcast. I flew 500 feet above the cold Adriatic off nothing more than a radar altimeter and a green circle in my HUD that said I was wings level. Due to the outstanding skill of my wingmen, I had to expend only two self-protection flares to help regroup the formation as I turned back towards the coast. At this same time NAEW was rendezvousing our imaginary formation with a tanker 120 nautical miles away. I led us back in on a reattack with CBUs. On the way in I slewed an IIR Maverick missile onto the spot where the target was supposed to be. In the midst of a cold, dark background I found a single hot object. It didn’t exactly look like the radar van, but it was in the correct relative position. I locked the Maverick onto the hot object as my thumb gently caressed the pickle button that would unleash the missile.
I don’t care much about CNN or the influence the media has on military operations, but there was no way I was going to mistakenly destroy a Montenegrin hotdog stand. It boiled down to the fact that I had a slight doubt as to the validity of my target, so, as a professional soldier, I couldn’t proceed with the attack. I learned later that Kirk had also found a hot object, possibly the same one, and had similarly forgone indiscriminately attacking it. I called for yet another “Jake”—the reattack code word that I had named after my three-month-old son. I thought that with one more attack we might just get lucky. Someone, however, without the distraction of having their fangs imbedded in the floorboard, made a wise decision and relayed through NAEW that we were done for that particular night. Feeling rather dejected about not finding the target, I led Dice home. Kirk and Joe Bro—without pretending—flew to the tanker, refueled, and assumed their real airborne CSAR alert. This is where the story gets really interesting.
The next two days passed uneventfully as I finished my turn in the barrel on the CSAR alert schedule. I couldn’t forget about that radar because every day ABCCC tasked A-10s with a priority target that had coordinates in Montenegro. On the fourth morning I was the mission commander for the entire KEZ. As we tried to conduct an air war during the Balkan spring, we ended up fighting the weather as much as anything else. The weather was “dog crap,” and I started sending the forces, including me, home. As I returned home at 22,000 feet and turned the corner around Montenegro (our ROEs did not allow us to fly over it), I focused my binos on the area where the Flat Face had been previously reported. I began a structured scan pattern when, low and behold, about 600 meters west of the previous location, I found a van with twin horizontal radar dishes turning on it. I called ABCCC and, via secure means, asked if the Flat Face was still a valid priority target. The response was that I could attack as long as I obtained SEAD support. I called all the other A-10s on VHF while coordinating the SEAD on the UHF radio. Within minutes I had eight Hogs lined up, along with four F-16CJs and an EA-6B Prowler. Even Mr. ABCCC came rumbling over to take a look (or get in the way). I took control of my new strike package. By some crazy luck, my new element leads—“three,” “five,” and “seven”—turned out to be, in perfect order, “two,” “three,” and “four” from Sandy flight on the first night. Since we all had a full load of ordnance and varying amounts of fuel, I sent the fourth element, numbers seven and eight, to the tanker.
During the time it took to rejoin the formation, line up the SEAD, and coordinate the attack, a small, midaltitude deck of clouds had moved in below us. I was the only one who had seen the target, but I thought it would be “no big deal.” I explained to the second and third element leads where the target was in relation to the map study we had accomplished in preparation for the first night’s attack. The briefed plan was a ladder of Hogs (two-ship element orbits with vertical separation between elements) with the wingman providing cover on the right side during an attack from southeast with a southwest pull-off. One, three, and five were shooters with Maverick, while two, four, and six (all of whom had no exact idea of what we were attacking) were supposed to provide cover from any threats that popped up. I briefed the plan. When they reached the cloud layer, they would descend through it as fast as possible, acquire and ID the radar, shoot, and recover quickly back to the clear air above the clouds. Everyone acknowledged that he understood the plan.
One of my most distinct memories of OAF is the feeling of adrenaline building up as I prepared for this attack. However, the tight knot that had formed in my chest quickly unclenched and was replaced with pride and awe when I looked over my right shoulder. I wish I had the eloquence to describe what it is like to watch five Hogs follow your every move—all of them hulking with a full combat load that glistened in the midday sun. I noted the awesome firepower we had available: six tons of bombs, 12 Mavericks, 84 Willy Pete rockets, and almost 7,000 rounds of 30 mm combat mix. The sight of those marvelous airplanes and the pilots who had chosen to fly them humbled me.
I began the attack and realized the weather was slightly lower than I had expected. However, this was the high-priority target we had been gunning for during the last four days. It was the target the CAOC and my squadron commander had deemed so important that they had sent us to attack it (or so I had believed) when the weather was well below the ROEs. During that attack attempt, I had flown over it at a few hundred feet just three nights before. On this day, therefore, I pressed on with the attack despite the weather. I hit the edge of the clouds about four miles from the target. Unfortunately, there was some misunderstanding as to the in-trail spacing I expected between my element leads, which caused my second element lead to pitch back into the third element. My six-ship had quickly turned into a two-ship below the weather.
It took a few seconds to get my bearings below the cloud deck. I found the original position of the radar, worked my eyes from there to where the target should be, and visually acquired the radar site. I stabilized the Maverick on the radar site and tried to lock onto the van. The missile locked onto the cooled van and also on some cold background clutter that would, most likely, have caused a total miss. I attempted once more to lock just the cold van without any luck. I was now getting close enough to start breaking out the hot radar dish and components within the van. I quickly pulled the pinky switch on the left throttle to the aft position to cause the Maverick seeker to look for hot targets. For the third time in a matter of seconds, I couldn’t get the Maverick to lock onto the van. I then made an extremely superfluous comment, but one I felt had to get across the radio: “One’s going to guns.”
I pushed forward on the stick, nosed over slightly, and overlaid the gun symbology on the radar van. Suddenly I wasn’t flying an A-10 anymore. I was in a Jug or Spitfire, strafing steam locomotives in occupied France—that’s exactly what it felt like. I put my index finger on the trigger, and caught my breath slightly. In that one instant in time I thought to myself, “Oh my God, you’re about to long-range STRAFE a real live target!” I lined up my airplane to rip the now large van from one side to the other. All my training and long days of hard work had seemed to build to this one split second. The adrenaline, the ecstasy, the remorse, the fear, and the exaltation of everything in my life seemed encapsulated in the moment I pulled the trigger.
Now I’ve shot close to 100,000 rounds through the GAU-8 gun without any problem—except for this one particular time. The gun spun up, and the familiar rumbling of the aircraft accompanied it—but something was missing. A fraction of a second later I realized that no bullets were coming from the aircraft. This was accompanied shortly by a “gun unsafe” warning light in the cockpit. I pulled off target and, even with my finger off the trigger, the gun continued to rotate. My wingman and I yanked our jets hard to the left. We were low as hell and we both dropped flares like crazy. I then made one of the worst radio calls of my life: “One’s runaway gun.”
At that moment Dice, my then number-three man, descended below the weather. Seeing red streaks around my element’s aircraft, he called out that we were taking AAA. I then began to jink, while trying to “safe” my gun and talk Dice onto the target. Unfortunately, my erroneous “runaway gun” radio call had focused Dice’s concentration more on the nose of my aircraft and getting out of my way than looking for the target. At this point he radioed that it was only our flares and not AAA that he had seen. Needless to say, the attack had turned into a chocolate mess. All four aircraft were within spitting distance of the target, we were looking at each other, and nobody was clearing for any threats. I quickly gathered the four of us together and climbed above the weather.
My wingman was low, real low, on gas, so we climbed to the optimum altitude and slowed to the best airspeed to conserve our fuel and extend our range—we “skyhooked” back to Gioia. I left Dice as the on-scene commander because he had the best situational awareness from going below the weather and seeing where the target should be. Over the next 45 minutes, the remaining three two-ships (seven and eight had returned from the tanker) made three more attacks on the target. Two of them were prosecuted from a low-altitude run-in 100 feet above the water. Unfortunately, due to an inability to acquire the radar, they both were unsuccessful. During the climb out for their skyhook back to Gioia, Joe Bro was able to look through a break in the clouds to see where the van had been parked and noticed the dirt tracks it had left when it drove off.
When we got back, I told everyone about the sortie and the lack of results. “Flat Face mania” seemed to grip the squadron. Completely irrational, I had almost convinced Larry Card to hop in a jet, join on my wing, and go back with me to kill that radar right then and there. Everyone shared our disappointment.
The next day Scratch and Dirt went looking for the priority target. The now-familiar midlevel deck of clouds was again present and forced them to drop down through the clouds, which bottomed out at 4,000 feet. The Serbs, having finally decided to defend their radar, shot a manpads missile right between the two-ship of Hogs. Scratch and Dirt defeated the missile and climbed back through the clouds. When Scratch’s mission report made it to the bigwigs, the listed altitude of 4,000 feet raised more than a few eyebrows. Scratch, Dirt, and I were called into the squadron commander’s office that afternoon. Scratch and Dirt, along with Colonel Thompson, our group commander, had the pleasure of seeing the three-star about breaking the minimum altitudes described in his ROEs.
The trials and tribulations I faced while trying to attack the Flat Face radar taught me some very important lessons. I learned a great deal about the capability and limitations of weapons, tactics, and the effects of weather. I gained a new understanding of mission-essential tasking versus mission requirements. I came to appreciate the occasional discrepancy between tactical leadership and the “can do,” “type A” mentality of our typical attack pilot. Finally, I learned what air combat really is. It’s not just strategic bombing from 20,000 feet using munitions aided by Global Positioning System (GPS) and delivered against targets whose coordinates had been carefully measured. I now know what it’s like to belly up to the table, look the bad guy square in the eye, and be confident that I have the ability, the constitution, and the fortitude to shoot him.
My most memorable sortie had an unsuccessful ending. It started one day when our squadron was tasked to plan an attack on a radar site in the Yugoslav province of Montenegro. The target was a long-range search radar used to track inbound and outbound NATO aircraft. Allied forces had finally pinpointed its location and decided it was time for the radar to go.
I was working in the mission-planning cell (MPC) when short-notice attack orders came down. I would not be a member of the attack force. However, with the exception of the actual flight brief, I was involved with every other aspect of the planning, which called for a four-ship of A-10s to attack at night using CBU-87s, Mavericks, and 30 mm guns. They were to depart Gioia, flying the standard route to Kosovo, and try to employ some tactical deception. The daily operational routine was to fly to a tanker before going into Kosovo, and the Yugoslavs knew it. At about the halfway point, the four-ship made a rapid descent over the Adriatic Sea but kept talking to the NAEW as if they were still cruising at altitude and proceeding to the tanker. The NAEW crew members participated in our deception plan and continued talking and vectoring the imaginary Hogs towards the tanker, even though they were nowhere near the normal routes. This was all an attempt to confuse the Yugoslavs in case they were listening to our radio transmissions and throw them off in case they had not been able to track the A-10s on radar. Unfortunately, the weather was extremely bad, and they were not able to engage the target successfully.
Three days later I was flying on the wing of Capt Stu Stuewe on an AFAC sortie in Kosovo. After our two vul periods, we were returning home, and we flew very close to the radar site. We were at high altitude, but the clear weather allowed us look into the area where we expected the radar to be located. At this point, an otherwise routine sortie became interesting. Stu was one of the pilots involved in the first night attack against the radar. He still had the target map with him and, because I had been involved with the planning, I remembered the radar’s geographic area and its location in relation to the road that paralleled the coast. Stu immediately located the radar and began coordinating for an impromptu attack clearance. He was able to get approval for the three other returning Hog two-ships to support the attack. Just as Stu had been involved on the first attack, it happened that the other three flight leads had been part of that original four-ship. We had the original four players leading four wingmen with their additional firepower.
We were ready to go after taking about 15 minutes to organize the fighters and get approval for the attack. Our attack force of four two-ships started off in trail at medium altitude with about two miles of separation between the elements. We were trying to attack the radar site quickly, and only Stu had put his eyes on the target. I had seen the target area but had not been able to pull out the binoculars and positively ID its location. The plan was for Stu to hit the target with a Maverick, and then the others would queue off the smoke and flames to find it. My job was to cover for the two of us—looking around for any threats to the formation. As we descended, Stu tried to lock up the target with an IIR Maverick. Because of poor thermal contrast with the surrounding area, the seeker would not lock on to just the vehicle. I was flying with extended spacing off Stu’s right wing as we crossed over the coast, flew inland, and rapidly approached the target. My duty was to continuously look for threats to the formation by searching the arc from my right side, through the nose, and on towards my 10 o’clock position to keep Stu in sight. This constant search pattern never allowed me to look for the target. We were two to three miles from the target when Stu radioed that he was switching to guns because the Mav wouldn’t lock-on. I started to sense a ground rush now because I hadn’t flown this low since the war started. The adrenaline rush was almost unbearable. The flight pressed in. Stu steadied his crosshairs and pulled the trigger. “Runaway gun! One’s runaway gun!” is all we heard on the radio. The Gatling gun on Stu’s jet had malfunctioned. It had spun up but fired no bullets.
He immediately pulled up and banked hard to the left, egressing over the water. As I heard this I looked out front, curious about the call and expecting to see the gun firing uncontrollably, but in the heat and excitement of the moment, Stu made an incorrect call.
As I looked out in front of Stu’s jet, I saw a group of vehicles off the side of the road, and then I saw Stew aggressively turn towards the sea. Since my job was to cover for the flight, I also turned west and egressed with flares. We were both jinking over the water now at less than 1,000 feet AGL. I looked back over my shoulder at the target for any threat reaction. There were no missiles or gun flashes, but I could see the second two-ship running towards the target.
Unfortunately, they never got eyes on the radar, so they aborted their pass. The same thing happened to the remaining two-ships. Because Stu’s jet malfunctioned and I was low on fuel, we were not able to reattack the target. The other Hogs were able to loiter for a little longer but never acquired the radar.
I often wonder if I should have hit those vehicles I saw at the last minute. I could have called “contact” and requested clearance to fire. This would have at least marked the target for the remaining Hogs. My job, however, was to clear. With Stu egressing, who would clear for me if I focused on the target? Still, I wish I could have killed that thing!
The Hogs did kill the radar on a subsequent sortie. Capt Joe Bro Brosious finally got it—he strafed it until it wasn’t anymore! This was just one more example of the variety of missions the A-10 can fly. Even though it was designed to provide CAS for the Army, it has repeatedly been used successfully in other roles. Hogs have attacked and destroyed radar sites and communication facilities, and have suppressed enemy air defenses—an ability we demonstrated against SA-6 sites in Kosovo. These missions make the Warthog such an exciting plane to fly—I wouldn’t trade it for anything!
“Do you need me to drive?” I yelled from the backseat. I continued, “If you kill us going to work today, I will make sure that you never fly again.” I was a scheduler, so this was a credible threat.
In retrospect, the drive to work was the most dangerous thing we did on a daily basis during OAF. The Italians had a knack for turning two lanes of traffic into three, and, depending on which of us was driving, things could get pretty sporty. It was around 0500 when I was rudely awakened by the stunt driving of the lieutenant behind the wheel. The drive to the squadron was the last quiet moment I could expect to have when flying a morning sortie. Everyone was usually too tired (or too tense) to talk, and the ride left a lot of time for reflection—or sleeping, as the case had been that morning. Now we at least had something to keep us all awake, and we spent the rest of our commute expressing displeasure with our young chauffeur’s driving abilities. A person normally develops a very thick skin working in a fighter squadron. The ability of a pilot to give someone grief for stupid remarks or actions is almost as highly respected by the pilot’s fellow aviators as is his ability to fly the plane. Indeed, it has truly been raised to an art form—a by-product of putting 30 type-A personalities together in the same workplace. It helped take our minds off the three million other things we were supposed to get accomplished during the day besides flying.
Morning sorties were always hectic. We had to get up at four in the morning—arriving at the squadron any earlier was not a rational option. A point of diminishing returns occurs when an alarm clock is set any earlier than around four in the morning (I used to think it was around 0600, but the Air Force recalibrated me). Getting up at 0400 is not something a normal human being should do on a regular basis.
No matter how early we arrived, we were always behind. There was never enough time to wade through all of the information thrown at us during the morning intelligence brief. We had to be very selective about what actions and thoughts we let occupy those precious two hours before takeoff. Mission planning had become a three-step process that was reflected in a series of three questions I asked myself before every sortie: What’s out there trying to kill me? What am I trying to kill? How do I accomplish my mission without getting into trouble? The last question seemed like a no-brainer, but it was one of our biggest concerns and something we had to concentrate on during our pre-mission planning. Information about every airborne flight was continuously transmitted to the CAOC and played on the big screen. “Big Brother” was watching, and nobody wanted to highlight himself. Just a week before, two of our squadron majors were ordered to the CAOC to explain an apparent ROE deviation, and they received a tongue-lashing of epic proportions. We all knew that any one of us could have been called up there and nobody wanted to make that trip.
I was scheduled to fly this particular morning with Capt Michael L. “Smokey” Matesick. I was the only one who called him Smokey. The nickname stems from an antiskid brake-system check that Mike had performed at the request of our maintenance personnel. They asked for volunteers one night when we were sitting CSAR alert, and Smokey, being the youngest, got to volunteer. They had spent the last six hours fixing the brakes and needed them checked. All they wanted was for Smokey to taxi the jet above 25 knots, slam on the brakes, and see that the antiskid engaged. Well that is just what he did. However, out on the runway after he checked the brakes the first time, he realized he still had about 8,000 feet of runway remaining—plenty of room to really check the brakes. After the third test, and as he was pulling off the runway, the Italians in the tower shouted on the UHF radio, “A-10 on taxiway, you smokey!” Sure enough, Mike had severely overheated the brakes and sat there on the taxiway in disbelief as both main-gear tires went flat. If anything made me laugh harder during the war, I don’t remember it. Maintenance was not amused.
I liked flying with Smokey—probably more than flying with anyone else. We had flown together enough to know what to expect from each other, and I had good luck finding targets with him. I can’t really say I believe in luck or fate—I think people make their own. Strangely, however, I did feel that if I flew with a certain person, I was probably going to get shot at, or if I flew with another particular person it would likely be a slow day. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy on my part, but I’ll bet that most flight leads would admit that they had a lucky wingman.
I got my standard large cup of coffee, and then Smokey and I sat down for our intel brief. Four months into the war, we had a pretty good picture of what was out there and where people had been lucky or unlucky. Intel briefed on an unlocated SA-6 somewhere in Kosovo and SAN-4s off the coast of Montenegro—as they had been the entire war. We were mainly interested in what had happened the day before. Who had been shot at? Where did they find targets? With this information we had the ability to make our plan of attack. Included in our mission planning materials was a list of about 50 targets (some days more, some days fewer). Our first job was to look at the list and guess which ones were valid and which were bogus: 20 tanks just outside of Prizren (most likely bogus), 200 infantry with vehicles (probably bogus). We decided on a handful of targets that looked promising and rank-ordered them. One interesting target, with imagery, was two tanks parked next to a tree line. The picture, from a British Harrier, looked too good to be true. We assumed they were decoys, but they were a possible dump target if it turned into a slow day. I briefed about 30 minutes on flight contracts and other required items, and then we were out the door to fly.
The mornings stopped being hectic when we finally got airborne. I hated waking up at 0400, but there is nothing better than taking off at sunrise and being the first flight into the area of operations (AO). We hit the tanker inbound, refueled, and made our way across the border. We were slotted as an air-strike control (aka AFAC) sortie working in the western half of Kosovo, using Swine 91 as our call sign. We were more like “killer scouts” running down through a suspected target list. We searched each set of coordinates with handheld binoculars for any sign of the Serbian military. While scrutinizing our third target, I struck gold.
Two artillery pieces were backed against a tree line overlooking the border town of Zur. Closer investigation revealed what looked like a deuce-and-a-half truck parked nearby with the cargo cover pulled off. Smokey didn’t have the target but was more than happy to provide cover while I rolled in with an IIR Maverick air-to-ground missile. I was unable to break out the artillery pieces due to poor thermal contrast, but the truck showed up beautifully in my cockpit picture. I locked on and hammered down on the pickle button. My Maverick came off like a freight train, but then just as suddenly it pointed vertical and went blitzing off towards some unknown, unsuspecting piece of dirt.
“Two come south, my Maverick just went ‘stupid,’” I warned. Things were bad enough; I certainly didn’t want Smokey in the same piece of sky as my missile. We watched and waited for what seemed an eternity. A thousand horrifying scenarios flashed through my brain in a matter of seconds. Maybe I would be on the next plane to the CAOC after all. Luckily the Maverick splashed down on the eastern bank of a river just to our north. Crisis averted!
Smokey wasn’t exactly sure where the target was, and by this time we were well north of it. No problem, I thought. I’ve got another missile, so I’ll set up for a pass from the north. I found the truck again and pickled off my second Maverick. This one came off the rail and did a direct nosedive underneath my aircraft. I had never had a Maverick missile go stupid on me before, and here I was at 10,000 feet praying that my second stupid missile of the day would not find an inappropriate impact point. Performing a classic posthole maneuver, this missile hit much quicker than the first, coming down in a field just outside a small village. I searched the area for any signs that something other than dirt had been disturbed and found nothing.
Since Smokey had seen where my nose had been pointed, he now attacked the target. I covered our flight while he rolled in with one of his Mavericks. Shack! We had now expended three Mavericks for one truck, not a very good ratio, but I was glad I had my lucky wingman with me (luck doesn’t always come in the form of targets). While Smokey was setting up for his Maverick pass, two Belgian F-16s checked in, with each aircraft carrying one Mk-84 2,000 lb bomb. I gave them our coordinates and cleared them into the area at high altitude. Once they were overhead, I marked the artillery pieces with three white phosphorous marking rockets. The Vipers could still not acquire the target. Since my third rocket had landed directly on the southern artillery piece, I finally got to say the only three words that a FAC in any war has ever wanted to say: “Hit my smoke!”
An Mk-84 exploding is one of the most violent things I have ever witnessed. I can’t imagine what it is like to be near its detonation on the ground, but I never tire of being safely overhead and watching one explode. The entire hillside erupted as the F-16s dropped one after the other on the two artillery pieces. We thanked each other for the work, and Smokey and I headed back to the tanker.
It had been a successful morning so far. We got our fuel, and I was excited to get back in the fight. After being back in the area for no more than 10 minutes, I received a call from Magic, the ABCCC C-130. He said that the KEZ would be closing to facilitate the search for a priority target—a radar somewhere on the coast of Montenegro. I argued with Magic to allow at least one section of the KEZ to stay open. “Stand by; checking,” came the reply. Simultaneously we could hear what seemed like hounds being turned loose, as every Hog driver in the area jockeyed for position to get a crack at this target. It was no great mystery what we were going after. I had been in this situation twice before. The first was a night CSAR alert period that turned into a low-altitude, below-the-weather sortie searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The second occurred about a week later—a day sortie in which they had also closed the KEZ down and turned the Hogs loose. That one ended with Capt Ron Stuewe suffering a gun malfunction with the target in his crosshairs. We were “zero for two,” and the CAOC wanted this radar badly. It was being used as the eyes of the enemy’s early warning system and covered the approaches over the Adriatic that funneled jets into Kosovo. They knew when we were coming and how many of us there were. Someone at the CAOC had the destruction of this radar on the top of his “to do” list.
Magic came back, “Swine 91, you are directed to leave the area. The KEZ will be closing in five minutes.”
“Magic, Swine 91. I’m requesting to leave the western half of the KEZ open.” There were already three flights headed in search of the radar, and I now had the entire western half of the country to myself. I didn’t want to go anywhere.
A new voice came across the radio, this one much older and much more perturbed at my request: “Swine 91, you are ordered to exit the AO. The KEZ will be closing in five minutes.” Good thing they were broadcasting this to the world over an open frequency. That was good enough for me and I started outbound. But I realized we were right near the target we had identified during our mission planning that morning—the one that was too good to be true. I altered my course outbound to the west slightly and spotted it—exactly like the picture and it certainly did look too good to be true. Somebody had to pay for those decoys though, and if I’m getting kicked out I may as well take the decoys with me. I relayed my plan to Smokey and we were in 30 seconds apart on the two, what appeared to be, tank decoys. Both passes were good and we rippled four Mk-82 500 lb bombs on each of the tanks. They weren’t very tactically significant targets, but those decoys had to cost at least 10 grand apiece. I thought it was a fair trade on that day, and I think Smokey agreed. Information in a subsequent Kosovo after-action report revealed that two tanks had indeed been found destroyed at those coordinates.
We headed south and came up on the frequency being used for the priority target. This was the same one that the two majors were going after when they got into trouble. They were diverted to go find and attack this radar and then got the free ride up to the CAOC for their efforts. After that happened, I swore to myself that I would never go after that radar again—yet here I was, headed for the coast, flying towards the unlocated SA-6 and SAN-4 missile systems. That radar had become a monkey on the back of the 81st FS. We checked in just in time to hear the talkon from Magic. To say it was confusing would be a gross understatement. In fact, we could hear the confusion from the other flights even though they weren’t saying a word. I don’t remember exactly what Magic said, but I do recall that it was one long sentence without punctuation—something like, “There are two castles one is in the water one is on the land with the distance between the two shores one unit go one unit south from the castle you come to a road go south on this road which puts you in between two roads that form a V which is open to the target area south along the road.”
The first time I heard Magic’s talk-on, I couldn’t follow it close enough to understand what the controller was trying to say. The flights already in the target area asked Magic to “say again.” I was a bit apprehensive, to say the least. I had coordinates inputted into my inertial navigation system (INS) to get us close, but the target radar was so far north this time that it was off all the maps I carried with me (we usually didn’t launch with the intention of attacking Montenegro). In summary: I had no map, my INS had drifted at least three miles when I compared it to known ground references on the way out of the KEZ, there were still two flights left looking for the radar, and we had a target-location description that seemed to make matters worse. What I did have on my side was time. We still had about 15 minutes en route to the target area. The next time Magic gave the talk-on, I wrote the entire thing down on my canopy with grease pencil. If someone reads a paragraph without using punctuation, or using the wrong punctuation, it can change the meaning completely—or even make it incomprehensible. I broke the talk-on into what I thought were reasonable sections. It was still confusing without having my eyes on the target. Nevertheless, it seemed to give me a much better mental picture of what I was looking for.
We arrived at the target area just in time for the flight on station to give us an orientation. We could definitely see the ruins of two castles. One was indeed on a tiny island in the middle of a small bay. The other was about a kilometer away on the shore to the south of the first one. The departing flight talked me onto the area they had been searching. They were using the distance between the far shore on the north side of the castle in the water and the shore to the south as one unit. This seemed reasonable enough and is what I would have thought. Next they were going one unit south along a road running away from the castle on the shore. At that point another road branched off from the main road; together they formed a “V.” It seemed perfectly logical that the target was in this area, and I took over the search. Ten minutes later I wasn’t so sure. I decided to start over. I ran through it one more time and ended up in the same location. The possibility that it wasn’t even out there crossed my mind.
It then occurred to me that we had to be trolling around in some pretty unfriendly territory and that the radios had been quiet for some time. With the KEZ closed, surely this effort would have had all the available support dedicated to it. I queried Magic for the status of any SEAD and jamming assets. We had no jamming assets, and our SEAD was on a different frequency, headed for the tanker. I requested that Magic have all players come up on a common victor (VHF-AM) radio threat frequency. A quick check-in revealed that we actually did have two F-16 CJs covering the area and one EA-6B about five minutes out to provide jamming. It felt good to know the CJs were above us, holding in their SEAD orbit while the Hogs were taking care of the destruction of enemy air defenses (DEAD) (with destruction being the key word). Things seemed to be in order, so I went back to the beginning of my talk-on.
Nowhere did it say to go one unit from the southern castle. I decided I would try going one unit south from the castle in the water. That put me just on shore, a little south of the southern castle. There I noticed a small road that ran out from the other side of the castle that I had not seen before. This road formed a V with the larger dirtball, and going one unit south put me right smack dab in the middle of that V. There was also a small road that ran from the larger dirtball into a large grove of trees that was covering the entire inside portion of the V. I put my binoculars up to the point where that small road disappeared in the trees and saw… nothing. However, there was a small concrete pad with what looked like a small hardened shelter close by. I swung my aircraft back around, refocused my binos, and got a closer look. There it was—sticking out of the tops of the trees—the upper half of a Giraffe radar. Not believing it, I checked at least two more times. It was definitely the Giraffe. Smokey did not have the target in sight—there was no way he could have. I directed him to continue to cover us, and I quickly set up for a gun pass on the Giraffe.
“Magic, Swine 91. Confirm we are cleared to engage this target,” I queried, almost wishing I hadn’t asked and fully expecting him to deny me.
“Swine 91, you are cleared to expend 30 mm on that target,” Magic quickly replied.
I found myself about 10 seconds later hanging in the straps on about a 70-degree diving delivery. In my excitement I had failed to do the most important thing—fly the jet! I was able to shoot only about 50 bullets, not anything close to what I wanted to put down. They did impact the immediate target area, however. I asked Smokey if he had seen my bullets hit so that I could clear him in on a pass of his own. He came back with a negative, so I climbed back to altitude. This time I made sure that I was in a good position to roll in, and with two bursts—about 300 rounds—from the mighty GAU-8 the Giraffe slumped over, smoldering and resting on the same trees that had just provided it cover. The 81st had stuck its finger in Milosevic’s eye, and the monkey was finally off our back. It was nothing new for the A-10. As it has done in every war in which it has been involved, the Hog proved it had the ability to adapt to nearly any mission at a moment’s notice and have success, leaving some other high-tech jets stuck in orbit.