Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [49]
That’s when I heard on the radio that an enemy airplane had been spotted by U.S. forces, and they were preparing to shoot it down. When they gave the aircraft’s altitude and airspeed, I noticed, Hey, that’s my altitude and airspeed. That’s when I realized: Because Fuj and I were speeding toward the Persian Gulf from Iranian airspace, they thought we were an enemy fighter. They were getting ready to shoot us down.
Nearly getting shot by the enemy is one thing, but being blown out of the sky by your buddies is a recipe for a bad night. Iraqi missiles I could deal with. Air-to-air missiles from a U.S. Navy F-18 Hornet or F-14 Tomcat would present a much more difficult challenge. Once they got their missiles in the air, Fuj and I would certainly be dead.
“FUCK!” I said to Fuj as I realized how badly we had screwed up by not letting our guys know that we had sneaked into Iran. Two decades later, I can’t recall exactly what I said on the radio at that moment, but it was immediate, loud, and conveyed this message to everyone listening: “Please don’t shoot down the morons in Iranian airspace!”
After my radio transmission was acknowledged, we slowed down and took a deep breath. “It’s not a good idea to fly out of Iran looking like an enemy aircraft to coalition forces,” I told Fuj, stating the obvious. He agreed. We quietly flew back to the ship and landed without incident.
I didn’t find it easy to fall asleep knowing I was almost killed three times that night.
It was the first combat mission of my life. I’d fly thirty-eight more before the war ended six weeks later.
Some missions are a blur. Others, like the one on January 30, 1991, remain clear in my head. On that day, Fuj and I spotted two ships motoring together toward Iran. They appeared to be Russian-made Polnocny amphibious personnel carriers. Were they carrying Iraqi troops? We had to make certain.
From 5,000 feet I could see that one of the ships was flying a flag. I dropped to just a hundred feet above the water, and got out a picture guidebook I had of the flags of every nation. Middle Eastern countries have flags that look strikingly similar. It can be maddening to figure out which is which. Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait, Syria, United Arab Emirates—they’ve all got blocks or stripes of red, white, and green.
I flew right alongside the ship, from stern to bow, as fast as the A-6 would go, and held up my picture of the Iraqi flag to compare it to the flag on the mast. “Yep,” I said to Fuj, “it’s an Iraqi ship.” In hindsight it was very risky to fly so close to that ship, giving its troops such a clear shot. But we were young and felt somewhat invincible after a couple weeks of combat.
We flew higher and radioed what we’d seen back to the Midway. Minutes later, we got clearance to sink both ships. We rolled into a 10-degree dive and let loose a thousand-pound, laser-guided bomb. Unfortunately, it missed the ship. These things don’t always go as planned. The bomb pierced through the water a couple hundred feet away. It was the first time we had missed in fifteen combat missions and neither of us was happy about it.
The Iraqis weren’t happy either. They began shooting at us with the antiaircraft artillery gun mounted at the center of the ship. We pulled up and jinked a few times to maneuver and avoid the enemy fire. Fuj quickly reconfigured our weapons system so I could deliver the two cluster bombs that remained by visually aiming for the target. I pulled hard on the stick to keep the A-6 turning, trying to make the shot more difficult for the Iraqi gunner. Then, as one of our more colorful squadron mates liked to say, “Now we’re on government time.” (By that he meant: We are serving our country, and whatever happens, happens.) That was the crappy part of these bombing runs, where we had to stay pointed at the target, get to the correct release conditions, and