30-4-1975. Cuộc hạ cánh thần kỳ của một chiếc Cessna trên boong tàu sân bay USS Midway
Cuộc hạ cánh thần kỳ của một chiếc Cessna 2 chỗ ngồi – [B]chở một gia đ́nh gồm bảy người[/B] - trên boong tàu sân bay USS Midway
[I][SIZE=1]By Robert H. Sproule, Tạp chí Việt Nam, số 12/09/2014 [/SIZE][/I]
[img]http://www.navyhistory.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/Major_Buang_lands_his_Cessna_O-1_on_USS_Midway.jpg[/img][img]https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8645/16347896939_95b3711a06_z.jpg[/img]
Khi chiếc máy bay nhỏ xà xuống thấp, một vật nhỏ rơi thẳng xuống sàn tàu như một quả bom. Nhưng đó không phải là chất nổ cường độ cao mà là một bản đồ phi hành với một ghi chú nguệch ngoạc trên đó viêt: [I][B]"Xin các ông di chuyển các máy bay trực thăng về phía bên kia, để tôi có thể hạ cánh trên đường băng của tàu, tôi có thể bay thêm một giờ nữa. Chúng ta có đủ thời gian để di chuyển. Xin hăy cứu tôi. [U]Thiêu tá Bửng, vợ và 5 đứa con[/U].[/B] "[/I]
[img]http://www.navyhistory.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/5545971583_bf9b6a3840_o.jpg[/img] [I]Ly’s handwritten message.[/I]
Đây là một trong những sự kiện đầy kịch tính cuối cùng của cuộc chiến tranh Việt Nam khi một phi công Không quân Việt Nam với cả gia đ́nh ḿnh, trên một chuyến bay đi không trở lại trên đại dương, đă khẩn khoản xin hạ cánh khẩn cấp xuống tàu sân bay Midway. [B]Thiếu tá Lư Bửng[/B] đă cố liều mạng t́m tự do bằng một chiếc máy bay quan sát một động cơ Cessna O-1 Bird Dog bị đánh cắp. [B]Chiếc máy bay chỉ vừa đủ chỗ cho hai người đă được nhét vào tới bảy người.[/B]
Vào cuối tháng Tư 1975, quân Bắc VN đă tiến đến vùng ngoại ô Sài G̣n. Với mỗi giờ qua đi, viễn cảnh càng lúc càng đen tối hơn đối với những thường dân và binh sĩ Nam VN trước đây từng trung thành với Hoa Kỳ. Hàng ngh́n người giờ đây cố gắng vùng vẫy để thoát đi trước khi quân Bắc Việt tràn ngập thủ đô. Là một phần trong Chiến dịch Gió lốc (Operation Frequent Wind), hàng không mẫu hạm Midway và khoảng 50 tàu hải quân khác của Mỹ đă tuần tra ngoài khơi duyên hải Nam Việt Nam với lịnh cứu được càng nhiều người càng tốt.
Khi đó tôi là sĩ quan phụ trách việc tiếp nhiên liệu cho máy bay trên tàu Midway, một trung úy 26 tuổi cấp dưới của vị Tư lệnh phi hành trên tàu, Chi huy trưởng Vern Jumper. Thông thường, bộ phận của tôi tiếp nhiên liệu cho hơn 70 máy bay phản lực tiêm kích và tấn công thuộc không đoàn trên tàu Midway. Tuy nhiên, nhiều máy bay của chúng tôi đă được dời đi để lấy chỗ cho 10 máy bay trực thăng CH-53D Sea Stallion của Không quân. C̣n được gọi là những Gă khổng lồ Super Jolly Green, đây là những chiếc máy bay thật to lớn, dài gần 30 mét, và có khả năng chở tới 55 người. Các phi hành đoàn Sea Stallions (Ngựa Biển giống) được lệnh bay vào Sài G̣n, đưa lên máy bay tối đa số người di tản họ có thể chở được, và mang họ trở lại hàng không mẫu hạm Midway. Công việc của chúng tôi là tiếp nhiên liệu đầy đủ cho những chiếc trực thăng Sea Stallion này.
Trong khi những trực thăng Sea Stallions của chúng tôi bay đi bay về như con thoi trong chiến dịch di tản, tàu Midway đă trở thành một nam châm thu hút các máy bay trực thăng UH-1 Huey của Nam VN đang thoát khỏi VN bay kín cả đường chân trời, xếp hàng như những máy bay của các hăng hàng không vào giai đoạn cuối cùng tiếp cận sân bay, hy vọng t́m được một chỗ trống trên sàn bay đông nghẹt của tàu sân bay. Với hàng chục máy bay trực thăng không được mời đang đổ xô bay tới, sàn tàu chẳng mấy lúc đă đầy kín máy bay. Đổ ra từ nhiều chiếc trực thăng Hueys là những người lính Nam Việt Nam với đầy đủ vũ khí, họ nhanh chóng bị giải giáp bởi đơn vị TQLC trên tàu Midway. Ban đầu, những binh sĩ TQLC c̣n cẩn thận cất những vũ khí của họ đi, nhưng khi các máy bay trực thăng tiếp tục hạ cánh với một nhịp độ chóng mặt, những người lính thủy quân lục chiến đă chỉ đơn giản quăng vũ khí bị tịch thu xuống biển..
Trong vài ngày vừa qua chỉ toàn là những máy bay trực thăng bay đầy bầu trời, do đó chiếc máy bay Cessna bé nhỏ có cánh cố định nh́n lạc lơng một cách kỳ lạ khi nó bắt đầu bay mấy đường lượn thấp bên trên tàu. Tôi đang kiểm tra hai chục trạm tiếp nhiên liệu nằm ở cầu hành lang gần đó khi lá thư của Thiếu tá Lư Bửng rớt xuống sàn tàu cách tôi khoảng 30m. Tôi chạy phóng đến để nhặt nó, nhưng một thuỷ thủ của tàu Midway đă nhanh chân hơn tôi nhặt được nó. Ṭ ṃ quá muốn biết trong lá thư đó là ǵ, tôi bước đến trung tâm đầu năo điều khiển các hoạt động của sàn đáp – tức đài kiểm soát sàn bay của tầu sân bay - một căn pḥng nhỏ bên cạnh sàn đáp ở dưới cùng của khu vực tháp đảo của con tàu. Tôi thường dành rất nhiều thời gian ở đó trong các hoạt động tiếp nhiên liệu b́nh thường cho các phi cơ.
Bên trong căn pḥng nhỏ, viên sĩ quan phụ trách sắp xếp các máy bay ngồi nói chuyện trên điện thoại với một vẻ lo lắng trên khuôn mặt. Qua những lời đáp xen kẽ “yes sirs” của người này trong lúc nói chuyện trên điện thoại, tôi có thể biết được là anh ta có lẽ đang nói chuyện với vị Tư lệnh không đoàn. Viên sĩ quan phụ trách sắp xếp phi cơ dành hầu hết thời gian của ḿnh ngồi trong một chiếc ghế da lớn bên cạnh một cửa sổ nh́n ra ngoài boong tàu. Anh ta có cái nhiệm vụ chẳng đáng thém muốn là hoạch định sự di chuyển của mỗi chiếc máy bay trên sàn bay của tàu. Nhưng bây giờ, thay v́ di chuyển những chiếc máy bay phản lực của hàng không mẫu hạm, ông lại phải giành giật để t́m chỗ cho tất cả các máy bay trực thăng Việt Nam đang lấp kín dần sàn đáp. Cuối cùng, viên sĩ quan gác điện thoại. "Có chuyện ǵ vậy?" Tôi hỏi.
"Một người nào đó trên tàu biết tiếng Việt sẽ liên lạc qua radio với viên phi công và nói anh ta hạ cánh xuống biển, rồi chúng ta sẽ vớt họ lên,” viên sĩ quan sắp xếp phi cơ cho tôi biết. Không ai biết rằng chiếc máy bay bé tí của viên Thiếu tá th́ không có radio – một thực tế mà có lẽ hóa ra là may mắn cho bảy ngưởi ở trong chiếc Bird Dog. Bởi v́ nếu như chúng ta bằng cách nào đó đă thuyết phục được viên thiếu tá phi công để cố t́nh hạ cánh xuống đại dương th́ nhiều người trên chiếc máy bay có thể đă nhiều khả năng bị chết đuối trong chiếc máy bay bị ch́m của họ.
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(sẽ dịch tiếp)
[img]http://www.navyhistory.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/DSC_0385-1024x678.jpg[/img]
[I]Model designer Michael McLeod, Larry Chambers, Ted Bronson, and Bung-Ly at the model presentation, 5 April 2014. - See more at: [url]http://www.navyhistory.org/2014/04/the-opportunity-to-make-history-vietnam-war-heros-flight-to-freedom-remembered/#sthash.dwaCyc2x.dpuf[/url][/I]
The Opportunity to Make History: Vietnam War Hero’s Flight to Freedom Remembered
[url]http://www.navyhistory.org/2014/04/the-opportunity-to-make-history-vietnam-war-heros-flight-to-freedom-remembered/[/url]
[I][SIZE=4]“The bravest guy I know. He didn’t have enough gas to make it back to the beach when Midway gave him an opportunity to make history.”[/SIZE][/I] – Rear Admiral Larry Chambers, USN (Ret.) on Buang-Ly’s historic landing on the deck of USS Midway. - See more at: [url]http://www.navyhistory.org/2014/04/the-opportunity-to-make-history-vietnam-war-heros-flight-to-freedom-remembered/#sthash.dwaCyc2x.dpuf[/url]
[img]http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/87/Major_Buang_taxies_to_a_halt.jpg[/img]
South Vietnam was in the process of being overrun by the North Vietnamese in April 1975. The end of the decades-old Vietnam conflict approached, and many South Vietnamese desperately tried to escape the country before the takeover by North Vietnam.
The U.S. Navy was busy cooperating with South Vietnamese forces in Operation Frequent Wind, the largest helicopter evacuation in history. According to NHF volunteer and Vietnam War veteran Capt. Ted Bronson, USN (Ret.) Frequent Wind was the final phase in the evacuation of American civilians and Vietnamese from Saigon, South Vietnam. When that final phase ended, more than 7,000 people had been evacuated to safety aboard many U.S. Navy ships operating in the South China Sea.
Although the U.S. ran the operations during Frequent Wind, several South Vietnamese aviators took it upon themselves to escape in countless helicopters and planes. The most memorable story of the evacuation occurred nearly fifty years ago this month.
Vietnamese Air Force Major Buang was desperate. Bung-Ly and his family flew a VNAF OE-1 “Bird Dog” from Con Son Island in South Vietnam to safety during the evacuation operation. Under heavy fire and dangerously low on fuel, Major Ly eventually found the American aircraft carrier USS Midway.
Ly began to circle around the Navy ship, desperate but unable to make contact. He resorted to writing a note stuck into his pistol, which he then dropped on the flight deck during a low pass:
[I]“Can you move the Helicopter to the other side, I can land on your runway, I can fly 1 hour more, we have enough to mouve. Please rescue me.
Major Bung, wife and 5 child.”
[/I]
Midway Commanding Officer Capt. Larry Chambers knew the lack of flight deck space aboard his ship would make Ly’s landing difficult. He ordered his crew to push several VNAF UH-1 Huey helicopters overboard to allow enough room for Major Ly to land. Rear Admiral Chambers recollects the events of the 30th:
[I]“The sky was overcast. Light rain was falling. Not much of a sea state. When we turned into the wind we had 40 kts over the deck (15 knots natural plus 25 knots that the old girl was making). My only concern, besides the Admiral telling me not to do it, was whether or not Major Ly would carry enough power to get through the burble and down draft aft of the ship. The high wind over the deck increases the downdraft and the turbulence. Because we were operating helos, I had given the engineers permission to shut down half the plant for maintenance. When I told the chief engineer that I needed 25 knots, he informed me that we didn’t have enough steam. I ordered him to shift the hotel load to the emergency diesels. You get the idea. In addition, we stripped the arresting gear cross deck pendants. At Ly’s approach speed, my only worry was getting him across the ramp. His relative speed couldn’t have been more than 20 to 25 knots.”[/I]
Ly received the “green light” from the tower and had permission to land. Landing the Cessna on the deck of carrier without a tailhook was no easy task. One website described the “Bird Dog” as “the plane those gutsy pilots used from Korea to Vietnam.” According to Chambers, Ly nonetheless “made a perfect landing.” Everybody on deck applauded, and Ly made it into the history books. Many sailors aboard collected money to help Bung and his family emigrate to the United States.
[img]https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8645/16347896939_95b3711a06_z.jpg[/img]
[B][SIZE=5][COLOR="#FF0000"]"PLEASE RESCUE ME!"[/COLOR][/SIZE][/B]
As the small plane buzzed in low, a tiny object plummeted to the flight deck like a bomb. But this was no high explosive. It was a flight navigational map with a note scrawled across it that read: “Can you move these helicopters to the other side, I can land on your runway, I can fly one hour more. We have enough time to move. Please rescue me. Major Bung, wife and 5 child.” [Sic]
In one of the last dramatic events of America’s Vietnam War, a South Vietnamese air force pilot and his family, on a one-way flight over the ocean, pleaded to make an emergency landing on the aircraft carrier Midway. Major Bung Ly’s desperate attempt for freedom was in a stolen single engine Cessna O-1 Bird Dog observation airplane – barely large enough for two – with seven people aboard.
In late April 1975, the North Vietnamese Army had advanced to the outskirts of Saigon. With the passing of each hour, the prospects grew darker for the South Vietnamese military and civilians who had been loyal to the United States. Thousands were now frantically trying to escape before the North Vietnamese overran the capital city. As part of Operation Frequent Wind, Midway and about 50 other U.S. Navy ships cruised off the coast of South Vietnam with orders to rescue as many people as possible.
I was Midway’s aviation fuels officers, a 26-year-old lieutenant reporting to the ship’s air boss, Commander Vern Jumper. Normally, my division refueled the ship’s air wing of more than 70 fighter and attack jets. But many of our aircraft had been offloaded to make room for 10 Air Force CH-53D Sea Stallion helicopters. Also known as Super Jolly Green Giants, these were huge aircraft, almost 100 feet long, and capable of carrying up to 55 passengers. The Sea Stallions’ crews had orders to fly into Saigon, load up with as many evacuees as they could carry, and bring them back to Midway. Our job was to keep the Sea Stallion fueled.
While our Sea Stallions ran their shuttle operations, Midway became a magnet for fleeing South Vietnamese UH-1 Huey helicopters that filled the horizon, lined up like airliners on final approach to LAX, hoping to find an open spot on the carrier’s crowded flight deck. With dozens of uninvited helicopters streaming in, the flight deck soon filled to capacity. Pouring out of many of the Hueys were fully armed South Vietnamese soldiers, quickly disarmed by Midway’s Marine detachment. Initially, the Marines carefully stowed their weapons, but as the helicopters continued to land at a breakneck pace, the Marines began to simply toss the confiscated arms into the ocean.
For the past several days nothing but helicopters had filled the sky, so the little fixed-wing Cessna looked strangely out of place when it started making low passes over the ship. I was inspecting the two-dozen fueling stations located in the nearby catwalks when Major Ly’s message fell to the flight deck about 100 feet away. I raced over to retrieve it, but a Midway crewman beat me there. Curious to find out what had come close to beaning me, I walked over to the nerve center of flight deck operations – flight deck control – a small room next to the flight deck on the bottom of the ship’s island. I typically spent a lot of time there during normal aircraft fueling operations.
Inside the tiny room, the aircraft handling officer sat talking on the phone with a concerned look on his face. I could tell by all of the “yes sirs” that peppered his conversation, he was probably talking to the air boss. The handler spent most of his time in a large leather chair next to a window that looked out onto the flight deck. He had the unenviable task of planning the movement of every aircraft on the flight deck. But now, instead of moving the carrier’s jets, he scrambled to find room for all of the Vietnamese helicopters that were filling the flight deck. Finally, the handler hung up the phone. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Someone onboard who speaks Vietnamese is going to get the pilot on the radio and tell him to ditch into the water, and then we’ll pick them up,” said the handler. No one knew that the major’s tiny plane didn’t have a radio – a fact that probably turned out to be fortunate for the seven people in the Bird Dog. If we had somehow convinced the major to intentionally ditch into the ocean, many of those aboard would have likely drowned in their sinking airplane.
But letting the major attempt his first carrier landing posed a threat to Midway – its flight deck now jammed with fuel-laden helicopters – and its 4,000 crewmen. I could visualize the catastrophic fire if Major Ly made a slight mistake and crashed into one of the nearby choppers. A few years earlier, flight deck fires on the aircraft carriers Oriskany and Forrestal had killed hundreds of crew members and had endangered the safety of both ships. No one wanted a repeat of those disasters.
An unsuccessful carrier approach posed a huge risk to the major and his family. If they came in too low, they could hit the back edge of the carrier deck and their airplane would turn into a deadly fireball. If they came in too high and landed long, their plane would simply roll off the end of the deck, and nose-dive into the water 60 feet below.
Minutes passed as Midway’s captain, Lawrence Chambers, decided what to do. He would have to take full responsibility if the landing ended in disaster – either for the Ly family, or for Midway. I knew Captain Chambers, and although he was a stickler for safety, he wouldn’t allow an entire family to drown if he could help it.
Suddenly, word came down from Midway’s air boss to prepare to take the Cessna aboard and clear the angle – the landing area that forked off from the left side of the flight deck. The excited flight deck crew sprang into action. We all wanted to save this brave man and his family but time was running out. The major had about 45 minutes of fuel left before he would have to ditch into the ocean, but dozens of helicopters packed the flight deck. Captain Chambers made a quick call – start pushing helicopters over the side until enough space had been cleared for the Cessna to land. Dozens of Midway crewman eagerly joined in pushing these half-million dollar machines over the side in what was fast becoming a very expensive recovery operation.
As the flight deck crew worked frantically, the little Cessna circled anxiously overhead, staying below the hovering overcast sky. Luckily the rain had stopped, but Major Ly would still have to land on a wet deck. After about 30 minutes, the angle was clear and the captain ordered Midway to turn into the wind. The carrier began to shake as its engines strained at full power to pick up speed. I figured Major Ly had less than 15 minutes of fuel remaining.
I hiked up the ladder to Vultures Row at the rear of the ship’s island overlooking the flight deck, an excellent place to observe aircraft landing. I hoped I would soon be witnessing an historic event, along with dozens of other crewmen. I looked over at the empty landing signal officer platform located adjacent to the flight deck just forward of the ramp. Typically, Navy aircraft landing on the carrier are under the control of a landing signal officer (LSO) who stands on the platform and radios instructions to the pilots during their approaches to the deck. This Cessna had no LSO – the major would fly this carrier approach on his own.
While waiting for Major Ly to begin his approach, I did some quick calculations. About 30 knots of wind blew down the flight deck. If the major could fly an approach speed of around 75 knots, then his landing speed on Midway would only be about 45 knots. I didn’t know how much runway a Cessna O-1 needed when landing at 45 knots, but knew it better be less than 600 feet – the approximate length of the angled deck. He could stop in time if he didn’t land too far down the angle. I wondered if Ly had done the same calculation before taking off from South Vietnam that morning.
Although the ship couldn’t communicate with Ly, he saw from our frantic efforts to clear space for his Cessna that we had granted him permission to come aboard. From Vultures Row, not comfortable with the odds, I watched the Cessna make a shallow turn onto final approach. Below, the crash crewmen were in their fire retardant suits, hoses at the ready. Midway’s rescue helicopter waited close by in the event the airplane ended up in the water. The flight deck crew in their yellow and green jerseys flapping like tiny flags in the strong wind that blew across the deck stood farther forward, well clear of the landing area and ready to assist in any flight deck emergency.
As I watched the plane complete its turn onto final approach, it looked low to me. I was accustomed to watching F-4 Phantoms fly their steep, high-speed approaches down to the deck, and forgot that a tiny Cessna aircraft almost glides in when landing. I gave Ly a silent instruction to add power and pull up, but he continued his shallow approach. Luckily he couldn’t hear me.
Approaching the ramp, the airplane dipped slightly. Then its wings rocked. I wondered if the major realized that the large downdraft at the back of the ship could easily fling his tiny airplane into the ramp. But his plane seemed to float across the ramp, oblivious to the danger just beneath it. Once he cleared the ramp, Ly cut the engine and his airplane dropped quickly onto the deck, bouncing slightly before softly returning, its wheels straddling the long white line that marked the center of the landing area. Fortunately, the strong headwind grabbed the tiny plane like an air brake, stopping it faster than one of Midway’s jets catching an arresting wire.
It was a perfect carrier landing.
The jubilant flight deck crew surrounded the Cessna as Ly climbed out of the pilot’s seat, followed by his wife from the tiny rear seat. The couple was surrounded by about 50 cheering Midway crewmen trying to shake the major’s hand and slapping him on the back. Then, astonishingly, several small children scrambled out from a storage compartment in the side of the airplane. Apparently, this was the only place left in the airplane for the rest of his family. I couldn’t imagine being crammed inside a tiny, windowless box on a flight out to sea. I realized then that Ly would never have agreed to ditch into the water. I wondered what would have happened if he had run out of fuel and been required to ditch. What were the chances that he and his family could have escaped their sinking airplane? Could they have opened the baggage compartment door against the weight of the ocean to free those small children? As those thoughts raced through my head, I realized how truly desperate they must have been.
We had witnessed an extraordinary act of courage – a man and his family embarking on a one-way trip in a flimsy plane with no radio, gambling they would find a place to land. We also had witnessed an impressive aeronautic feat, the unarrested landing of a fixed-wing airplane on an aircraft carrier by a pilot with no carrier landing experience. It was the final act of courage and skill of a South Vietnamese air force officer who had fought bravely for his country.
Some three decades later, I returned to Midway’s flight deck, but this time as a tourist. My former ship now rested quietly, a floating museum permanently docked in San Diego harbor. As I sat on the flight deck having dinner, I thought about Major Ly and his family, now living in Florida, and his old Bird Dog airplane, sitting in a museum far away in Pensacola. At the same time I listened to my former air boss Vern Jumper, now a Midway docent, talk about what was the highlight of his Midway service – the day our ship steamed off the coast of South Vietnam and Jumper barked orders through the ship’s loudspeakers to clear the flight deck in preparation for Major Ly’s landing. Wouldn’t it be great, I thought, if Major Ly and his Bird Dog could be here with us today?
Later that evening, as Jumper and I strolled through the old ship reliving Midway memories, we agreed that some of our best days were in April 1975 when the carrier took a pause from its normal duties as a war fighter and became a rescue ship. It felt right that Midway had become a museum. The carrier now not only honors all of the men who served on it during its 47-year career, but it also serves as a reminder that while humanitarian efforts do not end wars, they do plant the seeds for healing.
