"I tightened my shoulder harness and lap belt. Wisps of cloud flew by the bubble canopy like tendrils clutching for me. I reconfirmed my old thoughts that sometimes the weather scared me as much as the enemy gunners did. I changed radio frequencies in accordance with Al's instructions, then tensly settled back to fight it out.
It's a strange feeling to face such a storm in any airplane, let alone a single-place, single-engine prop type designed a quarter century ago. At first it is overwhelming. The storm covers the entire horizon, the line visible only because of light from the cells themselves. It is towering and immense and alive. You can't go under it in the mountains at night, and you haven't the airplane to go over it. Your alternatives are singular. You must go through it, somewhere, somehow. If it were the good ole USA, you could perhaps set down and wait it out. Not so when the terrain below you had no airfields and everythign was enemy owned anyway. After the trip had been made a few times in similar weather, I felt easier. It was a matter of accepting the fact that it had been done many times before, and that it wasn't new. It didn't lose any of its immensity, but I wanted to go home, and home was through the weather. And I was going to jump right in and navigate through it.
I did. The machine was jolted by the hand of a mad wind, cracking my head into the canopy and putting a deep gash into my helmet. My body tugged at the straps and my feet were blasted from the rudder pedals. The propeller surged, the pitch of the engine changed, and more rain came through the cockpit. I fought the storm as if my life depended on it, and in a sense it did. The thought of going down and being captured was the greatest fear I had. I had projected a protective sort of mental shield around me every time I flew. It simply said to me, I will do everything to prevent capture. I will fight every bit of groundfire and rain and wind and storm to get home safely. The storm was simply another test of my dedication to survival. The machine threw me against the side of the cockpit as it made a wild skid, then scrunched my body down into the seat as the force of rising wind raised the airplane several hundred feet instantly. I was struggling just to maintain the wings level. I had thought that somewhere, that very instant, there was someone thousands of feet above us in a jet who was just crossing the storm in clear air and who would later describe the night as uneventful. I pictured him calling over to his wingman and saying "Hey, look at that storm down there, isn't it spectacular?"
The first bolt of lightening spit out across the canopy and lit the airplane so brightly that I saw the imprint of combat boots across the wing where mechanics had spent hours working before the flight. Footprints traced in engine oil meandered across both wings, walking off into the night. The instruments vibrated and danced, so that my vision of them was blurred. The only world of familiarity was the airplane, the cockpit...a red-lighted world measured in inches. The radios were there to my side, the frequency digits clear in their black print. The knurled knob connected to the rudder trim was placed to my lower left, waiting for my gloved hand to make slight adjustments. The oxygen flow blinker moving with my breathing, opening and closing, opening and closing, was a remote indication of my corporal existance. I was covered with a dark green flightsuit with multiple zippers, a helmet and oxygen mask, a survival vest and .38 caliber pistol, ammunition, and finally a pair of combat boots designed for tropical war. They were out ahead of me, attempting to remain on the rudder pedals, covering the worn engraving of the Douglas company.
I was brawling with the elements when I suddenly broke out into a winding canyon between cells of the storm. My eyes went full open as though I'd seen some miraculous vision. Each wall of the canyon was made of towering cloud which went up as far as the lightening could illuminate. Inside were the flickering waves of light. I was flying in an immense cavern, dodging the immense stalactites and stalagmites. It was at once both curiously beautiful and awesome. The cavern was cold in the moons light, and the pulsating electrical glow throbbed like a heartbeat..... We were a sort of cosmic eye, traversing that place like sightseers, exploring this mystery in an aerial version of a glass-bottomed boat.
Then there was a dead end and a plunge into a solid wall of icy-looking cloud. A line of elictric blue-white fire spread across the nose of the aircraft, and I was momentarily engulfed in cloud and rain. I held heading as best I could while the plane bounced along again. The radio crackled with static, and a radar controller inquired what the weather was like......And with startling abruptness, I flew from the storm directly into clam and clear air. It was as smooth as drifting underwater in a pool. All slow motion. Giant tongues of lightening licked out at me as if the master were angry at the little mortal who got away. The Mekong River was lit with moonlight and the airfield lights were out ahead. Aileron into the wind, rudder down the runway, I touched down on the upwind wheel and rolled that way. The rain was finally reaching the base and hit my face as I opened the canopy on landing roll. It felt good, different than it had in the middle of the storm. I stopped the engine and climbed out onto the wing under the poncho of the crew chief......went to debriefing where a huge bowl of popcorn and plenty of cold beer waited. As if I were being hunted, the wind moaned at the roof and banged at the door. But I wasn't up there anymore......