#realityofwar

On the way to the target we only saw two things of significance. First we passed an Early Warning radar site but that was a smoking hole thanks to a C-130 Gunship earlier on that day. Secondly, Mark asked me 'what the Hell is that on the nose?' 'I don't know but it's not military' was my reply. Ahead of us on the desert floor was a large black patch that looked like an oil slick. There was no time to go around it whatever it was. At 50 feet and eight miles a minute there was no time to make out that it was a large herd of goats. I'm sure it took the Bedouin hours to gather them together again.

Approaching the target the aircraft was still heavy and we needed more speed, at least another 70 knots, to be able to perform the dreaded daytime loft manoeuvre. To do so we needed to use afterburner which was a worry to both of us as it would provide an ideal target for any infra-red missiles out there. We made a wild-assed guess when it would be most appropriate, the reheat kicked in and we were soon at 550 knots for the pull-up. I took a quick squint on the radar and identified the aiming point. Now less than two minutes to the target all the switches were double and triple checked. This was definitely not the time to screw up. The seconds approaching the pull up point seemed to pass in double time and it was time to expose ourselves to the airfield defences. During the loft manoeuvre the seconds felt like minutes but eventually the bombs came off. Throughout the manoeuvre Mark and I were 'heads in', or on instruments, which may be just as well because I remember seeing black puffs of smoke in my peripheral vision. Perhaps it was best to pretend to be in the simulator! Chaff, Flare, Chaff, Chaff, Flare, Chaff, Flare. My life had become immersed in the small lights on the Electronic Warfare suite as they illuminated and distinguished. Eventually the nose came to the horizon and we could ease off the bank and start our descent to low level again. It may have been seconds or minutes when No. 2 piped up on the radio and the reality of war struck the whole formation - 'We've f**ked up and have still got our bombs'. 'Get rid of the bombs and let's get out of here', called the leader. Soon No. 2 called back, 'We're on fire, 'may have to get out'. Then silence. The leader tried to raise them a couple of times but to no avail.

With our payload gone we ran away bravely at 600 knots. The leader contacted the ever watchful AWACS to report the downed aircrew in a hope that the search and rescue boys may be able to pick them up. But that was unlikely as it was so early in the morning. They too preferred to operate in the relative safety of darkness. The Saudi border marched down the moving map display at ten miles per minute. Too slowly for our liking! Once over the border we could relax but not before climbing to height for another plug into the tanker which had waited for us. The journey home was quiet. Apart from the routine system checks Mark and I hardly spoke as our thoughts were with the buddies that we had left in Iraq. Had they managed to eject, or had they gone down with the aircraft? There was no way of knowing.

The relief to be safely on the ground again was overwhelming and we were so glad to get out of the cockpit in which we had spent 5 hours strapped to our 'bang-seats'. The ground crews had already been informed that No. 2 was not returning and they were in a sombre mood too. The four-ship had been flown as three-ship and had indeed returned as a pair. After time for contemplation at the aircraft we wandered over to the line hut to sign the jets back to the engineers. The engineers felt the mood we were in and quietly and sombrely went about their business. It was the Squadron Warrant Officer, Pip Curzon, who made all the difference that morning. 'Corporal,' he called out, 'chairs and tea for the Officers.' The reality of war had struck right at the heart of the Squadron.