Page 56 - DFCS NEWS MAGAZINE 2020-1

Linebacker II – Night One (Cont’d.)
B-52 “Charcoal 1” Shot Down By Ch, Col. Robert G. Certain, USAF (Ret.)
My injuries to this point consisted of a few bumps, bruises and abrasions from the ejection, fall, and landing. The PLF had gone perfectly. Everything continued to work according to the book. But there was no time to relish in this small success. It was time to evade.
Hearing the voices of locals approaching me, I knew I had to get away from my equipment. As I rapidly opened buckles and removed excess items, I found that my dog tag chain (with my dog tags and wedding band) had wrapped around the oxygen hose. I yanked the hose away from me, breaking the chain and scattering the items on it. All could be replaced when I went home. I rolled over, broke the antenna off the emergency beacon and turned the switch off. I pulled off the white helmet, tucked it under my arm and crawl-ran about 50 yards down the ditch toward a culvert under a bridge. As voices grew louder, I hit the deck, tucked the helmet below me, and pulled my two-way radio out of my survival vest. The vest contained the minimum amount of gear—radio, flare kit, knife, strobe, matches, compass, snare wire, and shells for my pistol—needed to survive any environment. The seat kit, strung out over the plowed field, contained heavier equipment—raft, rifle, and other equipment for water and jungle survival.
I made a quick call in a muted voice, “All B-52 aircraft, this is Charcoal 1-Delta. I’m on the ground, uninjured, surrounded. Will be captured shortly.” I could only hope that someone might have heard the transmission and reported it; but with all the noise of SAM calls and emergency signals from other crewmembers, I doubted it. I then broke off that antenna and turned the switch off. Breaking off the antennae was a small attempt to render the beacon and radio useless to the enemy. I didn’t have time to remove the batteries or to otherwise damage them.
All hell seemed to be breaking loose around me, and I was feeling more like an observer than a participant. Still hoping to make it to the culvert, I lay over the helmet and tried to make myself blend into the shadows of the ditch. Small explosions (grenades, firecrackers, tracer bullets?) were showing all around my abandoned parachute harness. Strangely, no shrapnel was flying in my direction. What was that? I could see silhouettes of people on the bridge over the culvert, and my hopelessness began to mount. Momentarily a woman eased up to the edge of the ditch, standing directly over me, but looking in the direction of the harness. As she turned to her left to move away, she spotted me in the ditch, sounded the alarm and ran away.
I remembered the loaded Smith & Wesson .38 caliber Combat Masterpiece. I pulled it from its holster, opened the cylinder, ejected the bullets, and threw them as far down the ditch as I could. Then I jammed the barrel into the soft earth to clog it and to make sure it would have to be cleaned before firing, and hastily buried it. I thought, I can’t win a war with a 6-shooter; and if they’re going to kill me tonight, they can use their own weapon.
Within minutes, I was captured and began my tour of duty as a prisoner of war.
56 / DFCS News Magazine / SUMMER 2020