Former POW to visit for prayer luncheon

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  • 47th Flying Training Wing Public Affairs
LAUGHLIN AIR FORCE BASE, Texas --  The Laughlin National Prayer Luncheon is set to begin Feb. 14 from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. at Club XL.

Attending the Luncheon is the Rev. Robert Certain, a retired Air Force colonel and former Vietnam prisoner of war, who will be speaking at the event.

The story of Reverend Certain's ordeal can be read in this excerpt from his book "Unchained Eagle":

As we entered the briefing room on Monday morning 18 December 1972, instead of the usual three to nine crews (eighteen to fifty-four people), the room was packed with over a hundred pilots, copilots, bombardiers and navigators. Col. Russ McCarthy, commander of the 43 Strategic Wing, came to the podium and announced, "Gentlemen, your target for tonight is Hanoi" as a slide of North Vietnam with a target triangle over Hanoi lit up the screen behind him. Linebacker II was beginning.

Forty-five minutes before take-off we climbed aboard to start the eight engines and to begin the mission. Engine start was normal; equipment all came on line and appeared functional. Fifteen minutes later we pulled out of our parking stub and joined the long line of B-52s on the taxiway leading to the south end of the runway. We were on the move, and I was feeling elated and businesslike as I made additional checks of my equipment.

Once the takeoff checklist was complete and we were safely climbing out, we were in the lead position where we normally flew, and I felt a lot more comfortable being there rather than back in the line. From there, we proceeded normally for several hours. I studied the mission, routes, and target, took fixes (positions) every half hour, ate, slept, and chatted with other crewmembers.

As we flew west toward Vietnam, the storms were brewing ahead of us. The pilots could see SAMs streaking into the night sky from hundreds of miles away. The tankers in orbit over the Gulf of Tonkin as fueling stations for our fighter support were watching and listening as the drama began to unfold. Thirty-nine support aircraft were in the zone to lay down chaff, suppress SAM and AAA sites, jam enemy radar, and escort the bomber fleet against MiGs.

As we turned eastbound out of Laos to enter North Vietnam for the bomb run, we were all focused on making this the best, most accurate mission we had ever flown. We would be within lethal range of SAMs for about twenty minutes, and we couldn't be distracted by the threats. I became all business, super-organized and aware of where we were and what we needed to do in the next several minutes. Any fear I had felt earlier was now gone. We were headed downtown to break the back of enemy transportation and warehousing and there was no doubt in my mind that we could do that.

As we made our turn at the initial aiming point, about seventy-five nautical miles from the target, the Radar easily found the target and all four offset aiming points (OAPs). The crosshairs were steady, with no drift. Our initial heading was 147 degrees, with a dogleg turn to 152 for the final run. The wind was a slight quartering tailwind, giving us 7 degrees of drift compensation. I calculated the time to target, and confirmed that our bombs would reach the ground at exactly 2014:00 local time, or 1314:00 Greenwich Mean Time. We were on time (even with a 90-knot jet stream on the final run), on target, and with the best bombing system possible.

With our outside radios still off and the crew maintaining only checklist and bombing instructions on the intercom, the Radar and I were able to concentrate on this critical offensive phase of the mission. By this time I was aware of no emotion other than dogged determination, no words other than checklist items, and few thoughts other than prayers. Thirty seconds before bombs away, the Radar opened the doors, and twenty seconds later I was to restart my stopwatch as a backup to the drop should anything go wrong. Just short of ten seconds to go, time seemed to stand still and speed ahead, all at the same time.

At 1313 GMT, the radar screens went blank and other instruments lost power and the aircraft shuddered and yawed slightly left. Before I could speak, the copilot was shouting over the intercom, "They've got the Pilot! They've got the Pilot!" I thought, Who has the pilot? The EW was also shouting, "Is anybody there? Gunner, gunner!" His cockpit had gone black, his equipment had major electrical shorts and explosions, and the gunner was covered in blood and slumped in his seat. He had also lost his earphones but not his microphone. We could hear him, but he couldn't hear us.

My internal voice was saying, This can't be me. We haven't been hit; or have we? Then the voice silently whispered, Yes, this is for real. Then, that last internal "still, small voice" took over, and everything went into slow motion. From that point forward, I was truly on auto-pilot, reacting in the way I had been trained. That training was for the worst-case scenario, and now all of a sudden, we were cashing in the "training-chit" with every last ounce of our energy! We were performing and reacting on autopilot. Thank God it worked!

The first SAM had exploded to the left front of the aircraft, scattering hot shrapnel like a shotgun blast at a velocity of 8000 feet per second. Thousands of pieces of hot metal shards ripped through the plane, wounding the pilot and killing the gunner. Some of it was sucked into jet engines (which destroyed them and the engine-driven generators), and others cut hydraulic lines and set the oil on fire. We probably had ruptured fuel tanks on fire, but there would be no major explosion unless the JP-4 lit off in an intact tank. That might come in a few seconds.

I looked over my left shoulder and saw a fire in the forward wheel well through the porthole in the bulkhead door behind the offense cockpit. First I thought of the twenty-seven 750-pound bombs in the bomb bay right behind the fire, and turned to the Radar, "Drop those bombs!" He hit the release switch. They all seemed to drop away from our now-crippled BUFF. Oddly, though the indicator lights went out, I felt no shudder or lurch as they left. My next thought was that the fire was also directly below the main mid-body fuel tank, loaded with 10,000 pounds of JP-4.

About ten seconds after the two SAMs hit the plane, the first crewmember ejected. I heard the explosion of his hatch and seat as it rocketed up and out, but felt no decompression. I looked at the Radar. Our eyes met, and we both started preparing for ejection. I grabbed the ejection handle between my knees, looked at the Radar again, turned to face forward, saw the ejection light come on as the pilot ejected, and pulled.

The next thing I knew, I was in the cold air of the troposphere. At 31,000 feet, the temperature was -55ยบ centigrade. As I tumbled around all three axes, I thought, That was a dumb thing to do. I'll bet the plane was still flyable. Where is it? Perhaps I could crawl back in. Dumb thoughts from a lingering sense of invulnerability, I suppose. Now what do I do? OK, God, it's you and me. My prayers for the next few minutes would remain blunt and somewhat profane. Look Lord, it's you and me. If I'm gonna die down there, just go ahead and let me die right now. I'm ready to go. I would just as soon not have those people down there get me and kill me. I don't care if they capture me. But if they're gonna kill me, you take me now.

It was time to concentrate on the landing. The big thing to remember was to land properly. I hoped I had learned it well back in California. I faced forward keeping my eyes on the horizon, grabbed my risers, put my legs together with my knees slightly bent, and waited. When my toes began to touch the earth, I executed a parachute-landing fall (PLF), rolling to the right into a dry ditch. To the east side was a plowed field, to the west side a railroad. 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.

I made a quick call in a muted voice, "All B-52 aircraft, this is Charcoal One-Delta ('Delta' was the navigator indicator). I'm on the ground, uninjured, surrounded. Will be captured shortly." I could only hope that someone had heard the transmission and reported it; but with all the noise of SAM calls and emergency signals from other crewmembers, I doubted it.

By this time I was feeling more like an observer than a participant. I could see silhouettes of people on a bridge over a culvert, and my hopelessness began to mount. Death was a distinct possibility. For me, though, there was a different outcome. I was captured, imprisoned, and eventually released. After repatriation in March 1973, I attended seminary, was ordained, and transferred from the line to the chaplaincy of the Air Force.

Linebacker II did its job - it brought the North Vietnamese back to the conference table to sign a treaty, and resulted in the freedom for POWs on both sides. This December marks the fortieth anniversary of that effort, and I continue to hold those who died and their families in my prayers.

Let us all give thanks to God for the men and women of our armed forces who regularly put themselves in harm's way for our freedom. May he watch over them, bring them success, and keep them in his everlasting care.

For more information on the National Prayer Luncheon and how to attend, contact the Laughlin Chapel at 298-5111