A-10s over Kosovo (illustrations removed)

During the flight home we made the normal in-flight reports to ABCCC and looked each other over as we accomplished our battle-damage checks for any unexpected problems. I felt like I had come off an emotional roller coaster. It had been my first time to lead a formation in combat, and everything had happened. We had to defend against a possible air threat; we searched for, found, and attacked targets; and we had been shot at by AAA. What a mission! However, the people who had shot at us were still alive back there, and that really angered me. I still had some nagging questions: What else did I miss? How lucky did I get? I later found that these questions persisted—no matter how successful the sortie was.

Bumpy joined us after he landed and debriefed. We met at the Truck Stop—a favorite eating place on the road back to the hotel. He had not been able to find the source of the AAA either, and we had a good laugh about it over a glass of wine. That had been my first combat flight lead mission, and I couldn’t wait to do it again.

My First Combat Sortie

1st Lt Scott “Hummer” Cerone

I couldn’t sleep during the night before my first sortie. In spite of the air conditioner, my room was stagnant. It was too hot to wear anything. I could taste the lemons in the orchard outside my second-floor window. The warm Italian breeze also carried in mosquitoes that buzzed in my ears throughout the night. I turned the television on and off repeatedly. My mind was racing. I was still awake when the alarm clock went off at three A.M. on 11 May 1999.

I showered and headed out, driving to the base with Lt Col Surgeon Dahl, my flight lead. Today would be his fini-flight with the 81st FS from Spangdahlem. He flew with the Flying Tigers during the Gulf War and, after today’s mission, would head back to Pope to become their operations officer. So today, I was getting to fly my first combat sortie with my soon-to-be ops officer.

In the squadron building we were briefed by intel, and then Surgeon briefed me on our sortie. We walked to life support and put on our gear—no wallets, no patches, no rings. We carried dog tags and a 9 mm Berretta. I chambered the first round before holstering it in my vest.

I experienced a special feeling walking to my jet at sunrise. My harness, G suit, and survival vest (with all its buckles, straps, and zippers) were as comfortable as Hugh Hefner’s smoking robe and silk pajamas. The sun began to trim the clouds with pink as the gray sky gave way to Mediterranean blue. I wanted to be airborne.

My jet was lightly loaded. I was carrying two cans of CBU-87 cluster bombs, which weighed 1,000 lbs each; two AGM-65D Maverick missiles; two AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles; an ECM pod; and 1,000 rounds of 30 mm depleted-uranium bullets. I strapped into the jet and started the engines. Before I taxied, a maintenance van pulled up in front of my jet. SSgt “Chunk” Barth, a maintenance specialist in my squadron, ran over and climbed up the side of my jet to wish me luck on my first sortie. He shook my hand and yelled, “Go get ’em, sir.”

I finished my preflight checks and started to taxi. I returned my crew chief’s salute as I pulled out of the chocks. He then jumped up to pat his jet one last time for good luck. The guys in the maintenance van were pumping their fists in the air. These young airmen and NCOs are the heart and soul of the military—they are the heroes.

After takeoff, Surgeon and I refueled over the Adriatic Sea, and then flew south of Montenegro into Albania. The rugged terrain reminded me of the Rocky Mountains in early spring, when the peaks are still dusted with snow. Looking down onto Albania and Macedonia, I could see the orange terra-cotta tiles that cover the roofs of the local houses and other buildings. As we flew closer, Surgeon pointed out the numerous refugee camps scattered along the border of Macedonia and Kosovo. After seeing these camps from the air, I realized that no one can get an accurate feeling of how many people fled Kosovo by watching CNN—even on a 32-inch Zenith.

“Fence-in,” Surgeon called to me. I set my switches to arm my weapons and self-protection systems.

“Gunhog One-One, SA-6 at Derringer is active.” That call was made by the NAEW controller as we moved into Kosovo to warn us of the active SAM site.

Surgeon replied that he copied the information about the SA-6 site near the city of Pristina being active and pointed out artillery sites that had already been bombed. The scorched craters looked like black stars painted on the ground. The countryside was breathtaking in its beauty and ruin. I could not find one house with an intact roof.