When LBJ and his Whiz Kids marked targets at the Pentagon, it was Ed Rasimus and his brothers-in-arms who applied the graduated pressure of Operation Rolling Thunder. Flying F-105 from bases in Thailand, Lt. Rasimus went up against MiGs, SAMs, and layers of flak, screaming in across the deck to blast targets with tons of bombs before racing back to safety.

As an author, Rasimus has a cold, almost clinical voice in describing his missions, his fear, and the courage it took to fly a mission into North Vietnam. There's a distance to this memoir, whether it's describing the desperate radio calls coordinating the rescue of a downed pilot, or after hours hijinks at the Officer's Club. For what it's worth, he's a precise and competent writer, giving a clear view of his slice of the air war. Two moments make this book a classic: one an extended riff on the difference between pilots who fly fighters and fighter pilots. And a quote which I want to reproduce in full.

Let there be no doubt about it, running along the treetops at 540 knots in a flight of four F-105s loaded with high explosive ordinance may be the most exciting thing a man can do with his pants on. You've got the most impressive piece of machinery on the planet strapped to your ass, and it responds to your every wish. The throttle controls the beast's heartbeat, and the slightest movement of the stick directs your flight path. You're the Lord of Evil perched on your rocket-powered throne, coming to deliver justice. It's exhilarating and thrilling, frightening and almost orgasmic. But it isn't necessarily tactically sound.

Hot. Damn!

There's also a lot of good meat here on the air war, and the fractal fuckedupness that was Vietnam. From the grand mission of sending 50+ plane flights with MiGcaps and Wild Weasels and everything to hit a few suspected buried oil drums, or the rules of engagement that protected targets like SAM sites under construction. A policy that no pilot would be forced to fly a second tour until everyone had flown one, meant that Rasimus's hot, mean, and crazy fighting Lieutenants were replaced by Majors who'd last flown transports, or worse a desk at the Pentagon. Because Thailand was not a combat zone, pilots didn't get official R&R, which meant Rasimus was trapped in a Catch-22 limbo with no way to get back to base while in Japan, and had to play diplomatic courier to get a seat back to the war.

So far, I think I prefer Trotti's Phantom over Vietnam, but I'm excited to read Rasimus' second book.