Good grief it was hot. We taxied out of the covered revetment parking area toward the end of the runway, leaving our canopies open for extra ventilation. Perspiration poured down my forehead from under the sweatband of my dark camouflage-colored flight helmet. It was a typical summer day in Vietnam. The sun was fierce.

My pilot, Bill, in the front seat of our two-seat RF-4C photo reconnaissance jet fighter, pulled up onto the wide portion of the taxiway just short of the runway. The crew chief was there to make the last minute checks of our tires, flight controls and to ensure all hatches and access panels were closed before takeoff. He stood out in front, just a little to the left of the nose, giving hand signals for Bill to move the stick left and then right. All seemed in order. Then, with a snappy salute, the crew chief waved us off on our daytime mission.

Our mission that day was to take low altitude pictures along the Vietnam-Cambodian border where B-52's had just rained 500-pound bombs. Our bomb damage assessment photos would help the intelligence folks judge the effect of such carpet bombing. We headed north and west of Saigon at 25,000 feet, above broken low undercast clouds. It was bright, sunny, and delightfully cool at cruise altitude.

The crest of "black mummy mountain" was hidden in the cloud, but below 1500 feet we'd be in the clear for photo's, our ever-optimistic weatherman said. Local artillery control advised us on the radio that the area was clear of traffic, and there was no current shooting in our target area. The B-52's should be through raining their deadly loads just before we arrived.

"Okay, Bill. Let's start our descent now. At 1500 feet per minute descent, we'll reach photo altitude just five miles short of the target area."

My young pilot started a gradual descent toward the target, though from up high it didn't look as if we'd be able to get any pictures. I adjusted the radar and positioned my cursor to give us a ten mile lateral clearance from the cone-shaped mountain. We descended smoothly, as I double-checked my camera settings. We'd be using the vertical camera with six-inch focal length lens. It was that short focal length that made low altitude coverage necessary. We'd make our passes at 400 feet and zip along at 420 knots to make it harder for enemy small arms fire to hit us.

"Hey, Bill," I exclaimed. "Look off to the 10:00 o'clock position, over there near the mountain, where the break in the clouds appears. See that big Army chopper?"

"Yep. Got it," Bill answered. "I see him, and it looks like he's got a 105mm howitzer slung below. Too bad he's not closer. That would make a great shot with my 35mm camera." Bill and I both were accustomed to bringing along our own personal cameras, taking pictures for the Air Force and for our own collections as well.

We dropped into the white-topped clouds and soon found ourselves wrapped in a graying mist. For a few seconds we couldn't see anything but clouds.

"Level off at 400 feet if we don't get clear of clouds sooner, Bill", I reminded. "Passing 2000 feet now." Then we broke into the clear at 1200 feet, clear of clouds that is, but not clear of trouble.

"What the ....??", Bill shouted. "HANG ON!" Bill abruptly banked to the left and then quickly jerked our screaming fighter to the right, just as the biggest OV-10 Bronco airplane I'd ever seen passed within 50 feet of us. It was headed off to our 4 o'clock position now, but we barely missed a head-on collision. We were so close we could see the whites of that other pilot's eyeballs.

"Level off, Bill. Keep her at 400 feet now," I instructed, in a surprisingly calm voice. I was definitely not calm, my stomach seemed like it was in my throat. "That heading is zero six five. Cameras ON in 90 seconds."

We lined up on course for the 30 mile long photo line. All along our flight path we could see the craters where 500 pound bombs marked our course. A swath about three miles wide and stretching way out ahead clearly showed the effects of bomb blasts clearing the jungle growth.

We roared along at 400 feet, automatically taking pictures every second or so. We remained below and clear of clouds.

"What in the hell was he doing there?" Bill muttered. "Arty (artillery control ) told us this area was clear."

"Yeah," I responded. "Wonder what they told that OV-10 driver? I'll bet he will be cleaning his shorts after he gets home."

Near misses like that were, unfortunately, not that uncommon. Communications between Army and Air Force planes just didn't exist directly, because we were using UHF radios and Army guys used VHF frequency modulation types. Only the intermediary of Artillery Control could talk to both of us, and that wasn't always very reliable. Just a week earlier, on a night mission, we came close to wiping out a formation of Huey choppers who weren't supposed to be there either.