To airmen striking enemy targets, war is an impersonal thing--until the tracers start flying. Then, it suddenly becomes "personal as hell."

The Field radio squawked with static but the frantic plea managed to get through. At DaNang's ASOC (Air Support Operation Center), the urgency was well understood. But the calmness was almost misleading. The Vietnamese officer scribbled out coordinates; passed them along to his American counterpart. The American reached for a field telephone.

So it went; quickly but almost casually, down the line.

Inside a huge, darkened hanger on the east side of the bustling air base, Marines lounged on three wooden benches. Some wore the black striped "tiger" flight suits; others wore the usual summer tan suits.

They squinted under the two bare bulbs to flip through dog-eared pocket books and worn magazines. A few of the flight-suited Marines huddled around a comrade as he re-lived with hand gestures, a previous mission over South Vietnam.

The hanger flying was interrupted by the buzzing of that one phone reserved for action. Capt. Richard Dowling, of Miami, Fla., the duty officer, grabbed the receiver and tossed a warning over this shoulder:

"Here we go."

He scribbled some numbers with one hand and slammed down on a toggle switch with the other. The shattering blast of the scramble horn was unnerving. It was like a signal to "DIVE! DIVE! DIVE!" It was like "GAS ALARM!" It was "GENERAL QUARTERS!"

The scene was like a well-practiced abandon ship. Each man went to his post, quickly, smoothly, with the precision of a well-oiled rifle bolt.

MSgt Charles F. Williams, the intelligence chief, hurriedly collected a stack of folded maps from the wooden bins that separated his office from the ready room. He found the coordinates, grease-penciled arrows and circles on the plastic covers and handed them to the flyers who were zipping up their girdle-like G-suits.

The flight leader gave a few quick directives to his comrades, then they left at a trot, through the hanger and out to the waiting Phantoms.

The huge engines wound up with an ear-shattering scream. The big birds grunted down the taxi-ways, paused momentarily at the end of the runway, then shot skyward, one behind the other.

Time elapsed from phone call to "wheels in the wells" -- 12 minutes.

"Birddog" was already fluttering over the target. It was a little green O1B from VMO-2. Capt. David H. Anderson, of Dana Point, Calif., piloted his fragile-looking bird low over the trees.

The Phantoms, from VMFA-531, checked in with Birddog:

"We're 15 miles out. Letting down. Be there in about three minutes."

"Roger. Come on in. Got some people in trouble."

"Okay. Mark the target."

"Roger. I smoke, you light. Bombs first, then rockets. Saturate the ridge line with everything."

Flight Crews of VMFA531 Scramble (DaNang 1965)

Crew Members of VMFA531 Climb Aboard and "Strap Up" (DaNang 1965)

Ground Crewmen Check Zunis (five-inch rockets) On Wings Of Phantom VMFA 531 (DaNang 1965)