"I swear to God, while I’m unconscious floating through the air over North Vietnam, my mother talks to me. She says, “Charlie, my boy, please be careful. You know how I worry about you.” And I say to her, “Spudsie, don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright.” And that’s when I come back from unconsciousness. This is happening at 8:00 A.M. in North Vietnam, which is 8:00 P.M. on the east coast of the United States. Later, I learn that at that exact moment halfway around the world, my mother is driving along a road in Long Island with my father and she says, “Dad, something has happened to Charlie. I just know it.” My father says, “Mama, don’t worry about Charlie. He can take care of himself.” Later on, I went over this story with my mother and father again and again, and you can, believe me, some kind of communication happened at that instant even though we have no human explanation for it. I’m free-falling into North Vietnam. Or is it Laos? I’m not sure. The aneroid barometer on my parachute is set to open a thousand feet above the highest terrain. So far, my chute hasn’t opened. I’m free-falling. And the pain is indescribable. My leg is coming out of my belly button. When I came out of the airplane, I had my left foot on the rudder. My foot was there because I was trying to hold the airplane steady. When I went for the ejection handle, I expected to be in the correct position when I went out of the airplane, but I wasn’t. The ejection seat has nylon rope leg garters that are supposed to pull your legs into the correct position for an ejection, but something went wrong with my left leg and it was battered on the way out of the F-105. Back at the plant where they made the airplane, they later redesign and rebuild the whole design because the leg garters didn’t work right during my ejection. After my ejection and their investigation at the plant, they discontinue the use of the leg garters—but that doesn’t help me now. There isn’t a nerve, a muscle, or a blood vessel intact in my leg. My left leg is a dead piece of meat. Finally, the parachute opens and I’m hanging there, and I’m in really awful pain. Tom Leeson’s F-105 is overhead. He’s trying to cover me.

When I’m free-falling, I’m in a cannonball. I’m cursing and moaning and clutching my gut because the pain is killing me. I don’t know my left leg was coming out of my belly button. I expect a hard fracture to the left femur, which is what normally happened to people that eject from F-105s. I say to myself, “Well, I know I’ve got an aneroid barometer that’s supposed to open my chute, but I’d better get my hand on the D-ring in case I’ll have to pull the ripcord.” So I put my hand on the D-ring and just at that moment the chute pops open. I go unconscious again. I regain consciousness again. I’m looking down. I will tell you, the countryside is gorgeous. I’m right on the border of North Vietnam and Laos—remember, I was thinking of making it to Udorn and landing on afterburner—and it’s a spectacular scene of color and beauty. So I come on down, and I see a stream and log huts. I’m trying to stick my ass in a sling, and I’m, really hurting, I’m, in pain, and I say to myself, “I think you’d better let yourself go back to being unconscious again.” I do. And I’ve awakened again with this sensation of oscillating. My parachute is oscillating. I say to myself, “Vas, you’ve got to resist the urge to go under. You’ve got to wake up and be ready for the PLF [parachute landing fall].” And I say, “Vas, take this arm and stick it between the risers and get into a good position here because your left leg is all fucked up.” I hit the ground hard. Evidently, the parachute gets a sudden blast of air inside the canopy and then deflates just as I hit, so I hit the ground really hard. Thank God I still have my helmet on, chin strap and all, because now I knock myself out again from the impact. And then I come to again, lying on the ground on a 45-degree incline. The parachute comes down right on top of me, with its orange and white panels against the green foliage, flowers, and elephant grass—so I’m laying there and I’m highly visible to anyone who might want to find me, which could mean rescue forces or North Vietnamese infantrymen. I wonder if the North Vietnamese appreciate us for those bright orange panels. Down in North Vietnam, My concern is, “Do they see me?” I haven’t used a survival radio yet and haven’t been in touch with anybody. I can see Leeson in his F-105 still circling on top of the terrain. I try to get to my survival radio, which is inside my harness, but I can’t straighten out my damaged leg to reach the radio. After some effort, I manage to kick away the parachute restraints. Now, I’m unencumbered by the parachute, but I’ve got to be able to turn over to pull my radio out of its pouch. Apart from the leg, I also have a fractured knee and have no movement below it. Those are my injuries, caused by my high airspeed in the F-105 when I ejected: I’m in excruciating pain, can’t move, and can’t pull out the radio. I’m woozy. I’m sweating. I’m about ready to go unconscious yet again. I say to myself, “Vas, knock it off. You can’t afford to go unconscious.” I’m wondering whether the North Vietnamese are going to come upon me at any second. All of a sudden, to my left, here comes this goddamned Skyraider. This was the prop plane I flew on my earlier tour, and it’s also the plane that escorts and covers rescue forces, using the radio call sign Sandy. I look up and the Skyraider comes right overhead and rocks its wings, signaling that he sees me. I’m hurting real bad but now I’m smiling, too. I say to myself, “Vas if the Sandys are here, the Jolly Green can’t be too far behind.” The A-1 Sandy flight and the HH-3E Jolly Green helicopter were in a holding position ready to move in if anyone got shot down today—they do that every day, throughout the entire goddamn war. Radio calls from Tom Leeson and Jim Baldwin brought them in. I guess Baldwin marshaled them in while Leeson covered me. The pararescue jumper, or PJ, who rescues me is Mike Benno. He comes down from the helicopter, lowered by the chopper’s hoist. I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.

I was very badly battered—the injury to the leg has been a problem throughout the rest of my life—but when Mike (whose name I learned later) hauled me into that helicopter, I felt I was one really lucky F-105 pilot. At Korat Army Field Hospital, I wake up and put my hand down here. And my leg isn’t coming out of my belly button any longer. This doctor is standing there. I say, “Shit hot, Doc! You fixed it! How long before I can fly?” He looks at me. He says, “You kidding?” I say, “No, I’m not kidding you. You fixed it! How long before I can fly?” So he takes out a pen. And he jabs me—here, and, and here. And he says—the expression I used earlier—“There isn’t a nerve, a muscle, or a blood vessel intact in that leg. If we save the leg, and that’s only if we save it, walking will be a bonus.” And I say to him, “I want to tell you something, Doc. I have to tell you about me. I have a secret weapon.” He says, “Yeah? What’s that?” I say, “I’ve got good, high-protein Greek blood. I’m going to fly again. Home from War After the doctor tells me my leg will never work, they send me to Okinawa, where my wife is. She’s pregnant with number-three son, Roger. I step out of the C-130 at Kadena and see my wife. I say, “You’ve got to be shitting me! Look at that belly!” Joannie says, “I can see from that grin on your face that you’re going to be okay.” They told her that I was hurt ejecting from my F-105 over North Vietnam, but they didn’t describe my injuries to her. Col. Bob Scott who was the F-105 wing commander at Korat—and had been with me at the test squadron at Eglin—called her, but she still didn’t know my condition. They take me to the Army field hospital on Okinawa. I say, “I’m going to fly again. I’m going to fly the F-105 again.” The medic shakes his head. My blood count is down. I’m bleeding internally. They want to give me a blood transfusion. My leg is yellow, but the skin isn’t broken and there’s no bleeding. And I won’t let them because I don’t want to dilute that good high-protein Greek blood. In October and November 1967, we lose sixty-six F-105s in the campaign over North Vietnam. There aren’t enough pilots to make the frag. So I call a friend at Pacific Air Forces and say, “I want to go back.” He tells me to write a letter volunteering to return to Southeast Asia to complete a hundred missions. I write the letter. The operations officer at Korat Air Base, Thailand, comes and gets me and picks me up in a C-130. I didn’t want to go back to Takhli because I was flying their airplane when I was shot down, so I got myself assigned to Korat. I flew again and flew again in combat, in the F-105."

On 11 January 1972, the Air Force Reserve officials learned that three reserve components would receive the F105. "The F-105 was becoming surplus to U.S. requirements in Southeast Asia, and Reserve C-124 units at Tinker AFB, Carswell AFB in Texas, and Hill AFB in Utah would convert to it." The Wing's last Director of Operations was none other than Col Charles C. Vasiliadis. He last flew the F-105 on 18 July 1972 by which time he had accumulated 1340.8 hours flying the airplane. After the war, he was Chief, Tactical Division, Directorate of Operations, Deputy Chief of Staff, Plans and Operations, Headquarters United States Air Force, from 25 August 1972 to 17 January 1975. During this period, Colonel Vasiliadis' outstanding professional knowledge, initiative, and devotion to duty were responsible for the resolution of many complex problems of major importance to the Air Force. His management ability and personal endeavor significantly contributed to the combat capability of the tactical fighter force. For his performance, he was awarded the Legion of Merit. From 27 January 1975 to 30 September 1976 he served as a Vice Commander and Assistant to Wing Commander, 31st Tactical Fighter Wing, Homestead Air Force Base, Florida. During this period, the dynamic leadership, outstanding initiative, and devotion to duty of Colonel Vasiliadis were instrumental factors in the resolution of many complex problems of major importance to the Air Force. Through his superb executive ability, many difficult problems relating to changes in the Wing's organization and mission, the upgrading and improving base services and facilities, and the revitalization of the Air Reserve Forces Advisory Program were resolved. The superior initiative, outstanding leadership, and personal endeavor displayed by the Greek American pilot earned him a Bronze Oak Leaf Cluster in lieu of a Second Award of the Legion of Merit. In total, he logged 560 combat missions and 1.141 hours of combat flying. Charles lives with son Doug and he was lucky to see his grandaughter Sofia following is steps, entering the United States Air Force.