As the pol campaign continued into August, most, if not all, of the existing large above-ground POL storage facilities were destroyed. North Vietnam expended considerable effort on dispersing remaining POL stockpiles throughout the country. Though inefficient, this proved more than enough to meet North Vietnam’s small needs. The focus of effort shifted as pilots attempted to find and target smaller underground tanks and 55-gallon fuel drums scattered alongside roads. Carriers were no longer afforded the luxury of a warmup period on Dixie Station prior to moving north. The new routine consisted of three carriers on Yankee Station, with the newly arrived carrier performing several days of armed reconnaissance in lower route packages as pilots looked for POL storage sites.
As the air war intensified, each side began a series of measures and countermeasures in a desperate attempt to gain the advantage. The introduction of SAMs gave the Vietnamese an initial advantage; however, the SA-2 was vulnerable to electronic countermeasures (ECM) at key nodes in its “kill chain”—the sequence of events necessary, from initial radar detection to missile launch, for the SAM to destroy an aircraft. In the late summer of 1966, both the navy and air force began attacking the various nodes of this chain in an attempt to defeat the SAM threat. SAM regiments began operations by acquiring an aircraft with early warning radars, which then handed the target over to the SAM battery’s Fan Song search radar. Jamming or otherwise disrupting the acquisition or tracking radars interrupted the kill chain. When the Fan Song began tracking an aircraft, it emitted a very distinct radar signal that could be picked up by the aircraft’s RWR gear. Evasive maneuvers could often break the Fan Song’s automatic tracking, and by the time an operator reacquired the fighter forty five seconds later, the aircraft could be out of range. This phase was the most critical, because with ample warning a pilot could evade a missile. Once pilots became accustomed to the systems, aural alerts provided by the RWR gear, coupled with evasive maneuvers and self-protection jammers, often defeated the SAM.
These new electronic warfare countermeasures considerably degraded the SA-2’s performance and greatly alarmed the North Vietnamese. Soviet PVO-Strany specialists estimated that it took one to two missiles per kill in 1965 but three to four in 1966. However, since Soviet and Vietnamese kill claims were about seven times higher than actual losses, the figures were probably closer to ten missiles in 1965 and twenty-five missiles per kill in 1966.1 As the war ground on through the late summer and fall, the U.S. countermeasures became so effective that the North Vietnamese were forced to place a greater emphasis on the VPAF. By committing the still immature VPAF, North Vietnam eventually lost half of its MiGs during early 1967’s infamous air battles.
Oriskany began combat operations on 7 August in her deadliest month yet. Unfortunately, operational accidents continued to be as lethal as flying over North Vietnam. During the last week of August, Oriskany lost more airplanes in operational accidents than in actual combat. At times, it seemed that luck was the only difference between life and death. One incident on 7 August is a case in point. Lt. Cdr. Dick Schaffert was loaded with two Mk 83s for a mission when he got a bad catapult shot. In the seconds between Schaffert’s salute and the catapult officer’s launch signal, the holdback fitting broke before the catapult fired. Without tension, the bridle fell off his airplane in the split second before the catapult fired. The catapult flung the launch bridle ahead of the ship as Schaffert roared down the bow in afterburner. Schaffert attributed his ability to stop his Crusader on the oil-soaked flight deck just feet short of the bow to divine intervention. With his airplane in seemingly good shape, he unbelievably taxied back for another launch. Schaffert explained what happened next: “The Air Boss asked if I wanted to try it again, and with probably 25-liters of adrenalin in a 5-liter blood stream, I replied in the affirmative. Thankfully, a 19-year-old ‘final checker’ noticed a trail of hydraulic fluid as I was again lining up on the cat. It led to a split in the nose strut from bridle damage, which would have certainly failed on the next cat shot.”2
In August the bomb shortage began to seriously hamper the POL campaign. Aboard Oriskany, this meant that Crusader squadrons, which normally used 1,000-pound Mk 83 bombs for flak suppression, were reduced to using 2.75-inch Zuni rockets. With its smaller warhead, this rocket did little to deter Vietnamese gunners. There were further consequences as old AN-M 60 series high-drag bombs came out of storage. The AN-M 65 1,000-pound bomb looked like a garbage can and was about as aerodynamic. The increased drag reduced the diminutive Skyhawk’s speed by 40 knots at a minimum.3 In a world where speed equaled life, this put pilots at even greater risk. Despite the influx of these older munitions, the fleet still lacked sufficient quantities. After mid-August, Oriskany’s attack squadrons often flew with less than full bomb loads, while the fighter squadrons continued to be short of Sidewinder missiles.4
As part of the POL campaign, pilots hunted the coastal waterways in an attempt to interdict supplies being ferried south. The entire Vietnamese coast, from Haiphong to the Chinese border, was a formidable area that included notable hot spots such as the naval base at Hon Gai and port facilities at Cam Pha. The region is dominated by Cat Ba and Cai Bo Islands, as well as the Fai Tsi Long Archipelago. The archipelago forms an inland waterway bounded by hundreds of small islands that provided shelter for barges, coastal freighters, and small craft plying the waters. To protect this vital flow of supplies, virtually every island was fortified with coastal artillery and AAA.
On 11 August Oriskany struck the few remaining POL facilities in the northern route packages. Later that day, Lt. (junior grade) Cody Balisteri of VF-111 was shot down during an armed reconnaissance mission. Roughly 10 miles south of Hon Gai, Balisteri was hit by AAA from one of the many islands. As he turned south to escape, his Crusader took more hits. Balisteri barely made it out of Ha Long Bay before numerous caution lights illuminated and his F-8 began vibrating badly. His Crusader began an uncontrollable roll to the right, and he ejected, landing at the base of a 400-foot cliff on the Île de l’Union in Ha Long Bay. A Sea King from HS-6 launched from USS Chicago (CG-11) to attempt a rescue. Lt. Cdr. Don Nichols and Lt. (junior grade) Rick Grant flew their helicopter toward the area, carefully picking their way through the islands of the archipelago. They eventually spotted Balisteri on a small beach at the base of the cliff. Balisteri had lost his raft upon landing and was rather reluctant to brave the pounding surf. Due to the proximity of the cliffs, the helicopter could not get close enough, so the rescue swimmer, Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician 3rd Class Gary Smith, jumped into the water and swam a raft to Balisteri. Both men then paddled far enough away from the cliff to be picked up. It was at this moment that the helicopter’s other crewman, Aviation Structural Mechanic 2nd Class Royce Roberts, discovered that the rescue hoist had failed. Nichols opted to attempt a capability unique to the Sea King and its boat hull–shaped fuselage. He made a dangerous water landing to allow both men to swim over to the helicopter. Fortunately, there was no North Vietnamese fire, and the rescue was successful.5 Nichols received the Distinguished Flying Cross for the daring rescue, while his crew members each received an Air Medal. Despite his luck that day, Cody Balisteri perished during the Oriskany’s disastrous fire (see chapter 9 for more details about this fire).
Two days later, the Sundowners lost another Crusader in the same area. Armed reconnaissance missions continued in earnest as pilots searched for POL supplies. During a nighttime mission south of Hon Gai, eight Oriskany aircraft discovered a dozen fuel barges among the islands—an exceedingly rare occurrence, given the circumstances. Led by VA-163’s Lt. Cdr. William Smith, they succeeded in destroying eight barges and left the remainder on fire. In the dim light of the burning barges, Smith observed a PT boat attempting to flee the area. Despite heavy AAA, Smith sank it with a direct hit. As he exited the area, Smith spotted another PT boat in a well-camouflaged position.6 As his flight had no ordnance remaining, Smith called the nearby RESCAP for assistance.
VA-152’s commander, Gordon Smith and his wingman, Lt. (junior grade) Bud Watson, responded. After a pass to verify the boat’s location, Smith sank it with Zuni rockets. Another six aircraft arrived, and the air wing continued to attack the remaining barges throughout the early morning. By daybreak, the air wing had sunk eleven barges and two PT boats and had destroyed two AAA sites. Unfortunately, Lt. Cdr. Norman Levy was hit by 37 mm fire as he pulled up from his second attack run. Levy’s Crusader rapidly lost its hydraulics, and the nose of the aircraft pitched up. Unable to control the Crusader, Levy ejected 5 miles south of Hon Gai and only half a mile from Dao Cat Ba, one of the largest islands in Haiphong Harbor.
As the rescue began, Lt. Cdr. Jim Harmon and Lt. (junior grade) Pete Selkey of VA-152 escorted another HS-6 Sea King through the heavily defended islands. Among the crew of the Sea King were Lt. (junior grade) Rick Grant and Petty Officer Gary Smith, who helped rescue Cody Balisteri from the same area two days prior. Due to the excellent route provided by Harmon, the helicopter flown by Grant and Lt. Cdr. George Tarrico arrived over Levy and picked him up without a shot fired.7 The helicopter delivered Levy to the SAR destroyer, USS Towers (DLG-9), where he received a quick medical check prior to returning to Oriskany. Sadly, like his squadron mate rescued days earlier, Norman Levy also perished in the October fire (see chapter 9).
The need for photo reconnaissance became critical during the POL campaign. Photo specialists spent countless hours poring over thousands of photos, looking for evidence of new or previously undiscovered POL storage sites. On 17 August Lt. Andre Coltrin, an RF-8 pilot with VFP-63, was tasked with an extremely hazardous photo reconnaissance mission to photograph POL facilities near Kep airfield northeast of Hanoi. Escorting “Gentleman Andre,” as he was known within the air wing, was Capt. Wilfred Abbott, an air force fighter pilot assigned to VF-111. With Coltrin leading, the flight threaded its way through the mountains north of Haiphong and then headed west to Hanoi and Kep. Flying as low as 100 feet and as fast as 675 knots, the flight was literally so low that North Vietnamese gunners were firing down on the plane from nearby ridgelines as it roared past.8 When his photos were developed, sailors studying the film could see clothes hung out to dry on clotheslines.9
After a successful pass over the intended target, Coltrin led the flight back toward the safety of the gulf. As the flight fought their way eastward, they were again under intense North Vietnamese fire. Coltrin’s RF-8 shuddered from 37 mm and 57 mm AAA bracketing his aircraft. With his fuel and hydraulic gauges dropping to zero, Coltrin notified Abbott that he was in trouble. Unsure of the condition of his airplane, Coltrin climbed to a safer altitude to assess the situation and to allow Abbott to check his aircraft for damage. His RF-8 was still flying, though Coltrin didn’t know if he had enough fuel to make it back. Fortunately, an alert A-4 tanker pilot was waiting for him just off the coast. Despite not having an airspeed indicator to assist in his rendezvous, Coltrin spotted the Skyhawk and received enough fuel to recover on Oriskany. Postflight maintenance inspections revealed that one piece of shrapnel had missed the fuel manifold by mere inches, while other pieces had damaged his airspeed and angle-of-attack indicators. Lt. Andre Coltrin received the Distinguished Flying Cross for this mission, one of three he received during the war.
The three-day period from 18 to 21 August resulted in some of the more notable moments of the 1966 cruise. On 18 August Lt. Cdr. Eric Schade and Lt. Jerry Garvey of VA-152 were flying an armed reconnaissance mission between Route 1A and Route 15 just west of Cape Bang when Schade noticed some tracks leading into a wooded area. Leaving his wingman up high, Schade dove down and discovered several trucks hidden among the trees. Schade fired several Zuni rockets and was rewarded with large secondary explosions. Every rocket and strafing run by Schade and Garvey added to the inferno. As thick black smoke climbed high into the air, the pair flew their Skyraiders down low for one last check, revealing ten destroyed trucks amid the fires and secondary explosions.10 In terms of the POL campaign, they had hit the proverbial jackpot. Schade called for assistance, and they were relieved by four more Skyraiders from VA-152. When these aircraft left, smoke from burning trucks and POL drums had climbed almost 7,000 feet. Two days later, poststrike photography showed a large forested area that had been completely burned and was still smoldering. Total damage was estimated at twenty-two trucks and three hundred to eight hundred barrels of POL stocks destroyed. It remained as a huge brown burnt-out section of jungle. Known as “Eric’s Truck Park,” it became a common landmark for aviators flying from Yankee Station.
Three days later, VA-152 enjoyed another similar success. Anxious to repeat Eric Schade’s performance, Cdr. Gordon Smith spent time scrutinizing reconnaissance photos for areas he believed to be truck parks. After launching from Oriskany, Smith and his wingman arrived over one suspected area. Heavy barrage fire confirmed Smith’s notion, and he discovered ten camouflaged trucks hiding in the heavy jungle. Smith’s and his wingman’s attacks were rewarded with numerous secondary explosions and thick black smoke from burning oil. After using all their ordnance, Smith broadcast for any aircraft to join the melee. When all was said and done, twenty-two trucks were confirmed destroyed, and large quantities of POL supplies were left burning. The success of these missions resulted in congratulatory messages from Rear Adm. Dave Richardson.11 Unfortunately, these achievements were becoming rare for the old propeller-driven Skyraiders. Though heavily armored, A-1s lacked the speed of jets, and the skies soon proved too deadly for continued operations.
Lt. Cdr. Foster “Tooter” Teague of VF-111 and Lt. Cdr. Tom Tucker, the VFP-63 detachment officer-in-charge (OINC), were well known among the pilots in the air wing. The pair got along famously and quickly became known as the “Terrible Ts” for their antics while on liberty. On 31 August Tucker drew the unenviable task of photographing shipping within Haiphong Harbor. Teague volunteered to be Tucker’s wingman for the flight, a mission that produced some of the most dramatic images of the war. Because his mission was to fly directly over one of the most heavily defended targets in North Vietnam, Tucker planned his route to maximize his odds of survival should he be hit. Tucker planned to go feet-dry first before turning around and making a high-speed pass, heading east from the shore toward the sea. That way, if he was hit while getting the low-altitude photos of the shipping in the harbor, he would already be headed out to sea and relative safety.12 That was the plan, anyway.
With Teague escorting him during their 600-knot photo run, Tucker ran the gauntlet of North Vietnamese defenses in the harbor. Everything from 85 mm and 37 mm AAA to 12.7 mm machine guns reached out to knock his Crusader from the sky. Eventually, a burst of 37 mm AAA hit Tucker’s aircraft. He lost control and ejected as he passed 1,500 feet. Tucker’s plan was a good one. He made it feet-wet, but not quite far enough. Tucker parachuted into the secondary shipping channel of Haiphong Harbor, between the coast and Dao Dinh Vu, and was immediately in trouble. He landed in the water not far from a Soviet freighter tied up to the quay wall. The Soviet crew began to lower a life boat, while sampans and sailboats got under way from the shore. Tooter Teague made multiple strafing runs to dissuade the Soviets and force the remaining boats out of the area.
At this moment, Cdr. Bob Vermilya and his copilot, Ens. Bill Runyon, and crewmen, Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Operator Chief Petty Officer Tom Grisham and Aviation Machinist Mate 2nd Class Jerry Dunford, were flying as the on-call CSAR helicopter at the north SAR station. Vermilya was the commanding officer of HS-6 on USS Kearsarge (CVS-33). Five days earlier, his crew rescued two air force pilots who ejected from their stricken F-4C. Now, as they completed their second refueling of their flight, the crew heard Teague’s desperate radio calls.
As Tucker began the fight of his life, Teague began to muster any and all forces available for the immediate CSAR attempt. Vermilya heard these calls and flew toward Haiphong. However, without approval from “harbor master,” the shipboard SAR commander in the Tonkin Gulf, Vermilya couldn’t proceed. Vermilya notified Teague he was waiting for permission and RESCAP. Teague’s response was a chilling “Come now, or don’t bother!”13
Vermilya and Runyon responded by pushing the nose of their helicopter over, flying toward the harbor as fast as they could go. As their Sea King approached the mouth of the harbor, still 6 miles from the shipping channel, the crew looked up to see two SAMs streak overhead toward Teague. AAA, machine guns, and mortar fire began zeroing in on the helicopter. At the same time, a flight of four VA-152 Skyraiders led by Lt. Cdr. William Smith and Lt. Jack Feldhaus heard Teague’s radio transmission; they gathered their wingmen and proceeded to Haiphong at maximum speed. Before they arrived, Smith began coordinating with Teague, an airborne KA-3 tanker, and the SAR destroyer, whom he informed that a rescue was indeed possible. Smith told the tanker pilot to orbit overhead the destroyer for future in-flight refueling as needed. Orbiting over the harbor, Smith quickly spotted Tucker, who by this time had climbed into his raft in a frantic attempt to put some distance between himself and the ships in the harbor.
That Tucker had landed in quite possibly the worst location possible did not deter Teague or Smith’s flight of Skyraiders. The aircraft were in range of many coastal AAA batteries and ships’ AAA, and they were less than 5 miles from Cat Bi airfield. They also happened to be orbiting near three known SAM sites. Smith’s flight continued to orbit overhead Tucker, while Teague began making strafing passes at junks along the helicopter’s route of flight.
In his furtive efforts to paddle away, Tucker noticed that the nearby guns seemed to be holding their fire. Even with Smith and Feldhaus orbiting overhead, plus a new division of Oriskany Skyhawks, the guns remained strangely quiet. This all changed as the helicopter drew near. Previously, Vermilya had been flying at 3,000 feet, supposedly below the minimum altitude of the SAMs and still above the effective range of small arms. After watching the two SAMs pass overhead, Vermilya quickly changed his mind, dropping to wave-top height. Big Mother, as the large and ungainly Sea Kings were affectionately known, threaded her way through the harbor. Vermilya kept the helicopter so low that he believed some of the gun batteries on the shore actually held their fire so as to not hit ships in the harbor. No matter how badly the Vietnamese wanted to bring down a rescue helicopter, it would not do to damage a ship owned by one of their Communist allies.14
It seemed to take an eternity for Big Mother to cross the 6 miles between the outer harbor and the shipping channel. As the Sea King neared Tucker, Smith began providing course corrections to the helicopter. Meanwhile, the remaining Skyraiders and the division of Skyhawks began to strafe and bomb the guns along the harbor.
Amid the confusion, while dodging shell splashes, shipping, and smaller junks, Big Mother managed to fly right by Tucker. Even though Tucker used a signal flare, it was only Chief Grisham who spotted the red smoke and alerted the pilots. Vermilya hauled the helicopter around to the right, coming to a hover right above Tucker’s raft. The maneuver caused a good deal of consternation with both Grisham and Dunford, who had been firing their guns at boats in the water. Only their quick reflexes kept them from shooting the helicopter’s rotor blades as Vermilya reefed the aircraft into its turn. Vermilya had been in a hover only seconds when he heard Chief Grisham call over the intercom, “We’ve got him.” When the cable and rescue sling hit the water, Tucker grabbed it on his first try. Before Tucker could even be lifted into the cabin, Vermilya nosed Big Mother over to run the same gauntlet through the shipping channel and the 6 miles of harbor before reaching the gulf.15 When Tucker reached the relative safety of Big Mother, he chided both Grisham and Dunford for not firing their guns. Moving to Grisham’s station, he helped feed belts of ammunition as the chief began returning fire. Tucker was furious that he had been shot at while in his chute and yelled to Grisham that he wanted to stay and fight.16
The whole rescue effort was caught on film, producing one of the most iconic images of the Vietnam War. Photographer’s Mate 2nd Class Mike Delamore, a Seventh Fleet photographer, had hopped aboard Big Mother as she launched for the CSAR flight. He hoped to get some footage of a rescue mission over North Vietnam. He got his wish, shooting rolls of film while Grisham and Dunford manned their weapons and hoisted Tucker out of the water. Delamore’s photos garnered worldwide attention and were used in newspapers and countless publications following the war.
As Vermilya cleared the outer limits of Haiphong Harbor, Smith and his division of Skyraiders departed the area, their mission complete. Despite being under continuous fire for over twenty minutes, the lumbering Sea King was untouched. USS Towers (DLG-9) was on SAR duty and steamed to close the fight. She was on station just outside the harbor and just outside the range of gun batteries on the shore. Vermilya and his crew successfully transferred a soggy but happy Tucker to the ship and returned to orbit around Towers, their time as the CSAR helicopter for the day not yet complete. Tucker was flown back to Oriskany later that day. For their part in rescuing Tucker, Teague and Vermilya were each awarded the Silver Star, while Runyon was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. Both Grisham and Dunford received Air Medals.
While Tucker’s successful rescue did wonders for the morale of men flying daily missions over North Vietnam, in reality it was just another day in what had become a meat grinder. The air war had evolved into an all-out bloody battle, with each side trading continuous blows. By the end of August, it was obvious to military leadership that the POL campaign had failed. McNamara thought otherwise, and the emphasis on POL continued, with large numbers of aircraft being sent after small, dispersed POL sites. It didn’t help that restrictions remained in place. The CIA estimated that out of 66,000 tons of POL stocks remaining, up to 17,000 remained in off-limits areas. Reconnaissance photographs showed city streets lined with 55-gallon barrels that couldn’t be touched. In September two Communist ships docked in Haiphong and offloaded another 20,000 tons of fuel, adding to the task of interdiction. The POL campaign continued, despite recommendations from CINCPAC, the JCS, the DIA, and the CIA.17
As American ECM against SAM and AAA radars became more effective, VPAF MiG activity increased. The second line period saw a marked growth in the tenacity and aggression displayed by MiG pilots. Communist pilots worked closely with GCI units at Phuc Yen and Bac Mai, demonstrating their ability to sneak up on strike packages virtually undetected. The VPAF quickly realized the importance of concentrating on bombers, forcing them to jettison their loads, versus tangling with American fighters. As a result of this increased MiG activity, the PIRAZ system became an essential element of U.S. operations over North Vietnam.
During the last two weeks of August, MiGs continually intercepted strikes. On 16 August VA-163’s Lt. Cdr. William Smith and Lt. (junior grade) Peter Munro were jumped by MiG-17s as they attacked a train. Both Smith and Munro evaded the MiGs while calling for support from available fighters. CVW-16 encountered MiGs on one other occasion, while other air wings had their own MiG encounters. These engagements were uneventful until MiGs finally drew blood on 5 September.18 On that fateful Monday, Oriskany launched a late-afternoon mission to destroy a train discovered between Nam Dinh and Phu Ly. VF-111 provided four Crusaders for the TARCAP, led by Lieutenant Commander Teague.
With no tanker support available, Teague planned to break up the TARCAP. Teague’s section would go over the beach first, and upon reaching bingo fuel, they would call the second section of Capt. Wilfred Abbott and Lt. Randy Rime, waiting just offshore. During the mission, things went according to plan until Teague called bingo fuel. As Abbott and Rime relieved Teague’s section, things began to unravel. Rime didn’t know it, but his radio had failed. At the same time, poor weather and heavy clouds made it difficult for Rime to fly Loose Deuce. He often found himself flying in trail just to keep sight of Abbott.
The Skyhawks struck the railroad cars and headed for the gulf. Abbott and Rime continued to orbit in the target area, waiting for the A-4s to call feet-wet when they were hit. Vietnamese CGI controllers successfully vectored two MiG-17s from the 923rd FR onto the Crusaders. The section was on its last turn when Abbott spotted the MiGs behind them. Abbott called for a right break as the MiGs began firing their cannons. Rime was hit first and was immediately in trouble. Rime had taken 23 -mm hits in the cockpit. Miraculously, the 23 mm shell never exploded, sparing his life. Nevertheless, he was severely cut by glass as his canopy exploded around him. Rime was also streaming fuel. Several 37 mm hits destroyed both leading-edge wing droops and punctured his wing fuel tanks. They also destroyed his radio and the emergency air system used to raise the Crusader’s wing in the event of hydraulic failure, leaving Rime in dire straits.19
When the MiGs plastered Rime, Abbott pitched up to cover him, attempting a nose-high, high-G reversal. It was a calculated risk—the maneuver would put him directly in front of the MiGs but traveling perpendicular to them. Abbott had hoped the Vietnamese wouldn’t be able to handle a high-deflection shot, arguably the most difficult aerial gunnery skill to master. Unfortunately for him, they could.
The Vietnamese pilot almost opened fire too late but managed to get enough rounds into Abbott’s Crusader to completely destroy it. At least one round hit Abbott’s cockpit. His canopy was shattered, his instrument panel was a mess, and the control stick went limp. Somehow, his helmet disappeared, along with the upper ejection handle and face curtain to his ejection seat. Abbott ejected in a steep nose-down attitude, breaking his right leg in the process. He was quickly captured by the Vietnamese and spent the next seven years as a POW.20
Rime was lucky to have survived, but he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. His crippled F-8 was the last airplane to make it back for Oriskany’s next recovery. He was down to just 700 pounds of fuel, which was enough for one landing attempt. He couldn’t raise the Crusader’s wing, which meant dangerously fast landing approach speeds. Because he didn’t have a radio, Oriskany’s flight deck crew wasn’t notified of his situation and thus didn’t have time to rig the barricade, a gigantic nylon net that literally caught damaged aircraft in midair. He had one chance at landing and that was it. Rime made his approach using left and right rudder to see over the nose of the Crusader. As he crossed the ramp, Rime saw wave-off lights. Normally Rime would have obeyed these signals at any cost, but he continued—he had no choice. Rime remembers saying to himself, “I don’t care if the Captain himself is walking across the deck, I’m landing.”21 He landed and caught the number 4 arresting wire. His plane was so damaged, the approach so fast, that when his Crusader hit Oriskany’s flight deck the right axle broke, and the tire went careening down the flight deck. His Crusader had less than 300 pounds of fuel left. Once out of the cockpit, Rime was taken to ship’s medical, where shards of canopy glass were removed from his arms. With his wounds cleaned, he was given a sedative before being sent off to get some sleep.
Abbott’s and Rime’s misfortunes on 5 September can be directly attributed to a breakdown in the new PIRAZ system. After Rime made it back, Oriskany checked with the controllers responsible for monitoring Vietnamese radio nets and tracking the MiGs. It became apparent that the two MiGs had made a previous pass and missed the Crusaders in the clouds. The MiG’s GCI controllers then vectored them around for another pass. The second one was successful. Rime was summoned to the bridge, where Capt. Iarrobino showed him charts compiled by the northern SAR destroyer. It showed the exact flight path taken by the MiGs, from takeoff at Phuc Yen to their first missed pass and eventual interception and then landing. Iarrobino wanted to know what warnings had been passed to the flight, but Rime had never heard anything.22
Believably, the Vietnamese claimed two Crusaders that day. One of the Vietnamese pilots was none other than Nguyen Van Bay. Van Bay was on his way to becoming one of a handful of Vietnamese aces of the war. If Nguyen Van Bay had pressed his advantage, VF-111 quite probably would have lost both airplanes that day. It is also rather telling the positive effect the PIRAZ system had on the air war over North Vietnam in the short period since its inception and, conversely, how fast the balance could tip toward the North Vietnamese in its absence. By December, MiG activity had become so great that all U.S. strikes in and around Hanoi and Haiphong were met by MiGs. By year’s end, MiG attacks forced approximately 20 percent of all strikes into Route Package VI to jettison their loads before reaching the target. In all reality, this number would probably have been greater had the PIRAZ not been implemented.
At the end of the second line period, Oriskany sailed for Subic Bay. Prior to leaving the line, her crew transferred ordnance and other critical supplies to waiting supply ships. On 6 September, nearly a year after setting the previous transfer record, Oriskany set another transfer record with USS Mount Katmai (AE-16). As evidence to the growing war, crews from both ships transferred 406.5 tons of ammunition in fifty-six minutes, almost four times the amount of their prior record.23 Following a five-day port call in Subic Bay, Oriskany sailed for Hong Kong and further liberty on 15 September. While sailing north, Oriskany took part in the rescue of fellow seafarers and suffered from one of the most bizarre events of their 1966 cruise.
That same morning, the ore carrier SS August Moon ran aground and was wrecked on the submerged Pratas Reef. Managed by the Eastern Sun shipping company in Hong Kong, the converted tanker had seen extensive convoy duty in the North Atlantic during World War II. She had been sailing from Calcutta, India, to Yokohama, Japan, with 13,600 tons of iron ore when she ran aground at 0230. The crew immediately began sending a distress signal, “Breaking up in swell. . . . Urgently require assistance to take off crew. Too rough to lower ship’s boats.”24 The message was received in Hong Kong and Manila and by ships throughout the area. Under international maritime law, with deep roots in customary and humanitarian principles, it is the duty of any vessel in the area to render assistance. Tokyo Maru, a Japanese freighter, was the first ship to respond; however, heavy seas prevented her from lowering life boats to rescue the endangered crew. Oriskany and the Royal Navy frigate HMS Loch Fada soon arrived to assist. At 0530 Oriskany began launching aircraft to surveil the reef. Skyraiders reported that the crew was still safe but confirmed reports that swells were pounding the ship up against the rocks. Beginning at noon, three helicopters from Oriskany began rescuing the stranded crewmen.
The dramatic rescue of the August Moon’s forty-six-man crew was made even more dangerous by the huge green waves pounding the ore carrier. Eventually, a 60-foot wave claimed one of Oriskany’s helicopters as well. As Lt. Cdr. Dale Barck and Ens. Daniel Kern hovered their Seasprite over the stern of the August Moon, Petty Officer 2nd Class William Thoday prepared to haul crew members to safety. The helicopter was abruptly drenched with spray from an enormous wave. The sudden intake of water doused the helicopter’s turbine engines, and it immediately stopped flying. Barck later recalled, “She went down and sank in two seconds.” None of the crew recalled how they escaped the sinking helicopter, though Barck thought, “It must have been the surging water which washed us out of the helicopter.” Uninjured, the crew bobbed in their lifejackets through the heavy swells until another helicopter came to their rescue after being alerted by Loch Fada.25 Sadly, Daniel Kern perished in the tragic fire in October.
By 1615 all of August Moon’s crew members had been rescued. August Moon eventually broke in two and sank as Oriskany and her crew enjoyed liberty in Hong Kong. While in port, the shipping company presented a silver cup to Captain Iarrobino for Oriskany’s role in the rescue. During the ceremony, the Eastern Sun’s managing director, James Lu, described the rescue operation as “one of the most heroic ones he has ever heard.”26 On 23 September, with their respite from the war over, Oriskany left Hong Kong for the Tonkin Gulf and her third line period.
The story of Lt. Cdr. Dick Perry is the quintessential story of Carrier Air Wing 16. It is also a sad one. Perry, a native of Carlin, Nevada, joined VA-164 in January 1966 and immediately became the lifeblood of the Ghost Riders. An effective leader and one of the squadron’s senior pilots, he knew how to mentor junior pilots, instilling confidence while teaching them the skills needed to survive over Vietnam.27 Perry also introduced a very important person to the air wing, one who would become a key supporter of the aviators: Lady Jessie. To Nevada, she was known as Jessie Beck, or “the Gambling Grandmother of Reno.” An astute businesswoman, Jessie started out as a cashier and roulette dealer. She quickly rose to the top at Harold’s Club. During the 1950s, Jessie and her husband, Fred Beck, ran the Keno game at Harold’s Club in Reno. A major historical figure in Nevada, she was the first woman to own a major Nevada casino—the Riverside Hotel and Casino.28 It was at Harold’s that she became acquainted with Dick Perry, then attending the University of Nevada Reno and working part-time dealing cards at the casino. Perry essentially became an adopted son to the Becks, and though he graduated and moved on to flight school, they kept in continuous contact. When Perry joined VA-164, Jessie was still sending him care packages. She contacted all the Bell Telephone operators in Nevada and had them start sending gifts as well. Soon these care packages began spilling over to the other aviators in the air wing. Jessie Beck spent untold thousands of dollars and hours sending packages to servicemen in Vietnam. In 1968 the Department of Defense presented her the Award of Merit. It is the highest honor that can be given a civilian.29
Dick Perry’s pride in Lady Jessie’s affection was readily apparent to all. As the squadrons prepared for deployment to Vietnam, they spent several weeks at NAS Fallon, Nevada, dropping bombs on the adjacent ranges. Perry arranged for a squadron party in nearby Reno, the first of many hosted by Lady Jessie. Jessie brought the entire squadron to her hotel, including the wives, and paid everyone’s bill. Word traveled fast among the tight-knit group of aviators, and soon they all had a chance to sample the famous Jessie Beck hospitality. In a gesture to Jessie and her kindness, Dick Perry had the words “Lady Jessie” painted underneath the cockpit of his Skyhawk.30
By the time Oriskany returned to the Tonkin Gulf for her third line period, Perry and his squadron mates in VA-164 were in the forefront of the battle to suppress North Vietnamese defenses. During 21–27 September, strikes near Thanh Hoa destroyed five SAM sites.31 Such attacks forced the Vietnamese to frequently move launchers and radars lest they be found and destroyed. The North Vietnamese had on average 5.6 prepared sites for every launcher available, and the SA-2 success rate was falling.32 When SAMs first appeared in 1965, they had a success rate of 5.7 percent. A year later, ECM advances and persistent Iron Hand strikes had lowered that number to just 3.1 percent.33 It was mainly the perseverance of men flying Iron Hand missions that kept the SA-2 kill rate so low. Terrifying though it was, the SA-2 never downed the numbers of aircraft that AAA did.
One Iron Hand mission on 28 September illustrates the dangers involved. That afternoon, Perry had completed briefing his wingman for a two-plane armed reconnaissance mission when they were notified of a newly discovered SAM site. Perry’s flight was combined with another section, and the men hastily briefed for an attack on the SAM site just south of the famous Thanh Hoa bridge. The flight of Skyhawks approached the SAM site at sunset, giving the Vietnamese gunners an easy target in the waning light. They encountered extremely heavy and accurate 37 mm and 57 mm AAA. Despite the opposition, Perry found the SAM site and rolled in to attack it. Just as he commenced his dive, Perry’s Skyhawk was hit in the nose by a 37 mm shell. Perry’s cockpit immediately filled with smoke. The blast penetrated the firewall of his cockpit, hitting Perry’s leg with enough force that his leg then hit his chest—no small feat in the cramped Skyhawk cockpit. Chunks of shrapnel tore through his boot into his foot. A large segment of the nose, including the entire radome, was blown off. Debris struck the vertical stabilizer, and some debris was ingested by the engine, causing all indications of an impending failure. Despite all this, Perry pressed home his attack and succeeded in hitting the SAM site along with the others.
As he came off target, Perry was on his own. Darkness and haze near the coast precluded joining his wingman. As he flew toward the gulf, Perry surveyed the damage. He jettisoned his empty bomb racks and drop tank to lighten the load on his struggling aircraft. All his navigation aids were destroyed, including his radio and IFF. The angle-of-attack indicator, critical for landing back aboard the ship, was destroyed. The airspeed indicator would not indicate below 150 knots, and his engine was running rough. He was on his own, nursing his crippled Skyhawk back to the Tonkin Gulf in the dark. Using dead reckoning, Perry flew 120 miles out to sea before he spotted the lights of a cargo ship. He continued searching until he found a destroyer and eventually Constellation. Knowing that he still had enough fuel, Perry continued on, searching for Oriskany. When his search came up empty, Perry returned to Constellation and slowed his aircraft down to see if he could land it. After determining that he could, Perry made continuous low passes over Constellation until they got the message and readied the flight deck to bring him aboard. All told, it took almost ten minutes before Constellation was ready and he landed safely. It took almost another hour for word of his exploits and safe recovery to be passed back to Oriskany.34 For the other members of the flight, he had simply vanished. No one had seen him get hit, and no one knew that he had been able to pull out and head back to the gulf. He was just unaccounted for.35 That Perry had survived a direct hit by AAA was a minor miracle. That he had flown his crippled airplane 120 miles out to sea in order to make an emergency landing in the dark on an unfamiliar ship was extraordinary.
The next day, Oriskany’s aircraft destroyed yet another SAM site when an alert photo interpreter discovered an occupied site just south of Vinh Son. His discovery was quickly reported, and an immediate strike was authorized, planned, and launched. The total time from the initial discovery until the first attack was only three hours and fifty minutes. Follow-on flights and reconnaissance photographs confirmed its destruction. After destroying two SAM sites in two days, Oriskany had made a small dent in Vietnam’s air defenses. As a result, the air wing received a congratulatory message from the carrier division commander, giving them the “Prize for SAM Busting” for the line period.36 The following week, the Soviet newspaper Krasnaya Zuezda reported that PVO-Strany experts had come under fire during recent U.S. raids against North Vietnamese SAM sites. Until this point, both the Soviets and the Chinese had denied they had personnel in North Vietnam, though U.S. officials had long suspected otherwise. This was the first public acknowledgment that the Soviets had trained North Vietnamese missile crews and were observing them in action. The risk of a wider war suddenly seemed quite possible. By this time, China was undergoing its Cultural Revolution, and the Johnson administration became increasingly concerned that China might enter the war. The incident served to strengthen McNamara’s resolve concerning his tight control of Rolling Thunder.
The pilots flying daily missions over North Vietnam were not the only ones facing extreme danger. Oriskany’s sailors and squadron maintenance men working on the flight deck did so at great risk to life and limb. While working on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier may not have been as dangerous as that of an infantryman fighting in the jungles, the job still took its toll. A sailor faced many hazards while working on the flight deck. The job required constant vigilance. It became more dangerous at night, when visual cues disappeared. With aircraft taxiing about the flight deck, launching from catapults, and making arrested landings, danger lurked everywhere. For the sailors working upward of sixteen hours day on the flight deck, exhaustion was the only constant, yet they still needed to keep their wits about them.
Oriskany lost several men to accidents during the previous line periods. In one instance, a VF-162 Crusader suffered a hard landing following a combat mission. The landing gear snapped off, causing a flash fire as hydraulic fluid sprayed from broken hydraulic lines. Although the fire was put out in less than ten minutes, two sailors were injured. Chief Petty Officer James LeBlanc was scalped by debris flung by the aircraft, and a young sailor, Richard Morrell, was blown over the side. Morrell suffered little more than scrapes and was quickly rescued by the plane guard helicopter. LeBlanc underwent surgery in the sickbay before recovering.37 In the predawn hours of 23 August, Lt. Cdr. George Farris, the VAH-4 detachment OINC, and his young bombardier/navigator (B/N), Lt. (junior grade) Ignatius Signorelli, had an accident while attempting to land following a night airborne tanker mission. Farris was making his third pass after two missed attempts. With a low fuel state he came in high and fast. When Farris realized he was going to miss again he dove for the deck. Because of the Skywarrior’s size and weight, along with the excess speed from the dive for the flight deck, Oriskany’s arresting gear failed under the stress of the arrested landing. What happened next was the predictable and catastrophic result. As the plane’s tail hook grabbed the number 4 arresting gear wire, it snapped. In most instances, the aircraft will have lost enough airspeed that it cannot fly away. Miraculously, Ferris had enough airspeed to get airborne again and was diverted to Da Nang for the evening. After the cross-deck pendant parted, it flayed itself across the flight deck like a gigantic scythe. If it had been daytime, flight deck personnel might have had a chance to see it and escape the onslaught. Because it happened at night, the wire cut through anything and everything on the flight deck without warning. Lt. (junior grade) Raymond Sheenan lost his right leg, while Aviation Ordnanceman 1st Class James Johnston lost both his legs in the accident.38 The flight deck was a very dangerous place indeed.
On 2 October Aviation Structural Mechanic 3rd Class Larry Harrison, a young mechanic from VF-162, almost became another victim of operations on the flight deck. Harrison had been checking a hydraulic leak when jet exhaust blew him over the side. Fortunately for him, an HS-6 Sea King happened to be on a logistics flight when it happened. The pilots of Indian Gal 65, Lt. (junior grade) Gale Prickett and Lt. (junior grade) Dick Lynas, made the pickup in what was for them a routine logistics flight. They were orbiting nearby, waiting for a clear deck, when they heard the “man overboard” call on the radio. The crew watched as Oriskany’s Seasprite flew down the wake while the plane guard destroyer crews searched the water. After watching the proceedings for several minutes, the crew of Indian Gal 65 flew three miles down the wake and slowly flew back toward Oriskany, eventually finding Harrison. As they flew back to the ship, they received permission to land. According to Lynas, “The sailor had been puking up seawater all over the back, but the medics hauled him off without a stretcher. The flight deck director gave us a ‘hold’ signal and we waited for a minute or two until some officer came running out of the island and handed us a brown paper bag.” The bag contained four Oriskany cigarette lighters and ashtrays for each of the crew members—their reward for saving a life. After their rescue of Harrison, the crew continued on with their logistics mission before heading back to Kearsarge. Harrison spent the night in sickbay before returning to work on the flight deck. Operations onboard Oriskany continued unabated. It was, after all, just another day in the Gulf of Tonkin.39
On 1 October Oriskany launched a major twenty-plane strike against the Phu Ly railroad complex. Led by Lt. Cdr. Denis Weichman of VA-164, the strike evaded multiple SAMs as the pilots went feet-dry before encountering heavy concentrations of AAA in the target area. The strike destroyed two bridges and left the rail complex in flames. Despite this, the air wing would return in a week. According to the current regulations, a target would be authorized and remain on the strike list despite results, remaining until the Tuesday lunch club met again to select new targets. As a result, targets such as the Phu Ly complex would be bombed and bombed again, while the Vietnamese moved every available piece of AAA and SAMs into the area. What began with a single strike by Oriskany eventually evolved into a major strike with aircraft from the carriers Intrepid, Coral Sea, and Oriskany on 9 October. This strike would be heavily opposed.
Cdr. Ron Caldwell led Oriskany’s part of the strike. To help mitigate the stiffening Vietnamese defenses, he chose a new route of flight around known AAA concentrations that had built up over the previous strikes. The different flight path also allowed Oriskany’s airplanes to avoid the heavy weather that degraded other strikes. Even with effective flak suppression, Vietnamese defenses in Phu Ly proved ferocious. The strike was a success, however. Intrepid’s Skyhawks knocked down more spans of the Phu Ly bridge, while transshipment areas and rail yards were destroyed by aircraft from Coral Sea and Oriskany.40 Two MiGs were also shot down, including a MiG-21—a first for the navy. At this point in the war, only four MiG-21s had been shot down, and the aircraft held almost mythical qualities. That it had been brought down by Cdr. Dick Bellinger made the victory even sweeter. Unfazed by his earlier shootdown, Bellinger remained anxious to try out new tactics against the MiGs. Bellinger and his wingman, Lt. Lee Prost, provided the TARCAP for Intrepid’s twenty-four Skyhawks. Bellinger planned to orbit at very low altitudes to the northwest of Phu Ly as the bombers hit the rail complex. The TARCAP would be controlled by the PIRAZ ship USS King (DLG-10). Bellinger also coordinated to have an E-1B Tracer from Oriskany’s VAW-11 detachment orbit just off the coast to provide another layer of control.41
The TARCAP was in their orbit when radar controllers onboard King called MiGs closing on Intrepid’s Skyhawks. Bellinger and Prost proceeded toward Phu Ly at low altitude. King’s controllers vectored Bellinger to a position beneath a MiG-21 about to attack an Iron Hand Skyhawk at 9,000 feet. Bellinger started climbing in afterburner, simultaneously making calls for the remaining F-8s to join the fight. Bellinger and Prost made it within a mile before being spotted. The MiG pilot rolled inverted, diving down low. Both Bellinger and Prost followed. Bellinger got a tone indicating his AIM-9 Sidewinder had locked on. He fired an AIM-9B first and quickly followed up with an AIM-9D. The first missile blew off the MiG’s right wing as the second exploded alongside. The MiG pilot ejected from his disintegrating aircraft as Bellinger roared by. Bellinger barely pulled out from his 60-degree dive, skimming treetops as he and Prost turned toward the gulf. The pair flew back to Oriskany, where they were met with a rousing celebration of sailors and squadron mates on the flight deck.
Less than an hour after Bellinger’s success, another MiG was shot down as it attacked a flight of four A-1 Skyraiders. The A-1s from Intrepid were participating in the rescue of an F-4 crew from Coral Sea that had been shot down during the strikes on Phu Ly. As with Bellinger, the aviators had been given ample warning by an E-2A Hawkeye from Coral Sea.42 That a World War II vintage prop aircraft had downed a much faster VPAF MiG was big news—so big, in fact, that it trumped Bellinger’s MiG kill. Headlines blared, “Skyraider Downs MiG over North.”43 Not that it mattered. For Oriskany, VF-162, and, most importantly, Bellinger, his victory was sweet revenge.
Following his MiG kill, Bellinger was summoned to Saigon. The navy was anxious to spread the story of Bellinger’s success, and the best way to do it was for him to appear at the official daily press briefings, known as the “Five O’Clock Follies.” During these briefings military officials provided news releases and verbal accounts of battlefield and air activity to reporters. The “Follies” became infamous for its upbeat scenarios about the war. It was arranged for Bellinger to catch a ride in a Skywarrior to Tan Son Nhut, the sprawling air base in Saigon. Bellinger’s pilot for the flight, Lt. Cdr. Tom Maxwell, recalled the trip:
In 1966, following a routine daylight tanking mission, I trapped aboard Oriskany. Since we were normally last to trap, we were backed into the slot just aft of the island. I was taxied up forward and parked next to the island. I was told on tactical frequency that I was going to be hot refueled [refueled with the engines still running] and transport a VIP passenger to Saigon. My B/N, John Milward, was to deplane the aircraft. After John had left the aircraft I turned and saw Commander Bellinger climbing up the chute and get into the right B/N seat. Once he plugged his headset in it was obvious that he had received several medicinal brandies before boarding. Following refueling they attempted to taxi me to the number 1 cat[apult]. I did not move, since Commander Bellinger was not strapped in. When I told the commander to strap in he asked if I was planning on crashing, and I answered hopefully not. So with a not too happy air boss, at me not moving, I taxied out with the reluctant commander, still not strapped in. Once airborne I proceeded overhead to pass my extra gas to the airborne tanker. My OINC, Lt. Cdr. Bill Laurentis, was the pilot. Unfortunately, the drogue controls were at the B/N’s console, so I explained to Commander Bellinger how to put out the drogue and turn on the fuel. Looking through the periscope, every time Bill attempted to plug the basket, the commander would pull the drogue in. As you can imagine, my OINC was not a happy camper. I switched to tactical and explained to Bill what was going on. We finally completed tanking and headed for Saigon.
En route to Saigon, Belly said that he had never flown the A-3 and wanted me to change seats with him. Not willing to do this, he said he would not protest if I would agree to do a Victory roll over the field as we made our approach over the field at Saigon. Approaching the break at the field, I did an aileron roll and broke to land. As I taxied off the runway I was asked to hold on a taxi way while a blue vehicle came screaming out to the aircraft. We opened the hatch, and shortly I had one irate air force colonel in my cockpit. I turned the situation over to my right-seater, and he was able to calm the colonel.44
A VIP car took Maxwell and Bellinger to the studio, where Bellinger described his victory over the MiG-21. Due to a shortage of tankers, Oriskany needed the A-3 back as soon as possible, so Maxwell left Bellinger behind and returned to the ship. Several days later, another A-3 flew back and picked up Bellinger.
The same day Bellinger shot down the MiG, Secretary McNamara arrived in Vietnam. As part of his tour of the war zone, McNamara spent time onboard Oriskany. While there, he toured the ship and witnessed aviators flying missions over North Vietnam. He also presented Bellinger with a Silver Star for shooting down the MiG. A problem arose, however, when Bellinger didn’t show up for the evening meal in the wardroom, where the presentation would take place. His wingman, Lee Prost, found Bellinger in his stateroom, still quite drunk from his time in Saigon. McNamara didn’t appreciate waiting around for a navy commander who hadn’t shaved for a couple days and smelled pretty bad.45 Dick Bellinger was a polarizing individual who was either loved or hated, sometimes both; however, there was often no difference between the two.
Secretary McNamara’s visit highlighted the growing divide in the Johnson administration. While the POL campaign was the turning point in McNamara’s support for the air war, the Jason Report and McNamara’s visit to the Oriskany solidified his position as the main critic of the air war. On 29 August 1966 a committee of scientists from the Jason Division of the Institute for Defense Analysis submitted what became known as the Jason Report. Their report, which evaluated the results of the Rolling Thunder campaign, began:
As of July 1966 the U.S. bombing of North Vietnam (NVN) had had no measurable direct effect on Hanoi’s ability to mount and support military operations in the South at the current level. Although the political constraints seem clearly to have reduced the effectiveness of the bombing program, its limited effect on Hanoi’s ability to provide such support cannot be explained solely on that basis. The countermeasures introduced by Hanoi effectively reduced the impact of U.S. bombing. More fundamentally, however, North Vietnam has basically a subsistence agricultural economy that presents a difficult and unrewarding target system for air attack.46
Armed with the report, which calculated that only 5 percent of Hanoi’s fuel supply was used by trucks to move supplies south, McNamara became convinced that the air war had been unproductive and that the war was not winnable, though he kept pressing for a greater American commitment and more sorties.47 During his time aboard Oriskany, one of the first questions McNamara asked Captain Iarrobino concerned the number of sorties pilots flew per day. When Iarrobino answered that his pilots flew two missions a day, McNamara immediately became critical, wanting to know why pilots were not averaging only one and one-half sorties a day, as his guidelines stated. Iarrobino’s response that there were too few pilots for too many missions did not please the numbers-driven secretary. Iarrobino could have also told McNamara about the severe shortage of sailors affecting operations aboard Oriskany but instead chose not to press the situation, as Secretary McNamara was already obviously agitated by the disconnect.48
Secretary McNamara’s visit produced another telling, if not humorous, story. Just prior to McNamara’s visit, a Peanuts cartoon strip depicting Snoopy as the World War I flying ace circulated throughout the ship. Dick Schaffert later recalled:
Snoopy was low on ammunition but was scheduled to fly against the Red Baron. That intrepid beagle predicted he would defeat the World War One Ace, even though he was down to one last bullet. When questioned by Charlie Brown as to how he could possibly expect to win with only one bullet, Snoopy replied “It’s a silver bullet!”
SecDef McNamara was aboard the Oriskany the day after that comic strip made the rounds. He would sit in on an Alpha Strike briefing, and then monitor the action on strike common frequency. We two-dozen pilots were called to attention when SecDef and the Admirals entered the briefing room. The front row of seats had been reserved for the dignitaries. Before McNamara sat down, we saw him bend over and pick up a piece of paper from the seat of his chair. We aviators at attention in the next row could see the color rising in his face as he looked at it. He stuffed the paper in his note book and the mission briefing proceeded. Scuttlebutt later confirmed it was the silver-bullet comic strip.49
Attitudes to the war were changing both at home and in Vietnam. This simple act of rebellion proved that pilots didn’t always appreciate risking their lives. Though they did so as professionals, they certainly made their feelings known. McNamara returned to Washington, where he briefed the president, faulting the services for their overly optimistic estimates of what unrestricted POL strikes could accomplish but not mentioning that the strikes were never unrestricted. At the same time, McNamara shamelessly paid lip-service to the very same issue, saying, “Any limitation on the bombing of Vietnam would cause serious psychological problems among the men who are risking their lives to help achieve our political objectives.”50
Simultaneously, McNamara did his best to quiet the growing antiwar movement with the advent of Project 100,000. Envisioned as part of the War on Poverty, it was a sociological experiment gone awry. Due to the immense number of births in the years following World War II, the country had more than enough men to fight in Vietnam. McNamara and his staff could have raised draft standards and still met the quotas. Instead, they lowered the standards to include men who would previously have failed medical or mental standards in order to avert the political bombshell of dropping student deferments or calling up the reserves. Whether Project 100,000 was purposely calculated to spare the elite and middle class and thus keep the “silent majority” from turning against the war, as some have theorized, remains a matter of speculation.51 But that was the end result, as the country was torn asunder by violence over the next two years. It was a policy with disastrous consequences for the military and the nation as a whole.