As the air war grew, the number of ships committed to the war put an unforeseen strain on the carrier fleet. Although the navy had over twenty aircraft carriers to cover its global commitments, not all were attack carriers suitable for operations in Rolling Thunder.1 As a result, older 27C class carriers continued to operate throughout the war, even though they were at a distinct disadvantage compared to the new carriers with larger and more capable air wings. Initially, the war was fought by carriers from the Pacific fleet, but in mid-1965 Atlantic fleet carriers began participating in the war. The navy’s only nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, USS Enterprise (CVAN-65), was transferred to the Pacific fleet in late 1965 to assist in the war effort. To further compensate for the shortage of carriers, the navy extended the duration of line periods for aircraft carriers on Yankee Station in the Tonkin Gulf beyond the normal three weeks and the length of their deployments beyond the six-month standard.2 Carrier deployments during Rolling Thunder ranged from seven to ten months, though many went longer as the war grew. A carrier remained on the line from twenty-five to thirty-five days or longer before port calls in the Philippines, Hong Kong, or Japan.
Standard procedure called for a carrier to complete four line periods prior to returning stateside, although exceptions were common.3 Training turnaround time between deployments, traditionally used for ship repairs, maintenance, and schools, was also reduced. The long deployments and limited time for refit caused even more problems, as the 27C class carriers either had reached the end of their functional lives or required a major overhaul. Major overhauls involved extended periods in a shipyard or dry dock for twelve to eighteen months, depending on the amount of work performed.4 Any withdrawal of a carrier from combat caused follow-on effects throughout the navy. Thus the carrier fleet was gradually worn down, and 27C class carriers that should have been decommissioned continued to make cruises through the end of the war.5 Accidents also affected the fleet. Three tragic fires on different carriers put ships out of action for prolonged periods. The disabling of carriers by fires increased the pressure on remaining ships and inadvertently amplified the degradation of the carrier fleet, a problem that continued to affect the fleet until the late seventies.6
During Rolling Thunder, carriers operated from an area known as Yankee Station. From the outset, a minimum of two carriers operated from Yankee Station, plus one on Dixie Station, with one more on its way from the United States and one on its way home, for a total of five carriers at any given time. Of the two aircraft carriers on the line, each conducted flight operations for twelve hours and then stood down for twelve hours for maintenance. One carrier operated as the daytime carrier, while the other carrier operated as the night carrier. If carrier availability allowed three carriers on station, the schedule was designated Red, White, or Blue. One ship would fly from midnight to noon (Red), another from 0600 to 1800 (White), and the third from noon to midnight (Blue). This schedule had the advantage of allowing for double coverage during the daylight hours while still allowing for a twelve-hour stand-down. The schedule rotated every few weeks as carriers withdrew from the operating area for port calls or to replenish. Afterward, the schedule often flip-flopped, with carriers reversing their schedules.
Aircraft carriers conducted two types of flight operations: cyclic operations and Alpha strikes. During cyclic operations, anywhere from twenty-five to forty aircraft were launched every ninety minutes. After aircraft were launched, the carrier then recovered any airborne aircraft before preparing for the next launch. This sequence repeated itself throughout the day, with aircraft continually launching for and recovering from missions over Vietnam. When a target required a major strike, the aircraft carrier shifted operations to the Alpha strike. All available airplanes were launched in a single strike group to attack the specified target, which was likely in the vicinity of Hanoi or Haiphong. Alpha strikes interrupted cyclic operations for two hours as sailors loaded ordnance and prepared the flight deck for the upcoming strike. A carrier could launch two to three Alpha strikes a day, with cyclic operations conducted in between. It was a brutal schedule.
The missions flown during these operations cover a broad spectrum. They can be divided into several categories, including Alpha strikes, armed reconnaissance, and general support sorties. Alpha strikes included not only the attack missions but also Iron Hand missions to help suppress North Vietnamese defenses, flak (AAA) suppression missions, fighter combat air patrols (CAPs), and various support missions. Armed reconnaissance missions were flown both day and night to interdict North Vietnamese supplies. Support missions were the often mundane but vital missions that enabled the war over North Vietnam, including tanker sorties, electronic warfare, and early warning missions. Extremely high risk missions included photo reconnaissance missions and combat search and recovery (CSAR). Separate from all of these missions were close air support (CAS) missions flown “in-country,” meaning South Vietnam, and Operation Steel Tiger, the covert bombing of Laos.
Significant targets were listed in the “Alpha” section of the JCS master target list, used to select targets during the Tuesday luncheon; thus, missions against those targets became known as Alpha strikes. Alpha strikes were a major undertaking against heavily defended targets, although the size and scope varied. They could involve one or more carriers on Yankee Station or even be conducted in conjunction with air force aircraft. As one commanding officer noted, “Any mission in the North carried personal risks, but each Alpha strike took on a life of its own. The mere intonation of the words ‘Alpha strike’ sent shivers up my spine.”7
Rolling Thunder was an attack pilot’s war, and the responsibility of leading these missions fell upon a small cadre of men. Typically only the air wing commander, jet attack squadron commanding officers and executive officers, and a select few experienced senior officers in the attack squadrons were allowed to lead such strikes. The stress and workload were immense—mission success and survival of their fellow aviators depended on their ability to plan and lead the strikes. While certain aspects of Alpha strikes were determined by the Johnson administration, each air wing’s tactics evolved in an effort to be successful and survive to fight another day.
Armed reconnaissance missions were the main focus of Rolling Thunder and were flown continually in an attempt to interdict the flow of supplies. These missions were flown both day and night with a minimum of two aircraft. Pilots sought specific types of targets as delineated in the current rules of engagement of each phase. One week it might be trucks or barges, the next week POL storage, transshipment points, and bridges. Time spent over North Vietnam varied with each mission and was dependent on the area to be covered and targets available—it could be as little as fifteen minutes or as much as ninety. Pilots avoided known AAA locations whenever possible, and in areas with no known defenses, they flew as low as possible in order to detect camouflaged trucks, trains, barges, and POL storage areas. Trying to spot targets hidden under trees while flying upward of 360 knots was a difficult task. It was not impossible, however, and after enough missions aviators became adept at spotting potential targets by finding tire tracks leading from roads to sidings or bridges and storage facilities hidden in the jungle.
While daytime armed reconnaissance sorties occasionally yielded positive results and offered a small respite from the gut-wrenching fear and adrenaline of Alpha strikes, nighttime armed reconnaissance missions were in a terrifying league of their own. Flights of two aircraft would fly in a preassigned sector, with their position lights out, with no ability to see each other or keep from hitting each other while searching for targets. Each aircraft carried a load of six MK 24 parachute flares, which would be dropped to illuminate any target found. If pilots were lucky enough to find and illuminate trucks or barges, they then had to attack under the dim light of the flares. The disorientation caused by such conditions often resulted in pilots flying into the ground. One squadron history openly questioned the value of these missions: “The effectiveness of the A-4E at night in locating and destroying targets of opportunity is a highly debatable subject. . . . In many cases it was the Air Wing pilots that were being harassed rather than the enemy.”8 When considering that these sorties were flown at night in heavily defended and often mountainous terrain, nighttime armed reconnaissance missions had limited success. Pilots then faced a nighttime carrier landing upon completing the mission. These missions caused immeasurable strain on pilots already worn down by the frenetic pace.
After SAMs became operational in 1965, the United States rushed to find and destroy them before they claimed more aircraft. On 12 August 1965 Admiral Sharp ordered Operation Iron Hand to destroy SAM batteries in North Vietnam. Thus Iron Hand became the name for American attempts to counter North Vietnamese SAMs. By 1966 these missions were centered around the AGM-45 Shrike, an antiradiation missile capable of homing in on North Vietnamese radar signals. These missions were mostly flown in support of Alpha strikes or any other mission in which a major SAM threat was recognized. They were considered some of the most terrifying and costliest missions flown throughout the war.9
The main problem affecting Iron Hand attrition rates was that naval aviators received little training in the mission. It was another mission to be mastered along with all the others already flown by attack pilots. Most air wings assigned the mission to one attack squadron in order to help familiarize pilots, but it meant the same pilots flew the deadly mission each time. For the most part, the training received by pilots involved listening to audio recordings of Fire Can and Fan Song radars in various states of activity and learning proper switch positions between missions.10 Success depended on that training and actual combat on the wing of a senior pilot who may or may not have had more experience flying the Iron Hand mission. Simply put, it became a matter of on-the-job training in a high-stakes environment.
Typically flown by A-4 Skyhawks and a fighter escort, Iron Hand aircraft weaved ahead and above the strike group, listening for SAM radar signals on their APR-25. Once in the vicinity of the target, Iron Hand pilots then placed themselves between the SAMs and the strike. Orbiting between 8,000 and 10,000 feet and 8 to 10 miles from the SAM site, these aircraft were well inside the effective range of the SA-2 missiles they were hunting. For this reason, most squadrons kept a minimum amount of ordnance, usually a mix of Shrike and Zuni rockets, on the aircraft to increase their maneuverability.11 While this tactic generated a higher SAM kill rate, it took nerves of steel, as the Shrike was slower than the SA-2. As one pilot related, “It was near suicidal to fire a Shrike at an SA-2 site that had missiles guiding on you because their missiles would get to you before your Shrike got to them.”12 Once it was fired, the detonation of the Shrike highlighted the position of the SAM site for follow-on attacks. However, SAM sites were always well defended by AAA, making attacks dicey at best.
North Vietnamese radar operators eventually became skilled enough to detect the launch of Shrike missiles from the Iron Hand aircraft. This allowed them time to shut down their radar while the Shrike was in the air, giving the missile nothing to home in on. American pilots did not necessarily consider this a bad thing, because if the radar was off, it was unable to cue either guns or missiles. The problem stemmed from the fact that the radar was not destroyed, allowing the operator to turn it back on after the Iron Hand aircraft had launched all their Shrikes. Iron Hand pilots eventually developed tactics whereupon they launched Zuni rockets first. The Vietnamese would see the missile and turn off their radars. Then, after the prescribed time, the radars came back on. While the radars were off, the pilot launched a Shrike, and the missile then homed in on the now-radiating radar. It was a cat-and-mouse game that required incredible bravery.
There was a wide range of opinion among air wings as to the use and viability of flak suppression. The suppression flight flew alongside the main strike force until they neared the target. At a prearranged point, they accelerated ahead to attack the defenses surrounding the target. By attacking the AAA sites first, American pilots forced North Vietnamese gunners to seek shelter when attack aircraft were most vulnerable: during their dive on the target, when pilots concentrated solely on the target and were unable to react to defensive fire.13 The main benefit of this tactic came from the psychological boost it gave attack pilots, as flak suppressors were never able to completely suppress the Vietnamese AAA threat.
Although attack aircraft could be used for flak suppression, doing so meant less aircraft available to meet sortie requirements. As a result, fighters often became the primary aircraft used in this mission. This compounded the problem faced by older 27C class carriers and increased the risk they faced.14 Air wings flying from larger carriers were comprised of newer airplanes capable of carrying greater amounts of ordnance. While some variants of the F-8 Crusader could carry ordnance from their wings, it was nowhere near the load carried by the Phantom, leaving air wings flying from the smaller carriers at a distinct disadvantage.
Fighter squadrons flew a variety of support missions during Rolling Thunder, including escort missions for Iron Hand, photo recce missions, and combat air patrols (CAPs). Escort missions tended to be dangerous and terrifying solely because of the hazard each mission entailed: either dueling with SAMs as an Iron Hand escort or making high-speed passes over highly defended targets while escorting reconnaissance runs. Barrier CAP (BARCAP) missions were seen mostly as a nuisance and flown to prevent Communist aircraft from attacking the fleet. Whether or not the threat was real, the requirement strained already overtasked men and equipment. Target CAP (TARCAP) missions were used mainly during Alpha strikes in order to protect the attack aircraft in the vicinity of the target. Fighters established an orbit between the target and nearby MiG bases to guard against airborne MiGs.15
Fighters received a disproportionate amount of attention during Rolling Thunder. It stemmed from their surprisingly poor performance and less than stellar kill-to-loss ratio—all a result of the overreliance on technology and concentration on defending against nuclear war. The leap in aviation technology in the preceding decade, combined with advances in missiles and radars, resulted in aberrant thinking. Fighters developed for both the navy and air force during the period were designed to destroy hordes of Soviet bombers with long-range missiles before they reached the United States. This concentration on nuclear attack interception capabilities and an overreliance on technology meant that traditional fighter pilot skills atrophied.16 This tremendous oversight came into focus over the skies of North Vietnam as pilots from both the air force and navy managed only a 2.5 to 1 kill ratio throughout the war. During World War II kill ratios were as high as 14 to 1.17 The United States could ill afford such an exchange rate, especially when considering the cost of such advanced aircraft and the cost it took to train the aviators compared to relatively cheaper Soviet aircraft.
Several factors contributed to the poor performance. Training for basic air-to-air combat took a backseat to long-range intercepts. Unfortunately, the ROE negated the advantage of any long-range missiles, forcing fighter crews to visually identify MiGs in case they accidentally engaged a civilian airliner or one of the International Control Commission (ICC) flights.18 Once they identified the MiGs, fighter crews were wholly unprepared for the ensuing fight, which often hinged on completely unreliable missiles. It is no understatement to call the air-to-air missiles used during Rolling Thunder abject failures. The AIM-7 Sparrow suffered failure rates as high as 80 percent. A highly complex missile, its sensitive electronics could not stand up to the rigors of combat, from the heat and humidity of Southeast Asia, the high Gs of flight, and the rough handling aboard the aircraft carriers. Once engaged in aerial combat, the woes continued. As a radar-guided missile, the Sparrow depended on the launching fighter to illuminate its target. During a fight, crews often did not have the time needed to establish a radar lock. Once the missile was in the air, anything that degraded that lock, from ground clutter to maneuvering, made the missile miss. The AIM-9 Sidewinder was simpler and more reliable than the AIM-7; however, the Sidewinder still suffered a 56 percent failure rate. An infrared guided missile, it homed in on hot engine exhaust. Early variants suffered from an extremely small firing envelope and problems with the guidance. Pilots had no way of knowing if they were within the constantly changing employment envelope, or the area in which a missile could be successfully fired. Resembling a cone, the area constantly changed according to airspeed, altitude, and range to the target. In order for the earlier variants of the AIM-9 to guide, pilots had to position themselves almost directly behind the target aircraft, something that was nearly impossible during the extreme maneuvers of aerial combat. The guidance system also suffered problems, in that it could and often did guide toward the sun, clouds, or even the earth if one of these elements gave off greater infrared energy than the target. All of these failures compounded to drive down the kill-to-loss ratio to unacceptable levels.19
Perhaps the most important aspect of the poor showing is that it need not have happened at all. While the VPAF remained a threat, the existence of MiGs was really more of a nuisance. The bigger threat came from the lethal combination of SAMs and the massive quantity of AAA. However, the tight restrictions meant that Vietnamese airfields were off-limits, and the MiG threat, just like the SAMs, matured unmolested.
The appearance of the SA-2 and its associated early warning network forced the United States out of its complacency with regard to electronic warfare. As North Vietnamese defenses grew, they became increasingly effective by using radars to control their AAA and SAMs. Both the American air force and the navy had airborne jamming aircraft that could jam early warning and fire control radars; however, these aircraft were few and far between. The navy and air force responded with crash programs to field new jamming platforms and self-protect jammers for tactical aircraft.
During Rolling Thunder, the navy depended on the aging A-1 Skyraider, specifically, the EA-1F, to fill its jamming needs. Only twenty-four aircraft existed, and they struggled to cover all of the navy’s worldwide electronic warfare requirements.20 Additionally, it was clear from the outset that the EA-1F was rapidly falling behind the threat due to its age and performance limitations. With vacuum tube technology and manually steered jammers, it was severely limited in both frequency coverage and power output, but it was the only aircraft capable of countering the growing threat. The EAK-3B Skywarrior and the EA-6B Prowler would eventually replace it, but not before Rolling Thunder ended.
Due to their vulnerability, EA-1s remained out over the Tonkin Gulf, which limited their effectiveness. The aircraft cruised at only 140 knots and had to be launched well in advance of any strike they were protecting. They usually operated in pairs, orbiting 5,000 feet above the North Vietnamese coastline. When an early warning radar was detected, the EA-1 pilots turned toward it and began jamming. As they reached the coast, pilots performed a Split-S, rolling inverted and diving in a manner similar to the bottom arc of an S. At the end of the maneuver, they began climbing outbound to begin the process anew.21
While EA-1s could degrade early warning and AAA fire control radars, they had insufficient power to counter the SAM threat. While the air force and navy both realized the need for self-protection capability, the navy acted first. In mid-1965 the navy began outfitting its aircraft with the APR-25 radar warning receiver (RWR) or radar homing and warning (RHAW) system. Coupled with the APR-26 launch warning receiver (LWR), which detected a power increase from the Fan Song radar upon SAM launch, these systems warned a pilot when he was being tracked and if a missile had been launched.22
If a pilot was alerted and saw the missile as it launched, he stood a chance. Evasive techniques were developed at China Lake that allowed pilots to perform last-ditch lifesaving maneuvers.23 The SA-2’s high speed and relatively small control surfaces meant that it could not match high-G turns performed by tactical aircraft. If the pilot spotted the launch, he could avoid the missile with a hard, descending turn into the missile, followed by a rapid pull-up and a high-G barrel roll around the missile. These maneuvers took nerves of steel and split-second timing. Time of flight for a SAM was somewhere around thirty seconds, though it seemed like a lifetime to the targeted pilot. If a pilot started his maneuvers too early, the missile had ample time to correct its course. If he started too late, the pilot had little chance of defeating the missile and its proximity fuze in the endgame.
A missile exploding anywhere within 300 feet usually caused catastrophic damage. Within 200 feet it was fatal. Of course, Soviet doctrine called for a second follow-on shot after the first. Most pilots, if they saw the first, usually never saw the second. Pilots initially believed that going low was the only way to avoid the SA-2. Of course, this had the unintentional effect of placing aircraft in small arms range, where even a farmer with a rusty rifle could theoretically bring down a plane with a well-aimed shot.
The combination of RWR gear and evasive maneuvers helped to an extent, but self-protect jammers were still needed. The air force adopted an external jamming pod, while the navy, limited by space availability on the carrier and unwilling to give up valuable weapons pylons that held bombs, went with jammers designed to fit inside the airframe. Under the aptly named Project Shoehorn, the navy mounted the ALQ-51 deception jammer in its tactical jet aircraft. Because the ALQ-51 was small, it had relatively low power output. Rather than use excess power to jam radars, the ALQ-51 was a deception jammer that sent a false return signal to the SAM or AAA radar, the premise being that the confused radar operator would not be able to figure out which return signal to fire on.24
While Project Shoehorn was initially a success, it was not without its difficulties. Initial ALQ-51 reliability was poor, and for most of 1965 the navy had no self-protect jammer. Capt. Julian Lake oversaw the Shoehorn program at China Lake. Known as “Mr. EW,” his knowledge was the driving force behind the program’s success. He later noted the difficulties in teaching the importance of electronic warfare. Aviators lacked hands-on training, as equipment was sent to Yankee Station. This led to further issues, as the fleet couldn’t use it, maintain it, or repair it properly. He explained: “When they were about to launch a plane they wouldn’t send it if they couldn’t start an engine, they wouldn’t send it if the wings wouldn’t spread, they wouldn’t send it if the radio didn’t work. We had to convince them not to send it if the EW equipment didn’t work.”25 Lacking proper training, aircrew continually flew with their ALQ-51 gear in standby mode. Once they detected a missile site about to engage them, they would turn it on, lessening the effect of the system.26 As the program came to fruition, the ALQ-51 began proving its worth. In 1966 the loss rate to SAMs eventually fell to one plane per fifty missiles fired, compared to one plane per ten missiles with no ALQ-51.27
The tit-for-tat game continued as each side sought to counter the other’s technological advantage and electronic warfare finally came of age. On several occasions, North Vietnamese defenses were overwhelmed by American electronic warfare. However, North Vietnamese leaders attributed each defeat to internal ideological weaknesses and mistakes, not American superiority in firepower and technology. North Vietnamese leaders knew that if they ever allowed themselves and their subordinates to blame their problems on U.S. material and technological superiority, defeatism would spread through the ranks like wildfire.28 Faith in the ultimate success of their cause became a matter of dogma, and political officers stood by, ready to reeducate any who faltered.
Aerial refueling was one of the least glamorous but extremely vital missions flown during the war. While early jets were faster than their propeller-driven counterparts, they burned fuel at higher rates and often did not have the range for longer strikes. These shortcomings were alleviated by aerial tanking. By trailing a refueling hose and drogue, a tanker could transfer thousands of pounds of fuel per minute to other aircraft. While A-4 Skyhawks were capable of performing the tanking mission using a refueling pod known as a buddy store, it meant less attack aircraft for the daily sortie requirements. The tanker mission thus fell upon the A-3 Skywarrior. Known as the Whale, it first flew in 1952 and was intended for use as the navy’s heavy bomber. The introduction of ballistic missile submarines ended its role as a nuclear bomber, and it was relegated to a tanker or conventional bomber. It was the largest aircraft operating on the carrier, which limited it to small numbers. The A-3 did fly some bombing missions over both North and South Vietnam, but the growing threat prevented practical use, and it proved more valuable as an airborne tanker. The Skywarrior not only extended the range of a strike force but also saved returning aircraft that were short on fuel. KA-3 detachments were responsible for countless “saves,” that is, saving jet aircraft critically low on fuel and unable to make it back to the ship. There are numerous instances of Whales flying into North Vietnam to help save aircraft providing cover for downed pilots or to save planes leaking fuel from battle damage. Such missions, while not routine, were all in a day’s work.
The Grumman E-1B Tracer provided airborne early warning (AEW) for the navy. A radial engine propeller aircraft introduced during the mid-1950s, the E-1B Tracer was already being replaced by Grumman’s E-2A Hawkeye when Rolling Thunder began. The Tracer soldiered on for the duration of the war while slowly being replaced on the larger aircraft carriers. As with all the newer aircraft coming on line, the Hawkeye had greater capability but was too large to operate from the 27C class carriers. Typical AEW missions provided radar coverage, including MiG warnings, as their air wings flew missions over Vietnam. Tracers operated from a standoff position over the Gulf of Tonkin, where the crew could spot North Vietnamese MiGs as they launched to intercept strikes. At the completion of its mission, the aircraft flew to Da Nang to refuel before launching on another mission. After this second mission, the Tracer recovered aboard the carrier. This arrangement provided excellent radar coverage and at the same time freed up much-needed deck space, which was always at a premium on the smaller carriers. Without the rather large E-1B on the flight deck, it was much easier to respot aircraft and position them for the next launch.
Throughout Rolling Thunder and indeed the entire air war in Vietnam, the only constant was the need for aerial reconnaissance. The ROE required that any Alpha strike target had to be photographed on the same day, immediately before the strike and immediately afterward. Regardless of restrictions, weather, or bombing halts, photographs were still required. In an era before easily accessible satellite imagery, each service had its own photo community to collect intelligence badly needed by the entire chain of command, all the way up to the president and his advisors. It was necessary to know how effective a bombing raid had been: Was the target destroyed, or would it need to be attacked again? If a bridge had been previously destroyed, had the North Vietnamese repaired it or erected a bypass? If there was a bombing halt in place, were the North Vietnamese violating the supposed agreements?
Known as Operation Blue Tree, photo reconnaissance missions were some of the most dangerous and terrifying missions of the war. The way in which targets were released piecemeal allowed the North Vietnamese to build their defenses in anticipation of the next round of bombings. If a reconnaissance aircraft passed over a bridge, it was likely to be attacked that same day, and the Vietnamese would be alerted. Conversely, once a target was bombed, the poststrike photography had to be accomplished. After the raid, North Vietnamese gunners were always in a heightened state of alert, waiting for the expected overflight. This usually occurred anywhere from five to fifteen minutes after the strike, which was enough time for dust and debris to settle and enable good pictures. It also meant that recce pilots always received a hostile reception. Officers writing the daily flight schedule in fighter squadrons often received much verbal abuse when they scheduled fellow officers for photo-escort missions. No one really wanted to trail the photo-birds, which were faster, were unarmed, had more gas, and always flew over hot areas, which the fighter escort was obliged to follow. Because of the dangerous nature of these missions, photo-pilots became some of the most decorated aviators of the war out of all the services. This glory came at a high cost, as they suffered extremely high losses. Of the eighty-seven RF-8s built, nineteen were lost in combat over North Vietnam.
At the start of the Vietnam War, neither the navy nor the air force had any real combat search and Rescue (CSAR) helicopter or capabilities. Early attempts were marred by inexperience, lack of training, and improper equipment and tactics, leaving aviators shot down over North Vietnam with little hope of recovery. Initially, the only helicopter available to the navy was the UH-2 Seasprite. While an excellent helicopter for search and rescue operations near the carrier, it did not have the lift capability, range, weaponry, or armor plating required for CSAR. By late 1965 the SH-3A Sea King began arriving and was quickly adapted for CSAR missions. With a greater range and payload, it could carry extra weaponry and armor without sacrificing any capabilities. At the same time, the first Seasprites modified for CSAR began arriving in the Tonkin Gulf. The modifications added ceramic armor and door guns and removed anything not essential to CSAR from the aircraft. Individual squadrons and their detachments literally wrote the book on CSAR procedures as they went along.29
In the summer of 1966 the navy established northern and southern search and rescue zones in the Gulf of Tonkin. The northern CSAR task force was named Clementine One; its southern counterpart was Clementine Two. A destroyer was positioned at each station to provide forward staging for helicopters. Another four similarly armed and armored Sea Kings were based aboard one of the nearby carriers as the primary rescue helicopters. During Alpha strikes, one or two CSAR helicopters orbited over the destroyers, enabling a rapid response to any downed airman.
Though these changes made an immediate impact, the navy still relied on the air force for many of the most difficult overland rescue attempts. It became apparent that a dedicated CSAR squadron was required. Despite the best efforts of the helicopter crews, the lack of training, specialized equipment, and knowledge continued to hinder operations. As squadrons rotated back to the United States, much of their hard-won experience went with them. New squadrons were then thrown into the fire with no training and nothing more than a quick turnover between select members of the squadron they relieved.30 Even the small detachments suffered the same woes. By 1966 HC-1 had detachments on ships throughout the Pacific, each conducting continuous combat operations. With operations in Vietnam continually growing, keeping track of each detachment proved insurmountable. The navy’s bureaucracy finally caught up with the realities in September 1967 when it established HC-7 as the primary CSAR squadron for operations in the Tonkin Gulf. Though established late in Rolling Thunder, HC-7 continued with its CSAR mission through the end of the war. By the end of America’s involvement in Southeast Asia, the squadron had successfully recovered 150 aviators from the Tonkin Gulf and North Vietnam.31
As the ground war in South Vietnam expanded rapidly, it became the main focus of American efforts. While the Seventh Fleet supported the ground war with countless sorties, these efforts often took a backseat to Rolling Thunder. This mismatch of priorities stemmed directly from the complicated command relationships and interservice rivalry as each service sought to gain control of air assets. As bad as the command-and-control structure was for the air war over North Vietnam, it was even worse over South Vietnam. Each service had its own aircraft, and attempts by any service to control the others, no matter how well intended, led to even more parochialism.
During the early stages of Rolling Thunder, carriers began each line period on Dixie Station, where they flew close air support (CAS) missions in support of the expanding American ground forces. These “in-country” missions were considered a warmup prior to arrival on Yankee Station. Flying missions over South Vietnam allowed aviators and ship’s personnel to reach certain levels of proficiency in a relatively benign environment prior to flying up north. As a result, these missions could be uncoordinated and ungainly, as everyone learned. While local air assets knew the lay of the land and could coordinate their efforts, this was simply not the case for a carrier that spent one week maximum on Dixie Station prior to departing. Their priority was to gain levels of proficiency that would enable them to survive in the skies of North Vietnam.
Not only were the navy’s CAS missions a method for on-the-job training, they were also secondary to the all-important numbers game. While flying from Dixie Station, every aircraft that could carry ordnance flew CAS missions. This allowed a carrier to maximize its sorties. In order to launch the maximum number of flights, the carrier’s hour and a half cycle times took precedence over the target, let alone the actual results of those sorties. If a flight launched and could not make it to the target and back within its scheduled time, it would be ordered to drop its ordnance in the sea and make its scheduled landing time. Even worse, to maintain high sortie counts during the bomb shortage, carriers often launched four plane flights with one bomb each—four sorties and four bombs, when one sortie could have carried all four bombs.32 For the most part, however, aircraft were able to contact their airborne controller, known as “Hillsboro” or “Cricket,” and be handed over to any available forward air control (FAC) aircraft to direct their bombing. The FAC then passed a preliminary bomb damage assessment (BDA), usually given in percentage of the target covered or number of structures damaged or destroyed. When ground commanders began to use body counts as a measure of success, killed by air (KBA) counts became yet another metric used to calculate success.
Separate from Rolling Thunder missions, additional sorties were flown in support of Operations Barrel Roll and Steel Tiger, the covert bombing of Laos. These missions were flown as frequently as Alpha strikes and involved similar amounts of planning and support. Because of their covert nature, both operations had their own ROE. These included a special circuitous route of flight, requiring pilots to fly over South Vietnam prior to entering Laos instead of a direct flight over North Vietnam. The biggest impact of these operations and their requisite missions was that they never allowed the aircraft carriers and carrier air wings a chance to stand down. While the North Vietnamese used each bombing halt to their advantage, flight operations continued over Laos in a threat environment containing large quantities of AAA. The pace of operations thus continued to take its toll in men, planes, parts, and other assets while North Vietnam rested and rearmed in preparation for the resumption of Rolling Thunder.
The navy pilots who flew and fought during Rolling Thunder were part of a distinct fraternity that consisted of older and highly educated volunteer officers. This differed dramatically from the experience of the American ground forces, whose frontline combat units consisted mainly of conscripts with no professional commitments to the military. As volunteers, these naval officers were often more patriotic and promilitary than soldiers drafted into service against their will.33 Once in the navy, these pilots quickly adopted a careerist attitude toward the war, in that they had a vested interest in the institutional success of naval aviation, regardless of the politics of the war. Many believed it their professional obligation to fight the war to the best of their abilities while working hard to enhance the reputation of naval aviation. The ultimate litmus test for these men, therefore, was to fly in combat. Most of them had flown and trained too long and hard, enduring constant danger, to simply give up and not go to war. For a naval aviator, not flying in combat was tantamount to failure.34
After a 1967 carrier visit, famed author Tom Wolfe described this mindset in his portrayal of naval aviators flying over North Vietnam for Esquire:
The idea is to put your hide on the line and then to have the moxie, the reflexes, and the experience, the coolness to pull it back in the last yawning moment—and then be able to go out again the next day and the next day and every next day and do it all over again—and, in its best expression, to be able to do it in some higher calling in some action that means something to thousands, to a nation. At the Apex in military flying has always been the business of flying fighter planes in combat.35
The key ethos developed by Wolfe eventually became known as the “right stuff” and the basis for his book and subsequent movie bearing the same title. As Wolfe noted, naval aviators of the era embodied the right stuff. They were cocky, aggressive, and proud. Many lived by the adage that they “would rather die than look bad.”36 While this devil-may-care, “kick-the-tires-and-light-the fires” attitude may seem egotistical, it was a mentality that belied a sense of invulnerability. It allowed pilots to continue flying in the high-threat environment they faced day after day. Leading this group of highly competitive, type A personalities required someone of the same ilk but who had reached “the Apex,” as Wolfe described it.
As Rolling Thunder evolved and North Vietnam’s defenses matured, human motivation became more and more important. Quality leadership quickly became the most important factor affecting an aviator’s chances of survival. Because the air war over North Vietnam tended to illuminate the difference between the courageous and the timid, this leadership was not dependent on rank but rather on fighting spirit and combat experience. While every pilot had the basic skills, not everyone was up to the task of flying and leading missions “over the beach” into Hanoi and Haiphong. How leaders motivated these professionals and volunteers to fly and face these defenses day in and day out, sometimes two or three times a day, is of paramount importance. A pilot’s experience in Vietnam was different from the ground war in that it was fought alone in the cockpit of each aircraft, and as one pilot recalled, “Everyone knew that the moment he went feet dry, he was over a death pit that would lash out with flak, missiles and MiGs, the sole purpose of which was trying to kill you.”37 Every man had to continually muster the strength and courage to face the enemy on his own.
The stress of combat and frequent cruises took an immeasurable toll on the officers and enlisted personnel of the Pacific Fleet. Prior to the war, both the navy and air force produced just enough pilots to fly the aircraft in their inventory, but once combat began in earnest, both services were hard-pressed to train pilots to fill cockpits as squadrons rotated in and out of Southeast Asia. By 1966 the navy faced severe personnel problems, especially with pilots and aircrews. The navy did not limit the number of combat missions an aviator could fly over North Vietnam. Since a typical tour of duty in a squadron aboard the carrier could last three years, it was normal to make two or three cruises to the Tonkin Gulf during that time.38 Depending on the operational tempo, naval aviators could fly well in excess of one hundred missions during a single deployment, and they could still reasonably expect to be sent back during follow-on assignments. Of course, the air force policy caused its own set of problems. The air force directed pilots to fly one hundred missions over North Vietnam before a tour of duty ended. It also required that no one would serve twice until everyone had served once. As a result, many who had never flown a tactical aircraft or even knew the tactical mission, including many who had not flown for years, were suddenly rushed through several months of refresher training and sent to Southeast Asia. Quite often, on account of their rank, these men found themselves in combat leadership roles for which they were vastly unqualified. By the fall of 1966 it was not unusual for a naval aviator to fly two missions over North Vietnam in a twelve-hour period. On average, naval aviators flew sixteen to twenty-two combat missions per month, with some pilots going as high as twenty-eight.39 In 1967 the situation became so serious that the navy implemented a policy that aviators could have only two combat cruises in fourteen months. While this improved the situation somewhat, it still meant that in fourteen months a naval aviator would deploy to Vietnam twice, fly nearly two hundred missions over North Vietnam, and then be called upon to repeat the same hectic pace again during follow-up tours of duty.40
In an attempt to increase the number of carrier-qualified pilots, the navy instituted programs to speed replacement aviators through training. Slots in carrier aviation were opened up to “must pumps”—pilots identified as having the potential to meet accelerated training requirements. These men were pumped through training as fast as possible to be available as attrition replacements. Those not needed immediately were held as ready replacements and kept 100 percent ready, including carrier landing qualifications. Usually, it was not a long wait. Must pumps were usually held at the Replacement Air Group (RAG) as instructors until needed. There was always a group of senior officers who had been selected to command squadrons waiting in the must pump line, as squadron leadership suffered extremely high attrition rates during Rolling Thunder.41
Though the navy did try to train more pilots, the high standards necessary for carrier aviation made it difficult to increase the number of pilots quickly. No matter how badly the navy needed new aviators, each pilot had to be able to land aboard the ship. A pilot was not considered fully qualified until he had performed the requisite number of landings. Maintaining the qualification required a pilot to have made a landing within a certain time period, usually a week; if he did not make a landing, the qualification would expire. Frankly, no matter how good the aviator was, if he couldn’t land his airplane on the same ship he’d launched from, he did the navy no good. Because of the extra training required for an aviator to land on a carrier, the navy’s training system was slow to respond to the urgent need for replacements.42
Because of their continued exposure to combat in the skies over North Vietnam, naval aviators who did survive became highly experienced. Regrettably, pilots with little experience and some men who had transitioned to jets after having flown helicopters or multiengine propeller aircraft quickly became cannon fodder in the heavily defended skies over North Vietnam.43 Pilots who did survive the high loss rate were forced to fly even more combat sorties as the supply of new aviators diminished. The result was that the same cadre of pilots flew the missions over North Vietnam—and bore the brunt of the losses. This combination of extensive combat losses with little hope of relief and the war’s increasing unpopularity quickly began to cause morale problems within naval aviation.
The stress dominated daily life, even if men would never admit it. Lt. Frank Elkins, an attack pilot in VA-164, one of the two Skyhawk squadrons aboard Oriskany, described this issue throughout his journal, which he faithfully kept until his death. By the midpoint of its 1966 deployment, his squadron had already lost four of its nineteen pilots. Elkins described searching for courage as he prepared to launch for yet another nighttime armed-reconnaissance mission:
During the brief in Air Intelligence you know you’re going and you listen carefully. Then back in the ready room, you begin to dread it and you go on briefing though, even though you’re beginning to look for a way out, to hope that you’re really not going out, that the spare will be launched in your place, that you’ll be late starting, that you’ll have no radio, or a bad ALQ, or something—anything—that’ll give you a decent, honorable out of that particular night hop. After the brief, waiting to suit up and man aircraft, you really dread it most then. A cup of coffee and another nervous call to the head, and you’re told to man your aircraft for the 03:00 launch.
Up on the flight deck, you start looking for something wrong; you go all the way around the aircraft, looking for that little gem that’ll be reason enough to your conscience and your comrades to refuse to go out. And it doesn’t come. You never give up though, first the damned radio works, and the damned ALQ works, and the damned Tacan [Tactical Airways Navigation, a navigation device] works.44
Failures of courage did happen, though they were not unique to Vietnam, nor were they rampant.45 In order to remove himself from the fighting, a man could feign sickness for a few days or find a deficiency while performing the preflight inspection that prevented him from flying on that particular mission. To permanently remove himself from combat, all an aviator had to do was turn in his wings. Surprisingly, the men who turned in their wings were actually appreciated by pilots who continued to fly. No one wanted to go over the beach with someone whose heart wasn’t in his work. It was thought to be much better to fess up and make room for somebody with “tiger blood” in his veins.46
How, then, did senior leaders motivate men to continue flying? In such an environment, air wing and squadron leadership struggled as well. These men felt the same emotions as their junior pilots but had to maintain the facade of the gung-ho aviator. Squadron commanders and flight leaders had to fly every rugged mission lest they be found wanting. Great leaders flew these missions and motivated the junior pilots, making them feel as if they too could fly, fight, and survive. These leaders developed a reputation among the junior officers for teaching their wingmen the skills necessary to survive, taking care of them in dangerous situations, and getting the job done. These leaders were making tough decisions under extremely trying circumstances when there was often no real solution to the issues they faced. As Rolling Thunder continued, senior officers found themselves at the vanguard, leading tougher and more costly missions with their junior pilots.47 Because of this, these officers suffered high casualties throughout the air war. Flying over North Vietnam was dangerous enough, but being a senior officer was downright deadly.
The numbers reveal the real story. Nearly sixty air wing commanders, squadron commanders, and executive officers were lost during Rolling Thunder.48 These men led from the front and paid the ultimate price. Those who weren’t killed continued to lead men while imprisoned by the North Vietnamese. All told, Oriskany lost nine of these men, either killed, wounded, or as prisoners of war (POWs), during Rolling Thunder.
Their sense of professionalism drove most men, but the quality of leadership was often the decisive factor that motivated aviators during difficult times. There was no question about senior leaders treating junior officers as equals. They were not. Senior leaders were experienced tactical carrier aviators, and the junior officers were neophytes in the air war. But these junior aviators were going to be wingmen for the senior leaders during an extremely dangerous combat tour, and the senior officers wanted to be certain junior pilots had all the information necessary to be the best wingmen possible. Whether or not their skills and courage would rise to the task remained to be seen, but they would not lack tactical knowledge. If the information helped junior pilots to survive, that was simply a dividend.49