As 1966 began, false hopes for peace with Hanoi drove officials in Washington to continue the hard-line pause through January. In 1965 American bombing severely disrupted the North Vietnamese economy, costing incalculable lives, yet the North Vietnamese had no desire to discuss peace. When air operations finally began again on 31 January, they increased only to the extent that weather allowed. Unfortunately, pilots faced even more restrictions than had been imposed in 1965. No strikes were authorized in the restricted areas. Armed reconnaissance missions were only allowed south of the 21st parallel, and no Iron Hand missions were allowed to counter the increasing number of SAMs. Instead of expanding the air campaign, the JCS viewed these restrictions as a step backward that took another two months to reverse. In the interim, they argued unsuccessfully for authorization to strike North Vietnamese POL facilities and to close North Vietnamese ports. It took months of haggling before consent was given to target POL, but the act of mining was deemed too dangerous by an administration fearful of Soviet or Chinese intervention. The expansion grew steadily as the weather improved, with sortie totals eventually expanding to almost eight thousand a month by March.
The expansion of the air war eventually caused serious problems, as the United States was ill prepared for the war in Vietnam. Despite the harsh demands of combat over the previous eleven months, the military and the American economy continued operating at a peacetime tempo. Consequently, severe shortages began hampering the war effort. Because President Johnson did not want to jeopardize his Great Society programs, he resisted mobilizing the American economy for war, despite advice to the contrary. This resulted in runaway inflation, which took years to eventually overcome.
Upon Oriskany’s return to the United States in December 1965, the crew immediately began preparing for its imminent return to Vietnam. The ship spent the holidays in “cold iron,” during which the boilers on a steam-powered ship are completely shut down in order to perform major maintenance. With the bombing pause still in effect, maintenance was completed and the boilers were relit as training began in earnest. The ship and air wing would have little more than five months before departing once more for Yankee Station. The training period and the 1966 cruise would be marked by severe shortages of men, equipment, and the ordnance needed to meet the daily demands of Rolling Thunder.
In particular, personnel shortages wreaked havoc as Oriskany prepared for combat. The large turnover of men placed a heavy burden on training during the short period between deployments. The navy’s Bureau of Personnel implemented a policy of keeping 50 percent of combat-experienced pilots in their squadrons, while new pilots reported earlier in the training period. These efforts improved problems in pilot training; however, the loss of highly trained sailors continued unabated. Most significantly, the loss of men in technologically advanced avionics and ordnance fields posed considerable problems. The increased sophistication of weapons systems in electronic warfare compounded the shortages, and at best the number of skilled technicians was barely sufficient to meet daily flight schedules.1 Peacetime manpower plus the need for career-enhancing moves for officers may have looked good on paper but in reality placed an undue burden on squadron leadership tasked with training their men to survive in combat. Upon arrival in the Tonkin Gulf, squadrons found the peacetime supply system unresponsive to wartime realities. Often there weren’t enough parts to fix aircraft damaged in combat. When combined with insufficient peacetime personnel levels, the potential for accidental losses greatly increased.2 Fully manned, a squadron struggled to meet daily sortie requirements, but with 80 percent and less, squadrons fought just to keep aircraft flyable. In addition to performing all the daily maintenance required to keep complex jet aircraft flying, sailors needed to fix scores of aircraft damaged in combat. Furthermore, whenever a squadron lost an aircraft and received a replacement, full inspections were required before that airplane could fly, adding to the workload. When coupled with the pressure to fly all sorties allocated, it is not difficult to imagine the pressure induced and the potential for mishap due to these shortages.
That American carriers were at the end of a long supply chain further compounded the situation, as losses far exceeded prewar estimates. By mid-1966 the loss rate for the A-4 Skyhawk was catching up with the navy’s planned procurement rate and budget. At the time, Skyhawk losses averaged six per month. Peacetime Department of Defense procurement contracts provided for only ten Skyhawks a month to both the navy and the Marine Corps in both the Atlantic and Pacific fleets.3 Depleting stateside and Atlantic fleet commands of their aircraft provided short-term relief. This process often included aircrew, equipment, and even ordnance until production rates increased. Long-term relief only came about as aircraft like the Skyhawk and Crusader were phased out by newer and more capable aircraft such as the A-6 Intruder, A-7 Corsair, and F-4 Phantom.
Shortages even affected the supply of uniforms. The lack of camouflaged flight suits continued to pose problems. Aviators could buy custom-made fatigues or attempt to dye their orange flight suits a less conspicuous color. Even sailors lacked the basic equipment required to work on the flight deck. In some cases, squadrons sent their sailors’ boots to cobblers, as there were no replacements available when the soles were worn through by the nonskid coating of the flight deck.4
Perhaps the best-known shortage to beset Rolling Thunder was an insufficient amount of ordnance. The massive amounts of bombs being dropped on Laos, South Vietnam, and North Vietnam created a shortage by early 1966. Production of conventional “iron bombs” had virtually ceased as the military concentrated on nuclear weapons and more advanced ordnance such as the AGM-12 Bullpup, AGM-45 Shrike, and AGM-62 Walleye. Stockpiles of modern ordnance vanished, while surplus supplies of World War II and Korean era bombs dwindled. Military commanders in South Vietnam reported that the ordnance shortfall created an “emergency situation” that forced them to cancel planned strike sorties. By mid-1966 there were inadequate inventories of thirteen different types of ordnance. In April 1966 newspapers across the United States began reporting that the Pentagon had repurchased, for $21.00 apiece, 5,570 bombs that had been sold to West Germany for scrap at $1.70 each. Later the Defense Department admitted that in order to supply the war in Vietnam, the United States had repurchased eighteen thousand bombs sold to various nations. Throughout this period, Secretary McNamara denied the shortage. At one point, McNamara responded to media questions: “All this baloney about lack of bomb production is completely misleading.”5
In an effort to solve the ordnance shortage, the Johnson administration offered two solutions. President Johnson assigned “the highest national priority” to several types of munitions, including 250-pound, 500-pound, and 750-pound bombs, while Secretary McNamara ordered Adm. U. S. Grant Sharp to make tentative sortie allocations for the remainder of 1966. Each service was given ordnance-loading limits for planned sorties. The JCS consistently argued for full loading of aircraft to ensure some degree of success during strike missions. McNamara asserted that large ordnance loads were not warranted simply because aircraft could carry them.6 The pressure to maintain sortie rates with insufficient amounts of ordnance caused considerable concern among the men who were expected to risk their lives carrying less than optimal bomb loads. The shortage of bombs resulted in aircraft being sent on missions to high-risk areas with one or two bombs instead of their full load. In the interim, shortfalls were met by using surplus ordnance left over from World War II. Using twenty-plus-year-old ammunition posed serious hazards and further exposed men to unnecessary risk.7 Not only was the ordnance unstable, leading to such tragedies as the fire on USS Forrestal (CVA-59), but large percentages of these bombs were duds. As a result, aviators were lost while bombing the same target time and again, often with dubious effects. Even today, the mere mention of the bomb shortage among veterans evokes a strong reaction. It serves as a stark reminder of just how badly mismanaged Rolling Thunder actually was.
While politicians and military leadership bickered over Rolling Thunder, Oriskany’s men continued to prepare for her return to Vietnam. The turnover of personnel continued, including the ship’s captain. On March 11 Capt. John H. Iarrobino relieved Capt. Bart Connolly III as the commanding officer. Iarrobino had unique family ties to the ship, as his older brother Charles Iarrobino commanded her four years earlier.8 It would be a fast-paced learning period for the new captain, with little room for error as he prepared himself and his ship for combat. On 26 May, a little over five months after returning home, Oriskany got under way for her second deployment to Vietnam. After a brief transit to the Hawaiian Islands, Oriskany conducted a three-day operational readiness inspection (ORI) to certify the crew’s preparedness for combat. Aviators wryly noted the standard grades given at the conclusion of the inspection, meaning that they would continue with their deployment to Vietnam—as if there was any other choice. The need for carriers meant they would have sailed for Vietnam regardless. While in Hawaii, senior leadership within the air wing received briefings from Sharp’s staff, updating them on the status of Rolling Thunder. All were disappointed, as the heavy-handed restrictions continued unabated, although many of the restrictions imposed earlier in the year had been lifted by this time. It seemed little had changed since Oriskany’s departure at the end of November.
One significant change, however, was to the route package system. In 1965 the air force and the navy struggled to conduct joint operations, competing for resources and targets. In December the RTCC attempted to organize the confusing command-and-control structure to alleviate the problems. They split North Vietnam into six distinct areas, which became known as Route Packages I–VI. The term “Route Package” was quickly shortened to RP, or simply “Pack.” In April 1966 Admiral Sharp ordered further changes, with Route Package VI being divided into two sections. Now responsibility for strikes in each area was permanently assigned to Task Force 77 or Seventh Air Force. The air force assumed Route Packages I, V, and VIA, while the navy took II, III, IV, and VIB. Because RPs VIA and VIB contained targets in Hanoi and Haiphong, respectively, they were the most heavily defended. The lines, drawn so precisely at CINCPAC, worked only for planning purposes. In reality, during missions, both air force and navy crews crossed them at will. No matter how much better or well intentioned the new system was, the route package concept was indicative of the central failure of Rolling Thunder: the lack of one person directing the air war. As a result, interservice rivalry worsened, with both services bickering over sorties flown, bombs dropped, and which RP was tougher. At times it seemed the common goal was not fighting alongside fellow countrymen in order to defeat a common foe but rather outperforming the other service. It led to a disunity of effort that took on almost mythical proportions as the war grew.9
Oriskany arrived on Dixie Station on 30 June, thirty-seven days after departing San Diego and, more importantly, just seven months after leaving Vietnam in 1965. In 1966 carriers began each line period on Dixie Station prior to moving north. Accordingly, air wing pilots spent their first eight days focused on in-country missions. For veterans of 1965, the war was already old hat. For newcomers, it proved to be a case of on-the-job training. Under the navy’s efforts to rotate aviators, Lt. Cdr. Dick Schaffert transferred from an East Coast Crusader squadron and joined the Sundowners in early 1966. Although the Nebraska native was an experienced aviator, Schaffert was considered a new guy because he had not yet experienced combat. Schaffert explained this baptism by fire and these early operations from Dixie Station: “My first mission on 30 June was napalm, and that was the first time in my then 2,928 flight hours as a Navy Fighter Pilot I had carried any real live air-to-ground ordnance other than 20-mm. I was a Lt Cdr flight leader and one of the most experienced in VF-111, but I knew I was not properly trained for what I was about to do.”10
This lack of experience often resulted in colorful moments as air wings commenced operations. Schaffert continued:
There was no meaningful coordination between our air wing and the locals during our Dixie ops. When I dared to later ask someone who would know about that, the answer was that Dixie was meant to be a training exercise for our ordnance loading crews. Heaven knows, we needed that. I diverted into Bien Hoa with hung napalm. There I discovered that the safety pins in the wing pylon that were supposed to be pulled on the catapult were still in.
On one of the first missions south of Saigon in the maze of canals and rivers that was the Mekong, Childplay [Oriskany’s radio call sign] Strike handed off my flight of four F-8Es with a total of eight napalms to an airborne FAC. The haze was bad below 10,000 ft. and it took about ten minutes to find him. When we finally had a tally-ho, we descended into the haze and he led us toward a target described as a small peninsula covered with heavy vegetation.
There were several such “small peninsulas” jutting out into a wide river and I requested some smoke to better mark the target. The FAC advised he’d rather not do that because his chances of survival depended on the VC believing he hadn’t seen them. When I asked where the friendlies were, he said our radio channel was not secure and he couldn’t disclose their position. I asked if we could make a low pass over the peninsula I had in mind, to double check if I had the right one. Again, the FAC said that was not a good idea—the VC he was after would scatter and those that didn’t would be ready to shoot at us.
To me, that was a whole lot of negatives, and very few positives. But we set our switches to deliver the requested one napalm each, lined up our run from west to east, fanned out into a finger-four formation, and earned our flight pay. Jinking and looking back, the napalm looked even more horrible than John Wayne’s. Then, I was shocked and horrified to hear the FAC say, “Nice drop, Old Nick, now let’s try the next peninsula to the north.” Had I just dropped on the wrong target? I didn’t ask. I really didn’t want to know. We lined it up again and delivered our remaining napalm.
The visibility was three miles or less and we dropped the napalm somewhere below 500 feet. As we pulled off the target, we were suddenly in the midst of many helicopters. Four Crusaders at 400 knots amongst at least ten helicopters! We didn’t have a mid-air only because God was protecting fools, drunks, and pilots (both fighter and helicopter types). From the radio conversation that followed, it was obvious FAC didn’t know those guys were going to be in the area. He was as surprised, and paralyzed, as we were.11
Lt. Freeman Marcy, also a Crusader pilot in VF-111, had similar recollections of these early missions: “The other planes in these flights also dropped a lot of duds. The bombs we were dropping were surplus World War Two and obviously the fuzes were bad. This was particularly disgusting because to drop we came in right over the tree tops, down into small arms fire, where a 25 dollar rifle could bring down a million dollar airplane and fully trained pilot.”12
On 8 July USS Intrepid (CVA-11) relieved Oriskany on Dixie Station; Oriskany then proceeded north to relieve USS Hancock (CVA-19). As she steamed north, an event happened that sent shockwaves throughout the tight-knit air wing. Cdr. Al Williams, the new Sundowner executive officer, turned in his wings. Lt. Cdr. Bob Pearl was one of those closest to the event and described the effect on VF-111:
Our executive officer was a fine aviator. We had just been through an ORI in Hawaii and VF-111 got very high marks in a large part due to his flying and gunnery skills. Subsequently, O-boat was sent to Dixie Station for about 4 days to cut our teeth in combat after we arrived in the Gulf of Tonkin. . . . Then we headed north. That afternoon in my stateroom I got a call from my skipper, Cdr Cook, asking if I would be willing to be his XO. I was stunned to say the least but of course agreed and asked him what had happened. Turns out we had a quick all officers meeting (AOM) in the ready room shortly thereafter where the XO explained that he was turning in his wings and why.
He knew, I’m sure better than anyone, the timing was critical and that we had a full ready room of junior officers that needed his leadership. Turns out that it was his feeling that “leadership in combat” was the one thing he didn’t feel he could provide because of a fixation he had developed (head in the cockpit) from a previous aircraft incident earlier in his career. [Williams had ejected from an F-8A, and memories of the accident caused him to focus on his instruments instead of looking outside the cockpit, a deadly habit in combat.] He had once tried to give up his wings in the RAG but had been convinced not to. One can argue that it took a huge individual to make that decision at that critical juncture. Others will have different views. One thing I can say is that we had a magnificent bunch of officers in VF-111. They took it in stride and performed extremely well in combat in spite of the leadership void. To this day they are all very close. I stepped up as XO for a short period until Cdr Rasmussen arrived from the states then I reverted to Maintenance Officer.13
Williams was transferred immediately. Unfortunately, as he was being flown off the ship in a transport aircraft, his seat came unbolted, and he was severely injured during the catapult shot. The aircraft turned around and landed back aboard Oriskany, where he spent several hours in surgery. In the years since, many variations of the story have circulated. Most accounts are unfounded and miss the true lesson—that it indeed took tremendous amounts of fortitude to make such a decision. As the events of 1967 eventually proved, having sound leadership was critical to survival. Even though Williams’s resignation was a momentary setback, VF-111 was well served by the turn of events. Cdr. Bob Rasmussen proved to be very capable, and his leadership helped pull the Sundowners through the dark months ahead.
As Oriskany steamed north, she joined USS Constellation (CVA-64) as Rolling Thunder 50, the campaign against North Vietnam’s POL system, reached its peak. In March the JCS proposed strikes against the entire POL system and major industrial centers in northeastern Vietnam. For the first time since Rolling Thunder’s inception, McNamara actually sided with the JCS and recommended seven of their nine proposed targets. Planning began between Seventh Air Force and Seventh Fleet for strikes against the POL system in late April 1966.14 Though the strikes were planned for late April, McNamara’s concern that only approved targets would be hit, without collateral damage to third-country shipping or civilians, delayed them. After two months of consultation and analysis, McNamara finally ordered the attacks. The order came with heavy restrictions to avoid shipping in Haiphong and to minimize civilian casualties.15
The strikes were scheduled for 23 June, but the impending raids were leaked to the media. Newspaper stories written by Wall Street Journal correspondent Philip Geyelin appeared throughout the United States, revealing that North Vietnam’s POL system was going to be struck soon and giving vital details.16 After postponing the raids for yet another week, the POL system was finally struck on 29 June 1966, more than a year after Rolling Thunder had begun. The attacks came too late, because during that time the North Vietnamese had been able to disperse their POL stocks and build up defenses around POL facilities. As expected, the POL campaign triggered intense domestic and foreign debate concerning the expansion. The Soviets and Chinese vowed to send even more aid to the Hanoi regime.
Despite the leaks, the escalation stunned the North Vietnamese and evoked a strong response. On 1 July North Vietnamese torpedo boats launched attacks against the guided missile frigate USS Coontz (DLG-8) and destroyer USS Rogers (DD-876). The attacking boats were spotted by aircraft from the Constellation, which destroyed them with help from the Hancock. On 6 July North Vietnamese officials turned to their newest propaganda weapon, American POWs. Insisting that the Americans were common criminals, the North Vietnamese paraded fifty-two POWs through the streets of Hanoi. However, instead of undermining the U.S. war effort, as was hoped, the event became a public relations nightmare. Frenzied crowds lining the streets of Hanoi almost killed several POWs, as well as their guards. The event highlighted Hanoi’s suspected mistreatment of POWs and revolted the free world. The escalation of the POL campaign in July resulted in the largest number of SAMs fired to date, as well as a dramatic increase in MiG activity by the VPAF. Because of the increased activity by both sides, July became the deadliest month yet for American airmen, with forty-three aircraft lost.
On 8 July McNamara and several aides arrived in Honolulu to attend a conference with military commanders. The report given by Admiral Sharp was sobering. Despite significant efforts and tremendous casualties on both sides, Hanoi was not willing to negotiate and had actually increased its level of support in South Vietnam. Despite recommendations for more troops and increased sorties, McNamara balked. He acquiesced to a partial increase in sorties, and the next day Rolling Thunder 50 became Rolling Thunder 51. Several bridges were added to the target list, though POL continued to be the primary focus. Admiral Sharp also asked for permission to strike airfields to deal with the growing MiG threat, a request that was denied. More importantly, armed reconnaissance was now permitted throughout North Vietnam except for the restricted areas around Hanoi and Haiphong and the buffer zone along the Chinese border. This expansion of the air war had grave consequences for Oriskany and her aviators. Under Rolling Thunder 51, the number of sorties flown over North Vietnam increased to ten thousand per month, 2.5 times the number of sorties flown during the same period a year prior. At the same time, the North Vietnamese defenses grew daily: Hanoi’s antiaircraft gun inventory had risen from about 849 to 4,200, or an average of about 205 guns per month.17 The dramatic increase in sorties, coupled with good weather and the mounting North Vietnamese defenses, meant that Air Wing 16 was walking into the proverbial hornets’ nest.
It did not take long for Oriskany to get stung. On 12 July the ship launched her third Alpha strike in as many days—a strike against the Dong Nam fuel storage area 20 miles northeast of Haiphong. A-4s from both VA-163 and VA-164 bombed two large POL tanks with good results, while an Iron Hand flight destroyed a SAM site in the vicinity.
During the strike, the air wing suffered its first loss of 1966. After being shot down and rescued the previous October, Lt. (junior grade) Rick Adams became something of a lucky charm among the pilots of VF-162 due to the tale of his coolness under fire. Adams was flying the TARCAP when multiple SAMs forced the entire strike to evade, losing precious altitude in the process. Eventually, his flight ended up low enough that Adams took hits in his tailpipe, which quickly caught fire.
Once again Adams turned his burning Crusader for the safety of the gulf. He cleared one ridge line before the plane began an uncontrollable death roll to the right. Adams’s wingman on this flight was Lt. Cdr. Butch Verich, who called for Adams to eject. A terse exchange followed, with Adams finally commenting, cool as ice, “Sorry about that. See you next year!” before he ejected.18 He had really meant to say, “See you in ten years.” Adams landed in rugged jungle near a village less than 20 miles from Hanoi and the plethora of defenses surrounding the city. Any rescue attempt was certain to be hotly contested.
Fortunately, Verich followed Adams’s chute and marked his location, thus giving the CSAR forces the information they needed to attempt a rescue so far inland.19 A flight of four VA-152 Skyraiders orbited nearby as the RESCAP, and Cdr. Gordon Smith, VA-152’s commanding officer, left two Skyraiders with the rescue helicopter while he and his wingman flew ahead to begin the rescue. Verich and Lt. Dick Wyman talked the Skyraiders onto Adams’s location. Smith took control of the rescue and called for the CSAR helicopter, a Sea King from HS-6.
Lt. Cdr. Eric Schade and his wingman, Lt. Jack Feldhaus, escorted the helicopter toward Adams, making repeated runs on several gun positions in order to draw fire away from the helicopter. Despite hits to Schade’s Skyraider, they suppressed AAA long enough for Lt. Bill Waechter’s Sea King to reach the surreal scene: Adams’s bright parachute draped atop the jungle canopy, close to the wreckage of his F-8, which stuck out of the mountain with a smoking tailpipe. The jungle foliage was dense enough that the wreckage never actually reached the ground. While the helicopter hovered overhead its crew lowered a jungle penetrator (essentially a heavy weight with folding seats capable of being lowered through the dense jungle foliage) and pulled Adams to safety. As Adams arrived in the cabin of the SH-3, ground fire erupted. Waechter was on his first mission over North Vietnam. “Is it always this rough?” he asked, not knowing that this was Adams’s second shootdown in less than nine months.20 Less than four hours later, Adams was back aboard the Oriskany. The rest of the strike had landed much earlier, and they all crowded around him to welcome him home. After his first shoot down, fellow squadron members, each carrying mock missiles and guns, lined up to greet him as he walked their gauntlet. Now they hollered, “No one gets shot down twice!” As the war ground on, they would be proven wrong on more than one occasion.
As the only aviator to have been shot down and rescued twice, Rick Adams gained even more notoriety. Time magazine ran an article covering his exploits in its 29 July 1966 edition. In the article, Adams mused over the events: “The carrier isn’t much, but it beats being paraded around Hanoi with a rope around your neck.”21 The navy declared that after ejecting twice, Adams could not fly over North Vietnam anymore. He was transferred back to the United States, where he became a member of the navy’s aerial demonstration team, the Blue Angels.
In an attempt to counter the increased VPAF MiG activity during July, the navy took steps to improve radar coverage of the airspace over North Vietnam. Its goal was to provide timely intelligence and warning of airborne threats to American aircraft. The navy had taken small steps toward this goal in April 1965, deploying destroyers far into the northern limits of the gulf. In July 1966 CTF-77 established a Positive Identification Radar Advisory Zone (PIRAZ) that covered eastern North Vietnam and the gulf. Typically a guided missile frigate or cruiser, the PIRAZ ship—immortalized by its call sign, Red Crown—used its advanced air surveillance radar and communication gear to track and identify all aircraft within the zone. Red Crown monitored incoming and outgoing strikes to warn them of airborne MiGs and vectored aircraft that were low on fuel to nearby airborne tankers. The creation of the PIRAZ, coupled with the air force’s deployment of EC-121 “College Eye” Airborne Command and Control, helped compensate for the enormous advantage enjoyed by VPAF pilots flying under their own radar control. The main PIRAZ ship, stationed only 25–30 miles from the mouth of the Red River, was supported by two destroyers, one to the north and one to the south. These became the northern and southern SAR destroyers, whose mission was not only to protect Red Crown but to act as a staging base for CSAR operations.
As part of Rolling Thunder 51, the bridge at Co Trai, the Uong Bi thermal power plant, and the Hanoi-to-Haiphong highway were authorized as new targets. They were well inside the restricted areas and only struck when authorized. As one of the main river crossings south of Hanoi, the Co Trai bridge was heavily defended. On 13 July it was attacked for the second time in two days. During this second strike, F-4 Phantoms from Constellation managed to shoot down a 923rd FR MiG-17.
The next day it would be Oriskany’s turn to tangle with MiGs; however, the outcome would not be as fortuitous. Cdr. Dick Bellinger, the Hunters’ (VF-162) boisterous commanding officer, attempted new escort tactics that backfired badly and resulted in him being shot down by MiGs in the vicinity of Co Trai. Bellinger and the other pilots of CVW-16 noticed a pattern to the defenses during Rolling Thunder 50 and 51. MiGs repeatedly intercepted the last Alpha strike of the day, using GCI and the poor visibility normally encountered in the later afternoon to their advantage.22
On 14 July Cdr. Wynn Foster led the last Alpha strike of the day, a strike against the Red River storage facilities at Nam Dinh. Simultaneous with Oriskany’s strike, Air Wing 14 from USS Ranger (CVA-61) attacked the Phu Ly bridges that had been missed but damaged by Air Wing 16 four days earlier. Foster coordinated with Cdr. Fred Palmer, Air Wing 14’s CAG, to ensure that both strike groups launched at the same time. CVW-14 would enter and exit their Phu Ly targets on a north-to-south heading, while CVW-16 proceeded feet-dry 40 miles farther up the coast and track toward Hanoi. It was hoped that the simultaneous approaches would appear on North Vietnamese radar scopes as a massive two-pronged strike on Hanoi and elicit a response from North Vietnamese MiGs.23 Bellinger took the idea a step further and developed a plan to deploy a flight of F-8s ahead of the afternoon Alpha strike. He reasoned that North Vietnamese GCI controllers would vector MiGs against the F-8s, believing them to be an unescorted flight of bombers.
VF-162 launched four Crusaders on 14 July to serve as the deceptive MiG CAP. Bellinger launched with Lt. Cdr. Chuck Tinker and Lt. Dick Wyman. The fourth aircraft returned to Oriskany due to damage sustained during the catapult launch. The Alpha strike followed three minutes behind Bellinger’s flight and remained at 20,000 feet to make the impression that Hanoi could indeed be the target.
As the Alpha strike went feet-dry, it turned south toward Nam Dinh, and Bellinger’s flight continued westward to simulate a strike on the Co Trai bridge. The North Vietnamese took the bait. The three Crusaders were at 3,000 feet over broken cloud layers when they heard a MiG warning from the air wing’s E-1B Tracer. Shortly after, Wyman, on Bellinger’s left wing, sighted two 923rd FR MiGs below, the MiGs passing aft of the flight going from right to left. Wyman called out the MiGs, and the fight was on.
Both Wyman and Bellinger immediately lit their afterburners to accelerate and then broke left and down, trying to spot the MiGs. Upon hearing Wyman’s call, Tinker jerked his head to look around and unintentionally disconnected the cord connecting his radio to his helmet. Unable to hear the ensuing radio calls, Tinker was out of position for a left turn. He broke right, intending to reverse and join back up with Wyman and Bellinger.
VF-162’s engagement was off to a bad start, and so was the rest of the strike. After going feet-dry, the strike package flew inland for 10 miles before turning south toward Nam Dinh and beginning a rapid descent from 20,000 feet. As Oriskany’s strike approached the target, Foster looked down and was appalled to see four Skyhawks from Ranger fly directly over Nam Dinh at roof-top level. The Ranger’s Skyhawks were 30 degrees and 10 miles off course as they raced back to Ranger following their own strike. According to Foster, “So much for surprise. The Nam Dinh gunners were wide awake for our arrival, and all prior speculation about a possible North Vietnamese ammunition shortage was dispelled a few seconds later.”24
As Foster and his strike dodged AAA over Nam Dinh, the odds continued against VF-162. Bellinger and Wyman searched frantically for the MiGs and nearly collided with them. According to Wyman, “I dove down through the clouds expecting the MiGs to be going in the direction I initially saw them. Radar must have been turning them as we dove. I was looking to the left and almost ran into the first MiG.”25
While separated, Tinker saw a MiG-17 streak by, its guns firing. The MiG broke away without hitting any Crusaders and was not seen again. Tinker then spotted a second MiG coming up through clouds to his right, its pilot attempting to maneuver into a position behind Wyman. As this was happening, both Wyman and Bellinger engaged a third MiG-17. Wyman pulled lead on the MiG, attempting a shot with the Crusader’s 20 mm cannons. Wyman was about to shoot when Tinker flew through the engagement, passing in front of his MiG. The MiG pilot also spotted Tinker, reversed his turn, and commenced tracking him. Unable to hear his radio, Tinker now had a MiG-17 behind him, with both Wyman and Bellinger behind the MiG, screaming alerts at Tinker. All four aircraft were in a tight left turn when another MiG joined the fight.
Now there were five aircraft doing level turns between a layer of clouds and the ground. Wyman eventually squeezed off some shots at one of the MiGs, but he only had one working cannon—the rest had jammed under the heavy Gs. Noting that his hits in the wing had no effect, Wyman then fired a Sidewinder. Because Wyman fired outside the effective envelope of the missile, it missed. Bellinger then pulled into position to attempt a shot on Wyman’s MiG. As he pulled up, the remaining MiG, piloted by Ngo Duc Mai, cut across the circle and blasted Bellinger in the right wing, tail, and lower fuselage.26
Still unable to hear any of the radio calls, Tinker saw Bellinger get hit. At the same time, he finally noticed the MiG on his tail. Tinker dove for the ground in afterburner and headed for the safety of the gulf. As the MiG broke away from Tinker, Wyman fired his second Sidewinder. The missile appeared to guide but then failed to explode as it passed behind the MiG. With no more missiles, Wyman could only watch as the two MiGs joined up and headed home. Wyman turned to find Bellinger and escort him back to Oriskany.
Foster’s strike was successful despite the lack of surprise. Every Skyhawk dropped its ordnance along the long, narrow waterfront in Nam Dinh, destroying the storage buildings with 24 tons of bombs. VA-164’s Iron Hand division had encountered no SAMs in the area and instead employed as flak suppression. In less than three minutes, the attack was over, with all of the Oriskany’s airplanes safe and headed for the gulf.
All of them but Bellinger’s. Cannon hits from the MiG-17 destroyed his hydraulic system and caused his port spoiler to stick in the full-up position. Without hydraulics, Bellinger couldn’t raise the Crusader’s wing and thus could not land onboard Oriskany. Bellinger flew toward Da Nang, trailing a stream of fuel. His fuel worries were compounded by the discovery that he couldn’t refuel from airborne tankers because the refueling probe wouldn’t extend. An initial vector given to Bellinger by Oriskany meant that he had a chance of making Da Nang. Unfortunately, they were wrong—once the heading was updated, Bellinger realized he would not make it. Just 16 miles from Da Nang, Bellinger’s fuel-starved Crusader finally quit, and he ejected. Wyman barely had enough fuel to remain overhead while he contacted the rescue forces at Da Nang. As Bellinger landed in the water, two Vietnamese junks began heading for him. Wyman made several low passes to dissuade them before an air force HH-43 Huskie helicopter from Da Nang rescued Bellinger. Bellinger was tired, wet, and mad as hell at the unexpected turn of events. In typical fighter pilot fashion, both Wyman and Bellinger spent the night drinking at the Da Nang officers club before returning to Oriskany the following day.
As was his style, Bellinger remained upbeat about his narrow escape. He didn’t hold a grudge, nor did he blame others for the turn of events. Later, he chided Wynn Foster, claiming that Foster’s mission planning had been so precise that it included having the lead fighter shot down.27 During Rolling Thunder, most fighter pilots considered themselves lucky if they even saw MiGs during their tour, let alone tangle with them. Bellinger, however, vowed he would get a MiG, and by October, he would have his revenge.
By mid-July, ordnance shortages began impacting operations throughout the Gulf of Tonkin. The shortages affected not only bombs but also valuable air-to-air missiles. Oriskany suffered from a shortage of AIM-9 Sidewinders and launch rails, which meant that F-8s could only carry two Sidewinders, not four. A new version of the Sidewinder, the AIM-9D, was available, but on a limited basis. The AIM-9D had a much wider look-angle, meaning it could detect the heat of an enemy aircraft at a much greater angle, and a pilot could fire it without getting directly behind the enemy’s tail. However, due to shortages of both missiles and rails, Oriskany F-8s began flying with just one AIM-9B and one AIM-9D, if it was available. The missile shortage would eventually got so bad that by August, helicopters ferried the few available missiles from carrier to carrier, depending upon who needed them the most.28
Starting on 15 July, Typhoon Mamie began hampering air operations in the gulf. Flights over North Vietnam ceased as ships scurried out of the Category II typhoon’s path. By 19 July the weather had improved enough to resume Rolling Thunder, and it was Oriskany’s turn to revisit the Co Trai bridge. The air wing mustered a maximum effort, launching thirty-seven airplanes carrying 25 tons of ordnance. Led by CAG Bob Spruit, the crews launched and rendezvoused overhead, with Crusaders and Skyhawks refueling from airborne tankers. Once the entire strike package topped off their fuel tanks, they pressed into North Vietnam. As the strike crossed the coast, they turned toward Co Trai. However, Spruit had difficulty spotting the bridge. In the wake of the recent typhoon, scattered clouds covered the target area. The clouds, coupled with the usual haze, made it tough to spot the target. Breaking radio silence, Spruit asked if any of the pilots had acquired the target. Lt. Frank Elkins of VA-164 responded that he had the target visually and that the rest of the aircraft should follow him as he began the attack run.
As predicted, the North Vietnamese response was fierce. As Lt. Frank Elkins wrote in his diary, “For twenty-three minutes there was flak, bullets, and everything that they could throw at us. I damn near blacked myself out dodging some of that garbage. At the target, our visibility was greatly reduced by flying steel.”29 At least thirteen SAMs were launched at them. Coming off the target, Elkins looked up to his left and saw an F-8 flying home. At the same time, he noted a SAM launch in his mirror. After making a quick call noting the SAM launch over the radio, Elkins began to evade. While Elkins evaded down among the karsts, he looked up in time to watch the SAM hit Lt. Terry Denison’s F-8. The missile struck the intake of his Crusader, destroying the aircraft immediately. The strike package flew toward the gulf as Cdr. Charles A. Lindbergh “Cal” Swanson, VF-162’s executive officer and the Crusader flight lead, tried to raise Denison on the radio. It was a grim and somber Hunter ready room after the strike returned to Oriskany. The Hunters had just lost their third airplane in a week, with their first fatality. As with the losses experienced over bridges at Hai Duong and Thanh Hoa, the bridge at Co Trai began to take on a sort of mythical status.
On 23 July the air wing returned to the Dong Nam POL storage facility where Rick Adams had been shot down eleven days prior. Sixteen aircraft flew a hair-raising low-level flight through mountains and thunderstorms to destroy several large POL storage tanks. As they escaped toward the gulf secondary explosions and oily black smoke rose thousands of feet in the air. VF-111’s Lt. Cdr. Foster Teague and Lt. Freeman Marcy spotted a MiG and attempted to give chase, only to fly through a well-laid flak trap. Other than being terrified, the pair was unscathed and wisely turned for the water and safety.
Events that same morning produced one of naval aviation’s greatest legends to come out of Vietnam. Cdr. Wynn Foster’s tale is one of courage and determination under duress, along with a will to survive when the odds were decidedly against him. Foster led a pair of Skyhawks to attack POL facilities at Vinh, a known AAA hot spot that was usually to be avoided at all costs. Foster performed a very thorough brief for his new wingman, Lt. (junior grade) Tom Spitzer, who had joined the squadron a few days earlier after traveling halfway around the world to meet Oriskany. Foster and Spitzer launched at 0750 and climbed overhead the ship. Once joined, the two Skyhawks departed at 0810 and proceeded toward the coast. As the flight crossed feet-dry, the section started its descent, quickly running into barrage AAA off to their right. Foster later wrote,
I called the flak to my wingman’s attention, and told him to keep jinking. A few seconds later I heard a loud “bang” followed by a “whoosh” and I felt a stinging sensation in my right elbow. I realized I had been hit and looked down at my right arm. The arm was missing from the elbow down and half my right forearm was lying on the starboard console.”
During the first few seconds I had a hard time convincing myself that most of my right arm was missing, but when I tried to move the stick, I was convinced. I took the stick with my left hand and started to head the aircraft back out to sea. I radioed my wingman that I had been hit, then broadcast “Mayday,” giving my side number and general position. I told my wingman to keep jinking and to get clear of the area. My airspeed was dropping so I eased the nose down and tried to hold about 220 knots.30
Taking stock of his situation, Foster estimated at least a 57 mm shell had blown out most of the canopy, and his cockpit was a mess, with shrapnel, flesh, and blood splattered over the windscreen and instrument panel. Foster attempted to make a couple of radio calls to Tom Spitzer to see if he was okay, but the noise was too great.31
Bleeding profusely, Foster debated flying back to Oriskany but thought better of it. Instead, he opted to fly toward the nearest SAR destroyer, stationed roughly 30 miles from where the flight had gone feet-dry. The decision likely saved Foster’s life. As it turned out, USS Reeves (DLG-24) was the only ship north of Yankee Station with a doctor onboard. Heading for the ship, Foster descended through 2,500 feet. He had previously been flying on only 70 percent of the damaged Skyhawk’s power: “Things had been pretty confusing, and it was the first time I had looked at the RPM since getting hit. I advanced the throttle and the RPM began to build up. The engine seemed to be working properly and I climbed back to 4,000 feet.”32 He and Spitzer contacted Reeves to inform them they were approaching and that he would require immediate medical attention. Beginning to feel weak, Foster knew he would have to eject and inflate his flotation gear, which made up part of his survival equipment, before he passed out. Passing through 3,000 feet and a small undercast layer, Foster saw the ship turn and head toward him.
With shock setting in, Foster began experiencing tunnel vision. He was only 3 miles from Reeves when he reached up and pulled the ejection handle with his left hand: “The next thing I knew I was tumbling or spinning. I heard a sequence of several snaps and pops, then felt the bladders toss me out of the seat. Shortly thereafter the chute opened and I seemingly was suspended in midair. . . . I looked around. The view was beautiful—Blue Ocean, white clouds above, and the destroyer steaming below. The war seemed a million miles away.”33
Foster landed roughly half a mile from the destroyer, and the ship already had a whaleboat in the water. Bobbing back to the surface, Foster managed to disconnect himself from his parachute so that it wouldn’t drag him beneath the surface. Once the whaleboat came alongside, numerous hands reached out to pull him into the boat. Up to that point Foster had felt little pain, but the ejection combined with immersion in saltwater made the pain unbearable. A corpsman in the whaleboat gave him one injection, which he never felt:
The pain was severe, so I asked the sailor holding my head to break out the morphine Syrettes I carried in my left sleeve pocket. He said he had never given morphine so I mumbled step by step instructions. I told him to unscrew the plastic cap and throw it away, push the wire plunger all the way into the Syrette, then pull it out and throw it away.
The sailor was obviously shook because he pulled out the plunger and threw the Syrette over the side. We went through the whole thing again with the second Syrette, this time successfully, and the sailor got the morphine into my arm. I thought I was going to pass out so I told the sailor to remember to tell the doctor that I had been given morphine.34
Once onboard Reeves, Foster received initial medical treatment and was then prepped for transfer back to Oriskany. In his drug-induced haze, Foster mistakenly thought he was being transferred to Ranger and yelled at the doctor that he wanted to be returned to Oriskany, not Ranger. Injuries notwithstanding, pride in one’s ship took priority! Foster made one more request as four sailors carried his stretcher down the passageway. Foster stopped them by grabbing hold of the nearest solid object, announcing that he was not leaving without his beloved blue flight boots. The boots had been a prank from the junior officers of VA-163. While he was temporarily off Oriskany seeking medical attention for an ulcer, Foster’s junior officers had taken his flight boots and dyed them blue. Their squadron color was blue, and the good-hearted prank was in deference to his efforts in refurbishing the squadron ready room on the ship, which was now resplendent in blue. With reassurances from the doctor, Foster relaxed and was flown back to Oriskany.35
Back aboard Oriskany, tales of Wynn Foster’s saga flew throughout the air wing and other ships on the line. It also gave the aviators something else to think about. While each loss affected the men, losses in the air war typically meant that a pilot had been killed or captured and that he would not return to the ship. The nature of Foster’s wound terrified the pilots in the air wing who were unaccustomed to such events. Frank Elkins described the effects of Foster’s loss in his journal:
Falcon’s [Foster’s] accident has given everyone a different twist in their bowels, a different fear. It’s easier in some ways to see someone blown to bits instantly than to see a man lose an arm. I’ve always said it’s easier to die for an ideal than to live for it. Dying takes only a moment’s courage, while life is a battle against day-by-day eroding and grinding forces. To stand up to life and to hold to high standards sincerely is a more difficult price than an instant death. It’s easier to go out in a glorious flaming surrender to death in favor of some cause than it is to boldly, drudgingly, daily stand up to be counted on the side of that you value most.36
Foster’s loss also typified the demoralizing effect the loss of a senior officer could have on a junior pilot. Tom Spitzer had just joined the Saints (VA-163) and was on his first combat mission over North Vietnam. Though Foster was gravely wounded, one of his main concerns while he lay in Oriskany’s sick bay was the impact on Tom Spitzer: “With the squadron for only a week, Tom had had a traumatic introduction to combat as an eyewitness to his skipper’s getting shot out of the sky. I was concerned that Tom might somehow think that my getting shot down was his fault.”37
Wynn Foster remained onboard Oriskany for another week. His condition was still quite serious. The wound was left open and treated only to stop the bleeding and prepare for surgery to be performed off the ship. Both the flight surgeon, Lt. Dan Lestage, and the ship’s surgeon, Dr. Dick Donahue, had done what they could, but Foster’s condition required proper medical facilities not available onboard. Medical evacuation to the Philippines was warranted; however, it was unknown if Foster could survive the stress of the catapult shot required to get him off the ship. Oriskany was scheduled to depart Yankee Station in a week, and the doctors decided that he should remain onboard the ship until it pulled into Cubi Point in the Philippines.
There were other reasons for delaying Foster’s departure. He had taken command the previous November when Cdr. Harry Jenkins was shot down. At 0800 he was the executive officer, and by 0900 Foster found himself in command. The war ground on, and the change-of-command ceremony he and Jenkins had planned never happened. In a service steeped in ceremony and tradition, the change-of-command ceremony is a time-honored tradition. Now it was all happening again. CAG Spruit intervened on Foster’s behalf, taking his case to Capt. John Iarrobino. It was simply the right thing to do. Now Foster would remain in command for another week, and as Oriskany pulled into port there could be an official change-of-command ceremony.
On 23 July heavy weather began to hinder air operations. The next day, Tropical Storm Ora was upgraded to a typhoon as it plowed into the gulf. Attacks on POL targets continued despite the heavy thunderstorms. However, on 25 July most of the day’s sorties were canceled due to the high sea states and even poorer weather. Both Oriskany and Ranger evaded the storm, although they still launched a limited number of sorties—mainly BARCAP and the tanker support required for those missions. While the ship evaded the storm, aviators used the down time as a chance for much-needed stress relief. Attack squadron pilots were summoned to Ready Room 5 for an impromptu medical brief. The brief was, in reality, a secret opportunity for everyone to drink lemonade fortified with 190 proof medicinal alcohol. Drinking aboard U.S. Navy ships had been done away with during the Prohibition era, but senior leadership looked the other way during Vietnam. As long as things didn’t get too out of hand, drinking was seen as a chance for pilots to blow off a little steam after the tremendous stress of flying missions over North Vietnam. Most aviators never drank during days when flight operations were in progress, but if there was guaranteed down time, such as when transiting from one area to another, out came the stash. While it was not condoned, the higher-ups knew about it, and when one of the stateroom parties got a little boisterous, rules would come down from the bridge that no more than four officers were allowed to gather for the stateroom “meetings.” On this occasion, due to the weather, everyone from the CAG down to the ensigns took part in the partying.
As the weather cleared, the end of the line period loomed, yet missions continued for the next two days. Before departing the line, VA-152 took part in the dramatic rescue of a downed F-105 pilot, Capt. James Mitchell. Shot down near Dong Hoi, Mitchell would have been captured without the cover provided by the Skyraiders.38 On 28 July VA-164 lost their first Skyhawk when Ens. George McSwain disappeared during an Iron Hand mission against a SAM site at the mouth of the Song Ca River near Vinh. The flight lead detected a SAM site radiating and closed for a Shrike missile attack. McSwain saw multiple missiles launch from different sites and called, “Missiles away,” to the flight of three A-4s. He called again, “Keep it turning and hit the deck.”39 The flight managed to evade six missiles from multiple sites, but the other two pilots never saw McSwain get hit, so no rescue was attempted—he had simply vanished.
The next day, Constellation relieved Oriskany, which duly departed for a port call in Subic Bay. For the aviators, their first line period was over. Unfortunately, carrier aviation is a dangerous business, and the transit was marred by one more loss. The Ghost Riders suffered their second loss in as many days when a new replacement, Lt. (junior grade) Donovan Ewoldt was killed during a night proficiency flight. Cdr. Paul Engel wanted to give Ewoldt more flight time before they returned to combat. Engel later recalled the incident: “This was a very sad accident in my time as the skipper of VA-164. . . . Lt Cdr Yost led Ewoldt out of Cubi to accomplish the refreshment. It was reported to me that weather forced the lead to descend. Ewoldt was no doubt focused on the lead and flew into the water. The very thing that was my worry materialized!”40
On Saturday morning, 30 July, Oriskany moored at Cubi Point’s carrier pier. The crew, from the lowest seaman to the senior officers, eagerly anticipated liberty. Sailors lived in compartments that held upward of sixty men in tight, confined spaces. Bunks were stacked four high, with all the sailor’s worldly possessions stowed in lockers seemingly right out of a high school locker room. Sailors lined up to brush their teeth, shave, and even shower. Lines for eating, if sailors were given time to eat during flight operations, were even worse. Therefore, liberty ashore was very important to them. To say that the men eagerly anticipated a little female companionship and a drink away from the confines of the ship is no understatement.
Before members of VA-163 could go ashore, however, there was one last task to complete. At 1000 Cdr. Wynn Foster and Cdr. Ron Caldwell performed their change-of-command ceremony. During the ceremony, Foster received the Silver Star and a Purple Heart for his traumatic mission. He also received the Distinguished Flying Cross for leading an Alpha strike against a POL facility a few days before his life-changing flight. After the ceremony and tearful good-byes to all the members of VA-163 and Captain Iarrobino, Wynn Foster left the ship. Refusing to leave the ship via a gurney, he instead walked down the ship’s brow, albeit with the assistance of doctors Lestage and Donahue. Wynn Foster faced a long period of recuperation and therapy, fighting the navy’s bureaucracy to remain on active duty. The navy eventually approved his request, and Foster retired in 1972 as a captain.
The escalation of the air war resulted in higher attrition rates. While on the line, aviators found themselves living what has been described as “the tyranny of the present.” The past and the future did not concern them. It could not. Their concern was day-to-day survival.41 Time was measured by days spent on the line and how long it had been since the last port visit. As carriers came off Yankee Station for ports of call and periods of rest and recreation (R&R), pilots and the hardworking sailors had a chance to decompress. Favorite ports of call included Singapore, Hong Kong, and the much-beloved Subic Bay in the Philippines.
Stories abound of the indulgences to be had in the Philippine Islands, or the P.I. to those who had experienced them. Sailors especially loved Subic mostly because of the attractions of Olongapo City, located just outside the main gates to Subic. For ridiculously low prices, a sailor could have all the booze he wanted and satisfy any carnal urges a young mind could imagine. Po City quickly became legendary among sailors of Seventh Fleet and Task Force 77.42
While aviators enjoyed the P.I. as well, most of their debauchery was contained within the confines of Naval Air Station (NAS) Cubi Point. Subic Bay was a large and sprawling naval base split between the surface navy and the aviators of Cubi Point. On the Subic side of the bay was the port facility, which was not frequented by aviators. The Subic Bay officers club was typical of the period, with proper dress and etiquette being required, along with the autocratic policies of the surface navy. NAS Cubi Point and its officers club might as well have been on a different planet. The war in Vietnam had created an atmosphere in which “work hard, play harder” antics became de rigueur. As long as aviators stayed on their side of the base, the crazy behavior that occurred within “the zoo” was allowed to continue.43
While the Cubi officers club was not quite the Star Wars cantina, it was a rough and rowdy tavern. There were fistfights. There were food fights. There was broken furniture. There were aviators passed out behind the bar. The large plate-glass windows that overlooked the serene setting of Subic were often shattered by bottles of San Miguel beer. The bar often did not close until the last person left. Any damage was paid for, and the club kept going. It was not unusual to see men climbing in the exposed rafters like monkeys and setting fire to the dangling crepe-paper streamers while seeing who could let them burn the longest without torching the club. One of the favorite drinking games involved drunken attempts to emulate carrier landings.44 The practice often ended in disaster, as most men crashed on the floor in a broken mess. It was all done to fruitlessly divert young aviators from the stresses they faced and quickly became part of the culture. An aviator could get toilet-hugging drunk and forget the stress of flying missions up north. The days would be spent recovering, either golfing or lounging poolside at the club before repeating the entire process again.45
As long as the war continued, Subic Bay remained a favorite of the sailors and aviators of CTF-77. Lewd behavior was permitted, as it was generally acknowledged that the men needed a way to blow off steam. More to the point, what choice did the authority figures have? The worst punishment they could mete out was to make pilots fly more missions over the beach, and they were already doing that at record-setting levels. The men were needed for the war effort, and anything that allowed them to decompress and recharge before the next line period and even more combat was acceptable.