In January 1967 Adm. U. S. Grant Sharp reviewed what had been accomplished during the previous two years of Rolling Thunder. In communications with Washington, he wrote, “Unless something was done, within a very short time the growing enemy air defense system will make air operations in the Hanoi-Haiphong region too costly for the type of targets we are not permitted to hit.” Sharp recognized four alternatives: first, to accept losses without a commensurate return in targets destroyed; second, to expand the target list; third, to attack the enemy’s air defense system, including the MiG bases and aircraft on the ground; or fourth, to abandon the air war over the Red River Delta.1 His words proved stunningly prophetic as the Johnson administration attempted each alternative over the next year. By all accounts, the air war in early 1967 appeared to be repeating the same failures, though it soon grew beyond anything President Johnson and his advisors could have ever imagined. By autumn, the air war had erupted into a massive effort, releasing an impotent rage at the seeming unwillingness of North Vietnam to negotiate.
Unknown to the men fighting, however, was “Marigold,” the code-name given to top secret peace negotiations. Despite pressure from China to continue fighting, North Vietnam was willing to negotiate.2 The peace process began in late 1966, with Polish diplomats authorized to broker a peace arrangement on behalf of their Communist allies. The talks quickly gained momentum, though they were eventually derailed by President Johnson’s and McNamara’s continued attempts to seek the political middle ground. Even as Johnson sought to extricate the country from the morass, he continued to expand the war in an attempt to appear tough on Communism. Despite repeated warnings from the Poles and Johnson’s national security team, the president authorized attacks in December that ended any chance for negotiations. In February 1967 the Washington Post revealed the top secret initiative. Once the negotiations became public, they were angrily denied as the American public sought answers from their government. Recently declassified American and Communist archives show that the Johnson administration never understood that a favorable deal could be brokered. Because of this missed opportunity, direct talks between the United States and North Vietnam did not occur until May 1968. In the interim, the war spiraled out of control, and American casualties continued.
With no end to the fighting in sight, pilots sought creative ways to deal with the increasing North Vietnamese defenses. Throughout the fall, MiG activity continued to increase as electronic warfare suppressed the North Vietnamese SAM and AAA systems. VPAF MiGs regularly intercepted F-105 missions, forcing them to jettison their bombs well short of the target as pilots defended against them. On 2 January the Eighth Fighter Wing in Thailand launched a large mission to destroy MiGs. Conceived and led by the legendary Col. Robin Olds, Operation Bolo was a complex ruse using F-4 Phantoms flying the mission profile usually flown by F-105s. Olds’s pilots used F-105 call signs and mounted QRC-160 self-protect jammers normally carried by the F-105 to complete the deception. Bolo was a huge success—seven MiGs were shot down without a single loss in an epic air battle.3 The loss forced the VPAF to ground their MiGs for several months as they devised new tactics.
In late February, Rolling Thunder 54 began. In all, sixteen targets deemed vital to the North Vietnamese industry were added to the target list, including the Thai Nguyen steel works, the Haiphong cement works, and several power stations. Estuaries and inland waterways up to the 20th parallel became candidates for mining. Despite the limitations imposed on the mining, the Joint Chiefs viewed mining positively. Long advocated by the military, mining remained taboo in Washington due to fears that mining Haiphong might result in outright war with China. As the weather began clearing in March, strikes grew in frequency. As expected, the North Vietnamese defenses became increasingly deadly. In March EB-66 jammers began escorting Rolling Thunder missions. The EB-66 offensively jammed many radars, as opposed to the QRC-160 and ALQ-51, which defensively jammed single-fire control radars. In the words of one air force history, this marked the first attempt “to attack the entire enemy electronic defense system, not just a part of it.”4 Despite the success, pilots believed that success could only be achieved by destroying the SAM sites, not suppressing them electronically. It led to the paradox of exposing even more aircraft to the defenses in the hope of suppressing them.
In response to the effective suppression of the early warning radars and SAMs, MiGs once again entered the fray. Though they downed few aircraft, MiGs consistently forced strike packages to jettison their bombs. Aviators often watched in frustration as MiGs taxied for takeoff, knowing they were prohibited from attacking them while at the same time knowing the same MiGs would soon be attacking. McNamara denied continuous requests to strike the MiG bases, dismissing the threat by noting that they were only credited with ten shootdowns. Attacking the MiG bases was deemed too dangerous. McNamara believed such attacks might force VPAF MiGs to flee to China and could result in outright Chinese intervention.5 The Johnson administration’s fear of war with China trumped all reason, and the airfields remained off-limits.
In late March, while repairs on Oriskany continued at a rapid pace, the weather over North Vietnam finally improved enough to increase the pace of Rolling Thunder. The increase came with a cost, however; the North Vietnamese took full advantage of the lull caused by weather and American restrictions, working feverishly to build more airfields and strengthen its defenses. In early April the North Vietnamese downed the five hundredth U.S. aircraft since the opening stages of the air war in February 1965. Even Secretary McNamara realized that something needed to be done to counter the increasingly lethal MiG-SAM-AAA trifecta. On 23 April the execute order for Rolling Thunder 55 was received from the White House. Though limited in scope, it marked a major escalation in the air war. For the first time, select targets within the 10-mile circle around Hanoi were authorized, though the order limited strike packages to eight airplanes or less. McNamara approved strikes on MiG airfields, but, true to form, he limited them in scope. Rather than permitting attacks on all six MiG bases or at least those bases posing the greatest threat, the administration deliberately selected Kep and Hoa Lac, two bases with the least number of MiGs. Unfortunately, three major MiG bases (Phuc Yen, Kien An, and Cat Bi) remained off-limits, thus providing a sanctuary. The following week, Rolling Thunder 56 added another ten targets to the JCS target list. As the weather improved, the tempo accelerated, and maximum efforts against all approved targets became authorized. Over nine thousand sorties were being flown each month, nearly triple the amount from 1965. Carriers on Yankee Station began launching several Alpha strikes a day as the United States sought to isolate Hanoi and Haiphong from the rest of North Vietnam. The North Vietnamese were ready. In the months following Operation Bolo, the VPAF learned to coordinate their MiG and SAM forces, allowing both to operate simultaneously. There would be no more “MiG days” and “SAM days.” From this point forward, every strike encountered heavy SAMs, AAA, and MiGs. In April 425 SAMs were fired at U.S. aircraft, and in May the number topped 500.6 The pace and subsequent losses would be shocking once Oriskany returned to Yankee Station.
The detrimental effects of the fire on the men of CVW-16 and Oriskany cannot be understated. The massive increase of Rolling Thunder in the spring of 1967 exacerbated the already critical shortfalls faced by the navy, and the fire could not have happened at a more inopportune time. As a result of the fire, the navy was short an aircraft carrier, leaving it little choice but to hastily repair Oriskany and return her to Vietnam as soon as possible. For the first time since the dark days of the Solomons campaign in early World War II, when the damaged USS Enterprise (CV-6) was hurriedly repaired and pressed back into service, Oriskany did the same. Yankee Station was by no means the Iron Bottom Sound, but the rush was the same. Repairs were completed at Hunters Point Naval Shipyard on 23 March, leaving little more than two months for the ship and air wing to train together before departing. It led to a changed air wing and ship dynamic that came as Rolling Thunder reached its high point. The consequences would be disastrous.
Although the official investigation cleared him of any wrongdoing, Captain Iarrobino’s career was finished. The navy stuck with the old adage that held the captain ultimately responsible for the fate of his ship. Iarrobino received a Letter of Reprimand, which he successfully fought and had removed from his record. However, the navy issued a nonpunitive Letter of Instruction in its place. In the highly competitive rank structure of the navy, the Letter of Instruction, coupled with the fact that the fire occurred under his watch, eliminated any possible promotion to admiral. Iarrobino eventually retired from the navy in 1972. Capt. Billy Holder assumed command of Oriskany and began the unenviable task of repairing the fire-ravaged ship and preparing her traumatized crew. A career naval aviator, Holder earned his wings in December 1942, although he spent the war stateside as an instructor. Rising through the ranks, he commanded an attack squadron and eventually CVW-2. He was intimately familiar with the crisis in Vietnam, having already served three tours in the region, and the upcoming deployment would mark his fourth. Holder possessed a different leadership style, and many aviators chafed at the change. Both Captains Connolly and Iarrobino had developed close relationships with the air wing, and aviators felt that Holder isolated himself on the bridge, limiting his interaction to CAG and the occasional squadron commander. Gone were the days of friendly ready room visits by the captain. They had been replaced by a contentious relationship between the ship and her air wing. The friction was palpable, and at times it seemed as if the captain himself delighted in running drills and chipping paint in the few off-hours pilots had to rest in between missions. To be fair, however, much work remained to complete repairs on the ship, and the drills were intended to train the crew should the unthinkable happen again. Simply put, Captain Holder had been thrust in a tough position with little time to prepare his ship and crew before returning to Vietnam.
The fire left gaping holes in the ranks of CVW-16. The loss of so many senior aviators and combat-experienced pilots proved deadly in 1967. VA-164 experienced a 75 percent turnover rate among sailors and 50 percent among pilots from ranks already thinned by the fire.7 Other squadrons experienced similar turnover. The returning veterans faced a herculean task to prepare themselves and inexperienced replacements for combat. That Oriskany remained unavailable during repairs further compounded the problem. Though some training occurred at NAS Fallon and MCAS Yuma, real training simply could not happen until Oriskany was repaired. Once she was ready for sea, they were given just four weeks to train together prior to departing for Vietnam—a shockingly short amount of time considering the pace of operations and defenses awaiting them.
After CAG Carter perished in the fire, the air wing also received new leadership under Cdr. Burton Shepherd. CAG Shepherd realized the overwhelming task he faced and set about to ensure he had the right people to help the air wing succeed. One of his first steps was to keep his air wing operations officer, Lt. Cdr. Elmore “Buck” Sheeley. Due to transfer, Sheeley was talked into extending with the promise that he’d be given command of a squadron of his own if he stayed to help.8 Sheeley became a core member of a team of men that included Oriskany’s assistant strike operations officer, Lt. Cdr. Lew Chatham; VA-164’s Lt. Cdr. Bob Arnold and Lt. Cdr. Denis Weichman; and VA-163’s Lt. Cdr. Dean Cramer and Lt. Cdr. Jim Busey. Together, these men became the cooperative brains that held the air wing together during 1967 as everything else seemed to come apart. These men waited impatiently for the Pentagon’s last-minute instructions and then instantaneously put together a workable plan.9 To be certain, strong personalities dominated as the air wing regrouped. The senior officers were bound together by the requirements laid upon Oriskany. Even though they competed against each other for performance reports and promotions, they remained professional when it came to leading missions. The department heads (senior lieutenant commanders), by nature of their duties, were in fierce competition within the squadrons and between the squadrons. For the most part, junior officers were along for the ride, fighting for survival and, unsurprisingly, drawn toward the natural leaders—those men who were most capable in the cockpit, independent of their rank. The cohesion experienced during the previous cruises had been all but shattered by the fire and personnel transfers. Rebuilding that cohesion would be one of the key problems faced by CAG Shepherd as Rolling Thunder reached its deadly climax.
A fine naval officer and capable naval aviator, CAG Shepherd also found himself thrust into an impossible position. He was dedicated and he cared for his aviators, continually telling his men, “Be a tiger, but be a smart tiger!”10 During the coming months, Shepherd’s leadership came under extreme scrutiny. Though a competent aviator, he would often be overwhelmed by the extraordinary missions asked of Oriskany’s aviators. To be certain, CAG Shepherd was a solid leader of men in combat. He was often overshadowed by the men under him, including the fearless and magnanimous Bryan Compton, the new commanding officer of VA-163. Competent, tough, and completely professional (he later became the first captain of USS Nimitz CVN-68), Compton did not suffer fools. Never one to flaunt a false bravado, CAG Shepherd faced the impossible task of balancing unavoidable losses while at the same time providing enough victories to satisfy higher authorities and still provide a stable base for air wing morale.11 Many of his subordinates complained loudly and bitterly, but the responsibility and heavy burden was shouldered by CAG Shepherd alone.
The surge in Rolling Thunder led to fewer available aircraft, which hampered the navy’s ability to equip squadrons for combat, and Oriskany suffered several follow-on effects. Although the navy was in the process of fielding new aircraft, they could not operate from Oriskany, so she soldiered on with limited numbers of older aircraft. As the war ground on, there were fewer and fewer Crusaders for replacements. By 1967 the shortage meant one of Oriskany’s fighter squadrons traded in their bomb-capable F-8E Crusaders for earlier F-8C variants robbed from utility squadrons. Because higher headquarters could not make the decision, Cdr. Bob Rasmussen and Cdr. Cal Swanson made it for them. In true fighter pilot fashion, they rolled dice at the Miramar officers club during a happy hour in late January. VF-111 lost and traded in their newer jets for less capable airframes. Because the F-8C did not have wing pylons for air-to-ground ordnance, it meant that Oriskany’s strikes had less firepower available to suppress North Vietnamese defenses. With Rolling Thunder reaching its peak, this became one of the underlying reasons behind their many losses in 1967.12 New aircraft also meant even less time to train, as acceptance inspections took time, as did acquainting pilots with the different aircraft. As their training continued, Swanson recommended to Shepherd that Crusader pilots be allowed to lead strikes, thereby lessening the workload of the senior pilots in the attack squadrons. It was also a way for fighter pilots to earn medals, which until that time had been the exclusive purview of attack pilots. It seemed like a good idea, until Swanson led the air wing’s last strike to Fallon, Nevada, and accidentally dropped a bomb on an Atomic Energy Commission building—outside the actual bombing range. It was an embarrassing event for Swanson, although Shepherd covered for him. In the end, the whole concept was quickly and quietly forgotten. Rolling Thunder remained an attack pilot’s war.
While the men of Oriskany made final preparations for their return to Vietnam, the widening chasm over American involvement was ready to explode. The air war over North Vietnam became one of the main points of public controversy. Fueling the public’s outcry was a series of articles published by Harrison Salisbury, the assistant managing editor of the New York Times. The North Vietnamese manipulated Salisbury’s articles as part of their propaganda efforts to sway American support. At the same time, General Westmoreland’s request for an additional 206,000 troops became public. The articles, coupled with greater troop commitments, fueled public outcry and led to further dissension within the Johnson administration. Antiwar protests continued to grow in size and scope, threatening to tear the country apart. On 15 April an estimated four hundred thousand antiwar protesters marched in New York City, with another one hundred thousand marching in San Francisco. Protesters marched from Central Park to the United Nations building to hear speeches by Martin Luther King Jr. and other antiwar leaders. It was Martin Luther King Jr.’s first open opposition to the war, and though civil rights leadership had been divided over violent versus nonviolent approaches, by the spring of 1967 they stood united on their opposition to the war. The intensity of the opposition began to sway members of the Johnson administration. By 1967 President Johnson’s approval rating had plummeted to below 50 percent, and the term “credibility gap” began being used to describe the Johnson administration’s penchant for deceiving the public. Even his closest advisors began to express their doubts. In early May, John McNaughton wrote to McNamara:
A feeling is widely and strongly held that “the Establishment” is out of its mind. The feeling is that we are trying to impose some U.S. image on distant peoples we cannot understand (any more than we can the younger generation here at home), and that we are carrying the thing to absurd lengths. Related to this feeling is the increased polarization that is taking place in the United States with seeds of the worst split in our people in more than a century. . . . The picture of the world’s greatest superpower killing or seriously injuring 1,000 noncombatants a week, while trying to pound a tiny backward nation into submission on an issue whose merits are wholly disputed is not a pretty one.13
Throughout, Johnson remained reluctant to admit the actual costs of the war. Although short-term bookkeeping allowed his administration to hide the true costs, the bill came due in the spring of 1967 as mounting government deficits and runaway inflation took hold.14 Additionally, in 1965 President Johnson chose not to mobilize U.S. Reserves out of concern for the political ramifications. Instead, his administration upped conscription quotas. The end result was the same. The continued induction of up to forty thousand men each month quickly became the focal point for growing anger over civil rights and American involvement in Southeast Asia. The tinderbox of dissent and frustration exploded during the summer of 1967. In June riots broke out across the United States—Atlanta, Boston, Cincinnati, Buffalo, and Tampa. By the end of the summer, 159 race riots, coupled with antiwar protests, crippled the country. Popular culture at the time referred to the summer of 1967 as the “Summer of Love.” In reality, it was violent and chaotic both in the United States and in Vietnam. Oriskany departed from Alameda on 16 June amid the tumult. As representatives of the society from which they were drawn, her crew was all too aware of the turmoil surrounding the war in Vietnam. With great apprehension, she arrived in Subic Bay on 2 July, and the crew made final preparations for combat.
Oriskany began her first line period of 1967 on 12 July. The pace of operations no longer allowed for warm-up periods, and her pilots immediately commenced flying armed reconnaissance missions in preparation for larger strikes near Hanoi and Haiphong. In the first two days, the air wing lost two airplanes and one pilot. One Skyhawk was so badly damaged that it was patched together and flown to the depot at Cubi Point. The air war had changed. No matter how ready the men of CVW-16 believed themselves to be, nothing could prepare them for the impending onslaught.
The air wing’s reintroduction to the lethal North Vietnamese defenses mirrored events happening in America. Secretary McNamara’s closest aide, John McNaughton, was killed along with his wife and youngest son in a tragic plane crash. Influential in the Americanization of the war, by 1967 McNaughton had begun expressing his doubts. In May he successfully advised President Johnson against granting General Westmoreland’s request for an additional two hundred thousand troops. The loss of a close confidant with similar misgivings about the war left McNamara alone to face rallying hawks. In the week following McNaughton’s death, America burned. Riots exploded in Harlem, the Bronx, and Newark. The Twelfth Street riots in Detroit resulted in five days of violence that left forty-three dead, over four hundred injured, and more than two thousand buildings destroyed before police, Michigan National Guard, and U.S. Army troops stopped the violence. The scale of the riot rivaled those of the New York City Draft Riots during the Civil War and the 1992 Los Angeles Riots. “The Long, Hot Summer,” as it became known, sent shockwaves throughout the country.15
Likewise, the impending decimation of Oriskany’s ranks appalled the navy. During the tumultuous week following 16 July, tragedy befell their initial triumph. That same week, Rolling Thunder 57 started, adding sixteen targets, including an airfield, rail yards, ten bridges, and twelve barracks—all within the Hanoi and Haiphong restricted circles. But none of the targets were within the forbidden 10-mile inner circle around Hanoi. This escalation followed the same previous patterns—a cognizant attempt by President Johnson to prevent discussion by the hawks or doves concerning his conduct of the war. His decision ensured a partisan fight by August.16 The air wing’s arrival on the line coincided with Rolling Thunder 57, and the ship quickly settled into what the crew called the “Dr. Pepper 10-2-4 schedule” because of the regularity. With the majority of missions now being flown into the very center of North Vietnam’s defenses, Oriskany’s long, hot summer had begun.
On 16 July VF-162’s Lt. Cdr. Demetrio “Butch” Verich launched as part of the flak suppression element on an afternoon raid on the Phu Ly rail yards. As they approached the target, his division of Crusaders was attacked by a volley of three SAMs. Verich successfully outmaneuvered two but was hit by the third missile. For the second time in just eleven months, Verich ejected from his crippled Crusader. As he descended in his parachute, his aircraft crashed and exploded directly beneath him. With wind driving him toward the fireball, Verich pulled on his parachute risers to slip the parachute and steer himself away from the inferno. He landed on a steep, rocky hill covered with thick jungle and trees a scant 16 miles from Hanoi.
Lt. Dick Wyman and Cdr. Herb Hunter, Verich’s wingmen, orbited overhead, attempting to coordinate a rescue. While they circled, Verich climbed several hundred yards up the slope, since North Vietnamese soldiers were already heading toward the wreckage. Then Wyman was hit by AAA. The 37 mm damaged his Crusader enough that he diverted to Da Nang. That left Cdr. Al Headly, VA-152’s executive officer, and his wingman orbiting overhead, though they too had to leave by nightfall. Verich remembered, “I saw my wingman had fixed my position and would be back, but it was getting dark so I figured I wouldn’t be rescued until morning. I thought the best thing would be to hide and then move after dark. I covered myself with branches and waited. The North Vietnamese were beating the bushes, some less than a hundred yards away.” Throughout the night, he could hear soldiers yelling, dogs barking, and a strange sound like two pieces of bamboo being struck together rhythmically.17 Verich unwittingly spent the evening next to the same 37 mm AAA battery that had damaged Wyman’s aircraft. “I decided to move at dawn,” said Verich. “But just as the sun was coming up, a jet passed overhead so I stayed where I was and waited.”18
The jet that passed overhead was flown by VA-163’s Lt. Cdr. Marv Reynolds, who took the rescue effort personally. Reynolds discovered the downed pilot was Verich after he recovered from the Phu Ly strike. Reynolds immediately began making the case for a rescue, convincing Cdr. Compton, then CAG Shepherd, and finally CTF-77, Rear Adm. Dave Richardson, who authorized the effort. At 0300 two A-4s and an E-1B launched to attempt to locate Verich and confirm his identity via code word. Reynolds left his wingman with the E-1B while he proceeded feet-dry to search the area. The sound of Reynolds’s Skyhawk woke Verich. After Reynolds made several attempts to raise Verich on the radio, Verich replied to Reynolds’s query with “Is this Marv?” The pair quickly conferred, and Reynolds told Verich they’d be back in half an hour.19
The rescue was on. Reynolds flew back to the gulf to refuel from an awaiting tanker while passing words to the E-1B to launch the CSAR. The Sea King from HS-2, flown by Lt. Neil Sparks and Lt. (junior grade) Robin Springer, began their precarious transit inland. As the helicopter passed Hon Ma Island they picked up an escort of four VA-152 Skyraiders led by Cdr. Allen Headley. Because Verich had been shot down in the heavily populated region south of Hanoi, the escorts had their work cut out for them. Reynolds and his wingman avoided three SAMs and withering AAA before they destroyed the closest 37 mm emplacement. Meanwhile, the Sea King made its way through the deep valleys, trying to pinpoint Verich. The crew could not see Verich through the trees, but as they passed over him, Verich fired a flare, which was noticed by one of the crew members. Sparks quickly turned the helicopter around and brought it to a hover overhead.
As the crew lowered the jungle penetrator, the helicopter came under intense ground fire. Though two crewmen, Teddy Ray and Al Masengale, returned fire, they could not suppress all of it, and rounds began tearing through the helicopter. One round hit just below Sparks, knocking out the generator, and then they lost the second generator. Another round exploded through the instrument panel. Then another round knocked out the automatic pilot, which made the helicopter difficult to control and almost impossible to hold in a hover. Another round destroyed the radio equipment in the nose. Without a radio, Sparks and Springer could not talk to their escorts or to Verich. Thinking quickly, Springer pulled out his own survival radio. Springer took off his helmet and put the radio up to his ear, allowing him to get the last bits of information they needed to recover Verich. Without an automatic pilot, Sparks struggled to keep the helicopter steady for the nearly twenty minutes required to hoist Verich aboard.20 Verich missed the jungle penetrator on the first drop, but the second time it came down about 10 feet from him, and he was able to get to it. Sparks still managed to keep the helicopter in its precarious hover until Verich was aboard—a herculean task, as rough terrain surrounded the helicopter on all sides, and they were nearly 50 feet below the rim of a cliff wall.21 With Verich finally aboard, the Sea King began its long flight back to the gulf.
The excitement didn’t end with Verich’s recovery. While the rescue unfolded, Oriskany aircraft conducted an early morning Alpha strike nearby. MiG-21s harassed the raid but were driven off by the TARCAP. As the strike headed for the gulf, another MiG-21 made an unobserved run on the F-8 escorts. Cdr. Bryan Compton saw the MiG launch an Alkali air-to-air missile, which, fortunately, missed. Compton still had a full load of eight Zuni rockets, which he shot at the MiG. The Zunis missed, and Compton pressed in for another attempt with his 20 mm cannons. Some 200 feet behind the MiG, Compton only managed to fire off thirty rounds before his cannons jammed. The MiG pilot broke off his engagement and returned to Phuc Yen. Compton summed up the experience by saying, “Pretty frustrating, a hamburger ready to eat, and no teeth!”22
Sparks and his crew stopped to refuel on USS Worden (CG-18) at the northern SAR station before heading for Oriskany. After dropping off Butch Verich, they returned to the Hornet, where awestruck sailors examined the damaged helicopter.23 The rescue was a huge success, despite the damage. Verich successfully evaded the North Vietnamese for nearly fifteen hours before eventually being rescued. He survived overnight and, even more newsworthy, was the reason why—VF-162 became the first squadron to have two men shot down and rescued twice. Verich was summoned to Saigon for the “Five O’Clock Follies” to brief reporters on his harrowing experience. Both Reynolds and Sparks received the Navy Cross for their efforts during the rescue. Unfortunately, their success led to disaster the next day when another rescue attempt occurred in the same vicinity.
Tragedy befell VA-164 on 18 July as they struck the bridge at Co Trai, which had been bombed just five days earlier. On their ingress to the bridge, Lt. Cdr. Richard Hartman and Lt. (junior grade) Larry Duthie evaded several SAMs, losing altitude in the process. As they began climbing back to altitude, Hartman’s Skyhawk was hit by 37 mm AAA. His airplane exploded, and he immediately ejected from the fireball. Hartman was so low that he only swung twice beneath his parachute before landing on a karst ridge 25 miles south of Hanoi, near Phu Lai. Because of the successful rescue the day before, a SAR mission was quickly authorized and launched from the northern SAR destroyer. Although Duthie attempted to climb and orbit overhead Hartman’s position, he too was hit. Duthie headed for the gulf with his airplane on fire and smoke filling the cockpit. With no oxygen and failed hydraulics, Duthie stayed with the airplane because the engine still worked, and he was able to control it by flying with trim. After flying 12 miles toward the coast, his airplane became uncontrollable. The trim failed, and the Skyhawk rolled 135 degrees before beginning an uncontrollable dive. Duthie ejected near Nam Dinh in a region known as the Hourglass, some 45 miles southeast of Hanoi. Although Nam Dinh was closer to the coast and a rescue there would theoretically be easier, the densely populated city was in the midst of the heavily defended Red River Delta.24 It also happened to be less than 10 miles from Hartman’s position.
Now there were two aviators down, greatly complicating the rescue process. Rescue forces waited an inordinate amount of time for clearance to attempt the rescues. In the interim, a Sea King from HS-2 refueled at the northern SAR destroyer. The helicopter, Big Mother 67, was flown by Lt. John Bender and Lt. (junior grade) John Schloz with crew members Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician 2nd Class David Chatterton and Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician 3rd Class Wayne Noah. As the crew listened to the unfolding drama, permission was finally granted, and they began heading for Duthie.25 The air force also launched two Jolly Green helicopters and four A-1E Sandys, though their transit from the border to Duthie’s location took time, as they skirted around the highly defended and populated areas of the Red River valley.
Duthie came down through heavy trees along a karst ridge and quickly moved 100 yards uphill to avoid capture. After Duthie spent nearly four hours on the ground, the rescue forces arrived. Jolly Green 36 and 37 approached from the southwest, while Big Mother approached from the south. Four VA-152 Skyraiders escorting the Sea King were joined by two of the air force Sandys. The six A-1s, along with at least one VA-163 A-4, flown by Lt. Cdr. Mac Davis, went to work neutralizing guns and troops in the area. The on-scene commander, Maj. Ted Bronczyk, called Duthie and instructed him to light off a smoke flare as they escorted a helicopter in. According to Duthie, “The flare-smoke drifted down my arm to the ground, and then it slowly filtered uphill. Bender saw it coming into a little clearing and went into a hover there. Hearing the helicopter a ways up the hill, I made my way up it to the clearing. I got beneath the chopper, stood under it, and with one of my two radios (I had not lost any of my survival gear, as some reports say) I called and called.” North Vietnamese gunners, who had been waiting for this exact moment, opened fire. Ground fire erupted from three sides—close enough for the crew to hear it over the noise of the engines and rotors as Bender settled into a hover.26 Owing to the steep terrain and unpredictable wind gusts, Bender struggled to keep the helicopter in a hover so Chatterton could lower the jungle penetrator. Ground fire quickly damaged the helicopter and hit Chatterton in the chest. Unfortunately, Duthie was directly underneath the helicopter in an area where radio reception was not possible.27 With Chatterton wounded and the crew unable to hear Duthie, the penetrator was never lowered.
Bender had no choice but to abort the rescue. He departed, flying over flat farmland and one of the hottest areas in an attempt to save time and, hopefully, Chatterton’s life. VA-152’s Lt. Hank Miller escorted the crippled helicopter out to sea. Big Mother made it to the SAR destroyer, but not before David Chatterton died of his wounds. Later, as sailors counted the twenty-eight bullet holes in the Sea King, they found two in the Plexiglas window adjacent to Bender’s head.28
Duthie later recalled, “As Big Mother departed, Bronczyk called me and said to cool my heels a bit, but that they were bringing in another helicopter. I went back down the hill into the trees to wait. A guy with a rifle about 75 feet from me was in the trees on the other side of the clearing; why he didn’t come over to capture me, I’ll always wonder (and be thankful for).” In the meantime, the remaining Skyraiders continued suppressing AAA in the area. Sandys 1 and 2 were severely damaged within minutes. Low on fuel and flying heavily damaged aircraft, the pilots returned to their base in Thailand. Jolly Green 36 announced he was low on fuel and departed as well, leaving Sandys 3 and 4 escorting Jolly Green 37 at 8,000 feet. A quick fuel calculation by her crew showed they had just enough to make the attempt.
The call soon came, and Jolly Green 37, flown by Maj. Glenn York and 1st Lt. Billy Privatte, dived down to treetop height and began the mad dash for Duthie. Their descent rapidly built up airspeed, creating banging noises that the crew mistook for AAA. As York entered the clearing, he overflew Duthie. With small arms fire pummeling the helicopter, Privatte hung his head out the window and spotted Duthie. The helicopter’s rotor blades took the top off a tree as York turned around and went into a hover. Privatte later said the small arms fire sounded like popcorn.29 Seconds lasted a lifetime, and the crew had little choice but to hold their hover as Sgt. Theodore Zerbe ran the jungle penetrator down. Duthie ran back to the clearing and quickly jumped on as Zerbe began hauling him in. As soon as Duthie cleared the trees, York started flying away, with Duthie dangling beneath.
The day’s tragedy continued to unfold. Low on fuel and having sustained battle damage, Sandys 3 and 4 departed for Thailand. With night fast approaching, Crown 4, the airborne command post and overall rescue coordinator, asked Jolly Green 37 to make one last attempt to pick up Hartman. Hartman had been in sporadic contact with rescue forces throughout Duthie’s rescue and had been successfully evading the North Vietnamese. Major York agreed, despite the damage to his helicopter and a low fuel state. In support of this last attempt, Oriskany launched the equivalent of another Alpha strike to suppress the gun positions near Hartman. Escorted by Oriskany fighters, York flew south along the next karst ridge toward Hartman. Hartman did not come up on the radio, and the rescue force was called off after attempting to suppress the most intense ground fire they had seen that day. Hartman was left to survive the night and await another attempt at sunrise.
To conserve fuel, York climbed to 12,000 feet and headed west for Lima 36, an emergency landing strip in Laos. A MiG attempted to intercept them but missed due to their altitude. At Lima 36, York made an instrument approach in the dark in mountainous terrain, using his automatic direction finding (ADF) gear to home in on an Air America aircraft. Jolly Green 37 landed with low fuel lights on and damaged nose gear that wouldn’t extend.30 According to Duthie,
Lima 36 was a weird and spooky place. We landed at the end of the runway with 70 pounds of fuel—not enough to air-taxi down the strip to the fuel area or to even go into a brief hover. With the help of some Hmong soldiers, Randy McComb, the PJ [air force pararescueman], hauled fuel in 55-gallon drums up to the bird and refueled it—with a hand-pump. Tons of work. Then York went back into North Vietnam (with that wounded bird) to rendezvous with some other Sandy A-1s in an attempt to rescue Dick. Before they left, York told me that if Dick Hartman wasn’t rescued that afternoon, he wouldn’t be coming out—which is what happened. York’s Jolly Green was denied permission into the Navy’s portion of RP VI.31
The day’s toll included two Skyhawks, two severely damaged helicopters, four severely damaged A-1Es, and the life of one man. Rescue forces recovered one of the downed aviators, but they had left Dick Hartman. There were many heroes on that hellish day—the same day Newark and Plainfield, New Jersey, burned back in America. York was awarded the Air Force Cross. The other members of his crew, as well as the four A-1E pilots, all received Silver Stars. Oriskany’s men performed other acts of heroism, and although they were not officially recognized, they prevented further disaster. It was a horrible day in a very long war.
Another hellish day was 19 July. On board Hornet, the death of Chatterton, in addition to the damage sustained by two of their helicopters, weighed heavily on the crew tasked with rescuing Hartman. Lt. Dennis Peterson and his copilot, Ens. Donald Frye, planned their upcoming mission carefully, intending to arrive overhead at daybreak and use the cover of darkness for safety.32 In the predawn hours, VA-152 launched six Skyraiders from Oriskany to provide RESCAP and escort the rescue helicopter. During the evening, Lt. Pete Peters and Lt. J. P. O’Neill braved SAMs and AAA in their Crusaders in order to maintain contact with Hartman. Their efforts paid off, as Hartman evaded, periodically checking in to report on the intensive weapons buildup in his vicinity. At 0525 he made contact with the Skyraiders as they arrived overhead.
With a quick call, the rescue commenced. Peterson and his crew began their transit as six Skyraiders and ten Skyhawks from Oriskany pounded AAA positions. At 0640 Peterson instructed Hartman to pop smoke when the helicopter arrived overhead. The crew missed the smoke and overshot Hartman’s position. As the helicopter swung back around, tragedy struck. One of the Skyraiders attempted to mark Hartman’s position with a Zuni Rocket. At the same time, a cluster bomb dropped by one of the Skyhawks failed to open and exploded nearby. Peterson and his crew mistook the cluster bomb for the Zuni and flew directly over an unseen 37 mm AAA battery in the valley. The North Vietnamese held their fire until Peterson’s helicopter was directly overhead. The Sea King was shot down in an immense fireball, killing Peterson, Frye, and Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician 2nd Class William Jackson and Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician 2nd Class Donald McGrane.
During the ill-fated rescue attempt, VA-164 lost their third aircraft in two days. Lt. Cdr. Bob Arnold, Lt. John Davis, and Lt. (junior grade) Barry Wood were providing flak suppression for the rescue. Following one of their attack runs with Zuni rockets, Wood noticed a rapid drop in his fuel level. Davis was also critically low on fuel, and the pair turned toward the coast. Davis believed that they could make it feet-wet to an available tanker, which he managed to do. With less fuel, Wood did not believe he could make it and opted to eject before his engine flamed out.33 He ejected for the second time in six days, landing 8 miles offshore. Barry Wood was eventually recovered by a small boat from the SAR destroyer USS Richard B. Anderson (DD-786).
Cdr. Donald Wilson, the commanding officer of VA-152, attempted to escort another helicopter in, but after the loss of another Skyhawk and helicopter with its four crew members on top of the previous day’s toll, Hartman’s rescue was called off. Rear Adm. Richardson made the decision to leave Hartman before more men were killed trying to rescue him. The gut-wrenching decision was made even more tragic in the following days, as Hartman continued to evade capture in one of the most densely populated regions of North Vietnam. Oriskany aircraft contacted Hartman again on 20 July, informing him that a survival kit would be dropped for him. In his last words, he pleaded over his survival radio, “Please don’t leave me.” Lt. Cdr. Leon “Bud” Edney, one of Hartman’s squadron mates, refused to be nominated for a Silver Star in recognition of his effort to drop supplies to Hartman, believing they had abandoned him.34 Although men hoped that he had been captured, Richard Hartman never returned at the end of the war, and he was never seen in any POW camp. Given the ferocity of the fighting during his attempted rescues, it is likely Hartman was killed outright upon capture. But all that was in the future. All Oriskany’s men knew is that they’d abandoned one of their own to a horrible fate.
The Ghost Riders’ losses over that two-day period hit Lt. Cdr. Bob Arnold particularly hard. As a senior flight leader in VA-164 he had handpicked the three other members of his division: Lt. Cdr. Dick Hartman, Lt. (junior grade) Larry Duthie, and Lt. (junior grade) Barry Wood. Arnold was quite proud of his division, which he gave the radio call sign “hoser flight.” All the men were bachelors, and Arnold claimed they were destined to do great things during the upcoming cruise.35 Instead, after a week of combat his division ceased to exist. Hartman was missing. Duthie was evacuated due to injuries sustained on 18 July. Wood turned in his wings after ejecting for the third time in less than a year. He asked for and was given a transfer to the navy’s riverine forces fighting in the Mekong Delta in South Vietnam.
Regrettably for Oriskany, the day’s tragedies continued. As the Hartman rescue ended in heartbreak, Oriskany launched another Alpha strike against the bridge at Co Trai. For the second day in a row, the defenses surrounding the bridge claimed another air wing aircraft. Adding to the aura of Co Trai, VF-162 lost an aircraft on the same date in 1966. Cdr. Herb Hunter, a former member of the Blue Angels and new executive officer of VF-162, led the flak suppression element and was hit in the wing by 57 mm AAA. The hit ruptured the fuel tanks in his Crusader’s wings and destroyed the aircraft’s hydraulic systems. Hunter and his wingman, Lt. J. P. O’Neill, flew toward the gulf and what they believed was Oriskany. In reality, they were heading for Bon Homme Richard, steaming several miles closer to the coast.
Out of fuel, Hunter opted to risk a landing on Bon Homme Richard. However, due to the damage, Hunter could not jettison his ordnance, refuel in-flight, or raise the wing for landing. The variable incidence wing of Crusader was unique in that the entire wing rose to provide increased lift at lower landing speeds. Landing without it added exponential risk to Hunter’s task. Hunter discussed his options with O’Neill, one of the most experienced Crusader pilots in the fleet, and he recommended repeatedly that Hunter eject. No one will ever know why Herb Hunter took the chance to save such a damaged aircraft. However, after one week of combat operations Oriskany’s loss rates exceeded the air wing’s ability to resupply. In seven days, the air wing had lost seven aircraft, with an additional six severely damaged. Perhaps the chance to save a precious aircraft influenced Hunter to attempt the landing. According to Cdr. Bob Rasmussen, the commanding officer of VF-111, Hunter’s brother-in-law, and fellow squadron mate from the Blue Angels, “He was just not about to let an aircraft that had a hole in one wing the size of a basketball, an asymmetric armament load of 1,000 pounds, practically zero fuel and a wing that could not configure for landing, get the best of him.”36 When Hunter attempted to land on Bon Homme Richard, his aircraft hit the deck too fast and hard enough to shear off the landing gear. His Crusader literally disintegrated on impact, skipped the arresting gear wires, and plunged over the side. Herb Hunter was found floating under the water in a partially deployed parachute. According to Rasmussen, “Given the circumstances, this was more than an even probability, and Herb Hunter likely realized this as much as anyone.”37 Herb Hunter’s loss ripped through the air wing. It underscored just how deadly the skies over North Vietnam had become. If such an experienced pilot could be lost, what chance did the rest of them stand?
There was no respite for the air wing as losses continued. The day after the Hartman and Hunter heartbreak, Oriskany lost another two airplanes before shifting her schedule to become the nighttime carrier. The losses continued. A week after he’d helped orchestrate the rescue forces for Larry Duthie, Lt. Cdr. Mac Davis was killed during a nighttime armed reconnaissance mission. His squadron mate, Lt. Cdr. Dean Cramer, recalled the incident:
It was a night mission, July 25, underneath the flares, and flares were about as useless as a candle. You couldn’t find anything with a God damn flare. He dropped the flare, and theoretically, you’d see things under it. Well you couldn’t see anything but shadows, everything else was a guess.
He was sure he found a couple of trucks, but to this day we’ll never know. He was with another guy. They dropped their bombs and decided to do night, low-level strafing runs under the flares.38
Following Davis’s death, Dean Cramer performed the unenviable task of collecting Davis’s personal items so they could be shipped home. A former sailor, Cramer rose through the ranks before eventually becoming the Saints’ maintenance officer. Following Davis’s death, Cramer directed the sailors who worked for him to change how they put names on the ready room chairs. Seating order was according to seniority in the squadron, with individual embroidered headrest covers denoting name and rank. When a pilot was lost, the covers had to be changed. With so many men being lost, Cramer told his sailors to start using Velcro name tags so they could be removed and changed as required.39 To say that the losses caused anxiety among the air wing would be an understatement—it gnawed at them. In less than two weeks, they’d lost eleven planes, with another six seriously damaged. Four men were either dead or missing. Then, VAH-4 lost a Skywarrior on a simple ferry flight from Cubi Point. Two more men were added to the toll. Years later, Lt. Cdr. Bob Arnold summed up the feelings at the time: “The entire air wing was in a state of mild shock. Even the seasoned veterans from the prior cruise couldn’t recall anything like the intensity of air defenses we were running into. Some of the pilot comments were: ‘Jesus, there were so many gun flashes at the target it looked like Los Angeles at night—except it was daytime,’ and ‘Where the hell do they get all those missiles? They’ve got to be exhausted just pulling the trigger so often.’”40
The need for carriers caused the navy to move another Atlantic fleet carrier to support the war. USS Forrestal (CVA-59) departed Norfolk, Virginia, on 6 June, arriving on Yankee Station on 25 July. Once on the line, her air wing flew strikes alongside Oriskany, Bon Homme Richard, and Intrepid. For an inexperienced East Coast air wing, they had been extremely fortunate: after four days of combat and nearly two hundred sorties, Forrestal’s air wing had yet to suffer a single loss. On 29 July, the day began like any day on Yankee Station as each ship continued the daily grind of launching missions. Forrestal launched one early morning Alpha strike and was preparing to launch her second when tragedy struck. Just before 1100, stray voltage accidentally fired a Zuni rocket from a Phantom. The errant rocket hit a Skyhawk’s fuel tank, causing a chain reaction of explosions and fire on the flight deck. The fire quickly spread, fueled by over 40,000 gallons of aviation fuel, bombs, and other ordnance on her mission-ready aircraft. Vintage bombs being used because of ordnance shortages began to cook off, blowing holes in the flight deck, which allowed burning fuel and bombs to reach six decks below.41 The resultant fire was among the worst in naval history and the greatest naval disaster of Vietnam.
Clouds of thick black smoke billowed into the air as explosions wracked Forrestal. With memories of Oriskany’s holocaust fresh on everyone’s mind, ships on Yankee Station steamed to her assistance. All flight operations from Yankee Station ceased as Oriskany, Intrepid, and Bon Homme Richard quickly joined the numerous destroyers circling the stricken carrier. It was an unreal situation—how could it be happening again? Men could be seen jumping overboard into the sea from Forrestal. Helicopters from all three carriers swooped into assist and rescue men as they could.
One of Oriskany’s plane guard helicopters happened to be airborne when the conflagration began. The Seasprite, flown by Lt. David Clement, quickly closed on Forrestal to investigate the thick smoke. As he flew up the port side, the first explosion pounded the small helicopter as it engulfed Forrestal’s stern. Clement and his crew began flying down the ship’s wake looking for survivors. Hovering proved difficult, however, as shockwaves and debris from explosions rained down around their helicopter. They quickly picked up five badly burned men and took them to Oriskany. On board Oriskany, men gathered hoses and firefighting foam to transfer to Forrestal, despite the risk it put them at should the equipment be needed. They also launched all the ship’s whale boats to begin searching for survivors in the water.42 It had been only nine months since their own holocaust, and Oriskany’s crew felt a special urge to help. Her men knew all too well the terror of being trapped on a burning ship at sea.
Helicopters made countless trips that day, transferring medical personnel and firefighting equipment to the stricken carrier. Lt. Cdr. Allan Addeeb, Oriskany’s senior medical officer (SMO), was on one of these helicopters—a fact unknown to Captain Holder. Allan Addeeb held a unique position in that he was a qualified naval aviator as well as a doctor. He got away with a lot under both Captain Holder and CAG Shepherd, as his skills were always in high demand.43 Upon arrival, the helicopters dodged explosions and flying shrapnel to land on the badly listing, debris-covered flight deck. Once aboard, Addeeb began assisting Forrestal’s surgeon until the sick bay became clogged with smoke. Addeeb recommended that they begin evacuating wounded to Oriskany, and helicopters began the grim task of transferring Forrestal’s many injured sailors. Once these wounded started arriving, the only remaining doctor aboard Oriskany was quickly overwhelmed, necessitating Addeeb’s return. Even after he arrived back aboard, the sheer numbers of horribly burned men quickly overwhelmed them. With more badly injured men arriving by the minute, Addeeb and his corpsmen set up a triage. Soon, dozens of men were lying in stretchers all over the sick bay.44 The sight of Forrestal’s hideously burned men was hauntingly familiar for those who had survived the October fire. Sailors helped where they could, while Doctor Addeeb’s medical department worked nonstop to provide basic care. Eventually, two more doctors arrived from Intrepid to help prepare casualties for transfer to the hospital ship Repose (AH-16) later that evening. Normally stationed off Da Nang, Repose steamed north to provide the advanced care so desperately needed.
While the fire on Forrestal’s flight deck was under control in an hour, fires continued to rage below decks. Sixteen World War Two era 1,000-pound bombs had been loaded on planes parked on the flight deck. Nine of them exploded in the fire, with catastrophic results.45 More than twelve hours later, her crew brought the fires under control. The final cost was staggering: 134 dead and 161 seriously wounded. Twenty-one jets were destroyed, and another forty-three were damaged. It cost the navy $72.2 million to repair Forrestal, and she never returned to combat.46 As with Oriskany nine months earlier, the loss of Forrestal with her men and aircraft further strained the navy’s ability to sustain combat operations. In her absence, the lion’s share was taken over by the older 27C class carriers currently on Yankee Station.
Following the Forrestal tragedy, Rear Adm. Richardson recommended that Seventh Fleet extend Bon Homme Richard on station. Her pilots had been flying missions since late February, and the thought of extending left many feeling hopeless.47 Instead, they were given a reprieve and sailed for home as scheduled, leaving Oriskany as the primary attack carrier on Yankee Station. Oriskany duly shifted her schedule to become the white (daytime) carrier. In the long, hot summer, being the daytime carrier meant Alpha strikes, and lots of them—three a day—all at a time when Gallup polls reported that more than half of Americans disapproved of Johnson’s handling of the war, and a nearly equal number thought the United States had erred in sending troops. Oriskany’s losses continued, because in reality, there were no easy targets, as every strike was “going downtown” in the middle of either Hanoi or Haiphong.
On 31 July Oriskany launched two Alpha strikes, one against Van Nhue and another against Thanh Lang. Years later, Lt. Cdr. Bob Arnold recalled the first Alpha strike of the day:
One particular target, the Van Nhue headquarters area, was located in the suburbs six miles southeast of downtown Hanoi. It was a series of barracks and associated auxiliary buildings that was supposed to be a headquarters for the big mugga muggas. . . . There was no easy way to get there, so it was decided to take a straight shot: coast in at “the crotch,” head straight for downtown and roll in six miles short where the headquarters was located. Maybe, just maybe, the bad guys would hold their fire thinking we were headed downtown. That way, we could be on and off target before they brought in the big stuff. It didn’t work. As one of the strike pilots said afterwards, “We caught them with their pants up!”
I was strike lead; my fifteenth combat mission. Shortly after we went feet dry, we started picking up flak and missiles. The strike group was hosed down all the way into the target area. As we approached the target the weather went sour. The initial report from the weather recce aircraft was low scattered clouds. By the time we arrived, the weather had worsened to low broken to overcast. When you could see through the clouds, every village looked the same. All the time, missiles were flying and black and white puffs of flak were appearing everywhere. The strike was aborted and we broke for home looking for targets of opportunity along the way. One F-8 fighter escort was lost to a SAM.48
The Crusader lost on this mission was the thirteenth plane lost by the Oriskany. Flown by VF-111’s Lt. (junior grade) Charlie Zuhoski, the incident is illustrative of CVW-16 during 1967. In the previous months, every squadron in the air wing received replacements in the form of very junior aviators, fresh from flight training.49 Typical of pilots thrown into the fray, they did not last long in the meat grinder. As part of an Iron Hand section during the barracks raid, Zuhoski was escorting a VA-164 Skyhawk performing the deadly mission. As his A-4 flight lead dueled with SAMs, their section quickly became targeted by other sites in the vicinity. As he climbed through 11,000 feet to avoid a volley of missiles, Zuhoski’s Crusader was hit in the fuselage by a SAM. He ejected from the flaming wreckage and landed in the village of Ngu Nghi, 10 miles east of downtown Hanoi. Zuhoski was in his first fleet squadron, having joined the Sundowners four months prior. He was married on 3 June, less than two weeks before Oriskany departed for Vietnam. Now after two weeks of combat and fourteen missions, he faced nearly six years as a POW.
On 4 August the same headquarters reappeared on the target list, and Bob Arnold volunteered to lead the mission. He’d already planned and led the strike once and was familiar with the mission:
The last minute planning went on until late that evening. I managed about four hours sleep (par for the course) before the briefings started. If there was one light moment it came when the air intelligence people pulled out the flak map, an enlargement of the target area. Where there were known flak sites they had put in colored pins—different colors for different caliber weapons and SAM sites. The map looked like someone had spattered several cans of different colored paint on it—the pins covered the entire target area. Somebody said “Oh, shit,” and that broke the tension. What the hell, it didn’t cost any more to laugh.50
The strike launched and used a different route from their previous attempt. Instead of flying directly to the target, they flew north of Haiphong, using mountains to mask their approach. The plan seemed to work, as not a shot was fired for the first twenty minutes prior to the target. Then, two minutes before reaching their roll-in point for the headquarters, chaos ensued. Arnold continued:
Someone radioed, “Missile, one o’clock.” No sooner had he finished broadcasting than the missile went over the strike group—long, brown and going like hell. Other transmissions filled the air. “Two missiles 11 o’clock.”
“Come left, break left.”
“Go down, go down.”
“Two missiles 3 o’clock.”
“Missiles 12 o’clock.”
By that time, I was nose down in a tight left hand spiraling dive. Two missiles went over me, I rolled right and pulled hard as another missile went by my left wing. . . . Nobody knew for sure how many missiles were fired at us in that two minute period. The low estimate was 30, the high 44. They were everywhere and kept coming. The result was a melee, but fortunately not a disaster.51
Only one Skyhawk, flown by Lt. Cdr. Marv Reynolds, was hit by a SAM. He managed to jettison his bombs and make it back safely, though the Skyhawk had to be craned off in Cubi Point. Bob Arnold and his wingman managed to find the headquarters and destroy it, so the air wing hopefully wouldn’t have to go back.
Later that day, the air wing lost their fourteenth aircraft in three weeks. The ship was scheduled to come off the line in just three days. Aviators hoped to survive long enough to enjoy the respite, but fate intervened during an Alpha strike on the outskirts of Haiphong. As the strike package approached the target, a POL storage site at Luc Nong, a volley of four SAMs greeted them. The flight scattered as everyone evaded the missiles. Lt. (junior grade) Ralph Bisz tried vainly to outmaneuver the missiles but was hit at about 10,500 feet. His aircraft exploded and spun downward in a large ball of fire. The flaming wreckage burned out halfway through its plummet to the ground. Nobody saw a parachute, and no emergency beeper or voice communications were ever heard.
As with so many of the downed aviators, Ralph Bisz’s status was simply not known. Men on the mission didn’t believe he could have survived, but somewhere up the chain of officialdom, he was listed as captured. His wreckage had come down in the heavily populated Hai Duong Province, and if he had survived, he would have been quickly captured. The decision caused an extremely confusing situation, giving false hope to his family that he may have survived. In reality, the popular Bisz, who had survived crashing into his future skipper just days before miraculously surviving the fire (Tom Spitzer had perished after they became separated), was dead. His loss was one more among the many during the long, hot summer.
Oriskany shifted to night operations to finish out the line period. On 8 August she sailed for Cubi Point. During the next week, her crew craned off scores of damaged aircraft while men not on duty tried to enjoy some liberty. Cubi Point proved to be a good place for them to drown their sorrows as they tried to forget the painful memories of their first line period.