In early November, the northeast monsoon arrived in full force, signaling an end to the good weather that had enabled the crescendo of activity in October. At the time, the rains signified nothing more than the standard pause in Rolling Thunder. Few, if any, realized that before the weather cleared again in the spring, President Johnson would announce the end of Rolling Thunder and withdraw from the election. McNamara sent a private memorandum to Johnson recommending a freeze in troop levels and a halt to the bombing. He also recommended that the United States turn over the war to the South Vietnamese, which Johnson refused to do. No one will ever know if McNamara resigned or was forced out, but by the end of the month he had announced his resignation. His last day was 29 February 1968, and in the interim, the air war continued.
The air wing lost another Skyhawk before Oriskany sailed for Yokosuka, Japan. The crew enjoyed nine days of liberty as the ship underwent a series of inspections in preparation for a planned overhaul upon return to the United States. If they weren’t already off-loaded in Cubi Point, damaged aircraft were flown to the NIPPI Repair Facility in Atsugi. With the inspections and repairs complete, the ship departed on 15 November, arriving on Yankee Station four days later.
Oriskany’s fourth line period began with the entire region covered in low, thick clouds, which precluded most strikes except a few mining missions on the coastal waterways. Despite heavy losses in October, the VPAF continued to be very aggressive, and losses to MiGs increased. Instead of standing down, the VPAF soon reached parity, and the Americans’ hard-fought advantageous edge began to erode. In November and December, the VPAF claimed nine U.S. aircraft to six of their own. By the end of December, all MiG fields except Cat Bi were serviceable, and MiG inventory actually rose.1
On the afternoon of 19 November, VF-111’s Lt. Edwin Van Orden was killed in a tragic accident. Just three weeks earlier, the courageous Van Orden had saved Cdr. Bill Span during an Iron Hand mission as the air wing struck the Uong Bi power plant. The pair flew in low level along the mountains north of Haiphong, and Span had indications of active SAM sites radiating. By the time Span popped up to shoot his Shrikes, the North Vietnamese had already launched missiles at them. Van Orden dutifully called the missiles out to Span, who dived down to treetop level in an effort to evade. Two missiles narrowly missed him. Span then followed his Shrikes to the SAM sites and bombed them. As he left the area, other pilots noted the carnage wreaked as burning SA-2 missiles snaked around their launchers, causing further destruction. Unfortunately, Van Orden became separated from Span during their evasive maneuvering. They both made it back, and Van Orden apologized profusely for having lost sight of Span—the man he was supposed to be escorting. Span allayed Van Orden’s fears by replying that he’d done everything right. Without Van Orden’s timely radio call, Span never would have seen the missiles in time to evade them.2
Now, as Oriskany began its fourth line period, Ed Van Orden was launching on a maintenance test flight when disaster struck. His Crusader was the first aircraft to launch from the starboard catapult for the late-afternoon launch. Following the prelaunch checks, the catapult officer touched the deck to signal the launch; however, instead of sending Van Orden’s Crusader flying off the bow, the catapult ripped the keel pin out of his aircraft and flung the empty bridle several hundred yards in front of the ship. Van Orden tried in vain to stop his aircraft. He secured the afterburner and locked his brakes as the Crusader slid down the length of the flight deck. It eventually stopped when the nose gear dropped into the safety net on the bow. Van Orden ejected at that moment.
Ejection seats of the period often killed or maimed as many men as they saved. Early ejection seats were not zero/zero, meaning capable of saving a man if he ejected at zero airspeed and zero altitude. The pilot had to eject above a certain airspeed and altitude for the seat to function properly. Van Orden’s roommate, Lt. Cdr. Dick Schaffert, was scheduled as the F-8 safety observer for the launch and witnessed the accident. Schaffert later recalled:
The canopy came up and the seat shot upwards. The Martin-Baker [ejection seat] rocketed Ed up and slightly to the left. Nearing the top of his trajectory, the drogue chute came out and Ed seemed to tumble forward out of the seat. The main chute was coming out, but it was obvious Ed was going to hit the water before it was completely deployed. I was running out the Pri-Fly [primary flight control, or the control tower located in the island of the aircraft carrier] door and looking back over my left shoulder when he was still about 50 feet above deck level.
I ran down the six levels of stairs in the island. I was certain Ed would be in the water when I reached the flight deck. I ran out of the island through Flight Deck Control. There was an F-8 on the port cat, but it was shutting down and several people were running forward to the port bow. [Eventually, a flight deck chief scrambled up the side of Van Orden’s Crusader and climbed into the cockpit to shut down the roaring jet engine.] The plane guard helo was pulling into a hover off the port bow and I was certain they would be picking up Ed. I ran to the rail behind the port blast deflector that was coming down. I watched for a swimmer to emerge from the helo, but then I saw two white shirts carrying a stretcher running toward the port bow.
Ed’s parachute had snagged on the port gun tub and had swung him into the side of the ship. Green shirts were already pulling the shroud straps, and Ed, into the sponson when the stretcher guys got there. They immediately laid him face-up on the stretcher, lifted it to the flight deck and started across for the hatch to Flight Deck Control. His left arm was hanging down and I lifted it to his chest. I held it there as we ran across the deck, into Flight Deck Control, and descended the escalator to Sick Bay. The Corpsmen and Doc were there immediately and started working on him. I felt completely helpless standing there. When they took off Ed’s mask and helmet, I became aware that his face was completely white!
It was only a few moments before one of the Corpsmen came over to me and said, “Sir, his neck was broken. He must have died immediately.” For some reason, I checked my watch and noted that I had to get to Ready [Room] Three. I was already a few minutes late for my flight briefing. I met Skipper Rasmussen in the passageway between Sick Bay and Ready Three, which were almost adjacent on the Oriskany. I could only mutter quietly, “He didn’t make it, Sir.”3
Dick Schaffert then briefed and flew an uneventful night BARCAP. At 0130, he returned to their stateroom and began the gut-wrenching task of sorting through Van Orden’s personal effects. It was a task that Schaffert had performed twice during the previous year, and he took the utmost care, knowing that Ed Van Orden’s parents would be the next ones to open the boxes. As he sealed the mail in larger envelopes, Schaffert noted several letters from a Western Airlines stewardess. The budding romance had begun after a chance meeting in Tokyo as Van Orden, Schaffert, and Norm Levy arrived to ferry replacement aircraft to the Philippines. Schaffert continued: “Reading her letters to Ed, it was obvious something good was going on between them. Two days after Tooter Teague left Yankee Station with Ed’s body, to be buried near his home in Arlington, Texas, I wrote her probably the saddest letter I ever had to write. I wrote it while manning the Alert Five in a Crusader on Oriskany’s starboard cat.”4
The investigation that followed revealed two factors contributing to Ed Van Orden’s death. First, his Crusader had been launched 505 times, with a keel pin that was to have been replaced after 500 catapult launches. Second, the catapult had been worked on while Oriskany was in Yokosuka, and a valve that regulated the release of steam pressure had been improperly installed. The result was that the full force of pressure was released immediately instead of at a steady acceleration.5 This overpressure ripped the already stressed attachment point out of Van Orden’s Crusader, with disastrous results. Knowing this did little to ease the pain. Van Orden’s loss hit the Sundowners particularly hard, as it seemed to be one more senseless loss in addition to the already staggering losses.
The next day, Dr. Allan Addeeb again proved his worth when VA-163’s Lt. (junior grade) Denny Earl was hit during an armed reconnaissance mission. Small-arms fire tore through the left side of Earl’s cockpit, shattering his left leg. Jim Busey was Earl’s flight lead and didn’t know if he’d make it due to blood loss. Addeeb was airborne, flying a tanker mission, and he overheard their conversation. Addeeb instructed Busey over the radio, telling him to have Earl inflate his anti-G suit to act as a tourniquet. That act stopped the blood loss and allowed Earl to make it back to Oriskany, where he landed in the barricade. Earl’s return was captured by public affairs, eventually making national news. Addeeb later chided Busey for taking credit for the G suit tourniquet idea.6
When Addeeb landed following his tanker mission, he climbed down from the flight deck and proceeded to help operate on Earl. The ship’s general surgeon began preparing for surgery as Addeeb swapped his flight suit for surgical scrubs. With Addeeb’s assistance they repaired Earl’s leg with several pins. With his leg repaired, Earl was evacuated, arriving in Pensacola, Florida, less than thirty-six hours after being wounded.
Weather continued to limit operations throughout December. The air wing managed to fly two major strikes, one against storage caves at Nui Long and another that dropped a recently repaired span of the Haiphong Highway bridge. As a result, losses finally began to slacken.
The afternoon of 14 December resulted in one of the most storied aerial engagements of the war. While eight Skyhawks mined the Canal des Bambous between Hanoi and Haiphong, Lt. Cdr. Dick Schaffert single-handedly fought six MiGs to a draw. The mission was fraught with peril, as it was in the midst of the Red River Delta, halfway between the two cities, with plenty of AAA and SAMs and surrounded by MiG fields. Because VF-111 flew the older, non-bomb-capable F-8C, they primarily flew as Iron Hand escorts. On smaller missions such as this, only two Iron Hand A-4s would be required. They were almost always escorted by Cdr. Bob Rasmussen, VF-111’s commanding officer, and Schaffert, the operations officer.7 On that fateful day, Schaffert escorted Lt. (junior grade) Chuck Nelson, while Rasmussen escorted Lt. Cdr. Denis Weichman.
The mission launched at 1645. After a quick rendezvous, they proceeded feet-dry, flying westward into the setting sun. Shortly after crossing the coast, Red Crown began calling four bandits, the code word for hostile aircraft headed for the strike. A miscommunication led the radar controllers to believe that the Iron Hand package was the strike, which led to confusion, as the MiGs were in fact targeting Schaffert and Nelson.
Alerted by the calls, Schaffert remained vigilant as Nelson dueled with a SAM site. When Nelson pitched up to shoot a Shrike, he slowed down, forcing Schaffert to perform a “lag roll.” At 18,000 feet, Schaffert rolled inverted to keep sight of Nelson. At that moment, he spotted two 923rd FR MiG-17s. Schaffert warned Nelson of the threat and dove to engage the MiGs. Schaffert leveled off from his dive at 11,000 feet, with the MiGs to the north and slightly above him.
As Schaffert turned toward the MiGs, the strike package fled for the gulf. Unfortunately, Nelson lost sight of everyone and radioed to tell Schaffert. Closing on the lead MiG’s wingman, Schaffert fired an AIM-9D. Because the MiGs were turning toward Schaffert, the missile missed by about half the distance of the MiG’s wingspan.8 Unfortunately, during preflight checks, one of his four AIM-9 Sidewinders had failed and was removed by ordnancemen, leaving him with three. Now he was down to only two remaining missiles plus 20 mm cannons to fend off MiGs.
Schaffert continued to fight for an advantage against the pair of MiGs. As he climbed through 15,000 feet, he looked over his shoulder, hoping to spot Nelson, and instead he saw two more MiG-17s rapidly closing in behind him. Schaffert called for Chuck Nelson to escape while alerting Rasmussen and Weichman that he was fighting four MiG-17s. They were busy dueling with SAMs, and the TARCAP was still escorting the strike feet-wet, so no help was available as Schaffert began the fight of his life. Few men were as qualified as Schaffert for that day’s battle. With more than 3,500 hours of flight time, he was on his 276th combat mission. He would need every bit of training, as well as luck, to survive. Schaffert also happened to be pressing his luck. During an arrested landing in October, the restraint system on his ejection seat failed, causing him to crash into the radar scope above the instrument panel. Unbeknownst to him, he’d suffered a fracture in his spine, as well as four herniated discs. The Sundowners were down to only nine pilots, so after a rest of two days, Schaffert was back flying. According to him, “it was 3 months before I was able to turn my head for more than one inch. Consequently, in order to check six [look behind him], etc. I had to lean forward in the seat and turn my body at the hips. Impossible to do that without unfastening the upper Koch fittings at the shoulders. So, that was added to my going feet dry check list.” An ejection seat has six attachment points: two leg restraints, two lap belts, and two fittings on the shoulder. Flying in this manner meant that Schaffert was technically strapped in the ejection seat and thus the airplane. The problem was that the shoulder attachment points were attached to his parachute in the ejection seat. If Schaffert needed to eject, he likely would have fallen to his death without a parachute.9 For the next ten minutes, Dick Schaffert dueled the MiGs to a standstill. Knowing he couldn’t turn with the MiG-17s, Schaffert fought vertically. Using his afterburner, Schaffert began a series of vertical maneuvers that drove him as high as 25,000 feet as he sought an advantageous position against the MiGs. One eight-G break turn pulled his oxygen mask off his sweat-soaked face. Alone over North Vietnam, he was now unable to call for help.
Fortunately for Schaffert, the VPAF MiGs fought as sections of two, giving the former gunnery instructor a fighting chance. Schaffert fired his second AIM-9, and although it appeared to guide, he never saw the result, as his attention was drawn to tracers streaming over his canopy. The second section had done some superb flying and was now blasting away behind him. According to Schaffert, “For a split second, I was at a loss as to what to do. If I pulled harder to try and force an overshoot, I would pull right up into the barrage of tracers sailing over my canopy.”10 Schaffert’s training and experience paid off. He unloaded his Crusader, stomping bottom rudder as he dove away, cutting off and under the MiG’s turn. The abrupt move caused his Crusader to accelerate. The move befuddled the MiG pilots, because his Crusader had seemingly vanished underneath them. Schaffert now had excess airspeed, which he used to climb back to 20,000 feet. Unable to match his climb, the MiGs broke off to the west. At this point, two MiG-21s joined the fight and launched four Atolls at Schaffert. The missiles missed, and the MiG-21 pilots appeared unwilling to join a fight that would have pitted six MiGs against a lone Crusader. Schaffert ignored the MiG-21s and continued down, using his afterburner to rapidly close the distance between himself and the MiG-17s for his third and final missile shot, which also missed. At a range of 800 feet, one of the MiGs pitched up in front of him. Schaffert squeezed the trigger for his 20 mm cannons, and, once again, fate intervened. His cannons fired one or two rounds before they jammed. The high-G maneuvering caused the pneumatic feeder system to malfunction, robbing Schaffert of a sure kill. Now he was weaponless and defensive as more tracers from the MiG leader flashed by.
Fortunately, one pair of MiGs fled, but the original section stayed and fought on. There was little Schaffert could do, since he was out of missiles, his guns were jammed, and he was unable to call on the radio. He performed yet another high-G defensive maneuver and climbed in a rolling maneuver with the MiGs. After the third series of rolling scissors (so named because it looks like a pair of scissors opening and closing), the lead MiG’s wingman pitched out of the fight. Schaffert and the last MiG remained locked in their vertical duel, and finally after their sixth maneuver, Dick Schaffert decided to escape. After topping out at 5,000 feet, he dove down in afterburner. He barely pulled out in time, leveling off below 100 feet and 500 knots. To his surprise, the MiG pilot must have run short of fuel as well, since he declined to pursue Schaffert.11 Desperately low on fuel, Schaffert turned for the gulf, having outfought six MiGs.
Chuck Nelson now found himself engaged by the MiG-17 that had pitched out of Schaffert’s battle. He too outfought the MiG pilot, providing a continuous stream of radio calls as he forced the MiG on the defensive. Having escorted the main strike feet-wet and away from other MiGs, the TARCAP turned back to help. Drawn to Chuck Nelson’s calls, VF-162’s Cdr. Cal Swanson and Lt. Dick Wyman proceeded to Nelson’s position. The other Iron Hand section was also en route. Although Rasmussen and Weichman were too late to help Schaffert, they arrived on the scene first. According to Rasmussen, “At this point, only one MiG was left, and he was hightailing it northwest at high speed and very low altitude, making high-G maneuvering turns.”12 Rasmussen misjudged his speed and overshot, giving Denis Weichman an opportunity. Despite having all his Shrikes and bombs on his Skyhawk, Weichman managed to make three gun passes, expending forty rounds of 20 mm ammunition before breaking off to give the fighters a chance.
When Swanson and Wyman arrived, the five pilots kept continuous pressure on the hapless MiG pilot. As soon as one plane came off its run, another replaced it. Wyman made one head-on pass, trading fire with the MiG. Surprised to see “the whole front end of his plane lit up when he fired,” Wyman pitched up to avoid the MiG’s cannon fire. When he rolled back into position, Swanson was making a pass on the MiG. The MiG pilot put up a good effort and quickly outturned Swanson, ending up on his tail and shooting. As Swanson and Wyman fought the MiG, Bob Rasmussen maneuvered into missile range and fired two AIM-9s, one of which narrowly missed Wyman. Rasmussen recalled the moment: “I fired my first Sidewinder and missed. It was likely out of the envelope. I fired the second moments later and it tracked but failed to detonate. At this point, there was probably more danger of friendlies running into each other than any possible danger from the MiG, who was just running for his life. There were a lot of our aircraft on the scene. Wyman fell in behind the MiG almost immediately after my second shot and brought him down. . . . Wyman just did a better job.”13
Dick Wyman finally maneuvered into position and brought down the MiG-17 with a Sidewinder that tore off two-thirds of its left wing: “The airplane just whipped into something like a violent aileron roll and exploded in the air. Red fire streaked along the left side of the plane as it cartwheeled down into a rice paddy. There was a big ball of flame when it hit. We were barely fifty feet above the ground when the dogfight ended.”14 The entire sequence was caught on film by Chuck Nelson, who by this time had settled overhead and was taking pictures with a hand-held camera. His pictures of the green-and-brown MiG-17 during the swirling 70-mile dogfight became some of the most widely circulated pictures of the air war.15
The whole engagement lasted fourteen minutes. Schaffert was still climbing on his maximum-range profile when Wyman scored his kill. Schaffert’s low fuel light was on, indicating 1,350 pounds of fuel as he flew down the Red River for Oriskany. Schaffert stated, “I probably cut it a little too close because I called the ball on Oriskany with only 200 pounds indicated. Final course was to the southeast and the Boss let me do a straight in.” He was shutting down his airplane when Swanson and Wyman came rocketing by the carrier, doing a victory roll.
Schaffert received a Distinguished Flying Cross for his extraordinary defense of Nelson during their Iron Hand mission. A total of seven AIM-9s were shot, but only Wyman’s actually worked. In true fighter pilot fashion, squadron mate Lt. Cdr. Pete Peters remarked dryly, “Damn it Dick. Four of those bastards to shoot at and you didn’t get any?”16 If U.S. missiles performed better, the score might have been higher. Dick Schaffert entered fighter pilot lore, becoming perhaps the only man to outfight six-to-one odds and live to fight another day. In the years following, Schaffert often wryly joked that his only consolation was that he got to witness Swanson and Wyman almost hit each other during their victory roll fly-by.17
The line period continued, with missions being flown despite the horrible weather. On 16 December Schaffert and his wingman, Lt. (junior grade) John Sande, were supporting a small strike led by Cdr. Bryan Compton near the same area of the previous air battle. Once again they encountered MiGs, this time two MiG-21s. The engagement proved uneventful, but Schaffert was flying the same Crusader that had served him so well two days prior. All aviators are superstitious, and Old Nick 106 had become something of a good-luck charm for Schaffert.18 Upon the conclusion of that day’s missions, Oriskany left the weather and the line period behind. Following a short stop in Cubi Point, she sailed for Hong Kong, where the crew enjoyed the holidays and a respite from the war. As with previous years, McNamara’s routine stand-down for Christmas and the New Year gave the North Vietnamese ample opportunity to move supplies south and fortify their defenses in preparation for the inevitable resumption of bombing. Reconnaissance flights showed men and matériel moving south. Admiral Sharp complained loudly, but to no avail.
Oriskany returned to the line on 31 December amid the New Year bombing pause. Their focus shifted to Steel Tiger and the interdiction of supplies in Laos, though horrendous weather hampered their efforts. On 2 January 1968 the air war resumed. Oriskany teamed with Coral Sea and Ranger to interdict supplies. They mined rivers and struck transshipment points at Vinh and Thanh Hoa, ferries at Hai Duong and Dong Phong, and the rail yards at Hung Yen. The losses resumed as pilots ventured back over North Vietnam, and VF-111’s Lt. (junior grade) Craig Taylor received a particularly rough welcome to the air wing. Taylor joined the Sundowners during the last port call and was shot down on his very first mission while escorting an RF-8. The rest of the air wing fared little better. The losses came so quickly that it seemed they were on track to repeat the heartbreak of July and October. In the first five days of the New Year, Oriskany lost five airplanes. After surviving the Hanoi power plant mission, George Schindelar survived yet another close call, ejecting during an armed reconnaissance mission. VF-162’s Lt. (junior grade) Rich Minnich was killed by a SAM north of Haiphong. VA-163’s Lt. (junior grade) Ralph “Skip” Foulks disappeared during a nighttime armed reconnaissance mission in the horrible weather. One of the few replacement pilots from early 1967 to have survived, Foulks was getting ready to celebrate his one-year wedding anniversary when they returned. He had already survived being shot down in late October, and his loss hit the Saints particularly hard.19 The tyranny of the present prevailed once again. Men didn’t believe they’d survive the two weeks until their scheduled departure, which seemed so close yet so far away.
Weather provided a reprieve from missions up north, but the pace continued as operations shifted to Laos. Lt. Cdr. Denis Weichman was hit by 23 mm AAA during a Steel Tiger mission. He was on his third pass over the target, a small bridge 10 miles north of Ban Don Pang, when he was hit. His engine began to vibrate, though he was able to fly across Laos and the southern portion of North Vietnam to the gulf. Weichman eventually lost control as fire from the damaged engine burned through control cables, forcing him to eject short of Oriskany. North Vietnamese junks moved in to capture him, although his squadron mates kept the boats at bay until an HS-6 Sea King arrived for the rescue. The helicopter, flown by Lt. Bob Wildman and Lt. (junior grade) Arne Bruflat, rescued Weichman and delivered him to Oriskany. This was the crew’s third rescue in just two days, attesting to how many airplanes were being lost during the first week of 1968.20
The loss of the legendary Deny Weichman proved to be the last combat loss of the deployment. At 6 feet, 6 inches, Weichman was a giant of a man barely capable of squeezing into the cockpit of a Skyhawk. His quick smile and superb stick and throttle skills established him as a natural leader in the air wing. After flying Skyraiders, Weichman flew as an advisor to the South Vietnamese Air Force and eventually C-123 cargo planes for Air America, dropping operatives and supplies into North Vietnam in the early years of the war.21 He eventually returned to the United States and transitioned to Skyhawks. A veteran of the 1966 Oriskany deployment, he survived the fire because he’d been flying at the time—his room was consumed by the fire. After surviving the heavy combat of 1967, Weichman went on to make aviation history, eventually flying 625 combat missions during the war. That record also resulted in him being one of the most heavily decorated aviators. By 1973, then Commander Weichman had received the Silver Star, five Distinguished Flying Crosses, forty-six Strike-Flight Air Medals, four individual Air Medals, six Navy Commendation Medals, and the Purple Heart, along with campaign and Vietnamese awards.22
Oriskany’s fifth and final line period ended on 12 January as the ship sailed for Subic Bay. That afternoon, an awards ceremony was held on the hangar deck. Men stood as four admirals commemorated the fallen and lauded the air wing’s accomplishments. In 1967 the navy had flown 77,000 sorties over North Vietnam. During 122 days of combat, Oriskany had flown over 9,500 of them, including 181 strikes into Hanoi or Haiphong. Her air wing suffered mightily as a result, losing over half their planes and almost a third of the pilots. Other air wings tauntingly referred to them as Bloody Sixteen. At the time, the survivors did not appreciate the moniker, though over the years it has become a badge of honor.
Proving he wasn’t as bad as the aviators originally suspected, Captain Holder passed word to the ready rooms that he’d allow “informal parties” in the ready rooms. The pilots got rip-roaring drunk to celebrate their survival.23 Two days later, they arrived in Subic Bay. Because Oriskany was scheduled for an overhaul, and the navy’s losses in 1967 were so bad, available jet aircraft and equipment were off-loaded at Cubi Point to help replenish carriers remaining on Yankee Station. On 17 January Oriskany sailed for Yokosuka, where some of the air wing caught a flight from Tokyo to the United States. Pilots waited apprehensively as the marine base at Khe Sanh came under siege, and then the North Koreans captured USS Pueblo (AGE-2). After surviving seven months of combat, men feared they’d be fighting North Korea in the dead of winter instead of going home. To their relief, Enterprise took station in the Sea of Japan, and Oriskany continued home. She arrived in Alameda on 31 January amid anxious families and news of the Tet Offensive tearing through South Vietnam. The war had changed drastically.
The year 1967 should be remembered as the year that might have been. Rolling Thunder nearly succeeded, despite the ineptitude shown by the Johnson administration. The Pentagon Papers put it succinctly: “It was an unhappy, contentious time in which the decibel level of the debate went up markedly but the difficult decision was not taken—it was avoided.”24 In the end, the piecemeal targeting and the on-again, off-again nature of the bombing could not stop Communist efforts—especially with the blank check given North Vietnam by the Soviets and Chinese. Johnson’s policy was costly, and the Stennis hearings did little to help. They further polarized the country and forced Johnson to expand the air war after the North Vietnamese had solidified their air defenses. By the end of 1967, the North had reached parity, and in 1968 the tables turned, with the VPAF downing more aircraft than they lost. The air battles of 1967 resulted in the heaviest action and losses of the war. Oriskany and Carrier Air Wing 16 were at the forefront each time.