Boyd

by Robert Coram

  While 1967 was a dismal year for the Air Force, it was also the year that two of Boyd’s former students from the Fighter Weapons School at Nellis proved that while America might not have superior aircraft, it had superior pilots.

  When old fighter pilots gather to retell the stories of their glory days, they sometimes forget who declared mechanical problems and aborted the mission, and they sometimes forget who led the great missions, and they sometimes make themselves gunfighters when they were actually wingmen. But in every war there are bigger-than-life men whose exploits are so far beyond what most mortals can accomplish that they are in a separate category. Merely to fly with such men is enough glory for most pilots. Every maneuver and every detail of certain missions flown by these men are told and retold, are taught to young pilots, and are held out as the pinnacle of what a fighter pilot can accomplish.

  Two of Boyd’s former FWS students, Everett “Razz” Raspberry and Ron Catton, wrote their names large in the history of aerial combat in 1967. For different reasons, both became legends in the fighter-pilot community. And for as long as old fighter pilots gather to tell and retell the stories of the long-ago days when they strapped on jet aircraft to do battle in the heavens, they will talk of what Razz and Catton did that year.

  It is the way of fighter pilots that Razz and Catton rarely talk of the events of 1967. But when they do, they always talk of Boyd’s influence on what happened. Razz was first. He found glory on what would be the most celebrated date of the Vietnam War for the Air Force: January 2, 1967—the day of Mission Bolo.

  At the time, the North Vietnamese Air Force was shredding the ranks of F-105 drivers. So many F-105s were shot down along a mountain range near Hanoi that the pilots called it “Thud Ridge.” The North Vietnamese knew the refueling corridors flown by Thuds, the electronic signatures, radio frequencies, and the peculiar idiom of Thud drivers. Most of all they knew how vulnerable the heavily laden Thuds were as they approached the target. But again and again the Thuds went up North loaded with bombs, sluggish, barely maneuverable, and found MiGs waiting.

  The legendary Robin Olds, commander of the “Wolfpack”—the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing at Ubon, Thailand—grew weary with the F-105 mortality rate and came up with the plan for Mission Bolo. Like most great battle plans, it was simple in the extreme: his F-4s would pretend to be F-105s. Their target (via the heart of the infamous Route Pack VI, the deadliest collection of AAA, missiles, and enemy fighters the world has ever known) was the North Vietnamese air base at Phuc Yen. They would fly the same refueling tracks flown by Thuds, use the radio frequencies, automobile call signs, and even the specialized lingo of Thud drivers. They would attach electronic countermeasure pods to the F-4s so they could send out an electronic signature like that of the Thud. And if the gods of war smiled upon them, MiG pilots would be waiting. But instead of finding F-105s wallowing around trying to escape, they would confront Phantom drivers anxious for payback.

  It was a bold plan. It was also dangerous. Except for the element of surprise, much of the advantage seemed to be with the MiGs, which were so nimble that in a turning fight they could eat an F-4 for lunch. MiG drivers were highly experienced pilots who fought year after year and were not rotated home after one hundred missions as were Air Force pilots. In addition, most of the Air Force pilots being assigned to Vietnam had been trained under SAC doctrine of intercepting enemy bombers and delivering nuclear weapons. Their rat-racing skills left much to be desired. To make this situation worse, transport pilots and SAC pilots were being assigned to Vietnam to get their tickets punched—to fly the one hundred missions and go home as combat veterans. They often had little time in fighters.

  Razz was in the 555th Fighter Squadron, the Triple Nickel. Because he was an FWS graduate, it was his job to teach tactics and train the pilots throughout the wing. The F-4C had no guns and the missiles were virtually useless. In fact, of all the tactical weapons employed in Vietnam, air-to-air missiles ranked among the most disappointing. Sparrow missiles performed so poorly they were considered little more than extra weight; more than one pilot punched them off his aircraft as soon as he was away from his home base. And the AIM-9 had such a narrow launch envelope—no more than two positive Gs or one negative G—that it was useless in a turning fight.

  Razz had his work cut out. The success of Mission Bolo depended in large part on him. Then he remembered the maneuver John Boyd taught at the FWS, the one that had so astonished him with its elegant simplicity: the roll to the outside in order to gain the tactical advantage. It was a maneuver contrary to everything a fighter pilot thought he knew about aerial combat, but a maneuver that put a pilot tight in on his adversary’s six, well within the narrow missile-launching limitations. Razz briefed more than sixty pilots in the wing. And after every mission up North, he had pilots practice the maneuver on the way back to Ubon. Again and again they practiced.

  Then came January 2.

  Razz was to lead Ford Flight. But Chappie James, vice commander of the wing, came to him the night before and said, “Razz, I got good news and I got bad news. The bad news is I’m taking over the lead of Ford Flight. The good news is you’ll be flying my wing.”

  “Oh, shit,” Razz thought.

  Razz had been up North many times. But it seemed that every time Chappie James headed toward Route Pack VI, the vice commander developed mechanical problems and had to return to base.

  Razz took off and checked his eight missiles. Seven indicated malfunctions. Only one came on-line and he selected it to fire first. Ford Flight entered Route Pack VI at 17,000 feet, the altitude used by F-105s and an altitude that, coincidentally, gave the F-4s an abundance of energy. The flight crossed the Black River and flight lead radioed, “Green ’em up”—the command given by a Thud leader that told his pilots to set their switches for bomb delivery.

  North Vietnamese radar operators observed and heard. MiGs were vectored to the six of every flight approaching Phuc Yen. Chappie James was Ford 1 and Razz was Ford 2. Ford 3 and 4 were far out of position, several miles off to the right. Razz and Chappie James were alone when Razz saw a MiG maneuvering to attack James.

  “Ford lead, break right,” Razz radioed.

  Chappie James motored on.

  The MiG was almost in position.

  Maybe Chappie James had forgotten his call sign.

  “Chappie, break right!”

  Chappie James motored on, wings level.

  Razz did what wingmen are trained to do: he protected his leader. He moved between James and the MiG and rocked up on a wingtip to clear before engaging. The MiG pilot did the same. Razz and the MiG pilot were canopy to canopy, pulling heavy Gs, spiraling down and then up, maneuvering to get on the other’s six. The MiG pilot was good, but he was rat-racing with the man who invented the Raspberry Roll and he never had a chance. Razz gained the advantage. The MiG pilot went for separation and pulled heavy Gs. Razz rolled to the outside and came down on the MiG’s six. The MiG pilot reversed his turn, a fatal mistake. Razz unloaded his Gs, got a strong aural tone, and squeezed the trigger. As the missile left the rails, the sun glinted off the MiG cockpit and the missile went straight toward the light. It exploded in the cockpit and Razz had his first MiG.

  Wolfpack pilots shot down seven MiGs that day, plus two probables (MiGs that disappeared into an overcast with missiles tracking strong and true). January 2, 1967, was the greatest day the Air Force had during the Vietnam War. Bolo went into the history books. But what Razz remembers is that six of the seven kills that day were done by pilots who used John Boyd’s outside roll at some point in the engagement. Razz says Boyd was the father of that great victory as surely as if he had led the mission.

  Back in the Pentagon, where Boyd’s office kept close track of aerial engagements in Vietnam, there was rejoicing. Fighter pilots throughout the Building quickly learned the details of the engagement and were amazed at the roll-to-the-outside maneuver. Boyd prowled the halls telling one and all that “Razz is a great fight
er pilot. He was one of my best students at the Fighter Weapons School. We used to do the E-M briefing together.”

  A few months later Razz got into a screaming low-level chase up near Thud Ridge, hanging tight on the six of a MiG. The MiG was at 300 feet and Razz was below the MiG when he fired his AIM-7 into the tailpipe. That kill put Razz into the record books: during the long air war in North Vietnam, no other Air Force pilot had a missile kill from a lower altitude.

  Boyd, perhaps because he had given up his dream of being an ace, got a vicarious kick from the exploits of former students. “Yeah, Razz was up there not too far from the Chinese border,” he told people in his office. “I bet our guys are sneaking across the border the way we did in Korea.” Boyd beamed with pride. “If that MiG was only at 300 feet, Razz must have been down in the weeds when he launched.” He paused. “Goddamn F-4 is a Navy airplane; it’s not a fighter. They give us shit for airplanes and we win anyway.”

  Ron Catton came to Ubon a few weeks after Bolo. He was a flight leader in the 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadron, “Satan’s Angels.” He soon had fifty-five missions in Route Pack VI, at that time more than any other Air Force pilot in a single combat tour. Usually, once a pilot flew ninety missions, his last ten missions before rotating to another assignment were in the relatively safe skies of the southern Route Packages. But Catton had come to fly and fight.

  Once, Catton was leading a flight of four F-4s on what was supposed to be a routine bombing mission in Laos. A forward air controller radioed that he had discovered what he believed to be an enormous training area for enemy troops. Catton’s flight was diverted to bomb the area. Catton’s arrival over the target area elicited a virtual blanket of 57-millimeter flak, a phenomenon rarely seen in Laos and an indication that the forward air controller was correct in his assessment of what he had found.

  Air Force policy was clear about how pilots dealt with heavily defended areas in North Vietnam and Laos. They were to descend no lower than 7,500 feet, make one bomb run, and then depart. “Shoot and scoot,” the Air Force termed it. Pilots referred to it as “One pass, haul ass.” That day Catton changed the policy. He ordered multiple low-altitude attacks. His flight was so low that all the pilots were taking ground fire as well as flak. It was the proverbial hornet’s nest. Catton set his pilots up in a wagon wheel over the target. Each aircraft made several passes through an air-defense system almost as intense as that in Route Pack VI. One of the F-4s was always rolling in hot, switches set to pickle off a pair of 750-pound bombs. The target was smoking when Catton’s flight departed.

  The next day a team of Special Forces soldiers went in to assess the battle damage. They estimated that more than nine hundred enemy soldiers had been killed. The pilot who a few years earlier had been famous for puking on the floor of the police station in North Las Vegas and for almost being tossed out of the FWS proved once again what he was made of. Major Ron Catton was awarded a Silver Star for that day’s work.

  Catton was one of the Air Force’s golden boys. His record at the FWS and during a tour with the Thunderbirds had been extraordinary. Now he had topped it off with a significant combat decoration. Catton was on his way to becoming a general. Near the end of his tour, he was nominated for another Silver Star because of his record number of missions into Route Pack VI. After six more missions, he would be reassigned as an instructor pilot to the FWS, where his combat experience would be invaluable to students. Then came his ninety-fourth mission, the day he commanded a force of fighters in Route Pack VI. His job was to protect the Thuds. The MiGs rose up from several locations and threatened the strike package. Catton recognized the feints and refused to be lured away from the Thuds. He recognized the main thrusts of the attack and deployed his F-4s against them. It was a masterful orchestration of pilots and aircraft performed by a master of battle. Every Thud put its bombs on the target that day. Every Thud returned home. It was a grand and glorious day for Catton and his men. Coming home Catton decided to celebrate with formation victory rolls. Two F-4s collided and the crews bailed out.

  Usually a combat leader would face a court-martial for losing two aircraft in this fashion. Catton had been away for several days before the mission, and while he was gone the commander issued new operating procedures forbidding victory rolls. But the sergeant major had not posted the new rules on Catton’s squadron bulletin board, so Catton was not brought before a court-martial. But the Air Force withdrew the second Silver Star, and the prized Nellis assignment was cancelled. A man who lost two F-4s is a poor example to students. Catton was ordered to the Pentagon, where sober and responsible senior officers could keep an eye on him.

  He reported for duty in December 1967. When he walked into the personnel office, an elderly woman, a civilian who had worked there for dozens of years, smiled at him and said, “You are Major Ron Catton? I’ve been dying to meet you.” Catton looked at her in bewilderment.

  “In all the time I’ve been here I’ve never had an officer report in who was on the control roster.”

  The “control roster” was a way the military had to keep track of problem children. It meant Catton could not be considered for promotion during the next year and that he would have more frequent ERs. Someone would always be looking over his shoulder. He called Boyd and the two men met in a cafeteria. Boyd was feeling particularly proud because a few weeks earlier he finally had been promoted to lieutenant colonel. Shiny silver oak leaves adorned his collar.

  Catton congratulated Boyd on his promotion and said, “Sir, I’ve got a problem.”

  Boyd clapped Catton on the shoulder and smiled. “So I hear. Don’t worry, Tiger. You’ve been there before. You’ll come out from under it.”

  Once again Boyd was right in his assessment of Catton.

  During the summer of 1967, the Soviets introduced two new fighters: the swing-wing MiG-23 and the MiG-25. American fighter pilots laughed at the MiG-23 and said the only good thing about the F-111 was that the Soviets had copied it and thereby lost at least one generation of aircraft to bad technology. But the Air Force inflated the MiG-25 into a serious threat. Word leaked out that the aircraft could reach Mach 2.8 and altitudes far above the ceiling of the F-X. What the Air Force did not reveal was that if the MiG-25 reached Mach 2.8 it immediately had to land because the fuel was exhausted and the engine had to be replaced. Nevertheless, the “threat” of the MiG-25 meant the F-X suddenly had a much greater priority.

  But a fundamental decision about the F-X had not been resolved. Boyd insisted that the aircraft be armed with guns as well as missiles, but the Air Force said this was the age of missiles, that guns were a backward step, and that the F-X should have only missiles.

  The guns versus missiles argument is one of the most emotional arguments in the Air Force. It is utterly incomprehensible to non-pilots, most of whom probably think missiles are the best possible armament for a fighter. The rules of engagement in Vietnam, combined with poor-performing missiles, had shown what happened when fighter aircraft had no guns. The rules dictated that a U.S. pilot visually identify an enemy aircraft before firing a missile. But the minimum missile-launch range was far greater than the range at which an aircraft could be identified as friend or foe. That meant the pilot had to get in close, identify the enemy, then back off far enough to launch his missiles. Missiles could be evaded by the simplest of countermeasures. There was no countermeasure for a gun. Signs began showing up on the walls in the Pentagon: “It takes a fighter with a gun to kill a MiG-21.”

  Nevertheless, while it defies all logic, high-ranking Air Force officers ignored the lessons of history. After World War II, the Air Force said dogfights were a thing of the past. In the 1950s, Air Force generals said Korea was the last hurrah for the gunfighter. Then came Vietnam, which was supposed to be a push-button war that made dogfights obsolete. But Vietnam proved Boyd had been right about serious inadequacies in the new missiles. America needed a fighter with guns.

  Then in the fall of 1967 there came to the Building
one Mordecai Hod, head of the Israeli Air Force (IAF). He came to buy F-4 Phantoms. And he came wearing the aura of a man who was an icon in the fighter-pilot community. Under his leadership the IAF had done three things that got the attention of the U.S. Air Force. First, in the Six Day War of June, the Israeli Air Force shot down sixty Arab jets while losing only ten fighters—an exchange ratio of six to one. Second, every Israeli kill was a gun kill. And third, the Israelis—as the name of the war indicates—had moved quickly, decisively, and thoroughly at a time when the Americans had been at war in Vietnam for several years, and the war was escalating with no end in sight.

  There was still another unspoken issue, a very big issue. Behind the issue were two assumptions: first, that Arab pilots and North Vietnamese pilots operated at roughly the same skill level. Second, that U.S. and Israeli pilots operated at roughly the same skill level. So how did the IAF achieve a six-to-one kill ratio against the Arabs while the Air Force was operating at near parity against the North Vietnamese?

  The foundation for this line of reasoning was flawed in that years of combat made the North Vietnamese much better pilots than the Arabs. Nevertheless, either the Air Force was not nearly as good as it liked to believe or the Israelis were far better than the Air Force wanted to believe. A convocation of senior Air Force officers gathered to hear Hod deliver a classified briefing about the Six Day War. When he had finished, a fighter pilot stood up and asked how the IAF got sixty gun kills.

  Hod paused, shrugged, and said, “Why waste a missile on an Arab?”