Circling over the ship, I could see them, one after the other, catapulted from USS Constellation (CV-64), our new ship, and climbing toward me in the cylindrical chamber of airspace above the carrier. I was imbued with a sense of power, purpose, and responsibility that was as uplifting as it was worrisome. I had to be smooth at the controls, maintaining proper airspeed and altitude as we collected ourselves for the inbound leg to the target. Any roughness on my part would cause a domino effect throughout the formation. And I knew darn well that should my basic air work be rough, the word would get around and diminish my reputation as “a good stick.”
The rendezvous went like clockwork; I took up a northwest heading and reported, “Taproot [our call sign] departing.” A voice from the combat information center replied with the time-honored term, “Roger.” We shifted to our tactical radio frequency for the business portion of our mission.
About fifty miles from Haiphong, however, the towering mass of clouds along our course was like one huge stop sign. I verified with Constellation that there was no ingress route to Haiphong clear of clouds. The CAG read my mind.
“Better proceed to the alternate target, Bill,” he radioed. This is when I sighed guiltily, knowing we would not have to duel with the dreaded SAMs that had proliferated in the Hanoi-Haiphong area—“Indian Country”—since our last deployment. For this day, anyway.
I clicked my mike twice in agreement and began a turn toward Nam Dinh, forty-five miles south of Hanoi, and a thermal power plant within the small city, our secondary target. Forays into Indian Country always invited doom, but Nam Dinh, which is also on the huge Red River Delta, did not pose a SAM threat. Triple A, certainly, but not the rocket-driven telephone poles with devastating warheads at their tips.
Let me digress and detail events prior to my moment of truth over Nam Dinh. The last time we were on Yankee Station, the SAM threat was minimal. Our flights usually consisted of two-plane sections or four-plane divisions seeking out a designated bridge, roadway, suspected truck park, or ammo cache for targets. In the interim between then and now, the air war had intensified dramatically. Now we flew thirty-plus aircraft Alpha Strikes against key targets heavily defended by AAA, ranging from 37- to 85-millimeter guns and a growing danger of SAMs, especially around Hanoi and Haiphong.
Our squadron had left San Diego in good shape but for the terrible loss of Ensign Brown. The time-consuming burden of writing the JAG report on the accident was left to me, not to mention preparation for the all important ORI—operational-readiness inspection, a kind of final exam before we went into combat. We had experienced a manageable turnover of pilots, our Phantoms were equipped with the ARE-25 ECM gear, and we had a nice mix of combat-experienced and “new guy” personnel.
When we reached Hawaii, we worked our way through an ORI, a kind of final exam before proceeding to the combat zone. CAG Tissot, a razor-sharp officer, pilot, and veteran of the Korean War, wanted an advance look at operations on Yankee Station. Cdr. Gene Profilet, skipper of VA-196, the A-6 squadron on board the USS Constellation, often referred to as the Connie, and I were selected to accompany him. We flew from Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii via a commercial charter transport, landed at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, and motored the relatively short distance to Naval Air Station Cubi Point, located within sight of Corregidor, where many American servicemen in World War II were swept up by the Japanese and became a part of the ignominious Bataan Death March. From Cubi, which was the air side of a huge complex adjacent to Naval Station Subic Bay, a major shipyard and gathering place for Navy surface ships, we then hopped into a twin-prop C-1 Trader for the rumbling four-hour flight to Yankee Station. Yankee Station was the strategic point in the Gulf of Tonkin from which the carriers and their supporting ships operated.
We visited the carriers Kitty Hawk and Enterprise, the latter commanded by the remarkable Jim Holloway III (later admiral and chief of naval operations), affectionately referred to as “Triple Sticks,” because he was the third “James” in the family line, his father, James Holloway II, being a four-star surface officer before him. Adm. Tom Moorer was always a cool, enthusiastic, and self-confident man, and Jim Holloway is right up there with him in my estimation. He was something to observe. The crew’s morale was high on the “Big E,” and Holloway came across as a dynamic and respected leader, quick to smile and a man who clearly loved the challenge of handling a huge nuclear-powered warship, especially in wartime.
The three of us from the Connie flew “indoctrination” flights to acquire the flavor of the operations it would be our duty to execute. This was an invaluable, if further sobering, experience as we garnered information that was bound to help us get quickly acclimated to the escalating tempo of the conflict. I believed our squadron would do well despite the challenges reflected in our looking glass.
With respect to scheduling, we would alternate the midnight-to-noon, noon-to-midnight schedules with a sister carrier. Daytime was devoted mostly to the Alpha Strikes, while at night, using flares, we flew reconnaissance flights, looking for targets of opportunity along the roadways, or “sky spots,” which entailed straight and level bombing from altitude under the guidance of a forward air controllers such as A-3 Skywarriors from Electronic Countermeasures Squadron One (VQ-1). At night we primarily sought out truck movement along Highway One, the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Rolling stock made its way from north to south or south to north almost with impunity, so difficult were they to find, much less bomb. It was tough making a bomb run on a moving target at night, even if it was illuminated by the one-million candle power flares we deployed; this was a far from cost-effective method of stopping the flow of enemy supplies.
The daytime Alpha Strikes could be fraught with confusion, particularly when the ground fire sprang up from below. It was virtually impossible to maintain formation integrity with SAMs flung at us from the ground. It seemed no matter how well the “Iron Hand” jets struck the SAM sites with their Shrike and High Speed Anti-Radiation Missile (HARM) ordnance, a number of SAMs inevitably got through and wreaked havoc. To protect themselves, and still try to put bombs on target, pilots literally functioned on their own, weaving to avoid streaking SAMs and working their way back to the bomb line for a run on the target. Collectively, we were all going in the same direction, but individual tracks through the sky were often erratic. The radio chatter really stepped up as we tried to help each other out. On occasion, it was like trying to listen to a dozen radio programs simultaneously.
The first line period went well, and when the ship retired to Cubi Point for a rest and recreation, “R and R,” break, I relieved Doc Townsend as commanding officer. It was June 1967. We returned to Yankee Station and were soon in the thick of it. Despite some success with targets, I began to sense we really weren’t hurting the enemy, no matter the abundance of iron bombs we heaved at the North Vietnamese. More troubling was the way the targets were determined.
In the first place, an Alpha Strike target would seldom be assigned before 1 AM our time. Reason: it took that long for the chain of command to decide on what target to hit. What bothered the heck out of me was that we believed the decisions were being made at the White House level and that President Johnson was at times the final arbiter on what we could and couldn’t hit. Once the White House decided, the word was passed to the Pacific fleet commander, then down the line to the Constellation.
For the most part, junior officers got sufficient sleep while on Yankee Station, although we were all a bit run down from the pace of operations. For commanding officers, it was a different story, because we were the flight leaders, responsible for planning these elaborate intrusions into the breach. Sleep was at a premium for us. Twenty minute catnaps in my stateroom helped me recharge batteries. We seldom got six or more consecutive hours of slumber. But the late arrival of the target assignment, especially if we had a morning launch and a time on target (TOT) of, say 0730, meant we’d be lucky to get an hour or two in the sack before donning flight gear, getti
ng breakfast, and briefing.
It was critical that flight leaders knew the terrain they would overfly nearly by heart. Then, they had to visually sight the target and establish a proper roll-in point that was workable not only for them, but also for the rest of the entourage. The thirty-plus guys trailing the leader had a tough enough time staying in formation, particularly when jinking—changing altitude and heading to prevent enemy gunners from drawing a bead on their aircraft—not to mention avoiding collisions with shipmates. Wingmen simply could not shift their scans from outside the cockpit to within to check a navigational chart. They relied on the flight leader to get them to the roll-in point. The leadership and tactical guidance imparted to the wingmen was critical to life and limb. I had led several flights up to this time.
In my case, I never spent less than thirty minutes focusing just on the target and its immediate environs. I wanted to know every nook and cranny of the landscape surrounding the target. Where were the SAM sites? Where would the sun be at our TOT? What egress route was best? On top of this, were all the other elements of concern: quickly rendezvousing thirty or more airplanes, ensuring the combat air patrol was positioned properly, rolling in as precisely as possible at our TOT, knowing emergency procedures, and so on.
Even more infuriating—and this has been hashed and rehashed since the debacle of Vietnam—was the list of targets that were verboten, that is, off limits, for us. For example, we could strike a storage area like the transshipment points, but not the piers where Chinese or Russian ships delivered the war cargo that was transferred to these points. The powers that be didn’t want to antagonize the Russians or the Chinese. A singular exacerbating issue was the fact that we could not mine Haiphong Harbor. What a difference that would have made in shortening the war. Simply put, we could have interdicted the Communists’ primary source of war materiel.
One day, one of our young RIOs, Jim Falvey, asked for a private chat with me. He was feeling the pressure of combat early in the deployment and was progressively having second thoughts about continuing to fly. I had had several long talks with him, hearing him out and encouraging him as best I could. On this day, Jim seemed especially down.
We were in my stateroom when Jim nervously proclaimed, “I’m seriously considering turning in my wings.” The tone of the statement indicated to me he had not fully made up his mind but was teetering on the edge. He was driven to the precipice by fear coupled with the sense we were in an unwinnable conflict. Once you’ve slipped through a sky full of SAMs and popcorn clouds of AAA and got away with it, you wouldn’t be human if you weren’t scared. It was natural to believe that one of those missiles or rounds might have your name on it.
“You’re experiencing what we all do at one time or another,” I told him. “It’s natural and nothing to be ashamed of.” These mundane words certainly didn’t persuade him to change his mind. But the fact I spent time talking to him made a difference, and he changed his mind about unpinning his wings.
In fact, Jim stuck with it, and years later, when I got out of prison, he was one of the first to look me up. “God,” he said, “I thank you for giving me the strength to keep going and hang in there during combat. If I’d pulled myself out and quit I’d never, ever have felt the same about myself as I do now.”
Our Phantoms were in good shape. The maintenance personnel outdid themselves in getting our electronics equipment up to speed and operating consistently well. They were the manifestation of what the American sailor can do when you put him (and nowadays, her) on a carrier, with no place else to go, working twelve hours or more a day. Fortunately, our troops were motivated regardless of the grinding schedule. They were acutely aware of the direct relationship between their maintenance of the airplanes and our safety when flying them. The F-4, to be sure, was proving itself a durable, workhorse warplane, capable of flying cover against enemy fighters or unleashing sizeable bomb loads on ground targets.
As great an airplane as it was, with fully loaded external tanks the Phantom had a dangerous tendency to pitch up nose high on catapult shots. The position of the tanks on the swept wings moved the aircraft’s center of gravity slightly aft. The effect of the center of gravity exacerbated the nose up attitude. A few of our pilots tended to overrotate when fired into the air, and this portended disaster if forward, or nose-down stick wasn’t immediately applied. They would hold onto the stick and pull too far back once airborne, particularly at night.
Most of us made hands-off catapult shots. That is, we did not have our right hand on the control column during launches but would grasp the stick once airborne. In effect, the airplane was better at taking off on its own, at least in the immediate early stages of the takeoff, if you set the trim properly. I prepositioned my hand behind the stick and, once catapulted, used the attitude gyro to track movement of the F-4’s nose as it rose. When it reached the proper position on the gyrohorizon, I grasped the stick and took control from there. This procedure was particularly helpful at night, when carrier flying calls for extra concentration.
Just like any other aircraft, the Phantom was vulnerable, to AAA or SAMs, as I found out the hard way on the day we diverted from our primary target in Haiphong to the alternate in Nam Dinh, twenty miles inland from the Gulf. We paralleled the coast, staying out of the SAM envelope until reaching a point abeam of Nam Dinh, where I turned west and began a descent. I felt pretty good, although I’d had only two hours sleep. The weather was clear, and I sighted several of the landmarks I’d studied the night before. Because this was a delta region, the landscape was checkered with flat, green, rectangular or square rice paddies, bordered by brown, nearly orange-colored berms that allowed access to the paddies.
The target was a cinderblock structure with a tall smoke stack, indicative of the coal-fired power plant within. Our plan was to roll in from ten thousand feet at five hundred knots, execute the attack, and egress rapidly eastward, getting back over the relative sanctuary of the sea.
“This is Taproot lead, approaching target,” I radioed to the formation. “Check your [armament] switches.” There was no AAA yet. We gathered speed rapidly, and I felt my Phantom gripped by the compressibility effect of fast-moving air over the airframe. I was at five hundred knots, nearing ten thousand feet and five seconds from my planned roll-in point, when I was enveloped by flak—lethal steel and smoke blossoming all around me.
I felt a jolt to my airframe. My immediate wingman, Tom Rodger, transmitted, “Hey, skipper, I think you’ve been hit!”
I felt like saying, “Tell me something I don’t know.” Still, the Phantom seemed to be flying. At the roll-in point, the hydraulic pressure warning lights illuminated. But the controls felt normal. I made a snap decision not to pull myself out of the flight and head back to the ocean. I believed I could complete the bomb run.
I rolled the F-4 onto its back, pulled the nose through, leveled the wings, and settled into the run. Out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t help but note the red warning lights on the instrument panel. It appeared both my primary and secondary flight control systems were damaged. On the way down, the Phantom started to feel mushy—unresponsive to my control inputs. I was able to get my gunsight pipper on the plant and released the CBUs.
Then real trouble began. I was headed directly toward the ground, and using all available strength, I could barely get the nose to come back up. Somehow I managed a slight climb and got to ten thousand feet, headed for the water, the Phantom streaming smoke. Hydraulic pressure was now zero.
I went into a very flat spin. The F-4 wallowed clumsily as it swung around and around. I had no more influence on the controls and became a passenger rather than a driver. The engines were still working, and I tried using alternate afterburner to stop the spin, but this didn’t work. Plummeting through three thousand feet, I knew the Phantom was doomed.
“Eject, Jim!” I ordered. He responded immediately. There was a startling pyrotechnic charge behind me, as Jim was fired up the rails of his ejection seat int
o the bright blue sky. At eighteen hundred feet I pulled the lower ejection seat handle and punched myself out. Our equipment worked as advertised, and our parachutes blossomed nicely.
I grasped my handheld, walkie-talkie-type radio, secured to my survival vest via Velcro, yanked it up to my lips, and reported, “Taproot lead has a good chute. I’m OK.” It was critical that I let the flight know I survived the ejection. I saw Jim’s chute, and he appeared OK as well. Even though I was still floating in the sky, I could almost feel the earth quake as our Phantom smashed into the ground in a ball of yellow-red fire fringed in black.
I was thankful to be alive, but knew I would not be able to exercise any escape and evasion skills this day, because unfriendly people were waiting for me, and there was no place to hide on the pool table-flat terrain of the delta. I was about to become a prisoner of war.
Chapter Thirteen
INCARCERATION
“You are an air pirate!” he declared vehemently. “You are not a prisoner of war. The Geneva Convention does not apply to you.”
I LANDED THIGH-DEEP SMACK in the middle of a rice paddy. As I struggled to untangle myself from the parachute’s shroud lines, I saw a man in khaki militia garb standing on the adjacent berm, brandishing a rifle at me. The rifle looked like one Sergeant York might have used in World War I. The man was thirtyish and had a look of uncertainly in his eyes, but his finger was on the trigger, and I had no doubt he would pull it if I made any threatening gestures. I had no chance of escape, a reality that sunk in even as I descended in the chute. I stood there in the mud hardly able to move.
The transition from the relatively comfortable confines of the Phantom’s cockpit to the wide open, if alien, countryside with a gun pointed at me was so extreme it seemed surreal. My heart was beating like a trip-hammer. At the moment, the only thing I had going for me was that I had not been hurt during the ejection.
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