The point McNamara apparently failed to grasp was that the war wasn’t a limited one for the North Vietnamese Communists, who were engaged in total war. The gunners defending the Dragon’s Jaw also had no illusions: they would fight until they died at their guns or American planes stopped coming.
CHAPTER 8
THEY NEEDED A BIGGER BANG
If any naval aviation leader was loved by his men, it was Commander James “Jim” Stockdale. A stocky, wavy-haired, forty-one-year-old Midwesterner with bright blue eyes, he was equal parts philosopher and warrior. He had graduated from Annapolis in 1946, a year early, in the top one-sixth of his class. A former test pilot, Stockdale got a master’s degree in international relations from Stanford, with a concentration in Marxist thought. A more thorough education for a leader in the Vietnam War is difficult to imagine.
Oriskany’s CAG Stockdale led from the front. Sailors said that occasionally he stalked the flight deck before a launch, looking for an airplane with an ordnance load-out that appealed to him. He might jerk a thumb at the pilot in a “get out” gesture and take his place. True or not, the story fits his reputation.
That attitude—part personal, part professional—became evident in gallows humor typical of combat airmen since the Great War. Adding an addendum to the growing JCS list of restrictions on where and how bombing could be performed, an irreverent Oriskany junior officer posted the following: “Rule: Buy your way into the squadron duty officer watch and stay aboard ship. Money is no object!”1
Whatever the Dragon’s Jaw contributed to ready-room guffaws, it nonetheless remained all too real. Commander Wynn Foster of VA-163 aboard Oriskany recalled, “The degree of antiaircraft protection given the Thanh Hoa Bridge reflected both its strategic value and North Vietnam’s pride of accomplishment. Air Wing Sixteen [aboard Oriskany] flew Alpha strikes against the bridge in July and August [1965] but neither was successful. Other air wings were pounding the bridge and failed as well. The Thanh Hoa Bridge thus became a challenge to us as periodic reports of its destruction proved false. Its alleged indestructibility gave birth to tongue-in-cheek theories. The bridge was the hinge holding the world together, and God would not allow its destruction. Or less theistically, the bridge was simply an illusion, done with mirrors.”2
One of Stockdale’s senior attack pilots was then-Lieutenant Commander Thomas F. Brown, who recalled, “I flew with him [CAG] quite a bit, and often he would show up as my number four, having swapped with the original guy. We had some fun! One day in 1965 I was briefing for a road-recce, and in came CAG Stockdale with an idea. He said, ‘Let’s put together a mini-Alpha strike and go bomb the Thanh Hoa Bridge during the next cycle. I have directed them to put bombs on my two F-8s.’ And so we did it—six A-4s and two F-8s… no flak suppressors.
“The weather was good, and we gave it a good shot. My wingman and I had a great run at the bridge, but there was a tad more wind than I planned for, and our bombs missed by about 100 to 150 feet. We really got hosed down with AAA but sustained no damage to any of our aircraft. That was the only time I went against the bridge, but our air wing often used it as a bad weather alternate target.”3
The Oriskany CVW-16 team was a guild of tailhook warriors determined to accomplish the mission, and screw the rules. One of the squadrons aboard was VMF(AW)-212 flying F-8s, one of few Marine units deployed to carriers off Vietnam. After the air wing had been losing a plane a week in the Thanh Hoa area, the Marines’ executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Edward Rutty, suggested that the bridge might be destroyed with heavier ordnance. The F-8E Crusader could carry two one-ton bombs on hard points under the wings, and Rutty thought that the extra explosive weight might do the trick. Although the A-4s could carry one one-ton bomb, that load sacrificed their combat potential.
Rutty did his homework. When he raised the prospect with Stockdale, the Marine presented his plan for loading, arming, and dropping Mark 84s from Crusaders. It was part innovation, part heresy because F-8 pilots prided themselves on their air combat skills as “the last of the gunfighters.”
But Stockdale was receptive to the suggestion, an idea that had never before been attempted. It was easy to see why: with full fuel and two tons of external ordnance aboard, F-8s could not reliably get airborne from the O-Boat’s catapults. The solution: launch the fighters with partial fuel loads and top them off from airborne tankers.4
Jim Stockdale liked the idea a lot. He took the proposal to the ship’s skipper, Captain Bartholomew J. Connolly. It would have been easy for Connolly to say no. The procedure suggested was experimental, and by rights the naval aviation and weapons bureaucratic fiefdoms should have studied it—a process that could take months or even years to be approved, if it was approved at all. But Bart Connolly was an unconventional officer. An Annapolis man four years senior to Stockdale, he had earned a Navy Cross as a PT boat skipper in World War II and won his gold wings in 1947. The two Annapolis grads talked Rutty’s idea over and decided to give it a try after some tests. As Stockdale recalled, “Once we agreed it was practical, he said to go with it. Without mentioning it, we both agreed to let Washington go to hell.”5
The O-Boat was tasked to hit the bridge again on September 9, a maximum-effort Alpha strike. Stockdale had thirty-two A-4E Skyhawks and F-8E Crusaders as bombers, supported by eight escorting Crusaders plus four A-3B aerial tankers and an electronic jamming aircraft. Two RF-8A photo planes were assigned to get pre- and poststrike “imagery”—photographs.
As launch time approached, the aircrews were strapped into their cockpits, awaiting word from the weather scout. The 10:30 launch time came and went. Pilots closed their canopies to escape pelting rain. Finally the weather recce pilot reported that in his opinion conditions were acceptable over the target. The rear admiral commanding the task force gave the “go” signal.
Engines were started and the bomb-laden planes were taxied carefully to the catapults, which began slamming them into the moist Tonkin Gulf sky. The pilots formed into four-plane divisions circling the ship.
At 11:00 Stockdale had his squadrons formed up, ready to head outbound, when the weather pilot called again. The bridge was “zero-zero,” with no ceiling or visibility that would permit an attack. Reluctantly Stockdale radioed his division leaders to proceed to their secondary targets, mostly along the coast.
Stockdale’s wingman was Commander Wynn Foster, executive officer of VA-163. A Korean War veteran, Foster was as nautically blue-blooded as they came: he traced his lineage to a Mayflower ancestor.
The two Skyhawks flew to a point south of the Thanh Hoa Bridge, expecting to hear from Foster’s skipper, Commander Harry Jenkins, who was looking for a SAM site. The backup plan was that if “Old Salt One” found the site, he would call Stockdale and Foster to join in the attack. But as the fuel gauge needles dropped toward the “bingo” point, requiring return to the ship or a tanker, no word came. Stockdale and Foster had enough fuel to hit a secondary target if they could find it and then return to the ship with a minimum reserve.
Flying low at three hundred knots, the attack pilots noted an offshore checkpoint and abruptly turned to their run-in heading for the secondary objective—a camouflaged facility next to a railroad track about fifteen miles south of Thanh Hoa.
As the scooters neared the target Foster shot a glance northward. There was the Dragon’s Jaw, visible in the thinning fog and mist beneath a four-thousand-foot ceiling. He marked it as yet another lost opportunity in an increasingly lengthy war.
Then it was all business as both pilots double-checked their armament switches. Stockdale turned south, following the railroad. As he approached the target, Foster lagged about a mile behind to avoid the leader’s bomb blast. CAG’s ordnance rippled across the target area, spewing debris and tree branches.
In his dive Foster glimpsed a row of obscure objects covered by tarpaulins. He put the pipper in his bombsight on the area. “My pipper slid smoothly to the near rear of the row and I pressed the pickle four times in
quick succession, walking my bombs two at a time along the length of the target.”6
Pulling up from his attack, Foster looked for his leader. There he was, three thousand feet high, a delta shape against the overcast—with black-brown splotches erupting around him.
The antiaircraft gunners had the range.
Stockdale keyed his mike: “Uh, Old Salt 353. Mayday!”
His A-4 was mortally wounded. The nose dropped as the little bomber plunged toward Vietnam. Foster’s pulse spiked, and he shouted into the mike in his oxygen mask, “Pull up, CAG! Eject! Eject!”
Jim Stockdale pulled the black-and-yellow striped handle, sending his canopy spinning into space and firing the rocket under his seat. He separated from the seat, felt his parachute deploy, and was abruptly jerked upright as the chute opened. As he fell toward the earth he thought, “Four years. At least four years.”7
Four years was a far-too-optimistic prediction. Stockdale was a prisoner of the North Vietnamese for almost eight years.
A Ticonderoga A-4 squadron commander who had gone to Test Pilot School with Stockdale said, “Jim will do all right. He’s the toughest guy I know.”8
The North Vietnamese AAA defenses were getting some kills, but not anywhere near enough for the propaganda ministry. So they made some up. Like this one from the History of the 228th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Regiment, as translated by Merle Pribbenow:
In December 1965 North Vietnam’s 228th Anti-Aircraft Artillery Regiment conducted an integrated radar and artillery engagement against an American electronic warfare aircraft using winter weather to advantage. It was identified as a Douglas AD-5 but the 1965 designation was EA-1E or F.
The 228th’s Second Battery reported heavy frequency-band jamming, indicating coverage for an inbound air strike. Since heavy jamming usually precluded firing a Shrike anti-radar missile, the command post directed continued tracking, especially low-altitude ingress routes.
Both radar operators turned their antenna to the designated quadrant. When the jamming abated they were able to break out a target return signal, which came and went. Because they could no longer track the target in automatic mode, the Vietnamese shifted to manual tracking.
The most experienced radar operator, Duong Van Le, reacquired the jamming aircraft. When it drew within effective range, the Second Battery Commander ordered a prolonged burst on the target vector, firing tracers. Other batteries opened barrage fire on that visual cue, producing a claim for a kill. The wreckage reportedly was found on the outskirts of Tu Quang hamlet, entered as the fifty-third U.S. aircraft downed over Ham Rong.
The unit history concluded, “This was a model battle fought by the regiment that displayed unique aspects of exploiting our radar fire-control system.”9
No comparable US loss has been found for December 5 or that time frame.
The carrier phase of the war continued. By November Oriskany was operating with her sister Essex-class ships Ticonderoga, the “Tico,” and Bon Homme Richard, the “Bonnie Dick,” plus the world’s first nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, the USS Enterprise, the “Big E,” and the Forrestal-class carrier, the USS Kitty Hawk, the “Hawk.”
Thus, Task Force 77’s five active carriers owned eleven A-4 squadrons, Kitty Hawk’s A-6 squadron, plus four squadrons equipped with A-1s, a total of sixteen attack squadrons. Although each carrier embarked an A-3 Skywarrior detachment, increasingly the large, seventy-six-foot-long “Whale” was devoted to the vital task of airborne tanking. The four prop-driven A-1 Skyraider outfits on the small decks seldom ranged far inland, owing to their slow speed. Moreover, that huge four-bladed propeller made a magnificent radar reflector. “Spads” were best employed on close air support, coastal hunts, and rescue missions.
With a dozen jet attack squadrons available, the carriers launched strikes day after day against targets in North Vietnam. The targeting wizards in Washington wanted everything hit all at once, and even a dozen jet attack squadrons weren’t enough.
Missions were scheduled willy-nilly against the bridge when weather allowed. The carriers sent two or four planes on two dozen small daytime missions throughout May of 1966. Often the bridge was a secondary target when the primaries were weather-bound. The total effort—only sixty-five sorties—amounted to merely 128 tons of ordnance and achieved nothing worthwhile. A four-plane division dropping free-fall bombs simply could not put enough ordnance on this hard target to do more than harass the Vietnamese, who were now experts in bridge repair.10
Meanwhile the Americans were busy dividing up the responsibility for the bombing campaign against North Vietnam among the various services and commands. In November 1965 the Pacific Command commander-in-chief, Admiral US Grant Sharp Jr., divided North Vietnam into “route packages,” or areas of responsibility for the Navy and Air Force. Numbered with Roman numerals I through VI, the “route packs” were further subdivided as the war progressed. Tellingly, as dictated by the micromanagers in Washington who were thoroughly frightened of the possibility of Chinese intervention, restricted zones were set in concrete. The area within thirty nautical miles of Hanoi and ten miles from the center of Haiphong were off limits as too politically sensitive to be bombed. Additionally, a twenty-five-mile buffer zone ran along the North Vietnamese/Chinese border. Although we have previously mentioned this restriction, one cannot understand the insanity of the air war over North Vietnam unless one realizes that these off-limits areas were sanctuaries for MiGs, within which and from which they could operate with impunity. Until they flew out of the sanctuary area, MiGs were safe from US fighter attack.
At the end of 1965, after seven months of on-again, off-again bombing, the Dragon’s Jaw still stood in place across the Ma River near Thanh Hoa. Though now a blackened, warped structure standing in a cratered landscape that resembled the surface of the moon, it remained semifunctional. The concrete roadways on either side of the railroad track were obliterated, leaving an impossibly narrow target, a sixteen-foot-wide railway.
Conventional 500-, 750-, and 1,000-pound bombs clearly were insufficient to drop the bridge. American ordnance analysts examined the recon photos and other evidence and drew the obvious conclusion: they needed a bigger bang. One-ton- to 3,000-pound weapons were needed to slay the dragon, and aviators needed a means of placing those bigger bombs with greater precision. Reports were written, endorsed with comments by admirals and generals, and sent up the chain of command. Back in the States the bureaucratic wheels began to turn.
The increased pace of air operations over North and South Vietnam had effects throughout the Navy and Air Force. For instance, the Air Force found itself short of qualified aircraft maintenance technicians. Major Bob Krone at Korat in Thailand mentioned in a letter home, “The flight line is bustling with activity, as it is every night. The maintenance men work all night to reconfigure the planes with the proper loads and make necessary repairs for the next day. The maintenance area is especially critical now.”11
Experienced noncommissioned officers were in such short supply that some crew chiefs assumed responsibility for two planes simultaneously. In order to meet operational commitments, the men worked seven days a week, which degraded efficiency and morale. Yet the “wrench turners” out on the flight lines and the maintenance shops were as professional as the pilots. The squadrons kept providing “up” jets.
Although aircrew shortages were not yet evident, they would soon become a serious concern. As veterans of the first phase of the air war completed their tours, the training pipeline in the States was usually able to meet the increased demand. Yet, inevitably, more fliers finished a second combat tour, leaving a widening gap of experienced aircrew. The Air Force personnel bureaucracy struggled with the problem and inevitably began looking farther afield. Pilots who had spent most or all of their careers in bombers and transports received orders to fighter-transition training. Although some relished the thrill of converting from B-52s or C-130s to Thuds or Phantoms, others were less than enthusiastic; they were astute enough
to recognize that eighty hours in a fighter-bomber did not ensure combat competence when flak and SAMs filled the sky.
In a broader context the war expanded dramatically in the second half of 1965. Between June and December of that year the number of US military personnel in South Vietnam increased threefold, from fewer than 60,000 to more than 184,000, in accordance with President Johnson’s July 28 address to the nation. Personnel elsewhere in Southeast Asia, including Thailand—and, if you were a cynic, Laos and Cambodia—numbered nearly 43,000, for a grand total of 227,000 at year’s end.12
The political heat was rising significantly in the United States. That August one-quarter of Americans told pollsters that they opposed sending troops to Vietnam. The figure slowly grew over the next three years, mirroring the rising tide of public disaffection, and it reached a saturation point in 1968, when Lyndon Johnson took himself out of contention for reelection.13
Meanwhile US military spending increased $2.4 billion over 1964, reaching almost $191 billion, although the defense share of the gross domestic product declined from 9.5 percent to 8.2 percent.14
Back in Washington in December 1965 Lyndon Johnson was torturing himself over his efforts to wring “victory” from this war into which he had dragged America. His problem lay in keeping disillusioned voters with him while at the same time coaxing North Vietnam into surrendering its dream of national reunification. Someone in the White House hit upon the idea of a “Christmas peace initiative.” Baldly, it was another bombing pause that lasted from Christmas Eve through the end of January 1966.
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