"Lord, guard and guide the men who fly
Through the great spaces in the sky.
Be with them always in the air,
In darkening storms or sunlight fair;
Oh, hear us when we lift our prayer,
For those in peril in the air!

From the Navy Hymn" (636kb .wav); Mary C. D. Hamilton (1915); US Navy Band Sea Chanters

War: The 2nd Cruise

A Surprise

Following that moderate, first 7-month cruise, the USS Midway and our air wing were scheduled to have six months at home before we deployed once again to combat in Southeast Asia. But it was not to be.

In response to the large U.S. troop pullout in South Vietnam, the growing strength of the American anti-war movement, and the vulnerability of the South Vietnamese army, North Vietnamese General Giap launched an all-out Eastertide offensive with 200,000 North Vietnamese soldiers against the South. President Nixon countered by canceling the 1968 bombing halt in the North.

On April 6, 1972, we were conducting routine carrier qualification training operations aboard the USS Midway, 100 miles off the coast of California when we got the word: "Proceed immediately to the Vietnam War Zone." This was nearly two months earlier than planned, and without warning.

Fortunately, the high command reconsidered, allowing at least a very quick, weekend port call in Alameda, California to prepare for what would eventually become, the longest carrier deployment of the Vietnam War.

   (Note – an astute reader - AQF2 "R.K." – correctly pointed out that the USS Coral Sea actually had the "longest carrier deployment" of the war by a few days more than the Midway, which I hadn't known. But the USS Midway would still hold the most number of days "on the line" flying combat missions of the war. Regardless, 11- month cruises were very long and fortunately were somewhat rare.)

A Most Rapid Deployment

The ship rapidly steamed back into Alameda on Friday. That night I flew a commercial airline (PSA) to San Diego. The next day, Saturday, I put my Volvo in storage, loaned my red MGA to a friend, closed out the rent, said my goodbyes, and packed all my belongings, putting most in storage.

Then late that night I flew the last VF-151 F-4 from its hangar at NAS Miramar, to NAS Alameda. Maintenance personnel from another squadron had been working feverishly all day to repair it, but it still had some problems. Nevertheless, we desperately needed it for deployment.

After a tentative (and very rare, night) test flight, we had to fly it to Alameda with its landing gear locked down (there was some serious concern this "hangar queen" aircraft could not lower its landing gear again, if they were raised - so we just left them down). The navigational instruments didn't work too well either, so we just visually followed the car lights on the Grapevine, and the I-5 freeway north beyond Los Angeles to the Bay area. We thankfully made it OK. In the morning, this last squadron aircraft was loaded aboard the Midway.

I spent the next day - a beautiful Spring Sunday - with my girlfriend. She had happened to be in Lake Tahoe for the weekend, and drove to Alameda immediately when I told her the news. The next day, Monday, the Midway sailed underneath the Golden Gate Bridge - with its groups of both supporters and war protesters - for what would be a most arduous, record setting, and intensely climatic experience of the long Vietnam War.

Unlike the previous cruise, we all knew this one would be far different, and far more difficult. This time we seriously studied maps and enemy defenses religiously, rather than potential tourist sites and port visits. We would have no navigational aids over the "North" so we had to memorize the lay of the land.

Then, 19 days, and 7,800 miles later, we found ourselves back in the thick of a much angrier air war than ever before. And it would last nearly 10 months more.

Since we had deployed early and suddenly, without the normal "work-ups", we were not fully trained, nor quite as battle-ready as we would normally have been with a longer turnaround period. So upon our arrival in the Gulf of Tonkin, instead of jumping into the hot air war over North Vietnam, we initially conducted close air support operations in the relative safety, south of the DMZ.

Early Missions

One of my first missions of this cruise was in support of ARVN and the few remaining U.S. troops in the Battle of An Loc. This battle was notable to me because it was the first time I could actually see from the air, some distinct battle lines between the good guys and bad guys. For the first time, after nearly 60 combat missions, I was able to tell there was indeed a hot war going on below me. Because of the lack of trees and triple canopy jungle in the area, I could observe unobstructed, real troop and enemy positions.

Fighter pilots of the day were just that, air-to-air fighter pilots, in the classic Von Richthofen, Red Baron tradition (honorable and chivalric combat, against a worthy opponent). While they relished the air-to-air missions against possible MiG's, they believed air-to-ground missions to be somewhat below them (no pun intended). Nevertheless, I must confess to one early and satisfying, "air-to-mud" as we disdainfully called them, close air support mission.

One day during the siege of An Loc, a FAC (forward air controller) vectored me to an enemy target - a suspected, captured 105mm howitzer thought to be hidden in a certain clump of trees. Apparently, it had been decimating both our US, and ARVN troops for some time. I dropped 6 MK-82 500 lb. bombs on what I believed was the FAC's designated target. Unfortunately, I had dropped on a different clump of trees than he wanted, a very short distance away. The FAC began screaming about my supposed total incompetence at the top of his lungs... then quite suddenly he was quiet. . . Had he been shot down? No . . . he was temporarily in awe.

To our mutual surprise, there were huge multiple, secondary explosions coming from that close-by but "wrong" clump of trees, and they continued for some time. "Secondaries" ( multiple, subsequent explosions) meant success. It meant that I had hit not only that pesky 105 howitzer and maybe others, but more importantly, I had also hit a large - and heretofore unknown - NVA stockpile of weapons and ordnance. I really believe my successful strike saved a large number U.S. and ARVN lives by eliminating all that ordnance. (Even true fighter pilots will admit to that type of "air-to-ground" mission once in awhile.)

The Hunter

I was at the peak of my profession at age 25. I was a superior fighter pilot, fresh from Top Gun, and razor-sharp. My primary mission was to shoot down MiG's. I was confident that I could do that without hesitation, under all conditions - even if against the world's very best fighter pilots - and that I would prevail. I was more than ready and eager to engage the enemy in aerial combat.

Unfortunately, the MiG's would not cooperate.

The North Vietnam Air Force (VPAF) had sustained some significant losses in early 1972 - primarily from my fellow Navy fighter pilots. By the time we finally had worked our way north from "Dixie Station" to "Yankee Station" and to the air war over North Vietnam, the enemy's MiG's were starting to become very reluctant to engage Navy fighters.

The Navy and Air Force would alternate their 3-daily "Alpha Strikes" over North Vietnam. When not flying, I used to watch on ship's radar, the air strikes over the north. It rapidly became apparent in the summer of 1972, that the North Vietnamese MiG's would routinely engage Air Force strikes, but would usually scamper and disappear during U.S. Navy strikes. Obviously, the Navy's new Top Gun school of new fighter tactics, combined with the extraordinary, recent success of Navy fighter pilots had made a real and immediate impact on the air war.

Try as I might - including "bait" and deception - I could never entice nor engage any MiG's in aerial combat. I did however, have four close encounters with enemy MiG's. One close encounter is described on the Top Gun page. Here is one other close encounter:

A Close Encounter

As MiG-CAP for an Alpha Strike, the Skipper, both our RO's and I were on-station at 3,500 feet, 420 knots, maneuvering above the North Vietnam delta area that we called, the "Hour-Glass" [because of the hourglass shape of the delta rivers].

"Red Crown" (Call-sign for the Navy ship in the Gulf who observed and controlled the air war) reported two "blue bandits" (MiG-21's) venturing way far south. Since their southern airfields had all been bombed, we knew these MiG's would be soon have to be turning back northbound to return to "Kep", their airbase. We decided to "cut them off at the pass", with a 90-degree intercept.

Red Crown reported the MiG's very "fast and very low," so we also went lower and faster - from our usual 3,500 feet down to about 500 feet above the rice paddies, and well in excess of 600 knots. We were about 1,500 feet below a solid overcast cloud layer. With us heading due East, and the MiG's heading nearly due north, we became without visual or radar contact, what was known as the dreaded "merged plot". This meant we all were on top of each other, all in the same piece of sky, but we still hadn't spotted our enemy - a very dangerous situation.

Had the MiG's spotted us? We didn't know. The tension was incredible. We then immediately and deliberately committed a fighter pilot's cardinal sin - we turned on a merged plot.

Turning on a "merged plot" is something we were taught never to do . . . but we did it in this instance. Fortunately in our case, we rolled out of the turn in trail - and not in front - of the two speeding enemy MiG-21's. Apparently, they had been just above the 2,000 foot overcast cloud layer continuing northbound, while we were just below it. Out of our hard yet sweeping, 600 knots and 6.5G+ low-level turn, we continued chasing those fast flying and escaping MiG-21J's, almost all the way to Hanoi.

Although my RO, (call-sign, "TA" ) had one of them locked-up on our fire control radar, the MiG remained slightly out of range for our AIM-7 Sparrow missiles. I had pushed the throttles all the way to a "two-blocked" position, and we were screaming along at a low level. But because of our configuration-drag that day, and their newer "J" models, the MiG's surprisingly increased their range from us. (Normally, we should have been equal to them or a little faster.)

In the long, high speed and low-level chase, we began to become the target of substantial - and obviously alerted - enemy ground fire. Many tracers were flying by, and we were rapidly running low on fuel for having our afterburners so long engaged. Finally, and wisely, we broke off the attack. Going "feet wet" (over water) and very low on fuel, we desperately sought a "tanker" while the two MiG-21's landed safely at Kep Airfield.

Religion

Sometime early in my second combat cruise, I regained a little "religion". Having now seen a lot of enemy fire directed specifically at me as the intended target, and now on a near daily basis with the fire getting ever closer, I incorporated a new pre-launch checklist item - the quickie prayer. Well before the hand-salute that signaled the catapult officer to launch me off the aircraft carrier, and into the air, history or oblivion, I made a quickie sign of the cross, and whispered my short pre-launch prayer.

My quickie prayer was: "Lord, please allow me not to screw up; to live through that day's mission; and (perhaps stretching things) if at all possible, to live long enough to enjoy my much anticipated and scheduled leave, then three months hence."

Prayer Granted

I did indeed live three more months, although I doubt it had anything to do with my selfish prayer. Nevertheless, even in a combat zone, we were allowed to have 10% of our crews on leave at any given time. My turn came up in the summer of '72.

On Leave

I had met a friend on the previous cruise who worked with the "State Department" in the Hong Kong U.S. Consulate. As the squadron buyer for furniture and trinkets, I visited Hong Kong often. On one visit, this friend from Pittsburgh and I planned a long vacation in Southeast Asia. We were to meet in Bangkok to begin.

While getting the necessary visas in the Philippines, my passport was lost. Needing a new passport proved to be an adventure. At sea in the Gulf, I decided to go to the U.S. Embassy in Saigon for a replacement. After three days of waiting for a space-available COD flight off the ship, I finally got to Da Nang. From there I begged and hitched a ride with a bunch of ragged, war weary guys packing an interesting array of weapons, on a C-130 going to Tan Son Nhut Airbase near Saigon.

At the Tan Son Nhut Officers Club, I met an Army Captain on his way back to the "States" who briefed me on how to get downtown to the Embassy, which cabs to take, where to stay, and what to look out for, etc. (Ironically, we learned he had been on the ground at An Loc months earlier, when I provided him close air support there. Although he thanked me profusely, it was obviously an experience he desperately wanted to put behind him. He must have had a very rough time of it there, and I didn't pry.)

After nearly being hijacked and mugged in an alley on the wild cab ride to downtown Saigon, (another long story in itself) I arrived at the Miramar Hotel on Tu Do Street, near the U.S. Embassy.

Exhausted, I went to the restaurant on the top floor. It was nearly empty. This late in the war, most U.S. personnel had long departed. In fact, it almost seemed as though I was the last American in uniform in Saigon. But what stands out in my memory was this most surreal dinner.

I sat there in front of the nearly empty restaurant's large picture windows, quietly sipping a scotch and water while waiting for dinner, watching fire-fights and mini-gun tracers off in the distance on the perimeter of the city. Occasionally, the large picture windows would vibrate slightly from distant, muffled explosions of mortars or artillery. To be sure, watching a war from the ground was far different than watching from the sky . . . . even if it was in this case, distant and non-threatening.

It took two days to replace my lost passport. I then hitched a ride to Bangkok on an Army U-11 to meet my friend. After two days in Bangkok, we then went on to Kuala Lumpur, the Malaysia Central Highlands, Penang, Singapore, Bali, and finally Hong Kong.

Ironically, during a fuel stop in Jakarta, looking out the passenger plane's window, I was shocked to see rows of parked MiG's - the same model MiG's I chased but couldn't see or ever catch over North Vietnam.

Return To War

Refreshed and rejuvenated, I was eager and ready to resume my duties on Yankee Station. While our sister squadron had downed a number of MiG's in a short period of time, no one in our squadron had. In fact, no one in our squadron had even encountered any MiG's yet, much less engage any, or shoot any down.

During a short visit to Red Crown (the USS Truxton at the time), I was surprised to learn that the VPAF pilots were receiving nearly real-time translations of our fighters' tactical transmissions. Upon learning this, I devised a plan that we executed on our next flight over the North.

While on CAP (Combat Air Patrol) station well west of Hon Gai, we made up some deceptive transmissions, complaining about how our radar and missiles weren't working, and we were getting low on fuel, but we would remain on station, and just "fake it".

Sure enough, the MiG's took the bait. Shortly after our UHF transmissions, two "blue bandits" launched from Kep. They were coming straight for us. Excitedly, we then called for a "cross-turn" and "buster" (180 degree tactical turn, and afterburner) to engage them. But our aggressive transmissions must have been immediately relayed to them, as they quickly reversed course back to Kep. We were too far away to catch them. But it was a nice try.

Mistake at Vinh

One day, the Skipper let me brief and lead our two-plane mission. It was a "road-recce" where we were free to look for any enemy targets of opportunity. With my RO and I as lead, flying low-level over the countryside for some time, we encountered no enemy fire. We also had not found any targets of opportunity, until much to our surprise, we came upon a steel-span bridge. Now unless they were heavily defended, there should not have been any bridges still standing in this part of North Vietnam, especially one like this - a large one, seemingly sitting out alone in the countryside.

We popped up, and because it was a windy day, we each dropped only two of our six Mk-82' 500 lb. bombs on the bridge for effect. Both missing the bridge, we would adjust for the wind on our next drop of our remaining bombs. With no enemy fire apparent or expected, we set up a lazy, racetrack pattern for our next roll-in attack. Focused on the bridge, what we failed to realize was that it was near one of the most heavily defended cities - Vinh. Fixated on 'our' bridge, we never saw the city. Now having unknowingly alerted every enemy gunner in town with our first drop, we were now flying directly over them, obliviously.

When I once again reached the same roll-in point for my second bombing run on the bridge, every anti-aircraft gun in Vinh must have by then been tracking us - and they all suddenly at once, opened fire! Immediately, our F-4 was totally engulfed in a thick cloud of AAA smoke! While I had seen a lot of AAA fire in the past, it thankfully was always in the form of tracers and puffs of smoke at least some distance from my cockpit. This time however we seemed to be engulfed in, and part of the explosions. We were IFR in AAA flack! That we were not blown out of the sky and didn't take a hit is a true miracle . . . and one I cannot explain to this day. Fortunately, we managed to abort our Vinh bridge attack to find a less well-defended target, and live to fight another day.

Happy Valley Gunnery School

Well into our second combat cruise, and now having over a hundred and fifty combat missions, we had a certain level of expectations. We expected successful results from our strike missions (in the form of secondary explosions, or post-strike reconnaissance bomb-damage-assessment - BDA photos). But we also had come to expect certain levels of enemy resistance, in the form of SAM's (Surface to Air Missiles) and AAA. When our results, or enemy resistance were lacking, I felt disappointed, and somehow, inexplicably cheated. I had unwittingly become addicted to the repetitive adrenalin rush of combat. Once when my expectations of enemy opposition were not met, to compensate, I did something stupid:

A squadron mate had informed me of an NVA anti-aircraft gunnery training site located between two karst ridges we called Happy Valley. For kicks, he had flown over the school as a target. But he flew at an altitude he knew was safely above their 23mm and 37mm AAA range.

One day, having some extra fuel following a CAP mission, we flew over to the NVA Gunnery School. Circling the school at 15,000 as targets, and just out of their range, we enjoyed the fireworks of their AAA (Anti-Aircraft Artillery) shells exploding 2,000 feet below us, at their maximum altitude. My wingman that day thought the many puffs looked like a large flock of white and grey "doves". Satisfied, we then returned to the ship.

Two weeks later, we again had some extra gas, and returned to the gunnery school. What we did not know was the North Vietnamese, obviously anticipating our return, had moved in some heavy AAA - 85mm guns - capable of shooting us down at very high altitudes. As we set up our circle over the school as before, a large orange and black explosion occurred just off the right side of our aircraft. As we lit afterburners, turned, and quickly vacated the area, the sky was full of big, orange and black explosions - the signature of 85mm - all around us and at our altitude. Needless to say, we never did that again!

A Serious Blow!

We had been flying combat missions over North Vietnam since early May. Now, by August, we had fallen into an almost 'comfortable' routine. Yes, our air-wing had lost a few aircraft and pilots, but except for the loss of one of our F-4's off the ship's catapult (crew safely recovered), both of our F-4 squadrons had remained mostly unscathed. Unfortunately, that would abruptly change.

On August 25, an F-4 from our sister squadron, VF-161 was downed over North Vietnam. It's crew were two of the most respected, and well-liked men in the F-4 Community. "Jack" would survive, albeit as a POW. But my former instructor "Mike" sadly, did not. Whatever feeling of invincibility that was growing in the two F-4 squadrons was suddenly shattered. Two days later, it was obliterated.

Still shaken by the loss of our sister squadron's crew, it was then our squadron's unfortunate turn. On August 27, our own "Ted" and "Dave" were downed by a SAM and subsequently captured. Once again, it was the loss of two of the most respected, and well-liked squadron mates. It was a most bitter blow.

Although Dave was seriously wounded and fortunate to survive, thankfully, both Dave and Ted would eventually be repatriated. Moreover, their loss shook some of us out of our relative complacency, while flying in harm's way. If it could happen to "them" it could happen to any of us. No longer feeling somewhat invulnerable because of our speed and maneuverability, we wisely began to take a few more precautions, lest we tempt the same fate.

Photo Escort

Although I always sought MiG-CAP missions, perhaps the most enjoyable missions for me were Photo Escort. Our reconnaissance aircraft were RF-8's - a very impressive aircraft for its time, but unarmed except for cameras. Since they went in by themselves to take "before" and "after" photographs of bombed targets, they were always an expected and a single, isolated, main target for the enemy. For this reason, they always received a lot of enemy fire. Indeed, a couple of our RF-8 friends from their small detachment were shot down - one captured, one recovered. We in our F-4's could not protect them from enemy ground fire, other than calling out that fire to them. Our mission was to protect them from enemy MiG's while they prosecuted their dangerous "photo-recon" mission.

To a man, these guys were fearless, and always fun, and always an honor to escort. We fighter pilots believed in the axiom, "speed is life" - that a fast moving target is much more difficult to hit than a slow one. And to our exquisite delight, no one flew faster over the "North" than these photo-recon guys.

They would come in at extremely high speed, following an Alpha Strike. While sustaining heavy enemy fire, they had to stop 'jinking' to avoid that fire (as escort, we thankfully could continue jinking) and line up straight for their very dangerous photo run. Our guys would nearly always get incredible low-level pictures, far beyond anything expected. Then they had to return to the ship - the F-8 being notoriously most difficult to land on a carrier. As escort, we had to follow these exceptional guys on some of the most dangerous missions of the war. To this day, I still remain in contact with a few of them; they all hold my deepest respect. Although fighter squadrons are notoriously cliquish groups, all our guys respected and embraced our air-wing's fearless RF-8 photo-recon drivers from VFP-63.

Christmas raids

Of my nearly two years combat flying in SEA (Southeast Asia), the most spectacular and memorable sight occurred on December 20, the third and worst night of the of the historic Linebacker II Christmas Raids, designed to end the war.

Although we (F-4's) never flew night MiG-CAP "feet dry" overland, some were tasked for this major strike to do so. We set up our CAP station in the vicinity of Haiphong and hopefully on the outer ranges of their SAM sites. We took no real enemy fire that night, and there were no MiG's in our immediate vicinity, so we could somewhat relax and just watch.

We knew the Air Force had taken some losses on the first two nights of raids. We hoped that on this night, their tactics and fortunes would change. Looking up, high above our F-4, we could see the B-52's still flying in their familiar, cells-of-three formations, with each cell directly in trail of another. "Hadn't these guys ever flown in hostile territory before," we wondered?

That night, not only were the B-52's flying straight and level at a most lethal SAM altitude, but they were in trail. [Enemy gunners usually didn't pull enough lead, and their fire often went behind their intended target. Therefore, the last place you want to be obviously, is directly behind and "in trail" of an enemy targeted aircraft ahead.] But what was really incredible to us, they all had their lights on! We immediately knew it would not be a good night for them. And it was not.

My RO and I had seen a lot of SAM's and flak in the many months prior. But that night, it seemed the North launched more SAM's and AAA than we had seen in all the many months before, combined. To the west, the darkness was lit up with literally sheets of AAA. It reminded me of the slanting sheets of rain coming from a Midwest thunderstorm. The barrage AAA was so thick, it had to hit some of the B-52' flying through it, regardless of their very effective ECM (Electronic Counter Measures).

As spectacular was the sight of the intense Triple-A fire, the SAM's were totally mesmerizing. Launched repeatedly in pairs, from a distance they looked like multiple Roman candles fired on the 4th of July. Every few seconds, another pair would be launched from various SAM sites. Usually, the bright orange glow of the distant SAM's in the night sky continued until their rocket motor burned out, and they abruptly disappeared into darkness.

Unfortunately, that was not always the case. We watched a few whose glow never went out. Their orange glow rose to altitude, stopped, became much more brilliant, then the glow much more slowly returned brightly back to earth, sometimes splitting. We realized we were witnessing some shoot-downs, both of B-52's and a Navy A-7.

Thankfully, the Midway left Yankee Station after we returned that night, to spend Christmas in Singapore. The "Christmas Raids" continued without us. It had been a long and extended line period . . . we had some losses, and we were all long overdue for a break.

Nevertheless, I will carry forever the vivid memory of that December night's spectacular fireworks display - one that a lifetime of 4th of July's could never approach. (And one I still vividly recall, whenever I see fireworks, today.)

But juxtaposed with that spectacular, visual, pyrotechnic memory is also the agonizing and sickening feeling of watching helplessly, some of our courageous brethren dying before our eyes in the glowing night sky over the "North" on that fateful evening. [A total of six B-52's were shot down that night!]

I ended that cruise with 196 combat missions. I was bugging our scheduling officer for extra flights so I could get an even 200 combat missions before the war ended, when fortunately, common sense took hold. I decided to accept my normal rotation for combat missions, regardless of whatever my total final number at war's end would be.

This was just as well, considering the tragic fate of former Blue Angel lead and highly respected officer, Harley Hall who was shot down on the official last day of the war, and listed as missing in action. Much closer to home, and more personal, was the loss of the two great A-6 guys that lived in the stateroom next to us on the USS Midway, Lt.'s. Alan Clark and Mike McCormick.

Clark AFB - POW Homecoming

One of my very best memories of the Vietnam War was to be present at Clark AFB, PI on February 12, 1972. There I was to witness the first flights from Hanoi of our newly released POW's.

While the USS Midway was in port in Subic Bay, I had come the 50+ miles or so, to Clark AFB to umpire a teachers vs. nurses softball game as a favor for a friend. (Tough duty, not!) However, the unexpected and tremendous "event" of the day obviously cancelled the softball game. Everyone went to the flight line to witness history. My friend and I both knew a number of returning, former POW's, (Including my two friends from my own squadron and one from our sister squadron; all shot down, wounded and captured on this same cruise, as noted earlier above.) and we were very disappointed we could not personally meet any of them. They were tightly sequestered for debriefing, and allowed no "outside" contact.

It would be many weeks later - back stateside - before we could personally say, "welcome back, and thank you for your sacrifice." But to be there, on that historic day at Clark, watching them step off the C-141's to freedom, is one of my fondest memories. [And I couldn't also help but think: There but for the Grace of God could I also have been.]

Going Home

None of us who were there would ever be the same. Quite a number of our crews had been shot down or involved in accidents, but were safely recovered. Sadly, we did leave some behind: 11 died, 7 listed as Missing in Action (MIA), and 6 POW's. Our POW's returned; the others did not. But they remain in my thoughts, prayers, and memories.

For having the most days on line in combat in the history of the Vietnam War, we were awarded the rare, Presidential Unit Citation for a Navy carrier and its air-wing. It was nice gesture, but it hardly compensated.

Finally, after being gone for 11 months, we flew back to NAS Miramar on March 2, 1973. Much had changed. Thankfully for most of us, we could move on to the rest of our gratefully extended lives.

[Before moving on, don't forget to check some of the related Links on the top-left of this page. Thank you.]