Crown Bravo Down-14 March 1966-RADM Bill “Wild Bill” Terry, USN (Ret.)
I checked the flight schedule the night before and found that March 14 was going to be a no risk day with nothing but a mail run scheduled. The mission required two helicopters (Big Mother 60 and 52) to deliver the mail to both the north and south SAR destroyers. For once we didn’t have to fly the armored helicopters, and that was good. The seats were more comfortable, and the helicopters were smoother than their tougher brothers. We still had the M-60 machine gun mounts fore and aft, but that was about it.
Turn-up and launch were normal, and we lifted together at about
1400 (2:00 p.m.) from Yorktown’s deck. On the climb-out, I joined up on the flight leader, Blinky. That’s what we called Lt. Rick Klippert because he had a nervous habit of squeezing his eyes together. Ltjg. Ken Olsen was Blinky’s co-pilot, and Ltjg. Joel Millen was mine. I had put Joel in the right seat for the day’s flight, and we settled in for the afternoon. He was well qualified and a good pilot who had been on the first detachment. I always felt comfortable flying with him. My two crewmen were AX-1 Brown and AXAN Niestrath—good crewmen, both.There were two carriers operating in the area, and we made quick deliveries to them—parts and people. That mission complete, we headed to the northwest in the late afternoon. We arrived at USS England (Call sign Prairie Wolf) at about 1600 and delivered their mail, took on fuel, and picked up their outgoing mail. We then turned north en route to USS Berkley (Bright Penny), the north SAR destroyer.
At about 1630 Prairie Wolf called to say they had an aircraft squawking emergency, and they directed us to come right to 050. That heading made no sense because it was away from everything we knew was going on. We confirmed the heading with Prairie Wolf, but it still didn’t sound right. The flight lead and I talked about it for a minute before he directed me to take up the given heading. He continued north.
We switched over to SAR Common and listened to a conversation between Arab 510 (the RESCAP A-1J out of VA-115) and Crown Bravo, an Air Force HU-16B Albatross (33rd AAR Squadron). The Air Force maintained a seaplane on station throughout daylight hours to do the same mission as ours—combat search and rescue. Crown Alfa flew in the a.m., and Crown Bravo flew the p.m. mission. We listened as Crown Bravo set up for an open water landing to pick up the pilot and RIO of Pluto 3. They had ejected from an F-4 (480th TFS) as soon as they went feet wet and were about a mile from the village of Hai Thanh—between Hon Mai Island (about five miles away) and the mainland. Unfortunately, they were also adjacent to a large military complex.
While they talked, I took an ADF cut on Crown Bravo and turned back toward the scene. That put me in tail chase about a mile behind Blinky.
As we listened to the conversation, I heard a cryptic call from Crown Bravo. “I’m hit! I’m hit! I’m hit!” His radios fell silent.
Rick Klippert checked in with the On-Scene Commander, (Arab 510 flown by Lcdr. Jerry Tabrum. His wingman was Lcdr. Manny Benero), and he told us pretty much what we already knew. Crown Bravo had landed on the water and was in the process of pulling the F-4 pilot aboard when they were hit with artillery fire (probably 130mm). The HU-16 was destroyed. Instead of two in the water, we now had the possibility of eight.
We were still about fifteen minutes out and entered from the south. It was easy to see where we were headed because a column of thick, black smoke rising from the burning avgas marked datum. We entered a large “C” shaped bay with a sizable population living on the nearby shoreline. Like all the coastal villages in both the north and south, the people there were fisherman, and they had gone to work. By my estimate there must have been somewhere around 100 motorized sampans spread out across the bay. We didn’t know it at the time, but most of them were armed and weren’t the least little bit reluctant to shoot at us as we flew over. As we flew in we could see a large number of them (I would estimate at least 25) were motoring toward the survivors.
To prevent that, Arab 510 was imposing his own no sail zone in a very brutal and efficient way. It didn’t take the sampans long to get the message, and they stopped trying to enter the area. But they weren’t the biggest problem. A large, three-masted junk about a quarter to a half-mile to the west was firing heavy machineguns at the survivors.
We arrived on station at 1650 in time to watch the A-1 make a rocket run on the junk. I was led to believe it was impossible to sink one of the big wooden boats, that you just punched holes in them, and they settled deeper in the water. I knew from my earlier experience on the north SAR station that it wasn’t true. You don’t need to sink a junk to make it go away. If you blow it into enough small pieces, it disappears, and this one did. We watched the A-1s fire their 2.75” rockets that created a huge explosion with a lot of fire and smoke. When the smoke cleared, the junk was gone, but debris rained down for the next ten minutes.
As we entered the area, I was still in the trail position behind 60. That allowed me not only a ringside seat for the first recovery but a tremendous lesson on CSAR. As Big Mother 60 passed over or near the small boats, all on board crouched down, showing a passive demeanor and even fear. As soon as the helicopter was over them and the threat had passed, weapons materialized out of nowhere, and everyone shot at the helicopter. That made our job easier.
As we followed six zero into the area, I ordered the crew to clear the boats out of the way. I heard the distinctive thump, thump, thump of the after-station M-60 and watched the rounds walk across a nearby boat. I saw people fall but have no idea if they were hit or jumped overboard.
“Take the one at 9 O’clock.”
The crew soon responded without being told. That afternoon I made the determination that every SOB in North Vietnam was expendable if it saved the life of a single crewman in my helicopter. It was the right decision. I never went hunting, but if we had to go in, I did not hesitate to push the North Vietnamese aside. Big Mother 60 had made his approach and was hoisting the first survivor (Capt. David Westenbarger, the HU-16 pilot) aboard when we entered a hover. Our hoist went down, and the crewman began talking us over the survivor. As we sat in a hover for what seemed to be forever, I watched small-arms rounds kicking up the water all around us, and I couldn’t believe how heavy the fire was. Only then did I come to realize that every fisherman within a mile was shooting at us.
We continued to sit in a hover and, I expected to hear that the survivor was on the way up, but all we got was, “steady, steady, steady.” After a long delay, I called the crewman and asked what was happening.
“Pilot, the horse collar is touching the man, but he won’t take it.”
We continued to hold the hover, and I watched Big Mother 60 bring their second survivor aboard (Lt. Walter Hall, the HU-16 co-pilot) and head for number three. As they entered a hover and the hoist went back down, my first crewman finally reported, “the pilot’s in the sling… weight coming on the aircraft.”
Moments later, we hoisted Major James Peerson, the F-4 pilot, aboard. He had a broken back and came aboard with no floatation gear. They had removed it and were pulling him into the HU-16 when the aircraft was destroyed.
Joel slid over toward the next survivor that was fifteen or twenty yards away, and our hoist went back down. Right away the crew reported the horse collar was in the water about three feet in front of the man, but he made no effort to take it.
By now, the ground fire was making us all nervous, but we couldn’t go anywhere. While we waited, I watched Big Mother 60 hoist their third survivor aboard (the F-4 RIO, Captain Linwood Bryant). I could only see one other man in the water, and I remember thinking that Big Mother 60 would soon have him. We would get our man aboard in the next minute or two, and we might just all get out of there in one piece. Instead of flying over to the next man, I watched the nose push over and Big Mother 60 start his climb-out. He called me. “52, 60… I have a full load. I’m out of here.”
Did I hear right. He’s flying an H-3 and could pick up twenty men if he had to.
“Say again!”
He repeated the call.
I’m not one who normally keeps my opinion to myself when I believe something is not right. I’m sure I was working up a response that would have no doubt been inappropriate when talking to my senior, but before I could key the mic, the ocean around us erupted in a shower of seawater and noise. A giant roar accompanied a solid wall of water higher than our forty-foot hover that suddenly appeared just beyond the rotor disk—so close that spray covered the windshield. The NVN had aimed an anti-aircraft battery down on us from a large hill to the west.
I think I was still sitting with my mouth hanging open when we heard the roar again, and a second sheet of seawater exploded down the port side of the aircraft. I thought if I put my hand out the window, I would lose it. Another anti-aircraft battery had fired on us from the hill north of the area. The sound of exploding rounds—probably 37mm or 87mm—was so loud I thought they had gone off inside my hard hat.
In one of those surreal experiences, time seemed to momentarily stand still for me, almost as if I was having an out of body experience. I keyed the mic and in my best John Wayne impression, (which sounded nothing like John Wayne on the best day) I called Arab 510. “Well, pilgrim. I think it’s time for you to fill your hands with a couple of 44’s and take out the bushwhackers on them hills.”
In all fairness, I have to say that I debriefed with Lcdr. Tabrum, the A-1 flight leader, later that evening, and he remembered things a little differently. He said my voice reminded him of a Vietnamese woman screeching on the radio, “Get the son of a bitches off my ass, or I can’t make the pickup.” I’ve always attributed that to a radio problem he must have been having.
In any case, it didn’t matter because Arab 510 had expended his ordnance, but he continued to make runs across the gun emplacements to draw fire away from us.
“The hoist is on the way up,” the crewman finally reported.
I pointed toward the only remaining survivor I could see. “The next one is over there. Go!”
“52, get out of there. It’s too hot to make a pick-up now!”
It seems as if Big Mother 60 hadn’t gone too far. He was sitting outside the hot area watching the action and kibitzing. I guess it was okay to remain on station even though he had a full load. I didn’t respond to his call.
As Joel air-taxied toward the man, I turned to look back in the cabin and was shocked at the sight of the crewman (Crown Bravo’s flight mechanic, SSgt Clyde Jackson) we just brought aboard and strapped in one of the forward seats. He had taken the blast that destroyed his aircraft full face on and closely resembled a freshly opened package of hamburger meat. He had a compound fracture of his left wrist and a compound fracture of his right shoulder. He had deep wounds in his groin, leg, arm, stomach, and face. For the first time, I understood why he and the other survivor had not taken the hoist when it was right on top of them. Both men were in shock. To this day, I have no idea how that young sergeant came up in the horse collar with the broken shoulder. The pain must have been blinding.
We entered a stable hover, and the hoist went down. By now I pretty much expected the next call when the crew reported they had placed the horse collar directly on the survivor, but the man didn’t take it.
The close miss with the antiaircraft fire left us all nervous, and it didn’t help that the ground fire had followed us to the new location. When I heard a muffled thud, I looked for the source and found it in my rear-view mirror where a geyser of water was falling back into the sea. That was followed by another thud, and another plume of water that was closer. The third round fell even closer, and the fourth one dropped in front of us. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was coming next. Moments later, artillery rounds, probably the same guns that destroyed Crown Bravo, blanketed the area. At the time, I would have told you hundreds of rounds landed around us. In reality there may have been as many as twenty or thirty. There could have been as few as ten. I truly don’t know because I didn’t count, but I know it scared the hell out of me. I also know if I could have taken a step back and looked at the scene from afar, I would have seen a glowing hand reach down from above and place a protective shield over us. When all the water fell back into the South China Sea, we were completely untouched, and I have no doubt that the hand of God had protected us.
My first crewman was a first-class petty officer, probably the oldest man on the crew and maybe the wisest. “Pilot, after Station: the sling is on the man, he’s not taking it. He’s not going to take it. Sir, we need to get the f*%# out of here.”
He was right. By now we had provided the NVN with a semi-stationary target for almost 20 minutes. Eventually their aim was going to get better, or our luck was going to get worse. The result would be the same, and this story wasn’t going to have a happy ending. I took the controls and departed the hover.
“Crew, pilot, we’re going to pull out and try this one more time. I’m going to land in the water,” I said.
As we came around for another approach, the ground fire followed us into the hover, and there was a lot of it. Why not, we had given them plenty of time to move more weapons into the area.
“Crew, pilot; guys we can’t do this. We’ve got to pull out until we can get some support.”
We moved out about half a mile and set up a racetrack pattern, and called 510 saying we had to wait until we got some air cover before going back in. While we waited, I listened to multiple flights check in. I think everything that could shoot a bullet or drop a bomb was diverted to the scene that afternoon. Amongst all those guys breathing into oxygen masks, we heard one that sounded like someone was beating him on the chest. Angel 30, Prairie Wolf’s H-2, reported in, and I knew he had something I didn’t—a rescue swimmer. As he approached from the south, I called 510 and said we were going to get medical aid for the men we picked up. I told him we would remain on that frequency and would return if he needed us.
At about 1730 I turned south and climbed up to 500 feet. A short time later 510 called and said Angel 30 had the last survivor aboard. I was also told they had recovered the body of Crown Bravo’s PJ, A1C James Pleiman, but that proved to be in error. His remains were not recovered until after the war. The HU-16 Radio Operator, A1C Hilton, was a confirmed KIA inside the aircraft.
In spite of everything, we suffered no real damage. We needed fuel, however, and headed for one of the SAR destroyers. I looked back into the cabin and watched one of the crewmen pick pieces of shrapnel out of SSgt. Jackson’s face. The F-4 pilot was stretched out on the troop seat with a broken back and was obviously in a great deal of pain.
From that experience, we learned how necessary swimmers in the water with survivors were. The HC squadron was doing that already, but rescue was their primary mission, and in that regard, they did a better job at it than the HS squadrons. If I had a qualified rescue swimmer aboard, the entire operation would have taken less than ten minutes. Instead, we provided an afternoon of fun (and frustration) for the North Vietnamese gunners.
For the first time in the last hour, I relaxed and felt the energy drain from my body. I was suddenly very tired and wanted only to land and end the ordeal.
We stopped at Prairie Wolf for fuel and requested a doctor to assist our injured, but they had none. In retrospect, I made a major mistake. We had survivors in a great deal of pain, and there was nothing we could do to help them. Being on the way home may well have been enough for them under the circumstances, but I felt badly. I thought about lowering them onto the destroyer, but the ship said they did not have the medical facilities that were obviously needed. I never thought to ask for their corpsman to come aboard to make the trip home a little more comfortable for these guys. It would be another hour before we got them that relief back on USS Kitty Hawk (Pawtucket).
When we finally reached our destination about 1800 (6:00 p.m.), the ship was in the process of launching aircraft.
“Big Mother 52, your cleared into starboard delta.”
I couldn’t believe it. We had some seriously hurt fliers onboard and couldn’t land. My co-pilot, Ltjg Joe Millen, was usually pretty quiet, but he erupted on the air.
“Tower, you don’t understand. We’ve got some hurt people, and we want to come aboard now!
“WOW!” I’m glad I didn’t say that. Air Bosses seldom took that kind of talk lying down.
“Roger Big Mother, we understand the problem. Can you accept a landing on the forward starboard elevator?”
“Affirmative tower, I’ll set it down anyplace that has rotor clearance,” I said. I landed amid a great mass of corpsmen and stretcher-bearers.
“Big Mother, shut it down. Your presence is requested in the Flag mess.”
We shut down our war-horse and went to pay our respects. As we entered Flag spaces we were escorted into CTF 77’s office. Admiral Reedy poured us coffee and had us go over every detail. At one point, the A-1 pilot who had literally saved our lives came in, and we congratulated each other. I was struck by the fact that the Skyraider pilot was a small man. For me that day, he was at least seven feet tall. I can say without qualification that I would not be here today except for his heroic flying. I owed Lcdr Jerry Tabrum and his wingman my life.
We were higher than a kite after our visit with Admiral Reedy. Our crew had done something special, and we knew it. That feeling was short lived, however. We landed back on Yorktown at 2130 (9:30 p.m.) that evening, and the Commanding Officer who was now Bill Wirt, met us in the ready room. I think he was about as proud of me as if I was his son. While I was still basking in my success, the Duty Officer took a call.
“Terry, you’re wanted in Flag Plot.”
The Admiral wants a first-hand account of what went on also, I thought.
Well… sort of. Rear Admiral F. B. Gilkerson wasn’t particularly happy with the day’s events. “Who released you to make that pick-up?”
“I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t understand the question,” I said.
“Let me make it a little plainer for you Jg. Did I give you permission to make that pick-up?”
“No, Sir you didn’t, but we were over a hundred miles north of Ocean Wave” (Yorktown’s call sign). “There was no way you could have given us clearance.”
“God Damn it. I’m the guy responsible for this operation, and I don’t appreciate hearing about it from the top down.”
You gotta be kidding me. I was in the middle of a turf battle. Come on, Admiral, I’m just a junior officer doing my job, I thought.
With that, he turned his attention to Cdr. Robertson, Commanding Officer of VS-23. Once the SAR effort was over, two U.S. destroyers steamed into the area and shelled the military complex for several hours under the guise of a continuing SAR effort because there were still missing crewmen. We knew as a fact that they had been killed in the initial encounter, and one of the bodies was inside the Albatross when it sank. The other was face down in the water outside the HU-16. But I do not know if the destroyers had that information. At that stage of the war, we weren’t shelling the North unless it supported such an operation. It could have been an excuse or it could have been a lack of information. Cdr. Robertson had provided the gunfire spotting for the shelling from his S-2. Obviously, our boss was not happy with the involvement of either of us in this action.
I walked out of Flag Plot content in the knowledge that, like it or not, my admiral’s boss had already debriefed me, and he liked what he heard. I didn’t care what this non-player had to say.
I returned to the ready room, and I was angry. I had just been chewed out for doing what we were trained to do, had risked the lives of my crewmen and me, and had saved a couple of lives along the way. The admiral’s conversation bothered me, but it was not what was stuck in my craw. All afternoon I stewed over the fact that Rick Klippert had been willing to leave the survivors and my crew behind. At that point, all I wanted to do was to go face-to-face with him. Fortunately, Lt. Reed Carlton intercepted me. He sat me down, and we had a father to son talk, something he found necessary to do from time to time. That prevented me from doing something that would have undoubtedly been stupid, but hitting Blinky sure would have felt good.
Later that night, I stood in the catwalks and consoled my First Crewman who had never fired a gun in anger in his life. None of us had. We had probably killed people that day, but we had saved lives too. He got physically sick, and I understood why.
The next day Cdr. Wirt told me he was putting me in for the Navy Cross, an award second only to the Medal of Honor. I was overwhelmed. Before that happened, however, we received a message from Seventh Fleet saying he wanted the flight crews involved in the operation submitted for an award by message, and he wanted it now. The highest award that could be submitted by message was the Silver Star. My Navy Cross was downgraded before the first pin was ever set to paper. No matter, I was happy with my crew and myself.
A few days later I had the opportunity to fly over to Kitty Hawk and visit the one who got away, Air Force Capt. Don Price, Crown Bravo’s navigator. At the time his aircraft was hit, he was bending over to retrieve an AR-15 on the deck. A1C Hilton was standing next to Capt. Price and was almost cut in half by the blast. Capt. Price received severe wounds to the buttocks, back, and legs. He said he was never aware of the horse collar anywhere around him. But he was well aware of the artillery barrage. He said his greatest fear wasn’t being hit when the rounds started falling. He thought for sure they were going to hit us, and the helicopter would crash on top of him. We didn’t talk about how he felt when he saw me depart the area. In my mind, I already knew.
Interestingly, when the rescue was reported in the media back home, Johanna wrote me. “I know you were involved in this.” That was in spite of the fact that our names were never released to the press. I could understand it if something like that event happened today with computers and the Internet. She seemed to have developed a sixth sense when it came to me. A few weeks later, the story was covered in the April 14, 1966 News Week (page 58). The story wasn’t accurate, but it was close enough I guess.
Years after the above event, Air Force personnel wrote several articles in their publications about what took place that day. I have elected to include a blended story of two of those articles. Feel free to look up the originals, but I warn you. Neither of them is accurate nor well written.
HU-16
Tail # 51-0071 14 March 1966 33rd ARRS Crown Bravo Location: 1Mi off Hon Mei Island
Tan Son Nut AB
Pilot: Capt. David P. Westenbarger
Co-pilot: Capt. W. E. Hall
Navigator: Capt. Donald S. Price
Flt Eng. SSGT Clyde Jackson
Radio Operator A1C Robert L. Hilton
PJ A1C James E. Pleiman
Pilot: Maj. James Peerson
RIO Capt. Lynwood Bryant
Valor in the Gulf – by Robert L. LaPointe/ Rescue in the Gulf of Tonkin
BY JOHN L. FRISBEE CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Air Force Magazine, August 1988
(The below is a blending of the two stories to save space. There are major discrepancies between their stories and mine that will be clear.)
Late in the afternoon of 14 March 1966, an HU-16B Albatross, call sign Crown Bravo, was on SAR orbit over the Gulf of Tonkin, just north of the DMZ. The HU-16’s were positioned there anytime fighter-bombers struck targets in North Vietnam. SAR orbits consisted of flying racetrack patterns ten miles or so offshore. These locations were safe from North Vietnamese attacks but close enough to the action for the rescue crews to get to a downed pilot in a hurry. This aircraft and its crew were assigned PCS to the 33 ARRS, Naha AB, Okinawa, but were presently TDY to DaNang Air Base. The crew consisted of Captain David Westenbarger, pilot/rescue crew commander; Lt Walter Hall, co-pilot; Captain Donald Price, navigator; SSgt Clyde Jackson, flight engineer; A1C Robert Hilton, radio operator; and A1C James Pleiman, pararescueman.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Pluto Lead. I’ve been hit by ground fire and will have to eject. I’m trying to make it feet wet.”
Pluto Lead was an F-4 piloted by Major James Peerson. His back-seater was Captain Lynwood Bryant. They were desperately trying to make it feet wet, but their damaged fighter bomber was becoming increasingly difficult to control.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is Pluto 02. Pluto Lead has ejected at 6000 feet. We have two good chutes. They are going to land in the water very close to Hon Mei Island. Crown Bravo, we will CAP Pluto Lead until you arrive.”
The next radio call, from Pluto 02, made it clear that speed was essential. The wind had blown the descending parachutists close to the shoreline of the island. North Vietnamese sampans were nearby and could quickly capture these airmen without intervention. This mission would be a deadly contest between the North Vietnamese and US SAR forces to see who would get to the downed pilots first.
Ten minutes later, the HU-16 arrived on scene. Captain Westenbarger rolled out into the wind and set up an approach. A few feet off the surface, he cut the throttles, held the nose high and full stalled the amphibian into the water. Major Peerson was closest to the shore and in the greatest danger, so he would be the first recovered.
As the amphibian closed on the raft, the rescue crew could see that the survivor was injured. A1C James Pleiman, the pararescueman, jumped into the water to help Peerson. As he reached the raft, artillery rounds bracketed the HU-16 and geysers of water erupted closer and closer. At the same time, some twenty-five motorized sampans opened fire. Major Peerson and A1C Pleiman were being pulled into the aircraft when a 130mm artillery shell scored a direct hit and destroyed the Albatross.
Capt. Price was thrown against a bulkhead with shrapnel wounds to his head, back, and buttocks. A1C Hilton was killed outright. Captain Westenbarger (pilot) and Lt. Hall (co-pilot) were mostly uninjured and managed to escape through a forward overhead hatch. Sergeant Jackson suffered severe wounds when he was blown out the door into the water, but he was still alive. Airman Pleiman, the PJ, floated face down, dead in the water. The crew had removed Major Peerson’s life vest as they pulled him into the aircraft, and he now swam nearby, clearly in distress.
Mortar and artillery rounds continued exploding around them as Captain Price egressed the wreckage. He heard Major Peerson’s cry for help, and in spite of his own injuries, he pushed the F-4 pilot away from the burning fuel on the surface. Nearby, the badly injured Flight engineer, SSgt Jackson, called out for help, and Lt Hall swam over to assist him.
Suddenly, a Navy helicopter was hovering overhead and lowering a horse collar from its rescue hoist. The rotor wash whipped the surface of the ocean into a fine mist, making breathing and seeing difficult. Captain Price helped Major Peerson into the horse collar. As the F-4 pilot was hauled aboard, an artillery shell hit ten yards from Price, another thirty yards away, and automatic weapons fire from the sampans churned the water. The helicopter, leaking fuel from several hits, pulled out.
The SARCAP of F-4’s began suppressing the artillery fire by attacking the artillery sites. Several A-1s arrived in the area and began firing on the sampans that were attacking the SAR forces. A second Navy helicopter arrived to pick up the remaining survivors, but they eventually departed the scene, leaving Price alone on an unfriendly sea.
He made repeated attempts to call on his survival radio but got no response. Fortunately, one of the A-1’s made a low pass over the SAR site prior to heading home, and observed him in the life raft. He and the remaining A-1’s and F-4s reentered a protective posture over the last American needing to be rescued.
Each time the sampans attempted to move in on Captain Price, the fighters came down with guns blazing. Price recalled one sampan that was closing on him being cut in half by cannon fire. Many of the sampans were destroyed. Those remaining in the area were hesitant to move in for fear of their lives.
The A-1’s coordinated with the Navy to send out another helicopter. After what seemed an eternity, a Navy UH-2B came in low and fast, and picked him out of the Gulf. After he received emergency medical treatment aboard a nearby utility ship, doctors on the carrier Yorktown spent four hours removing shrapnel and sewing up his wounds. It had been an ordeal of heroism and endurance.
In December 1988, the Vietnamese turned over the remains of Airman James E. Pleiman. They had washed ashore after the incident and were buried by the North Vietnamese. These remains were identified as A1C Pleiman on 13 March 1989. Finally, the first pararescueman killed in the Vietnam War also became one of the last PJs to return home from Vietnam.
Interestingly enough, Captain Price received the Air Force Cross (Navy Cross equivalent) for his part in the events of that day.
An F-8 Driver’s Swim in Hai Phong Harbor-19 April 1966-RADM Bill “Wild Bill” Terry, USN (Ret.)
We had been on station for some time, when at about 1530 (3:30 p.m.) we received a call from Steel Hawser saying they had contact with an aircraft on radar that was in trouble. Within seconds of that call we heard a Mayday report from a Cork Tip aircraft over the Haiphong complex.
“Big Mother 68 this is Steel Hawser; your vector is three zero three at thirty-eight miles. Cork Tip 601 is down. We are trying to establish a location.”
We picked up the directed vector and pushed the speed to red line.
“Steel Hawser this is Big Mother 68; interrogative feet wet?” I asked.
I was asking if we were going inland (feet dry) or would be operating over water (feet wet). Clearly, we wanted to hear that we would be able to remain over the water because that significantly increased everybody’s prospect of surviving.
“Unknown at this time, Big Mother.”
I laid out a line on our chart, and it looked as if we were going inland, so I directed the crew to don parachutes and flak jackets. All we knew for sure was that Cork Tip 601 was down somewhere near the seaport city of Haiphong, but we weren’t sure how close. The thought of wrestling the pilot away from the locals was not nearly as appealing as finding him stroking his way out to sea in a raft.
“Pilot, check the port side,” the first-crewman said.
I looked across the cockpit and found an Arab A-1 Skyraider sliding into position beside us.
It is impossible for me to adequately describe just how those powerful war birds, a beautiful sight under any circumstances, made us feel as we headed into the heart of Indian country. They were much like your American Express card. We didn’t want to leave home without them. Our absolute survival depended on the skills and daring of those pilots, and I knew we were in good hands anytime they were around. I would trust them with my life, and I frequently did.
“Woop, woop, woop, woop, woop.” There is no other sound in the entire world like that of a survival radio beeper. I had heard it many times before, and it always meant the same thing; a pilot was down. The uniqueness of that sound was such that anytime I heard it, a shiver crawled up my spine, even years after the war. In spite of that, hearing that radio signal was great. We now had the ability to pinpoint the pilot’s exact location. Dick switched the radio over to the ADF (automatic direction finding) position, and we watched as the needle swung around and pointed to the source of the signal. We knew the course now, but we still didn’t know if we would be operating over land or in the harbor.
Our second A-1 sprinted ahead and shortly thereafter, he reported over the pilot who was in his life raft and appeared to be in good shape. I think my heart crawled back in my chest when we learned he was feet wet—but just barely. He was within half a mile of the beach and about 6 miles east of downtown Haiphong. There were junks in the area but none in close proximity.
As we flew deeper into Haiphong Harbor, we ran into a fog bank. It was not very thick because the A-1 could see down through it from above, but that fog became our best friend. Thin as the fog might have been, it was thick enough to keep the North Vietnamese from seeing us from afar. You can’t shoot what you can’t see.
We followed the ADF needle to the pilot. As we passed over him, he lit a day smoke to give us the wind line. I did a wingover and came back into a hover over him. The pilot was still in his raft and showed no sign that he wanted to leave, so I hovered at sixty feet to keep from pushing him all around.
Land was only a short distance away, and the A-1’s reported junks in the area although we didn’t see any of them through the fog. Obviously, someone could see us, or at least hear us. As we entered a hover, rounds hit the water around us. Since I could not see who was shooting, I was reasonably confident they couldn’t see me either. It was all small arms fire, and even if we did take a hit, it wouldn’t likely knock us out of the sky.
I held the helicopter in a high hover because the rotor wash pushed the raft across the water, at times with surprising speed, but I’m afraid there was a little too much adrenalin running around. The after station called to say that we were too high. Not watching my instruments, I had climbed to a ninety-foot high hover. From that height, we would never get him because that was all the usable cable we had. It was a dumb rookie mistake that cost us some time, but we were not yet in trouble. I lowered the helicopter to forty feet, and the pilot exited his raft. Moments later, he was on his way up.
Throughout it all, the CHINFO photographer snapped away, getting the first actual photos of a combat rescue in North Vietnam. One of the pictures he took appeared on the front page of virtually every major newspaper in the country. It showed Lt. Ron Ball from VFP 63 looking up as he was being hoisted aboard. I told the lieutenant we had just made him famous, but he had no idea what I was talking about.
Lt. Ball had been flying a photoreconnaissance RF-8 from VFP-63 off USS Ticonderoga when he was shot down. He was on his last flight of the cruise and told me as he sat on the catapult that day, he knew he was going to get bagged. I don’t know if it was last flight jitters or if he had a real premonition, but for whatever reason, he was right. In his final turn to set up the photo run across Haiphong, he was hit and had to eject. While floating down in his chute, he saw his aircraft explode.
We hoisted him into the helicopter within about thirty minutes of the shoot down, and I told the crew to sink his raft with the M-60 before we departed the area. I didn’t want someone to see it and have us called back into that area to search for what we had already picked-up.
With that last chore taken care of, we headed to the relative safety of the open ocean. At that point, however, we got the call I did not ever want to hear.
“Big Mother this is Steel Hawser, bandit (NVN MIG) bearing two eight five at sixty-five miles, tracking one zero five degrees.”
Suddenly, those beautiful A-1’s seemed terribly inadequate despite the fact that A-1s shot down three MIGs during the war. I ran, pushing the nose over. Redline became just another number on the airspeed indicator as we headed back out to sea, skimming over the top of the waves. We continued bumping along on the edge of blade stall, but we held it there until reaching open water, and the MIG turned around. I never saw the MIG, and I’m sure he never saw me either. That was just fine with me.
The NVN would not fly near the coast because of the considerable missile capability of USS Coontz. If he ventured much farther, the hunter would have become the hunted. That did little to settle my nerves until he turned back inland, however. I hate to think of myself as nothing more than bait.
We returned to North SAR station with our wet but otherwise fine F-8 pilot. Since USS Rogers was our strongest supporter, I called them and requested a green deck for a passenger transfer. I intended to drop Lt. Ball off because we still had to remain on station until the Alfa Strike ended. We could not keep him on board because chances remained good that we would have to go after another pilot before the day was over.
“Big Mother this is Steel Hawser, expect a green light on Steel Hawser, not Bulls Eye on arrival.”
The destroyer squadron commander had spoken. I had no choice but to deliver our survivor to Coontz. That didn’t make Rogers happy and we were afraid they were going to sink Coontz.
As we continued to fly around that afternoon, I told the CHINFO photographer it was too bad that he didn’t have a movie camera so he could have gotten the whole thing in motion.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “There will be someone out next month. He can get it then.”
The photographer had no idea just how lucky he had been, first that he had been present at all when we made a pick-up and second, that this had been a relatively easy pick up with little opposition. Clearly, our young photographer did not fully appreciate what he had just experienced.
Late in the afternoon, just before dark, we retrieved Lt. Ball. He had been treated to some dry clothes and pretty much wined and dined all afternoon. Now it was back to the real world of carrier aviation. USS Ticonderoga was about an hour southeast of us, and they were waiting for the return of their pilot so they could depart Yankee Station. They were finally headed home after a tough deployment. When I reported in with them on the radio, I got exactly what I expected:
“Big Mother, this is Panther; expect Charlie on arrival.”
That meant I could expect to be cleared for an immediate landing as soon as I got there, but I was ready for them, and it was my game now.
“Negative Panther. We don’t intend to return your pilot without a suitable ransom.”
“Roger Big Mother, what would you consider a suitable ransom?”
“Tower, we would consider a gallon of ice cream and five spoons to be just about right.”
When I set the H-3 down on Tico’s flight deck, the people welcoming Lt. Ball home surrounded us. As he exited the helicopter to a hero’s welcome, a huge cake was shoved into the after station along with a five-gallon drum of chocolate ice cream. We launched into the inky night for the short flight over to Yorktown. We ate cake and ice cream, but by the time we finally landed, we had melted ice cream all over everything. Five gallons was just too much.
“Ocean Wave, this is Fetch 68 at five miles for landing,” I reported.
“Roger Fetch. Your signal is delta.”
Nothing unusual about that. We entered a holding pattern on the starboard side of the ship and spent the next hour flying in circles. When we were finally cleared to land, we had been strapped in those seats for eleven hours twenty-five minutes. If that were not enough, when we got to our rooms, we found that the ship was on water hours, which meant the fresh water was turned off. Shortly after I entered my room, however, the Chief Engineer, Cdr. Sullivan, knocked on my door. “You look like you could use a shower,” he said. “Get your stuff, and come with me.” I followed him down to the shower, and he turned the water on for me. I was surprised and delighted. I don’t think I ever took a shower that was either needed or appreciated more.
I shared this story with a former F-8 pilot, Radm. George Aitcheson. In return, he forwarded a short story written by Ron Ball’s wingman that day. I have included the story written by Hal Loney, a Ltjg at the time of the incident, to tell how this all started:
An aircraft was shot down during egress from a raid on Hanoi the day before, and I was assigned to fly escort on a photo mission to determine what type of AAA had been moved into the karst ridge where the shoot down occurred. Ron Ball and I had flown together many times, and the actual photo, over land, part of the mission would take less than three minutes. During the brief, Ron made me feel confident and somewhat comfortable with the mission during the rather short briefing. I was to lead because my plane had radar with which to pin point the coast in location. Once there, we popped up to 500 feet and I passed the lead so Ron could take forward looking photos crossing the beach, breaking 90 degrees, take lateral photos, then 90 degrees again descending back down to wave tops and egress. But… things didn’t work out quite the way we planned them. On this day, neither of the two carrier air wings joint, three or four mission raids into the North with many different types of aircraft per mission, nor rooster tail flat hatting for some thirty minutes prior to the photo run diverted attention from our two F-8 Crusaders. When we passed some fishing boats and popped up, the AAA lit up. Ron crossed the beach, with tracer going in several directions, then broke 90 degrees. While belly up to me, a tracer crossed my nose and entered the center of his aircraft (main fuel cell), immediately catching fire. I broke radio silence with a couple of ‘Ron?’ pause, ‘Ron?”, then he finely said calmly, “I think I have been hit.” I confirmed his suspicions, telling him he was on fire, “go gate.” Ron smoothly pulled around and down toward the water to get under the AAA and headed out to sea. We passed the fishing boats and were out of range of shore guns. Then he started a smooth climb while I called for support and rescap. At approximately three or so thousand feet, I told him I could see through the aircraft, both main gear and hook were hanging out burning. I said he should think about getting out. He said “temp is going through 1000 degrees, “I’ll see you back at the ship.” The canopy came off, the seat came out, the aircraft explode within a fraction of a second later, and then he had separation and a beautiful chute. The rescue went well and as someone has said “the rest is history.”
The Squadron Continued to Make Rescues-May 1966-RADM Bill “Wild Bill” Terry, USN (Ret.)
In yet another extraordinary event, Dick Benson went on to make a tremendously difficult and dramatic recovery of his own. He picked up a Mayday call from an A-4 pilot who had been hit when flying somewhere southwest of Vinh. Dick established radio contact with the pilot as soon as he was on the ground and told him they would be in to get him as soon as the A-1’s arrived to fly cover.
“If you wait for them, you can forget the whole thing. The bad guys are here already.”
Without his RESCAP, Dick flew into the mountains just southwest of Vinh. When he got there, he found the Militia within yards of the pilot. He made one pass with the M-60’s and then entered a hover over the survivor. The crew threw out the already played-out hoist cable, and the pilot was in it in seconds.
By now the North Vietnamese, all determined to kill or capture the downed American airman, were within thirty to forty yards of the helicopter and took it under fire. Rounds hit every rotor blade, both main and tail. They shot out a portion of the co-pilot’s instrumentation in the cockpit, and they shot out the utility hydraulic system. They hit the helicopter more than 120 times. With no utility hydraulic system, they could not bring the pilot up and had to fly with him strung out beneath the helicopter. He was on the end of a long cable, and as Dick and his crew broke off the engagement and turned to escape down the mountainside, the pilot swung over the top of the men chasing him. As he passed over them, he gave them the finger in a last act of defiance as they made a very dramatic exit to the sea.
Realizing that flying on the end of a long cable was not fun, Dick took the man out to sea and put him in the water where he was picked up by the south CSAR H-2. The H-2 pilot reported he was under intense fire from the beach, and was awarded a Silver Star, the same medal Dick received for his efforts. There is a lot I can say about that, and Dick has for years. He said there was no fire in the area, or he would have never put the pilot down there. Interestingly enough, Dick flew past this same H-2 crew when he went in country. They had not been willing to cross the beach and were more than happy to let the H-3 go in to where the shooting was even if it meant giving up the rescue.
There were, of course other rescues and as true in all wars, heroes were born and cowards were identified. I think it’s safe to say that none of us flying the CSAR mission in the North would ever be quite the same again, but when it was over, I had no difficulty looking in the mirror.
Following my final CSAR flight, I requested to come off the flight schedule for a couple of days to rest up a little. When I did, Lt. Steve Myers, the Senior Watch Officer, informed me that he was going to make me the permanent squadron duty officer since I was not carrying my share of the load and was just doping off. That was easy enough to say by someone who had never seen combat and wouldn’t. It would actually have been a lot easier to fly than to take the duty permanently, but that didn’t prove to be necessary. Ted Cook, our Flight Surgeon, stepped in. He confined me to my room unless I wanted to get out and get some air. In short, I could do anything I wanted to do except stand the duty. I got my rest and returned to my regular duties a couple of days later.
In yet another extraordinary event, Dick Benson went on to make a tremendously difficult and dramatic recovery of his own. He picked up a Mayday call from an A-4 pilot who had been hit when flying somewhere southwest of Vinh. Dick established radio contact with the pilot as soon as he was on the ground and told him they would be in to get him as soon as the A-1’s arrived to fly cover.
“If you wait for them, you can forget the whole thing. The bad guys are here already.”
Without his RESCAP, Dick flew into the mountains just southwest of Vinh. When he got there, he found the Militia within yards of the pilot. He made one pass with the M-60’s and then entered a hover over the survivor. The crew threw out the already played-out hoist cable, and the pilot was in it in seconds.
By now the North Vietnamese, all determined to kill or capture the downed American airman, were within thirty to forty yards of the helicopter and took it under fire. Rounds hit every rotor blade, both main and tail. They shot out a portion of the co-pilot’s instrumentation in the cockpit, and they shot out the utility hydraulic system. They hit the helicopter more than 120 times. With no utility hydraulic system, they could not bring the pilot up and had to fly with him strung out beneath the helicopter. He was on the end of a long cable, and as Dick and his crew broke off the engagement and turned to escape down the mountainside, the pilot swung over the top of the men chasing him. As he passed over them, he gave them the finger in a last act of defiance as they made a very dramatic exit to the sea.
Realizing that flying on the end of a long cable was not fun, Dick took the man out to sea and put him in the water where he was picked up by the south CSAR H-2. The H-2 pilot reported he was under intense fire from the beach, and was awarded a Silver Star, the same medal Dick received for his efforts. There is a lot I can say about that, and Dick has for years. He said there was no fire in the area, or he would have never put the pilot down there. Interestingly enough, Dick flew past this same H-2 crew when he went in country. They had not been willing to cross the beach and were more than happy to let the H-3 go in to where the shooting was even if it meant giving up the rescue.
There were, of course other rescues and as true in all wars, heroes were born and cowards were identified. I think it’s safe to say that none of us flying the CSAR mission in the North would ever be quite the same again, but when it was over, I had no difficulty looking in the mirror.
Following my final CSAR flight, I requested to come off the flight schedule for a couple of days to rest up a little. When I did, Lt. Steve Myers, the Senior Watch Officer, informed me that he was going to make me the permanent squadron duty officer since I was not carrying my share of the load and was just doping off. That was easy enough to say by someone who had never seen combat and wouldn’t. It would actually have been a lot easier to fly than to take the duty permanently, but that didn’t prove to be necessary. Ted Cook, our Flight Surgeon, stepped in. He confined me to my room unless I wanted to get out and get some air. In short, I could do anything I wanted to do except stand the duty. I got my rest and returned to my regular duties a couple of days later.