Every Man a Tiger (1999) Read online

  In all fairness to those who planned the mission, no one had experience against SAMs (other than the U-2 pilots who’d been shot down by SAMs over Russia and Cuba). There was, in fact, a general feeling that it was hopeless to fly against SAMs; they never missed. Finally, planning for the first-ever raid against SAMs was heady stuff—it was hard to step back and just look at the best way to do it—and so anybody in Saigon or Washington who had an opportunity to add a tweak to the plan did.

  Was there a better way? In fact, yes. Higher command could have called down to the Wing and said, “If you can kill those SAM sites at such and such a location, please do so, and let me know what you learn.” In other words, the Wing might well have had a more practical way to accomplish higher command’s goal than higher command did. But that was not likely under the centralized system then in place.

  Meanwhile, Horner and Myhrum, who were on duty handling the Frags, noted that the Dash-One pilot’s handbook contained restrictions on using napalm. Specifically, the maximum speed for release of these weapons was 375 knots indicated airspeed. Not smart, they thought, to go in against AAA that slow. They passed that thought on to Saigon, and Saigon agreed. Another message came back at 2:00 A.M. that morning, saying, “OK, load up iron bombs and have at it.” By that time, the munitions troops had already loaded the jets with napalm.

  “Hey, wait a minute.” Horner and Myhrum came running up. “Change in plans. Drop the napalm and CBUs and load up bombs.”

  “Okay, can do.”

  Then, around 5:00 A.M. the general in Saigon must have arrived at headquarters, because a new message quickly came in: “Load the napalm and the CBUs and go as ordered.” So they went back to the hapless maintenance troops: “Hey, guys, there’s been a change. Reload the napalm and CBUs. Sorry.” It’s because such things happen that maintenance troops have a low opinion of operations.

  While all this was going on, the pilots who were about to fly the mission were doing what they could to sleep; but sleep wasn’t likely, because this mission was a major operation. When the sun rose, the pilots assembled; and Horner and Myhrum delivered the mission data for the first-ever attack on a surface-to-air radar-guided-missile site, then prepared to grab breakfast and hit their beds.

  As it happened, maintenance had a pair of extra aircraft loaded, in case someone aborted a primary jet. “Would you and Roger give those jets a hot preflight and start them up?” they asked. “If someone has to abort their primary aircraft, they can run over to yours, jump in, and take off on the mission.”

  “No problem,” they answered.

  “And would you please taxi them out to the arming area,” they added, “in the event that one of the primary jets breaks out there?”

  “Sure, no sweat,” they answered. But because they had been up all night and they were tired, Horner was also thinking, Let’s get the show on the road so I can get some breakfast and sleep.

  Then the takeoff time was moved up, forcing Horner and Myhrum to go to the jets early (somebody brought them sandwiches from the club, but the meat was cold liver, which Horner hates, and he went hungry), climb in the jet, start check-in, and then taxi to the landing area. All went well there, until Horner and Myhrum, who were sitting off to the side, heard two pilots in the first flight abort their takeoffs. Next the flight leader called to order them to take off and join him as numbers three and four. Okay, no sweat, Horner thought, I can fly wing anywhere. All I have to do is put the light on the star11 and stay in formation, refuel, and drop some napalm on whatever the flight leader puts in front of me. His flight plan will determine mine, since I am in formation with him.

  That was overhopeful.

  After they refueled, but before they let down in Laos, numbers one and two decided they had to go home with aircraft problems. That left Roger Myhrum—who hadn’t been briefed—to lead the whole show from Korat. On his wing was Chuck Horner. Other than what he could remember from the night before when he broke out the Frag, Horner was just as much in the dark about the mission as his friend. Not to worry, he thought. We’ve faked it before, and anyway we know the area like the back of our hands from previous missions.

  When they let down in the valley in Laos, the Pathet Lao must have been caught unaware, because they scarcely shot at them. Soon they hit the river and turned north.

  Suddenly the radio came alive: “Buick Leader is down in the river!” . . . “I’m hit and on fire!” . . . “Two, where are you?” All these messages came with automobile call signs, meaning Ta Khli was early in their attack. They were coming south down the river and getting shot at and hit.

  Since it was not pleasant to have the enemy shooting at you at slow speeds, the Thuds from Korat pushed it up. Horner noticed Myhrum was doing a nice 550 knots and accelerating. Good man, he thought. Hope the generals don’t find out we’re exceeding the 375-knot limit on the napalm. He looked up then and saw Bobby Tastett’s Thud rise up out of an area of dust and flames, with the whole underside of his jet on fire. He kept staring as Tastett’s jet sank back into the dust and exploded against the ground.12 Horner’s next glance was over to the side, where he noticed the gun barrels of the AAA all lined up and shooting down the valley. They were flying so low the North Vietnamese couldn’t depress their barrels enough to hit them. That meant the projectiles burst overhead, and most of the hits were on the topside of their jets. They were so low that some of them came back with leaves stuck in underside doors and panels.

  In a moment, Horner saw what looked like a SAM site, then dropped his munitions about the same time Myhrum did. Later they both admitted they weren’t sure what they actually dropped them on, but since Saigon didn’t want to hear that, they reported that 100 percent of the munitions were in the target area, and that made Saigon happy. Turning left and crossing the Red River, he heard Frank Tullo call to report he was punching out (ejecting). He was later recovered.

  Then it was finished. When the guns stopped shooting at them, they checked each other over. Myhrum had a hung can of napalm, so they slowed down while he jettisoned it, then headed south across Laos back to Thailand.

  En route, they listened in on the ops officer talking on the radio with a friend of Horner’s, Bill Barthelmous. Bill had holes in his jet behind the canopy and asked the ops officer, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Farr, to check him over for fire, leaking fluid, or anything else. Sure enough, fluid was leaking. Suddenly Barthelmous’ flight controls locked up from loss of hydraulic fluid, and he pitched up, smashing into Farr’s jet, killing him. Barthelmous jumped out, but his chute streamered, and he was later found dead in a rice paddy with multiple broken bones and water in his lungs.

  In the attack, Korat lost, in all, four jets and three pilots, one of whom turned up several years later as a POW, while Ta Khli lost two jets and two pilots. Bill Barthelmous and Jack Farr died; Bob Tastett and others checked into the Hanoi Hilton; and only Frank Tullo came back to fly north again from the hell of that day.

  Afterward, poststrike reconnaissance film showed an untouched SAM site. But it turned out not really to matter that they missed it, since the site was fake. Its SA-2 Guideline missiles had been built out of telephone poles, with a dummy radar in the middle. They’d fallen for a very skillfully handled trap—a clever sting. That night, all the surviving pilots got roaring drunk and made a lot of noise celebrating being alive. In their hearts, though, they felt terrible, because they hadn’t got the job done.

  The next day, the PACAF Commander, General Hunter Harris, paid a visit in his 707. As the door opened, the local SAC base commander was standing there, dressed up in his blue uniform, waiting at the bottom of the stairs; the honor guard, with chrome helmets, was lined up on either side of the red carpet. Instead of General Hunter Harris standing in the door, however, there was Frank Tullo, his flight suit covered with blood, mud, and vomit. He had cut his head when he ejected, then he’d crawled around in the jungle mud trying to avoid detection by the North Vietnamese. After a few hours of this, Air America had pi
cked him up and flown him to a forward site in Laos, where he got drunk on local Mekong whiskey, got sick, and vomited all over himself as he slept. When the pilots saw him, they all cheered, much to the annoyance of the SAC base commander, realizing as they did that General Harris had a sense of humor and knew what was important (even if he couldn’t do anything about what they were being asked to do).13

  ★ The July 24 attack on the radar SAM site proved to be such a catastrophe that it served as an exemplary lesson in tactics and survival. The tactics were wrong on two counts: First, since it was thought that SAMs were 100 percent effective, it was concluded that aircraft had to underfly them. Second, from the Strategic Air Command commanders who were planning and running operations in Vietnam came bomber stream tactics—that is, large numbers of jets flying in trail over the target.

  Both tactics derived from various historical and peacetime experiences—the bomber stream from World War II, and flying low level from lack of experience fighting against radar-guided SAMs.

  Over Germany and Japan, the massed bomber formations would follow the same route into the target, the idea being to keep the wings level from Initial Point (IP) to target in order to get accurate bombing from level flight. The problem was that it gave the defense easy targets—ducks in a row.

  In principle, flying low to defeat SAMs was far from unreasonable. The SA-2 radars the Air Force faced in Vietnam were limited to seeing targets at about 1,000+ feet above the ground, while the early-warning radars that fed them target information were limited to much higher altitudes. From that perspective, it made sense to come in low and fast. Unfortunately, the commanders failed to recognize that at low level, the guns were a much greater threat than a SAM. In point of fact—and experience was to bear this out—SAMs were not 100 percent effective. Even when they are flying within a SAM’s range, and a missile is locked onto them, pilots have a chance. They can always acquire the SAM visually and outfly it, even if they don’t have the Radar Warning Receivers, ECM pods, chaff, or flares that pilots now have.

  Both tactics came out of the doctrine of centralized control—control from Washington and control from the Strategic Air Command. Washington has already been discussed. SAC’s attachment to control derived from their approach to their primary mission, the Single Integrated Operations Plan. No deviation from the SIOP was allowed. Its timetable allowed no variation. Every sortie was fixed. Every warhead was to be exactly placed.

  The same minds that made a religion out of the SIOP refused to change low-level and bomber-stream tactics in Vietnam, even after these tactics had proved to be deadly.

  ★ The attack on the SA-2 site was a life-changing experience for Chuck Horner. His reaction to it, in fact, had a direct bearing on the success of the air war against Saddam Hussein in 1991. Here he is in his own words:

  After we got back to Korat, we were treated like heroes and acted like fools. That night, as those of us who came home made ourselves gloriously drunk and loud, there burned a bitterness in me against the stupid generals who sent us in at low level, trying to sneak up on an enemy whom we had trained to be the world’s best air defense experts.

  Our generals were bad news. But later my bitterness grew to include the administration in Washington (the people who were ultimately responsible for the madness in Vietnam). They just did not know what they wanted to do or what they wanted military power to achieve. As a result, they came up with strategies almost on a day-by-day basis. Meaning: we had no real strategy in the air war over North Vietnam. Sometimes it looked as though we were trying to punish North Vietnam into coming to peace talks. Sometimes it looked as though we were trying to force North Vietnam to stop supplying the Vietcong. Sometimes it looked as though we were flying sorties just to impress the White House that we were flying sorties. It was like the game of crack the whip. A little jiggle in Washington resulted in a huge snapping of the end of the whip out in Southeast Asia.

  That doesn’t mean we didn’t cause the North Vietnamese a lot of problems. We sure tried. However, in the overall analysis, I am also sure that we gave the North Vietnamese a lot of comfort. They had to have been greatly encouraged about the way we fought the war, about the way we parceled out airpower and didn’t achieve dominance, about the way we ignored our own doctrine and failed to gain control of the air. As a result, we filled their POW camps with our pilots and littered their countryside with downed aircraft. We taught our enemy to endure air attacks, we taught our enemy how to best defend against the world’s greatest air power, and we taught our enemy how to defeat us in the end.

  In my heart, meanwhile, I knew that I would never again be a part of anything so insane and foolish. The name of the game is to get the mission done. That takes a combination of the fighter headquarters and the unit level leadership. It takes a team, not the teacher-student or parent-child relationship that we had with our SAC leaders. I vowed that if I ever got in charge, if I ever became the omnipresent “ higher headquarters they,” I would not let such madness reign.

  In time my bitterness changed to hatred of them—the omnipresent them—everybody above my wing, all the Fighter Headquarters from Saigon on up (and later, too, the real culprits, primarily the President and the Secretary of Defense). I didn’t hate them because they were dumb, I didn’t hate them because they had spilled our blood for nothing, I hated them because of their arrogance . . . because they had convinced themselves that they actually knew what they were doing and that we were too minor to understand the “Big Picture.” I hated my own generals, because they covered up their own gutless inability to stand up to the political masters in Washington and say, “Enough. This is bullshit. Either we fight or we go home.” I hated them because they asked me to take other people’s lives in a manner that dishonored both of us, me the killer and them the victim.

  If you are going to kill someone, you better have a good reason for it. And if you have a good reason, then you better not play around with the killing. We didn’t seem to have the good reason, and we were playing around with the killing. Shame on all of us. If I had to be a killer, I wanted to know why I was killing; and the facts didn’t match the rhetoric coming out of Washington.

  The rhetoric was that we were there to save South Vietnam for democracy and to keep the other Southeast Asia nations from falling into Communist slavery. Okay, I will buy that. But the way we fought was so inefficient that you wondered if the rhetoric was just a front we were putting up. Then there was the political situation in South Vietnam itself. It was bothersome that we were supposed to be defending a political realm that was so unstable and corrupt. You couldn’t trust the elected government, and the elections we called for were rigged from the start. So in Vietnam there was hypocrisy. Next came the strong assurances from the President that he would fight the war to win and then he did nothing of the kind. Worst of all for me was coming home from the war in 1965, visiting my wife’s hometown, Cresco, Iowa, and talking to the local Rotary luncheon. On the one hand, I was being told that we are out there on the frontier of freedom defending these people’s interests, even eventually their freedom. On the other hand, these people had no idea what was going on in the war. They were supportive. But how much comfort can someone who is killing other humans take when the folks back home don’t know what you are doing or why you are doing it?

  What should we have done?

  For starters, we should have actually taken control of the air. We should have taken down the MiG threat by attacking their airfields. We should have rooted out the air defense systems by attacking sector operations centers—even if they were in prohibited areas like Hanoi or Haiphong. We should have bombed any gun that shot at us on a priority basis. And we should have attacked the SAM storage areas.

  How did I resolve these contradictions and confusions?

  I returned to the United States in August of 1965, after maybe four months in the war, initially surprised that I wasn’t kept in battle until the war was won. After all, isn’t that how we do things i
n America? In 1965, I cared about winning. By 1967, I still wanted to win, but when I had a chance to go back to Korat as a Wild Weasel, I’d concluded that since the President didn’t really give a damn, and since the American people didn’t understand what we were doing, then why should I worry about it? Since I knew the ropes by then, and that this would probably be the only war I’ d ever be in, my goal was to get back to the war, do the best I could, and enjoy the thrill of combat, even though the war itself was a stupid, aimless, evil thing. My only disturbing thought then was the almost certain knowledge that as a Wild Weasel I ran an excellent chance of not coming home. But then, you never take counsel of your own fears.

  To put it another way, I lied. Most of us did; and the folks above us wanted us to lie. I stripped myself of integrity. We lied about what we were doing in North Vietnam. We lied about what targets we hit: Say my Fragged target was a ford across a river. If I saw a better target—say, boxcars on a rail siding—I would miss my Fragged target and somehow my bombs would hit the boxcars. We lied about where we flew. For instance, I always tried to fly in the no-fly buffer zones on the Chinese border, because the North Vietnamese didn’t have any guns on the ground there. They also knew about our buffer zones and figured we would follow orders.

  When I went into North Vietnam, there was nobody from Washington up there, so I did what I felt was in the best interests of winning the war. If our leaders had no interest in winning, whatever that was, well, I did; and I was going to try to win, even if they didn’t want to or were unwilling to really try. I loved the fighting. If they didn’t care about the truth, then I would lie. If they didn’t care about the killing and dying, then neither would I.

  In war, of course, shit happens more often than at most other times. You are faced with the ever-present reality that you are out there killing other people, and that is very bothersome, especially if you really believe the stuff they taught you in church. You are stuck with a contradiction: “Thou shall not kill.” But you are killing. The only way to resolve the contradiction is to try to do it as humanely as possible. That comes from knowing why you are at war, and then to fight it in such a way that it is over as quickly as possible and everyone can go home and live in peace . . . or at least until the next war.