North Vietnamese air defenses improved. By July 1965 SA-2 SAMs made their first appearance, and U.S. aircraft losses mounted. After the Christmas truce from December 25, 1965, to January 30, 1966, Rolling Thunder III covered the period January 31, 1966 to March 31, 1966. The F-105 Thunderchief, an aircraft designed to carry tactical nuclear weapons against the Soviet Union, was the chosen bomb carrier. An increasingly sophisticated North Vietnamese air-defense network forced the employment of F-4 fighters as MiG caps to protect vulnerable F-105 bombers, EB-66 electronic-countermeasure aircraft to jam North Vietnamese radars, and modified two-seat F-105F Wild Weasel aircraft to counter SAM sites. The cost to put a bomb on a target escalated both in terms of money and lives lost. Rolling Thunder III was restricted to targets in the lower route packs. Furthermore, air force and navy aircraft were restricted to three hundred sorties per day.
On April 1, 1966, restrictions were lifted, and all of North Vietnam was released as a target area, except for the buffer zones and other target restrictions. Among the other target restrictions were airfields from which the MiG-17, MiG-19, and MiG-21 interceptors operated against U.S. Air Force and Navy aircraft. Operations continued with the usual restrictions implemented over Christmas, New Year’s, and Tet. Finally, Hanoi’s industrial base was released as a target. Production losses, however, were quickly made up by communist China and the Soviet Union. On March 31, 1968, President Johnson, in a nationwide broadcast, announced the termination of all attacks north of the nineteenth parallel. That meant that only the lower two route packs could be targeted, and they had few targets worth the risk of American lives. On November 1, 1968, President Johnson halted all air attacks against North Vietnam. When Richard M. Nixon assumed the U.S. presidency in January 1969, peace talks were in progress in Paris. The talks dragged on, seemingly without end. In 1972, Nixon, under ever-increasing internal political pressure to disengage from Vietnam, decided to act decisively. In an air campaign known as Linebacker I and II, tactical aircraft and B-52 bombers launched massive air strikes against the Hanoi/Haiphong area, and Haiphong Harbor was mined. The North Vietnamese resumed negotiations, signing an agreement on January 27, 1973. The Paris Protocol called for a supervised cease-fire, the return of American prisoners of war, and the withdrawal of U.S. troops. In March 1973 the last U.S. combat forces left Vietnam. On April 30, 1975, South Vietnam fell to northern invaders. The war was over.
North Vietnam was divided into route packages for targeting purposes. Aces and Aerial Victories 9.
America’s airmen in Vietnam, both in the south and over the north, fought with valor and courage in spite of a lack of relevant training and of flying aircraft built to accomplish other tasks. Steve Ritchie, the only air force Vietnam ace, was quoted in a 1999 Wall Street Journal editorial as saying, “The first time I ever saw an unlike airplane was a MiG-21 near Hanoi. In those days, we weren’t allowed to train against dissimilar aircraft. They wouldn’t let us train the way we were going to fight. Sometimes, I wasn’t even allowed to fire back if fired upon” (“Review and Outlook” W11). In addition, airmen had to cope with failing air-to-air missiles and a lack of guns in their newest fighter, the F-4 Phantom—which wasn’t a phantom at all, with its black smoke–emitting General Electric engines. (Gun pods eventually were added to the F-4.) America’s airmen learned quickly from their early mistakes, as they had in wars past. By the time the air war ended for them in 1973, they had regained their flying skills and technological edge.
By mid-1960 the World War II generation of citizen airmen, many of whom were enlisted men and who flew aircraft powered by reciprocating engines, had passed the torch to a new generation consisting mostly of college-educated officers flying jet aircraft. World War II, the Berlin Airlift, and Korea were history to the new generation of flyers fighting the air war over Vietnam. The three accounts that follow tell the story of how the new generation of airmen took the fight to the enemy over Laos and North and South Vietnam.
Rolling Thunder bombing boundaries. Aces and Aerial Victories 6.
Principal American air bases in Southeast Asia. Aces and Aerial Victories 23.
Chapter 14
Hambone 02
By direction of the President, the Purple Heart is awarded to Major Ralph L. Kuster Jr. for wounds received in action against a hostile force on 30 June 1967.
The Distinguished Flying Cross and the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th oak leaf clusters thereto are awarded Major Ralph L. Kuster Jr. for extraordinary achievement in aerial combat on 14 March, 8 May, 25 April, 30 June, and 7 July 1967. On the latter date Major Kuster was directed to strike at numerous flak sites surrounding Kep airfield. Undaunted when surrounded by exceptionally heavy ground fire, Major Kuster in a voluntary act of bravery, relentlessly pressed the attack and silenced the hostile guns. On the 30th of June Major Kuster, the element leader in a flight of F-105 aircraft, was directed to strike an intensely defended strategic rail yard. Despite his aircraft having received two direct hits during the attack, he pressed on with selfless disregard of his personal safety and delivered his ordnance on target, even though immediately thereafter he was forced to eject from his crippled aircraft over unfriendly territory. The professional competence, outstanding heroism and selfless devotion to duty displayed repeatedly by Major Kuster reflect great credit upon himself and the United States Air Force.
Major Ralph L. Kuster Jr. distinguished himself by gallantry in military operations against an opposing armed force over North Vietnam on 3 June 1967. On that date Major Kuster was a member of a flight of F-105 Thunderchiefs on a strike against a vital highway bridge near Hanoi. After penetrating the intense flak and delivering his own bombs on the target, Major Kuster again jeopardized his life by voluntarily attacking and destroying a MiG that was threatening the remainder of the strike force. For Major Kuster’s gallantry and devotion to duty the President of the United States has awarded him the Silver Star for his conspicuous gallantry in action. This award signed:
General William W. Momyer
Commander, 7th Air Force
Harold Brown
Secretary of the Air Force
Colonel Ralph L. Kuster Jr.
Silver Star, Distinguished Flying Cross (5), Air Medal (9), Purple Heart
In 1931 the Kuster family was struggling like many others, watching its pennies. It was not the best of years for the United States or for much of the rest of the world. Ralph was born on August 19 of that year. Fortunately, his father had a steady job as a draftsman at the McDonnell plant in St. Louis, Missouri. When Ralph was old enough to read, his interest was captured by a comic-strip character, Smiling Jack, a daring pilot and a U.S. marshal. Jack flew mostly in the West and landed his biplane in canyons and on top of mountain ridges to get his man. “I always enjoyed Smiling Jack,” Ralph said, sitting at his dining room table in Stillwater, Oklahoma, “I especially was fascinated by the way its creator depicted the airplanes Jack flew, and the way Jack skillfully avoided a rock on landing. After the war began in 1941, they put model airplanes into cereal boxes, and my brothers and I collected a whole series of Army Air Corps and navy airplanes. I couldn’t get airplanes out of my head.”
“When I was fifteen, a friend and I got on our bicycles and cycled ten miles to Wise Airfield, outside of St. Louis. We had eight dollars between us. We asked one pilot after another if he would give us a ride in his airplane. We finally got one pilot to take our money, and he flew us around the airfield for twenty minutes. I enjoyed the ride immensely. From then on, I wanted to be an aeronautical engineer. I wanted to understand what made those machines stay up. Aeronautical engineering was not a real option at the time, since there weren’t too many aeronautical engineering programs in the country. I eventually went to the Missouri School of Mines in mechanical engineering, but I took all the aero options they offered. In December 1952, when I was about to graduate, I walked past the library. A big sign out front proclaimed ‘Be tested to become an air force officer and a pilot.’ My friend and I happened
to have a free hour or two, and I said to him, ‘It’s not going to cost anything to take the test.’ So we both took the test and passed.
“When I graduated in January 1953, the air force gave me a ticket to Chanute AFB in Illinois for three more days of testing. The night before I left, we had a big celebration. Then I rode the bus for about a day and a half to get there. At Chanute I was put up in a barracks where the steam pipes were cracking all night long—ka-pow, ka-pow, ka-pow. Nobody got any sleep. The next day, everyone’s blood pressure was sky high. The flight surgeon couldn’t understand it. He had us lay down on the floor. Then he asked us, ‘What is making your blood pressure so high? Is it the nurses walking through here?’
“I said, ‘It probably is because we didn’t get any sleep last night.’
“He said, ‘OK. Rest.’ We got everyone calmed down, and we passed. At the end of all the tests, they assembled us in a room, and an air force captain came in and read off everybody’s name but mine. ‘You can be a pilot,’ he said after calling someone’s name. ‘You can be a navigator. You qualify for officer.’ And so on. At the end I raised my hand and asked, ‘What about me?’
“ ‘What’s your name?’ he said, looking at me quizzically.
“ ‘Kuster,’ I said. ‘With a K.’
“ ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘you can be anything you want.’ I didn’t know if I passed or failed. I took it as a good sign, and before I left Chanute I was given a pilot-training class and a starting date in June 1953. I also received a copy of a form letter signed by the secretary of the air force addressed to my local draft board requesting that they give me a deferment until I reported for duty in June. When I got home, I queried the draft board on my deferment for pilot training. I knew they wanted to draft me. Every time I called, they kept telling me that they would take care of me. ‘We’ll take care of you’—those were their exact words, not to worry about anything. They said that so many times, I began to worry. I was working at McDonnell engineering, sitting at my desk, and I thought, ‘What are they trying to tell me?’ I spoke to my boss about the situation, and he suggested I go visit the draft board in person to talk to them. I took along the letter signed by the secretary of the air force.
“I walked into the draft board office on Friday morning. One of the girls working there escorted me to a sweet-looking little old lady. She had white hair and looked like she belonged on a jar of Smucker’s marmalade. She had the sweetest smile. She assured me immediately that everything was being taken care of and that they had the letter from the secretary of the air force, and she was going to bring my case before the board the following Wednesday. She said, ‘I will make sure that they will react honorably toward your request for deferment.’ She finished by saying, ‘You don’t have a thing to worry about.’ Then she flashed her beatific smile at me, concluding our conversation. I was about to say goodbye when the phone rang. She picked up the telephone and after listening for about five seconds she yelled into the phone, ‘I don’t give a damn if you are going to be a doctor in two weeks. If you don’t get down to the train station as directed, I’ll have the military police haul you out in a jeep with your hands in cuffs.’ By then she was screaming at the top of her voice. I had heard people screaming before—that’s not what shocked me. What she said to that person was what shocked me—a doctor nonetheless. I walked out of the place dazed.
“Across the hall from the draft board was a National Guard office, and I spoke to the recruiting officer. I asked him if they were still giving commissions to engineers with experience. I had quite a bit of experience working at McDonnell. He said, ‘I have enough engineers.’ Then I asked him, ‘How far would you trust the draft board to do the right thing by me?’
“He kind of smiled and said, ‘Well, about as far as I can throw this building.’
“So I asked him what he thought I should do.
“He said, ‘I think you should go and talk to the air force recruiters. Their offices are only three blocks from here.’ The air force major at the recruiting office listened to my story sympathetically and suggested that I take the air force enlistment test right away. He would then hold my papers and defer my departure from St. Louis until June, when I was to report for pilot training. In the meantime I should go back to work at McDonnell. If the draft-board letter arrived at home—and he told me exactly what it looked like so my mother would recognize it—she would then call me at work, and instead of going home, I would go to Union Station and take a train to San Antonio, Texas. Without me getting a draft notice, it was legal for me to do that. I thought this was the best of all worlds. When I was through with the air force paperwork, they told me to clear the police and the draft board. It was late in the day when I walked back into the draft board office. The young lady who had greeted me in the morning jumped up and said, ‘You’re back. What’s happened?’
“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I enlisted in the air force.’ She got a grave look on her face and ushered me over to the sweet little old lady, who was sitting behind her desk piled high with papers. She had three stacks of paper in front of her, varying in height from a couple of inches to eight inches. She looked at me and said, ‘You’re back again. What can we do for you now?’ I said to her, ‘I enlisted in the air force.’ She screamed at me, ‘You what?’ Then she brought her left hand down and whipped the three stacks of paper off her desk. Paper was flying everywhere. The girls sitting at the sides of the office rushed over, trying to catch the papers. Two tried to sit the sweet little old lady down in her chair. Two others grabbed my elbows, and one was yelling in my ear—she had to yell with all that was going on—‘What did you do to her?’
“I backed away and said, ‘I didn’t do anything. I only told her I enlisted in the air force.’ The girl let go of me and walked around the little old lady’s desk, and I saw her bend over. I pulled the one girl still holding onto my other elbow over in that direction so I could see what was going on. On the floor was a canvas U.S. mail pouch, and she was riffling through it. She pulled an envelope out of the pouch and put it in front of the sweet little old lady, who took the envelope, tore it open, and waved a letter in my face. She screamed, ‘This is your draft notice. If you’re not in the air force on February 27, we are going to come out with the military police on the 28th and pick you up and take you away in handcuffs.’
“She did sign my release, and I was in the air force on February 27, 1953. I missed three and a half months of good salary at McDonnell. I had planned on buying a used car with that money. At Lackland I went through two months of basic training before entering the aviation cadet program. I graduated from aviation cadets in Bainbridge, Georgia, on August 17, 1954. I was at the top of my class, and with that distinction, I got my choice of assignment. The Korean War was over, so they weren’t sending any more pilots there. Most of our assignments were to SAC or to T-29s at Harlingen AFB, Texas, a navigator training base. At that time, the air force started an experiment. They thought that guys who had just completed pilot training would make good instructors. I volunteered and got one of those slots. After a short tour of instructor training at Craig AFB in Alabama, I was assigned to Laredo AFB, Texas, a small town smack up against the Rio Grande. The four of us picked by the air force to be first assignment instructor pilots (FAIPs) turned out to be good instructors. From then on the air force took the top graduates of each pilot graduating class and made them instructor pilots, until eventually most of our instructors were inexperienced pilots.
“At that time, we were losing three pilots every two months, on average, at Laredo to aircraft accidental deaths. A lot of that wasn’t the pilot’s fault, but rather the blame should go to the airplane. The air force changed engine controls on the T-33 trainer. If you came back on the throttle too fast, you’d blow the fire out the end of the tailpipe (a compressor stall), and if you were close to the ground, it was too bad. The other thing the air force changed was the airspeed indicator, going from miles per hour to knots. Our airplanes at Laredo con
verted to the new speed dials, but frequently planes from other bases would be shipped to us to replace our aircraft losses, still with the old instrumentation. A guy would be on final approach and think he was flying knots when he was actually on miles per hour and be three to four miles below the stall speed of the airplane. As he approached the ground and tried to round out, the airplane of course wouldn’t round out, and he plowed into the ground instead. So we killed a lot of guys.
“At Laredo we flew off a six thousand–foot runway. Another runway was five thousand feet long. When the six thousand–foot runway was closed with a flat tire, which was frequently, we had to land on the five thousand–foot runway. I remember landing one time on the five thousand–foot runway, and there were three airplanes off the end—one off the end and one on each side of the end. You had to put that bird down within fifteen feet of the end of the runway, and then it took pretty much forty-five hundred feet to stop. You had hot brakes when you got there. And if you stepped on the brakes too heavily, it blew the tires. The air force finally extended one runway to ten thousand feet and built another twelve thousand–foot runway, but we still had that five thousand–foot runway, which we used whenever the other two were closed.
I Always Wanted to Fly Page 27
