NAS PENSACOLA, FL.—It remains a gripping sea story even after a half-century.
An audience of several hundred sat spellbound in the spacious atrium of the National Naval Aviation Museum on Wednesday, 1 May , as they heard firsthand accounts of the O-1 “Bird Dog” Cessna’s desperate flight and miracle landing aboard the USS Midway (CVA-41) 50 years ago on 30 April 1975.
Opening the event, “Flight to Freedom: Remembering the 0-1 Bird Dog and the USS Midway,” master of ceremonies Rear Admiral Victor Hall said, “This is a very shining moment in naval history.” Museum Deputy Director Hill Goodspeed echoed the sentiment, saying that the “Bird Dog” incident remains “one of the most inspiring stories told by this museum.”
Discussing the incident were four men directly involved, including Rear Admiral (then-Captain) Lawrence Chambers, the Midway’s commanding officer, and Vietnamese Air Force Major Bung Ly (now Lee), the Bird Dog’s pilot. Adding further detail were retired Captain Tony McFarlane, then a second-class flight deck petty officer, and Captain (then-Lieutenant Commander) Ed Ellis, the carrier’s JAG officer.
Four weeks earlier, on 31 March 1975, the Midway had been detached from at-sea training near Japan and was ordered to join a flotilla of more than 30 7th Fleet warships and auxiliaries stationed off the southern coast of South Vietnam. The ships would comprise the last safe harbor for Americans and endangered South Vietnamese who fled the disintegrating Saigon regime by helicopter.
Upon arriving on station on 23 April, Chambers and his crew underwent an intense week of preparation for the anticipated influx of refugees from Operation Frequent Wind, the helicopter evacuation of Americans and Vietnamese from Saigon. The opreation proceeded over a 14-hour period from about 1500 on 29 April until 0400 on the 30th. But it was the “unofficial” airlift by scores of commandeered and stolen South Vietnamese helicopters and small aircraft that would turn into the Midway’s historic experience on that last Wednesday in April.
The four participants in the event recounted their experiences that day in graphic detail, with comments that left the audience either roaring with laughter or evoking spontaneous applause.
(Ed Offley photo)
Chambers outlined a chain-of-command dilemma he experienced throughout the mission. His immediate boss, Rear Admiral William L. Harris Jr., was on board as commander of Task Group 77.4, the 7th Fleet’s carrier force. But the orders placing the Midway in Operation Frequent Wind transferred control from Harris to Rear Admiral Donald Whitmire, commander of the fleet’s amphibious force, Task Force 76. Harris was relegated to the status of a VIP passenger. It didn’t go well.
With 50 years of water over the dam, Chambers allowed himself to be blunt. Harris was “one hell of a tough guy to work for,” particularly since he himself had previously commanded the Midway, Chambers said. In his remarks, Ellis was even blunter describing the unemployed admiral. “He wasn’t the most pleasant person to work for.”
The sudden appearance of the fixed-wing Cessna overhead as the Midway grappled with safely landing dozens of renegade UH-1 Huey helicopters pitched this unhappy captain-and-admiral relationship into a tense standoff, Chambers said. As the 0-1 circled the ship with its landing lights on—signifying an intent to land—Major Ly succeeded after several attempts to drop a note onto the flight deck.
Chambers was on the bridge when Ellis raced up the ladder and handed it over. Ly had scrawled on a knee card: “Can you move the helicopter to the other side, I can land on your runway. I can fly one hour more, we have enough time to move. Please rescue me! Major Bung Ly, wife and 5 child.”
Shown Ly’s note, Harris ordered Chambers to maneuver the ship so as to create a swath of calm water where the aircraft could ditch.
Chambers refused. His lookouts had spotted at least four people inside the two-seat aircraft, and he instinctively knew the Cessna would flip over when it hit the water, probably killing everyone inside. The only option was to clear the flight deck and let the pilot attempt to land.
Ellis recalled Chambers’ response: “Admiral, this is my ship and that’s my decision.”
“My admiral was telling me not to do it,” Chambers himself recalled. “I had to ignore what he was yelling at me.”
Chambers then told Commander Vernon Jumper, his air boss, what he wanted. Jumper replied, “Are you out of your mind?”
“Actually, he said something much more strongly than that,” Chambers added.
Chambers got on to the 1MC loudspeaker and asked for as many volunteers as possible to the flight deck to clear the landing zone by pushing the Vietnamese helicopters overboard. More than 1,000 off-duty crewmen, aviators, and Marines came running up.
By this time, Chambers has recalled, he was certain that these actions were going to get him court-martialed. When the flight deck was clear, eight more Hueys immediately landed, again fouling the landing area. He ordered them pushed overboard as well.
“Eight more helicopters over the side won’t make a damn difference at my court-martial,” he deadpanned. The audience laughed and applauded.
As riveting as the accounts by Ellis and Chamber were, Bung Lee’s account left the atrium as quiet as a church.
Stationed at a base on the island of Con Son, Lee awoke on the morning of 30 April 1975 certain that he and his family were in grave danger. Not only was the North Vietnamese Army capturing Saigon, but the island housed a massive prison of North Vietnamese and Viet Cong prisoners and a prison guard staff that like everything else was melting away.
“I had to get away [with my family] and that’s what I did,” Lee said. Commandeering the U.S. Army Cessna, Lee made no attempt to fly to the mainland, which was already under communist control. Risking everything, he headed out to sea.
“After a half-hour flight I saw a lot of helicopters flying in the same direction,” Lee continued. “So I followed. Then I spotted the Midway and noticed its flight deck was full of helicopters.”
“I thought, if they let them land, they’ll let me land,” he said in a deadpan tone, sparking laughter and applause from the audience. Interrupting his narrative, Lee said years later he was telling this story to his grandchildren, and a granddaughter interrupted him, asking “Didn’t you have a cellphone?”
The actual landing aboard Midway itself passed in a blur, Lee said. Coming to a full stop abeam the island, Lee and his family were surrounded by hundreds of cheering Midway sailors, Escorted inside the island, Lee recalled meeting several reporters who interviewed him about the flight. “I do not recall what they asked me,” he said, “or what I answered.”
Taken up the carrier’s navigation bridge, Chambers greeted Lee, then removed his own navy “wings of gold” and pinned them on the major’s chest, saying he was making Lee an honorary naval aviator.
“I had just lost my country, and now I had lost my pilot’s license,” Lee quipped. “To me,” he added with a wide grin, “that was an upgraded license.”
McFarlane, one of those on the flight cheering the Bird Dog pilot that day, said everyone there knew there was still a chance the aircraft might crash or—worse—run off the flight deck and fall into the South China Sea. “If it didn’t stop, we were going to run out and grab its wing to keep it from going over the side.”
“I recall the jubilation our crew felt knowing the lives that were spared,” McFarlane said, noting that the crew raised $10,000 ($60,000 in 2025 dollars) to help the family resettle.
“We sponsored that family,” McFarlane added. “They became our family.”
Lee, who attended the ceremony with his wife and several of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, had the last word:
“To Captain Chambers, Commander Jumper, and all the sailors on Midway, I want to thank you,” Lee said. “That decision was priceless; without that decision, my family would not be here today.”
Afterwards, Chambers, Lee, and many others walked to an adjacent display hangar where his 0-1 “Bird Dog” is on display.
