At the time of the Tonkin Gulf incident in August 1964, the U. S. Navy had almost 50 years of aviation experience. The aircraft carriers Ticonderoga (CVA-14) and Constellation (CVA-64), which launched retaliatory strikes against North Vietnamese PT-boat bases, were direct descendants of the USS Langley (CV-1), converted from a collier in 1922.
A half-century had brought U. S. naval aviation to a position of undisputed world leadership. Extensive combat operations in World War 11 and Korea had refined equipment and techniques to a degree of efficiency which, combined with the growing seniority among naval airmen, removed any lingering doubt that, in the latter part of the 20th century, sea power meant air power.
Although at least nine nations operated fixed-wing aircraft carriers in 1964, the United States possessed more flattops than the rest of the world’s navies combined. With 17 strike, plus antisubmarine carriers, American strategists were able to keep one or more flattops on station almost anywhere in the world, almost indefinitely.
Not all of these carriers were available at once. Even though a new generation of ships had emerged with the commissioning of the USS Forrestal (CVA-59) in 1955, the U. S. Navy still relied heavily upon the World War II generation—the numerous Essex (CV-9)-class and three postwar Midway (CVB-41)-class carriers. The Essex-class design was long-lived and extraordinarily versatile. Originally designed for a standard displacement of 27,100 tons, with axial decks for operating World War II aircraft, they were extensively modified during the 1950s. In the “27 Charlie” configuration, they featured angled flight decks, steam catapults, and numerous structural modifications. Capable of operating most jet aircraft in the fleet, the Essex-class carriers were employed as either strike or antisubmarine platforms.
The Forrestal and subsequent designs were significantly advanced. They displaced twice the Essex-class’s original tonnage, carried 70% more ship’s fuel, three times the aviation fuel, and two-and-one-half times the ordnance. More stable in heavy seas, they could operate aircraft 95% of the time in the world’s roughest seas and, therefore, enjoyed better safety records.
Typical Essex and Forrestal carriers each embarked about 70 aircraft in the strike role. As of 1964, the difference was primarily in fighter types, as the F-4 Phantom flew exclusively from the larger ships. Later, the A-6 Intruder joined the fleet and it, too, was found only in large-deck air wings.
Regardless of whether the ship was an Essex-, Midway-, or Forrestal-class carrier, the air wing composition of each was similar—two fighter squadrons, two or three attack squadrons, an early-warning, photo-reconnaissance detachment, and a helicopter detachment. Typically, the 27-Charlie ships flew two F-8 outfits and one A-1 and two A-4 squadrons, with RF-8s, E-1s, and KA-3 tankers. Large-deck air wings used identical aircraft, except that one or both fighter squadrons had F-4s, and the heavy attack role—more often photo recon—was filled by A-5 Vigilantes.
Carrier air wings were day and night qualified, though little nocturnal strike capability existed at the time. Propeller-driven Skyraiders and jet Skyhawks could bomb under flares on moonless nights, but in a modern air-defense network this procedure was almost suicidal. It took the next-generation carrier bomber, Grumman’s superb A-6, to produce a true all-weather strike capability.
Fleet air defense was the realm of the Phantom. Its interceptor configuration, with a two-man crew and radar-guided missiles, was excellent for the role, day or night. But the F-4 was never intended as an air superiority fighter. Neither its design nor training fit that role, and, as events proved, the Phantom players had to come from a long way behind to play catch-up in the Southeast Asian league.
In the Vought Crusader, the Navy possessed one of the finest day fighters ever built. The F-8 community was almost slavishly devoted to air combat maneuvering and, ignoring high accident rates, perfected the doctrine and combat techniques which would make “the last gunfighter” almost invincible.
However, the F-8 was limited as a night-fighter. Despite the variants built for that role, the small radar dish in variants prior to the F-8E prevented adequate search, and ground clutter badly denigrated the low-level capability. In addition, F-8s were not armed with radar missiles and, consequently, had to engage at visual distances with heatseeking Sidewinders.
Three Douglas-built aircraft served the fleet’s attack squadrons. The World War II-designed A-1 (nee AD) Skyraider was rugged, long-lived, and versatile. In addition to strike duty, it flew in electronic countermeasures and airborne early-warning variants as well. Though piston-powered and relatively slow, it possessed exceptional loiter time—a characteristic which endeared it to search-and-rescue operators. But in the summer of 1964, the age of the prop was nearing an end. By early 1968, the venerable “Spad” was gone from the Tonkin Gulf.
Carrying the bulk of the ordnance was the sporty little A-4 Skyhawk. Designed by master wingsmith Ed Heinemann, as were the A-1 and A-3, this single-seater jet typified the designer’s philosophy of simplicity, ruggedness, and ease of maintenance. The latter became a critical factor as intense air operations began in 1965. Day after day, the A-4 squadrons reported 85 to 100% availability. If one airplane kept us in the war over North Vietnam, it was the A-4.
The large, underrated A-3 Skywarrior represented a quantum leap in size and capability of carrier aircraft when it appeared in 1956. The original design specification was for 100,000 pounds, but Heinemann’s McDonnell Douglas team brought it in at 58,000. Intended as a nuclear bomber, the “Whale” eventually did almost everything else. It was an electronic countermeasures platform, but primarily it served as an aerial gas station. A tremendous amount of jet fuel was transferred in midair. As one flying admiral has said, “Tanker fuel is the most expensive there is. But when you need it you need it bad!”
In-flight refueling was a routine evolution in naval aviation by 1964. Such specialized skills as carrier landings, aerial refueling, over-water navigation, and precise weapons delivery marked naval aviators as among the most accomplished on earth.
None of the ships, aircraft, or the pilots existed solely for their own sake, of course. The entire package was aimed at serving the objectives of the national interest of the United States—however that may be defined. The strike carrier force had two primary goals: sea control and power projection ashore. Secondary missions included what navies have done since there were navies—showing the flag and maintaining “presence.”
However, the critical background of naval aviation was formed in World War II and Korea. The latter conflict was only 11 years past in 1964. Many active aviators and most officers at squadron commander level and above had at least fleet experience, if not actual combat experiences during the Korean War.
Naval aviation’s experience in Korea had many similarities with the war brewing in the Tonkin Gulf. Both were sparked by communist aggression. Both became no-win contests because of external considerations. In Korea, that consideration was a quarter-million Chinese who pushed United Nations forces back to the prewar border. In Vietnam, it was an unjustified concern over a repetition of that event, because North Vietnam remained immune to invasion. Washington’s decision to pull its punches precluded invasion of North Vietnam, as evidenced by President Lyndon Johnson’s oft-repeated announcement that “we seek no wider war.” For aviators in both conflicts, the result was increasing danger from enemy defenses without compensating alterations in the rules of engagement. This situation lasted to the end of the Korean War and until mid-1972 in Vietnam.
Because neither was a naval war, the carrier’s sole purpose in each conflict was power projection ashore, providing both direct air support to ground forces and strikes against enemy logistic and occasionally industrial targets. But political considerations imposed limiting restraints upon proper application of air power that often were nearly impossible. The rules of engagement attained extremely specific levels in Korea and even moreso in Vietnam. Not only permitted targets, but tactics were affected—ordnance, strike timing, and even run-in headings—reducing the military chain of command to little more than a communications channel.
Overseeing the tactical control of these Asian operations was Task Force 77, first in the Sea of Japan and Yellow Sea flanking the Korean peninsula, and later in the Tonkin Gulf off Indochina. Carriers rotated in and out of Task Force 77 as they became available or as the need arose. Seldom were four on hand at any one time, with carrier division commanders alternating as the task force commander.
At the air wing level, operations were comparable in Korea and Vietnam. Deckload strikes (approximately 30 aircraft) were flown against prebriefed targets in addition to cyclic operations employing smaller formations. “Cyclic ops” comprised the majority of carrier sorties, as there was a larger requirement for these flexible missions. In Vietnam, specific targets, such as railroads or major bridges, were objects of Alpha strikes, while “Rolling Thunder” operations cycled smaller, free-lance missions in search of opportune targets. The shorter endurance of unrefueled jets mandated more intense schedules in Korea and Vietnam than carrier aviators had known in World War II. A typical cycle time in 1944 was four hours from launch to recovery. Twenty years later, cyclic ops were run on a 90-minute basis as a rule.
Air operations were conducted almost entirely without threat to the carriers off Korea and Vietnam. We owned the sea and we owned the air, particularly in Korea, where only three carrier-based aircraft were lost to hostile planes. Similarly, neither conflict posed a naval threat although antisubmarine operations were maintained as a prudent precaution. In such an environment, it should have been possible to achieve almost anything within the technical limits of aircraft and ordnance, but such was not the case.
Two major factors conspired to thwart air power’s potential in these Asian wars. First was the relative crudeness of communist logistic and communications systems. They were not impervious to air attack, but the damage that was inflicted often was repaired overnight. Contributing heavily to this frustrating situation were political limits on targeting and tactics. The correct procedure in each case would have been prevention. By choking off the entry of supplies and munitions into the theater, it would not have been necessary to chase down individual trucks (or oxcarts and bicycles) on their way to the combat zone.
Ironically, the correct procedure was eventually applied in North Vietnam. But by 1972, when Haiphong and other ports were closed by mining, it was far too late. Public support had ebbed to a point where disengagement became the preferred alternative to victory or even stalemate. Thus, air power’s ultimate success against North Vietnam was lost to view even as it set the stage for long-sought U. S. withdrawal from the arena. The “failure” of air power remains one of the enduring public myths of the Second Indochina War.
Closer to the pilot’s immediate concern was the risk imposed by enemy action. Hostile aircraft were a minimal consideration in terms of actual losses suffered, but the potential for a MiG engagement was always there. However, the largest cause of loss to Navy aircraft by far in both wars was enemy gunfire.
Although the weapons were similar in both wars, the reasons behind the similarity were diverse. During the Korean War, the threat was comparable to that in World War II—barrage fire from small arms up to major-caliber antiaircraft artillery, occasionally radar-directed. But from 1950 to 1953, antiaircraft artillery was the only such cause. However, in North Vietnam, surface-to-air missiles forced attacking aircraft lower into the antiaircraft artillery envelope, increasing vulnerability to “obsolete” guns.
Finally, both wars saw new aircraft and weapons introduced to combat. Korea was the first conflict in which jet aircraft operated from carriers; the Grumman F9F series and the McDonnell F2H proved the ability of a new generation to adapt to an old environment. Over North Vietnam, carrier aircraft already in the inventory were inaugurated to combat while other types, such as the A-6 and A-7, joined the fleet in time of war. More sophisticated ordnance, such as standoff weapons and antiradiation missiles, also appeared. Korea and Vietnam provided testing grounds for new equipment which could never have been so thoroughly evaluated under simulated conditions.
While there were undeniable similarities between Korea and Vietnam, the differences were just as numerous at the strategic and tactical levels. Korea was sprung upon us abruptly in the darkness of 25 June 1950 at a time when the U. S. Navy had only seven fleet carriers in commission and just one in the theater. Vietnam was a long, drawn-out process of gradual involvement and escalation with no shortage of ships or aircraft.
Although North Korea was invaded and almost completely conquered before the Chinese intervention in late 1950, North Vietnam remained untouched by allied troops. Consequently, naval aviation’s long-time partner, the amphibious force, was relatively unoccupied, for the Indochina War saw no landings comparable to Inchon or Wonsan.
Threat levels were considerably higher in North Vietnam than they ever were in Korea. The absence of surface-to-air missiles in the 1950s has already been noted, but aerial combat became a genuine concern in North Vietnam from 1965 to 1973. Vietnam lasted almost three times as long as Korea while involving five times the number of victories over enemy aircraft and three times the losses in air combat.
Another major difference was the extent and importance of electronic warfare in the Vietnam War. Electronic countermeasures aircraft, such as EA-1 Skyraiders (ADs in Korea), flew in both wars, largely with the same vacuum-tube technology, but dedicated jet electronic countermeasure platforms such as the EA-3 and eventually the super-sophisticated EA-6B also participated in the Vietnam War.
Between the two wars, tremendous strides were made in the use and capabilities of radar and communications. Surface-to-air missiles relied almost entirely upon radar tracking and guidance before electro-optical systems became available, and a large proportion of North Vietnam’s antiaircraft artillery batteries were also radar-directed. Consequently, electronic countermeasures assumed even more importance than before.
Another tactical difference was composition of carrier air wings. The usual arrangement in Korea was two fighter squadrons, two propeller-driven fighter squadrons that flew bombing missions, and one bomber squadron. At no time during the Korean War did Panthers and Banshees represent more than half of a carrier air group.
Entering the Indochina War, the situation had almost reversed itself. A-1s still flew from most carriers, but they were already being phased out in favor of A-4s. The higher threat levels in North Vietnam, where “speed is life” was the watchword, forced a retirement of Skyraiders. From mid-1968 on, all carrier-based fighter, attack, and reconnaissance aircraft were jet-powered. Propeller-driven aircraft still performed the early warning and antisubmarine functions without hardship.
Vietnam was very much a coalition type of warfare. Yet such was not the case at sea. In Korea, British and Australian carriers had shared the duty with U. S. flattops; in fact, during the early phase, they comprised half the carrier force offshore. But the British Commonwealth was well along the road to naval decline by 1964, and it could not have spared many carriers for service in the Tonkin Gulf. U. S. carrier forces, however, were more than adequate to meet the task even if some ships were hard-pressed with continuous deployments.
Task Force 77 ships were much less mobile off Indochina than they had been in Korean waters. Geography was largely the reason, as Korea is a peninsula and Indochina borders almost wholly on the Tonkin Gulf. The U. S. carriers, therefore, operated in just two spots—“Yankee Station” south of Hainan for strikes against North Vietnam, and “Dixie Station” off South Vietnam. Strikes were also launched from the latter station into Laos and Cambodia.
At the end of the Korean War, carrier aviators looked back at the previous three years and took stock. Naval aviation was still in a state of transition as jets became more numerous and more capable, and the new supercarriers appeared on the horizon. In many ways, Korea had been like World War II regarding jets since the axial-deck carrier remained common and most of the ordnance had been delivered by Skyraiders and Corsairs. But all that was changing.
With the modified Essex-class carriers becoming more available and the Forrestals entering service, naval aviation entered a decade of relative calm excited by remarkable progress. By 1960, the ships, aircraft, and most of the aviators who would fly against North Vietnam, were in the fleet, building experience.
But the peaceful decade was deceptive. From 1954 through 1959, Soviet or Chinese aircraft attacked U. S. Navy patrol planes at least once a year, and they shot down several. Air Force and civilian planes were also victims of harassment and attack. The enemy usually did not have to fear retaliation.
Added to these overt acts were growing communist capabilities in our backyard. The Cuban revolution of 1959 presaged the change of status in Latin America which continues today. Whether stronger measures applied earlier could have averted the problem may never be known. But the 1960–64 period brought about a reevaluation of naval aviation, along with much experience.
Carrier aviation had already enjoyed success in the Mediterranean with the support of the Marine landings in Lebanon in 1958. This was greatly reinforced four years later by President John F. Kennedy’s blockade during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when eight carriers enforced the barrier against more Soviet nuclear missiles being delivered to that island.
In the long run, the United States probably lost more than it gained in that confrontation. Aside from unpublicized concessions to the Soviets in return for their removal of the intercontinental ballistic missiles from Cuba, the Soviets were provided a humiliating but harmless lesson in sea power. They resolved to learn the lesson and began constructing a modem deep-water navy which has grown to global proportions.
When the Bay of Pigs fiasco had occurred 18 months prior to the Cuban Missile Crisis, carrier airmen were also on hand. As if in anticipation of procedures over North Vietnam, Skyhawk pilots of Attack Squadron 34 watched the amphibious operation founder for lack of air cover. The puny Cuban Air Force, unopposed within visual distance of the orbiting Blue Blasters flying off the Essex, met no more opposition than a steely-eyed stare. Even that was enough to dissuade one of Fidel Castro’s pilots from finishing off a crippled B-26.
Atlantic Fleet pilots were well acquainted with Cuban waters owing to the curious situation which left the naval base and air station at Guantanamo Bay in American hands. “Gitmo” was frequently the site of live-fire exercises before Castro came to power, and some missions were conducted after. One of the amusing diversions in those days was to make a low-level supersonic pass along the fence which divided the base from the rest of the island. Such antics frequently elicited a nastygram from Fidel, which was well received by all hands.
Despite the seemingly peaceful attitude in the Caribbean, those of us flying in the Atlantic knew better. The Soviets and East Germans were known to be bringing Cuban pilots up to speed in MiG-17s and later in MiG-21s. Inevitably, we began to tangle. The tangles were infrequent, and, to my knowledge, were not lethal, but perhaps they should have been. One episode from the Christmas holidays of 1964 will illustrate that point.
Cuban MiGs occasionally harassed U. S. patrol planes beyond the 12-mile limit, generally in line with the pattern established by the Soviets and the Chinese. Fighter Squadron 62 was between deployments at Naval Air Station Key West, Florida, at this time, maintaining a duty section of new F-8Es in rotation with other squadrons. My section leader and I were on call when the horn sounded. [Ed. Note: “I” and “my” throughout mean Cdr. Nichols.]
Two MiG-17s were harassing a Navy surveillance aircraft in international airspace south of Havana, Cuba. The jets pulled up close to the front of the patrol plane, rocking it with their turbulence. It was impossible to react in time, but our section scrambled and was gear-up in 90 seconds.
When we arrived, the MiGs had turned for home, leaving an angry and shaken Navy crew behind. The Crusader leader dropped a mile-and-a-half behind the lead MiG while I tracked the wingman. The Cubans were blissfully unaware of us; they made no turns or evasive maneuvers.
I heard the AIM-9D’s tracking signal in my earphones. The missile was working perfectly. The leader called our controller and asked, “What do you want me to do?” “Stand by,” was the response. I was numb. A perfect setup was being lost to indecision. When we reached surface-to-air missile range offshore, the controller radioed, “Suggest you return.” We broke off and returned to base.
When we were ushered into the office of the rear admiral commanding the district, he was on the phone to Washington. We had passed up a beautiful opportunity, he said. The MiGs were blatantly in the wrong, well outside Cuban waters, and we could have fired. But the F-8 leader had missed a chance to teach the bad guys a lesson. I had to agree with the admiral.
Years later, my section leader still thought we had acted properly. He did not want two dead men hanging on his conscience.
This Cuban episode was not the only encounter with MiGs. Once in a while, some of our pilots got a look at MiG-21s when they flew at contrail altitudes. On these rare occasions, the Crusaders maintained a three-mile lateral separation as each side studied the opposition.
The MiG-21 was a sleek, attractive Mach-two fighter which appeared in 1956. For years, it was overrated by our intelligence people, but the F-8 community practiced hard to counter the aircraft that were the main threat. When practice ended, and it was gametime “up north,” we were more than ready.
However, naval aviation was not entirely ready for the actual air-defense environment which quickly evolved in North Vietnam. This was largely the result of misreading the lessons of Korea and the Cuban experience. The main reason was the surface-to-air missile.
At least two U. S. aircraft had been lost to Soviet SA-2s before Vietnam, including a U-2 over the Soviet Union. Another U-2 was shot down over Cuba during the Missile Crisis.
The analysts insisted the surface-to-air missile was the primary threat. After all, if it could knock down highflying airplanes like the U-2, what chance did we have in tactical aircraft at 20,000 to 30,000 feet? Therefore, conventional wisdom held that air strikes would be made in flat, low-level passes while flying below the minimum effective range of Soviet missiles. This altitude was variously reported up to 3,500 feet, and we came in for a nasty surprise on that point a few years later.
In order to put bombs on target at low level, it is necessary to slow down the ordnance so the bomber is not hit by the blast. Most types of conventional bombs will throw fragments 2,000 feet into the air when they explode, posing a serious threat to the aircraft. Therefore, ordnance engineers designed the retarded bomb, with fins which deploy at the tail upon release and slow the weapon’s descent. This allows the delivery aircraft to escape the blast. Mk-82 Snakeeyes were the most common type of bomb in this category.
However, each trailing aircraft was exposed to the effects of the bombs dropped before it in the usual interval. So the low, flat approach required greater spacing between aircraft which naturally meant the strike group spent more time over the target. Consequently, the opposition had more time to react and better prospects of shooting down several airplanes.
These tactics usually put us below effective surface-to-air missile range. Yet they exposed us to all manner of antiaircraft artillery and small arms. But the pundits had an answer for that, too. They believed that fast jets could not be tracked adequately for effective gunfire. An aircraft making 450 to 500 knots posed a difficult target for any gunner to acquire and follow in the limited time available. And they were right, to a point.
But they forgot that it was not necessary to track an airplane. The old-fashioned barrage system of pattern gunfire worked just fine. We should have remembered that from World War II and Korea, but instead we had to rediscover the hard truth about barrage antiaircraft fire over North Vietnam. The situation was compounded by what many aviators feared—the greater the time spent over the target, the more chances there were to shoot, and the early air strikes over North Vietnam suffered the highest loss rates of the entire war.
These procedures were ingrained in the tactical aviation community, not only by doctrine but by operational experience. During 1963–64, at least four contingency strikes were armed and launched against prebriefed targets in Cuba. I flew these four missions.
The reason for these strikes was not made clear to the aircrews. They merely had to assume there was sufficient intelligence to warrant the operations, which were flown under cover of scheduled weapons practice at the Pine Castle bombing range. But, in fact, there was nothing “scheduled” about them. The usual procedure was to call the aviators at home or in their quarters at about 2000 with instructions to arrive for briefing at 0200. Upon arrival at Cecil Field, everything was associated with preparation for combat—airplanes were being towed or taxied to fueling and arming areas, and ordnance was being loaded.
In addition, these were not regular training missions. The aviators were almost entirely instructors from their respective communities along the Atlantic Coast: A-1s, A-4s, A-3 tankers, F-4s, and F-8s.
Navy squadrons were assigned the eastern half of Cuba, mainly targeted against airfields and suspected missile sites. Guantanamo Bay was the alternate landing field in case of battle damage which would prevent return to Florida. The two runways were 4,000 and 8,000 feet long, but preparations were in hand for using much less room. Arresting gear was installed on the runways in case Cuban artillery or bombs rendered most of them inoperable. The F-8 pilots reckoned they could land in 2,000 feet and take off in 3,000 feet if necessary. But operating under those conditions, right under the Cubans’ guns, would have been difficult at best. It looked like Henderson Field at Guadalcanal all over again.
The pilots launched the equivalent of a deckload strike, about 30 airplanes, with most of the fighters doubling as bombers. And, in deference to the surface-to-air missiles, we would have gone in at about 500 feet with our Snakeeyes amidst whatever antiaircraft artillery and small arms the Cubans could muster. And it probably would have been substantial.
Four times, they manned up and headed south, expecting to hit the assigned targets. But each time, after passing Andros Island, they turned as instructed and dumped their ordnance at Pine Castle instead. There was little follow-up information, so they never knew what prompted the strikes to be launched or aborted.
However, the end result was that these very tactics were in effect when the shooting started in the Tonkin Gulf. Perhaps if the United States had actually completed one of those Cuban missions we would have learned our lesson relatively inexpensively. But as it was, the tuition was deferred.
In retrospect, it is obvious how we fell into the trap of improper tactics before Vietnam. The Cuban experience had considerable influence which is still ignored today. But the limited operations around the island, the advent of surface-to-air missiles and their early success, the occasional MiG encounters all combined to solidify existing concepts and doctrines.
Admittedly, this is being wise after the fact, which is no particular accomplishment. At some point in the process, it should have been time to say, “Wait a minute. We know what we’re going to do under these circumstances. But what if the real world doesn’t measure up to expectations? What then?”
The sad fact is, nobody asked that question. Instead, we proceeded on the assumption that the next war would conveniently fit the mold of Korea and the events in the 10 or 11 years since.
At the same time, we should realize that the tactics developed before Vietnam were not wholly incorrect; they would not have lost the war for us had we proceeded with the intent to win. However, airplanes and pilots were needlessly lost because the system had no internal check, no devil’s advocate to pose questions contrary to the conventional wisdom. In that respect, the problem was symptomatic of similar failings at far higher levels than air wings or carrier divisions.
In defense of the aviators and strike planners in the “Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club,” the learning curve was high. It usually is in a shooting war. After the initial nasty surprises in Operations Flaming Dart and Pierce Arrow, measures were taken to reevaluate existing doctrine.
The events of 1964–65 reflected a new relationship between perception and reality. Naval aviation’s prewar conventional wisdom was based upon expectations which often failed to materialize over North Vietnam. Consequently, erroneous perceptions exerted their influence upon doctrine and tactics, forming their own reality. Not until we took some hard knocks did level-headed aviators and planners revise their thinking, which resulted in new perceptions. They may not have been agreeable, but they were accurate.