It was a bold plan. It was also dangerous. Except for the element of surprise, much of the advantage seemed to be with the
MiGs, which were so nimble that in a turning fight they could eat an F-4 for lunch. MiG drivers were highly experienced pilots
who fought year after year and were not rotated home after one hundred missions as were Air Force pilots. In addition, most
of the Air Force pilots being assigned to Vietnam had been trained under SAC doctrine of intercepting enemy bombers and delivering
nuclear weapons. Their rat-racing skills left much to be desired. To make this situation worse, transport pilots and SAC pilots
were being assigned to Vietnam to get their tickets punched—to fly the one hundred missions and go home as combat veterans.
They often had little time in fighters.
Razz was in the 555th Fighter Squadron, the Triple Nickel. Because he was an FWS graduate, it was his job to teach tactics
and train the pilots throughout the wing. The F-4C had no guns and the missiles were virtually useless. In fact, of all the
tactical weapons employed in Vietnam, air-to-air missiles ranked among the most disappointing. Sparrow missiles performed
so poorly they were considered little more than extra weight; more than one pilot punched them off his aircraft as soon as
he was away from his home base. And the
AIM-9 had such a narrow launch envelope—no more than two positive Gs or one negative G—that it was useless in a turning fight.
Razz had his work cut out. The success of Mission Bolo depended in large part on him. Then he remembered the maneuver John
Boyd taught at the FWS, the one that had so astonished him with its elegant simplicity: the roll to the outside in order to
gain the tactical advantage. It was a maneuver contrary to everything a fighter pilot thought he knew about aerial combat,
but a maneuver that put a pilot tight in on his adversary’s six, well within the narrow missile-launching limitations. Razz
briefed more than sixty pilots in the wing. And after every mission up North, he had pilots practice the maneuver on the way
back to Ubon. Again and again they practiced.
Then came January 2.
Razz was to lead Ford Flight. But Chappie James, vice commander of the wing, came to him the night before and said, “Razz,
I got good news and I got bad news. The bad news is I’m taking over the lead of Ford Flight. The good news is you’ll be flying
my wing.”
“Oh, shit,” Razz thought.
Razz had been up North many times. But it seemed that every time Chappie James headed toward Route Pack VI, the vice commander
developed mechanical problems and had to return to base.
Razz took off and checked his eight missiles. Seven indicated malfunctions. Only one came on-line and he selected it to fire
first. Ford Flight entered Route Pack VI at 17,000 feet, the altitude used by F-105s and an altitude that, coincidentally,
gave the F-4s an abundance of energy. The flight crossed the Black River and flight lead radioed, “Green ’em up”—the command
given by a Thud leader that told his pilots to set their switches for bomb delivery.
North Vietnamese radar operators observed and heard. MiGs were vectored to the six of every flight approaching Phuc Yen. Chappie
James was Ford 1 and Razz was Ford 2. Ford 3 and 4 were far out of position, several miles off to the right. Razz and Chappie
James were alone when Razz saw a MiG maneuvering to attack James.
“Ford lead, break right,” Razz radioed.
Chappie James motored on.
The MiG was almost in position.
Maybe Chappie James had forgotten his call sign.
“Chappie, break right!”
Chappie James motored on, wings level.
Razz did what wingmen are trained to do: he protected his leader. He moved between James and the MiG and rocked up on a wingtip
to clear before engaging. The MiG pilot did the same. Razz and the MiG pilot were canopy to canopy, pulling heavy Gs, spiraling
down and then up, maneuvering to get on the other’s six. The MiG pilot was good, but he was rat-racing with the man who invented
the Raspberry Roll and he never had a chance. Razz gained the advantage. The MiG pilot went for separation and pulled heavy
Gs. Razz rolled to the outside and came down on the MiG’s six. The MiG pilot reversed his turn, a fatal mistake. Razz unloaded
his Gs, got a strong aural tone, and squeezed the trigger. As the missile left the rails, the sun glinted off the MiG cockpit
and the missile went straight toward the light. It exploded in the cockpit and Razz had his first MiG.
Wolfpack pilots shot down seven MiGs that day, plus two probables (MiGs that disappeared into an overcast with missiles tracking
strong and true). January 2, 1967, was the greatest day the Air Force had during the Vietnam War. Bolo went into the history
books. But what Razz remembers is that six of the seven kills that day were done by pilots who used John Boyd’s outside roll
at some point in the engagement. Razz says Boyd was the father of that great victory as surely as if he had led the mission.
Back in the Pentagon, where Boyd’s office kept close track of aerial engagements in Vietnam, there was rejoicing. Fighter
pilots throughout the Building quickly learned the details of the engagement and were amazed at the roll-to-the-outside maneuver.
Boyd prowled the halls telling one and all that “Razz is a great fighter pilot. He was one of my best students at the Fighter
Weapons School. We used to do the E-M briefing together.”
A few months later Razz got into a screaming low-level chase up near Thud Ridge, hanging tight on the six of a MiG. The MiG
was at 300 feet and Razz was below the MiG when he fired his AIM-7 into the tailpipe. That kill put Razz into the record books:
during the long air war in North Vietnam, no other Air Force pilot had a missile kill from a lower altitude.
Boyd, perhaps because he had given up his dream of being an ace, got a vicarious kick from the exploits of former students.
“Yeah, Razz was up there not too far from the Chinese border,” he told people in
his office. “I bet our guys are sneaking across the border the way we did in Korea.” Boyd beamed with pride. “If that MiG
was only at 300 feet, Razz must have been down in the weeds when he launched.” He paused. “Goddamn F-4 is a Navy airplane;
it’s not a fighter. They give us shit for airplanes and we win anyway.”
Ron Catton came to Ubon a few weeks after Bolo. He was a flight leader in the 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadron, “Satan’s Angels.”
He soon had fifty-five missions in Route Pack VI, at that time more than any other Air Force pilot in a single combat tour.
Usually, once a pilot flew ninety missions, his last ten missions before rotating to another assignment were in the relatively
safe skies of the southern Route Packages. But Catton had come to fly and fight.
Once, Catton was leading a flight of four F-4s on what was supposed to be a routine bombing mission in Laos. A forward air
controller radioed that he had discovered what he believed to be an enormous training area for enemy troops. Catton’s flight
was diverted to bomb the area. Catton’s arrival over the target area elicited a virtual blanket of 57-millimeter flak, a phenomenon
rarely seen in Laos and an indication that the forward air controller was correct in his assessment of what he had found.
Air Force policy was clear about how pilots dealt with heavily defended areas in North Vietnam and Laos. They were to descend
no lower than 7,500 feet, make one bomb run, and then depart. “Shoot and scoot,” the Air Force termed it. Pilots referred
to it as “One pass, haul ass.” That day Catton changed the policy. He ordered multiple low-altitude attacks. His flight was
so low that all the pilots were taking ground fire as well as flak. It was the proverbial hornet’s nest. Catton set his pilots
up in a wagon wheel over the target. Each aircraft made several passes through an air-defense system almost as intense as
that in Route Pack VI. One of the F-4s was always rolling in hot, switches set to pickle off a pair of 750-pound bombs. The
target was smoking when Catton’s flight departed.
The next day a team of Special Forces soldiers went in to assess the battle damage. They estimated that more than nine hundred
enemy soldiers had been killed. The pilot who a few years earlier had been famous for puking on the floor of the police station
in North Las Vegas and for almost being tossed out of the FWS proved once again
what he was made of. Major Ron Catton was awarded a Silver Star for that day’s work.
Catton was one of the Air Force’s golden boys. His record at the FWS and during a tour with the Thunderbirds had been extraordinary.
Now he had topped it off with a significant combat decoration. Catton was on his way to becoming a general. Near the end of
his tour, he was nominated for another Silver Star because of his record number of missions into Route Pack VI. After six
more missions, he would be reassigned as an instructor pilot to the FWS, where his combat experience would be invaluable to
students. Then came his ninety-fourth mission, the day he commanded a force of fighters in Route Pack VI. His job was to protect
the Thuds. The MiGs rose up from several locations and threatened the strike package. Catton recognized the feints and refused
to be lured away from the Thuds. He recognized the main thrusts of the attack and deployed his F-4s against them. It was a
masterful orchestration of pilots and aircraft performed by a master of battle. Every Thud put its bombs on the target that
day. Every Thud returned home. It was a grand and glorious day for Catton and his men. Coming home Catton decided to celebrate
with formation victory rolls. Two F-4s collided and the crews bailed out.
Usually a combat leader would face a court-martial for losing two aircraft in this fashion. Catton had been away for several
days before the mission, and while he was gone the commander issued new operating procedures forbidding victory rolls. But
the sergeant major had not posted the new rules on Catton’s squadron bulletin board, so Catton was not brought before a court-martial.
But the Air Force withdrew the second Silver Star, and the prized Nellis assignment was cancelled. A man who lost two F-4s
is a poor example to students. Catton was ordered to the Pentagon, where sober and responsible senior officers could keep
an eye on him.
He reported for duty in December 1967. When he walked into the personnel office, an elderly woman, a civilian who had worked
there for dozens of years, smiled at him and said, “You are Major Ron Catton? I’ve been dying to meet you.” Catton looked
at her in bewilderment.
“In all the time I’ve been here I’ve never had an officer report in who was on the control roster.”
The “control roster” was a way the military had to keep track of problem children. It meant Catton could not be considered
for promotion during the next year and that he would have more frequent ERs. Someone would always be looking over his shoulder.
He called Boyd and the two men met in a cafeteria. Boyd was feeling particularly proud because a few weeks earlier he finally
had been promoted to lieutenant colonel. Shiny silver oak leaves adorned his collar.
Catton congratulated Boyd on his promotion and said, “Sir, I’ve got a problem.”
Boyd clapped Catton on the shoulder and smiled. “So I hear. Don’t worry, Tiger. You’ve been there before. You’ll come out
from under it.”
Once again Boyd was right in his assessment of Catton.
During the summer of 1967, the Soviets introduced two new fighters: the swing-wing MiG-23 and the MiG-25. American fighter
pilots laughed at the MiG-23 and said the only good thing about the F-111 was that the Soviets had copied it and thereby lost
at least one generation of aircraft to bad technology. But the Air Force inflated the MiG-25 into a serious threat. Word leaked
out that the aircraft could reach Mach 2.8 and altitudes far above the ceiling of the F-X. What the Air Force did not reveal
was that if the MiG-25 reached Mach 2.8 it immediately had to land because the fuel was exhausted and the engine had to be
replaced. Nevertheless, the “threat” of the MiG-25 meant the F-X suddenly had a much greater priority.
But a fundamental decision about the F-X had not been resolved. Boyd insisted that the aircraft be armed with guns as well
as missiles, but the Air Force said this was the age of missiles, that guns were a backward step, and that the F-X should
have only missiles.
The guns versus missiles argument is one of the most emotional arguments in the Air Force. It is utterly incomprehensible
to non-pilots, most of whom probably think missiles are the best possible armament for a fighter. The rules of engagement
in Vietnam, combined with poor-performing missiles, had shown what happened when fighter aircraft had no guns. The rules dictated
that a U.S. pilot visually identify an enemy aircraft before firing a missile. But the minimum missile-launch range was far
greater than the range at which an aircraft could be identified as friend or foe. That meant the
pilot had to get in close, identify the enemy, then back off far enough to launch his missiles. Missiles could be evaded by
the simplest of countermeasures. There was no countermeasure for a gun. Signs began showing up on the walls in the Pentagon:
“It takes a fighter with a gun to kill a MiG-21.”
Nevertheless, while it defies all logic, high-ranking Air Force officers ignored the lessons of history. After World War II,
the Air Force said dogfights were a thing of the past. In the 1950s, Air Force generals said Korea was the last hurrah for
the gunfighter. Then came Vietnam, which was supposed to be a push-button war that made dogfights obsolete. But Vietnam proved
Boyd had been right about serious inadequacies in the new missiles. America needed a fighter with guns.
Then in the fall of 1967 there came to the Building one Mordecai Hod, head of the Israeli Air Force (IAF). He came to buy
F-4 Phantoms. And he came wearing the aura of a man who was an icon in the fighter-pilot community. Under his leadership the
IAF had done three things that got the attention of the U.S. Air Force. First, in the Six Day War of June, the Israeli Air
Force shot down sixty Arab jets while losing only ten fighters—an exchange ratio of six to one. Second,
every Israeli kill was a gun kill
. And third, the Israelis—as the name of the war indicates—had moved quickly, decisively, and thoroughly at a time when the
Americans had been at war in Vietnam for several years, and the war was escalating with no end in sight.