Combat Search and Rescue in Vietnam

The Extraordinary 23-Day Rescue of Oyster One Bravo

“If they wanted me, they would have to stand on me.”—Captain Roger Locher, Oyster One Bravo

On March 30, 1972, North Vietnam launched the Nguyen Hue Campaign. Named by the Americans the “Easter Offensive” because it began on Good Friday, it was an all-out attempt to knock South Vietnam out of the war. Because of President Richard Nixon’s Vietnamization strategy, the only substantial American forces in the region were the U.S. Air Force and Navy.

The offensive was entering its second month when President Nixon authorized Operation Linebacker, a renewal of the bombing campaign in North Vietnam that included for the first time the mining of the main port of Haiphong. One of the goals of Operation Linebacker was the reduction or interdiction of the flow of supplies to the North Vietnamese armies fighting in the south. This made bridges prime targets, the most important being the Paul Doumer road and rail bridge in Hanoi.

General John W. Vogt, Jr., Seventh Air Force commander, was determined to take out that bridge and it was at the top of his target list.

Operation Linebacker commenced on the morning of May 10, 1972. When combined with U.S. Navy aircraft from the carriers Constellation, Kitty Hawk, Okinawa, and Coral Sea, a total of 120 aircraft were assigned that day against targets in North Vietnam.

Oyster One, with pilot Major Robert Lodge and Weapon Systems Officer (WSO) Major Roger Lochert, was the lead Phantom in Oyster Flight, a four-aircraft flight that, together with Baltar Flight, was tasked with providing MIGCAP (MiG Combat Air Patrol) air-to-air protection in pre-strike support operations against the Paul Doumer Bridge. Time on Target was scheduled for the eight planes was 9:45 a.m.

Lodge was experienced in air-to-air combat over Vietnam, with two MiGs to his credit. Oyster and Baltar flights were in a holding pattern high above and near the target area when the cruiser USS Chicago, serving as PIRAZ (Positive Identification Radar Advisory Zone) off the coast of North Vietnam under the code name Red Crown, warned them that four separate forces of MiGs were airborne in the area and that one set of four bandits was heading their way. The Phantoms jettisoned their external fuel tanks and accelerated to combat speed.

The dogfight commenced within minutes. As soon as they were within Sparrow air-to-air missile range, and after having verified through IFF that the approaching MiGs were the enemy, Oysters One, Two, and Three fired a total of five Sparrows head-on at their targets. Out of the five, two scored hits—one each for Oyster One and Oyster Two. Lodge now had his third MiG.

But then it was the MiGs’ turn. Oyster One was “padlocked,” getting ready to shoot down a fourth MiG, when the pilot in a MiG-19, closing in from Oyster One’s right, attacked. Within seconds the F-4D was raked with 30-mm cannon fire. At first Lodge and Locher thought the damage was slight. But Locher later recalled, “The next thing I knew we were decelerating—I think the right engine had exploded. We ended up doing some really hard yaws to the right.” Bob Lodge broke off and tried to fly out of the area, but he was having a hard time controlling the plane. Locher offered a couple of suggestions, one being to put the Phantom on autopilot, a technique designed to minimize hydraulic fuel loss. After a moment’s silence, Lodge told his backseater, “Rog, you don’t understand. We don’t have any hydraulics.” A Phantom can fly with a number of system failures. No hydraulic power is not one of them. Once all the hydraulic fluid had bled out of the wrecked system, control would be gone and the airplane would plummet to the ground.

At eight thousand feet, and with fuselage fire approaching the cockpit, Locher said he was going to have to bail out. Lodge looked back over his right should and said, “Why don’t you eject, then?”

Oyster One was upside down and in a steep dive when Locher reached down for the ejection handle between his legs, and pulled. The next thing he knew, he was clear of the doomed F-4D, dangling at the end of his parachute. Major Robert Lodge never ejected.

Because of the angle and the dense smoke pouring out of Oyster One, and the continuing dogfight, the other members of Oyster Flight did not see Lochert’s parachute. As they flew back to Udorn, the only thing they knew for certain was that Oyster One had been shot down, and could only hope their comrades survived.

Roger Locher landed in a forested ridgeline in a cluster of trees forty feet high. He suffered some slight injuries during the final descent, but otherwise landed safely. His only other wounds were second-degree burns on his neck and wrists. After he stepped out of his harness, he tried to pull down the parachute canopy, but it was firmly caught in the tree branches. He then tried and failed to disconnect the survival pack from the harness. Knowing that a search party would arrive soon, he pulled out his rescue radio and made a brief call, “This is Oyster Zero One Bravo. I’m on the ground. I’m OK.” He then quickly turned off the transmitter. After shedding his flying helmet and harness, he began a brisk trot in order put as much distance as possible between him and his landing site. He had covered about a half a mile when he heard the babble of Vietnamese voices back where his parachute was. The search party had arrived.

As evening approached, Locher found a place in a wooded hillside that appeared to be a good place to hide. He then took stock of his possessions. Food and drink were a couple of energy bars and two pints of water, quickly consumed. His survival vest contained two beeper radios, four batteries, a survival knife, a .38 caliber Browning pistol and extra ammunition, a mosquito net, a small medical kit and a signaling kit with flares, smoke markers, a signal mirror and whistle. Most importantly, he had no serious injuries.

Given how deep he was inside enemy territory and how close he was to populated areas, Locher wasn’t sure if a helicopter rescue attempt would, or even could, be made. The mountainous area to his west was more sparsely populated. Though he had to cover ninety miles, and cross the Red River, to get there, he thought that if he did, his chances of getting rescued would increase. By the time he went to sleep that night, he had formulated a plan. He’d “live off Mother Nature” regarding food, and try to average two miles travel a day. Along the way, he’d give periodic calls, trying to connect with a friendly aircraft, to let everyone know he was alive and, relatively, safe. Major Roger Locher knew the odds were stacked against him. He didn’t know was just how long those odds were.

One of the few bright spots for the United States military in Vietnam was its combat search-and-rescue service, which came into its own during this conflict. Many experts have called it the “golden age of combat search and rescue.” But, successful search-and-rescue missions under combat conditions are among the most time-sensitive of operations. Air force studies begun during the Korean War and that continued throughout the Vietnam War revealed “an airman’s chances of being rescued were very good if recovery forces could reach him within fifteen minutes.” There’s always a “but” and in this case it was a big one. The studies revealed “the probability of recovery decreased significantly if the ACR [Air Combat Rescue] force took longer than thirty minutes to reach the area.” Ominously, that recovery dropped to less than 20 percent if the aircrew member was on the ground more than four hours. When Lochert went to sleep that night, he had already clocked in more than eleven hours deep inside “Indian Country”—enemy territory.

Lochert was up at first light the next morning. He had only covered about a couple hundred yards when the sounds of a search party forced him to seek cover beneath a patch of rotting vegetation. The local cadre had rounded up the members of a nearby village, including children, to help in the search. The only things they didn’t bring were the village dogs. If they had, Lochert admitted he probably would have been captured. He later said, “Some little kids came within thirty feet of me.” But they were more interested in using the opportunity to enjoy the officially sanctioned opportunity to “play hooky” from village chores. They didn’t see him. Lochert waited until well after the search party had left before he pulled out his emergency radio. He turned it on and began monitoring voice traffic on the Guard channel. What he overheard didn’t help him. A rescue attempt south of him was ending in failure.

Lochert’s second full day in-country fared about the same as the first. Again, he only covered a couple hundred yards before he had to hide from a search party. On the fourth day, the search was called off. By this time, Lochert had settled into a routine of traveling in two stages. At dawn, with the sun at his back, he would try to travel at least a mile before finding a place to hide. Then, as dusk was approaching, he would leave his hiding place and head toward the setting sun for as long as he could before finding a new hiding spot.

The hilly, wooded terrain both helped and hindered him. The lush forest, with its thick ground vegetation and high canopy provided good cover. But the steep hills and occasional thick undergrowth drained his energy. Food also was a problem. Locher ate what wild fruit and shoots he found, but it was spring, so little was available. The one good thing was that because the region had numerous streams, he didn’t lack water.

Though he was getting weaker (ultimately he would lose thirty pounds), Locher kept heading west. And, miraculously, despite some close brushes with villagers, he still had not been discovered. By the end of May, he had traveled about twelve miles and reached the end of the forested high ground. Before him was the flat, cultivated Red River Valley. Beyond was his objective, the wooded high ground. Locher found a hiding spot and went to sleep. When he awoke the following morning, June 1, he discovered that he had overslept and would have to remain where he was for the day. At first he was bitterly disappointed. Then, a SAM battery at the nearby Yen Bai airfield launched a missile. This got Locher’s attention. If the North Vietnamese were firing SAMs, then American planes must be in the area. He pulled out his rescue radio and, after monitoring the airwaves for a few minutes, pressed the transmit button and said, “Any U.S. aircraft, if you read Oyster One Bravo, come up on Guard.”

Locher’s call was heard by Phantom pilot Lieutenant Jim Dunn of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing, flying under the call sign Oyster Two. He later said that he found Locher’s use of the same Oyster call sign “kinda spooky.” He informed his flight leader of what he had just heard. The flight was en route back to base, and out of range before a reply to Locher could be made. The information was passed onto Fletch Flight who established contact. A rescue force was assembled composed of two Jolly Green Giant helicopters, four A-1 Sandys for air-to-ground support, and four Phantoms for air-to-air cover. Once they reached the area, they confirmed that this was not a North Vietnamese trick, that it was Lochert on the ground and that he was not being coerced. But the rescue had to be called off when the Phantoms were attacked by SAMs from Yen Bai and MiGs. Locher would have to spend another night in North Vietnam. And Locher’s wing commander was determined that it would be his last night there.

As General Vogt later said, “The Wing at Udorn called me and said they wanted to get him out. The problem was that it was going to involve a substantial effort. . . . There could be a major air battle, we might lose aircraft.”

If he needed a reminder about the enormous risk regarding an attempt, Vogt had the recent example of the rescue of Bat 21. On April 1, an EB-66 Destroyer was shot down over Quang Tri Province just south of the Demilitarized Zone. There was only one survivor, Lieutenant Colonel Iceal “Gene” Hambilton, Bat 21 Bravo, who landed beside the main route of a six-division advance into South Vietnam. Five days of air rescue attempts had ended in tragic failure: twenty-four aircraft damaged or destroyed, and fourteen men missing—with eleven of them presumed killed in action. Military Assistance Command Vietnam commander General Creighton Abrams reluctantly was forced to suspend further air rescue operations. Hambilton was rescued twelve days after being shot down in a ground rescue operation led by SEAL Lieutenant Tommy Norris, who would receive the Medal of Honor for that mission.

Vogt recalled, “I had to decide whether we should risk the loss of maybe half a dozen airplanes and crews just to get one man out. Finally I said to myself, ‘Goddman it, the one thing that keeps our boys motivated is the certain belief that if they go down, we will do absolutely everything we can to get them out.”

General Vogt then made his decision, “Go do it!” For one day, the prosecution of the war would be suspended. All the assets of the Seventh Air Force would be committed for one mission: the rescue of Oyster One Bravo.

On June 2, 1972, KC-135 refuelers to radar-jamming EB-66s, F-4 escorts, F-105 Wild Weasels, A-1 Sandys, rescue helicopters—a total of 119 aircraft took off to rescue one of their own. Captain Ron Smith in one of the A-1 Sandys was in tactical command of the pick-up. He was in perfect position to watch the support operations suppressing Yen Bai airfield. He later said, “Everything was going like clockwork. As I crossed the tlast hill before the Red River, with my wingman, the bombs went off at Yen Bai.” He then told Locher to get ready with his mirror, signal flares, and radio; in thirty to forty-five minutes they’d be overhead. He was to signal with his mirror to the first A-1 he saw.

At the appointed time, Locher saw the A-1s and began waving his mirror. It was the second A-1 who saw the flash of reflected sunlight. As soon as he said, “Tally-ho!” signaling that Locher had been found, the Sandys laid down a protective smoke screen. The rescue Jolly Green Giant then came in. Within two minutes, Major Roger Locher was on board and heading home.

The return trip proved eventful. The aircraft encountered not just small arms fire from the villages, but they also passed over the North Vietnamese version of a World War II “flak train.” But, three hours after pick-up, the flight arrived at Udorn, unharmed. When Locher stepped out of the helicopter, he encountered a large and enthusiastic welcoming party that included General John Vogt.

Major Roger Locher had survived for twenty-three days inside enemy territory, a record for the Vietnam War, and one of the most remarkable combat evasion episodes in history.