Valor Friday

Lt. Col. Iceal “Gene” Hambleton

The kind grandfatherly visage of Lieutenant Colonel Iceal “Gene” Hambleton belies his true nature as a determined warrior and long-serving airman. The man who looks like he’d be at home in a library is in fact a veteran of three wars and dozens of combat missions in more than one aircraft type.

If the name Iceal Hambleton rings a little bell in the back of your mind, you might have read the 1980 non-fiction novel about his actions in Vietnam, Bat 21, written by Air Force Colonel William Charles Anderson. A later non-fiction book used troves of declassified information to again recount the events, The Rescue of Bat 21, Col. Darrel D. Whitcomb and published in 1998. The former book was made into a movie, 1988’s Bat*21, with Gene Hackman playing Hambleton and Danny Glover as a forward air controller in a Cessna Skymaster.

Hambleton was from Rossville, Illinois a rural town of less than 1,500 people just a few miles from the Indiana border. He went by his middle name of Eugene or, more commonly just “Gene”. He was 24 when he enlisted into the US Army Air Forces on 2 July 1943, as the Second World War raged across six of the seven continents. He was first classed as an aircraft and engine mechanic, but his dreams lay in the sky. He was accepted into the Aviation Cadet Program in March 1944.

By 1944, the short and fast training programs that pilots, navigators, and bombardiers went through in the first year or so of American involvement in WWII had given way to more thorough training. Hambleton graduated the program as a navgiator and was commissioned on 24 March 1945. I’m not sure if Hambleton wanted to be a navigator from the outset, but what was typical at the time was that navigators were pulled from the pilot training pipeline. They were either moved to navigator after not making the cut as a pilot or because of the “needs of the service.”

Navigators served most often on medium and heavy bombers (and their modified versions for transport roles). They can be found on most of the multi-engine aircraft of the war, such as the B-25 Mitchell, A-26 Invader, B-17 Flying Fortress, B-24 Liberator, and B-29 Superfortress. Late in the war, the B-29 was probably where most of those becoming rated navigators would be sent for type certification. The war in Europe would have been weeks away from the inevitable defeat of the Nazi scourge. Meanwhile the war in the Pacific was closing a noose around the Japanese home islands, and the war there was projected to last much longer. The B-29 had already proven itself as a long range bomber, and would soon drop the atomic bombs that would ultimately end the war.

Hambleton’s training and preparation for deployment to the Pacific War was interrupted by the surrender of the Japanese Empire in August 1945, ending the war. Along with most of those in uniform, Hambleton was discharged from active duty. He elected to remain in the Air Force Reserve post-war.

When North Korea invaded the South in June 1950, Hambleton was recalled to active duty. He served in Korea as a navigator on B-29s, flying 43 combat missions. Now a captain, he remained on active duty for the next 20 years. His first post-war assignment was as an instructor for radar oberservers. He was then a targeted intelligence officer, what exactly that is I do not know. He finished out the 1950s and into the 1960s as a navigator-bombardier on the B-47 Stratojet.

From 1961, now-Major Hambleton was involved in Air Force intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) development. The highly-classified programs he worked on included the PGM-19 Jupiter, Titan I ICBM, and Titan II ICBM. The latter became the mainstay of the ICBM arm of America’s nuclear triad (which also includes nuclear bombers and submarine-launched missiles as the other two parts of the triad).

Hambleton steadily rose the ranks, and commanded ballistic missile squadrons through the 1960s. The 70s started with America heavily involved in the Vietnam War, but in the next couple of years, all American ground troops would be withdrawn from the country. We still supported the South Vietnamese war effort against the communist North with airborne assistance. This included things like electronics jamming and forward air control.

Hambleton, now a lieutenant colonel, returned to flying combat missions, this time as a crewmember of a EB-66C/E Destroyer, in late 1971. At 53, he was decidedly older than most of the men he served alongside. Few men in Vietnam at this point had seen not only Korean War service, but also WWII.

The B-66 was originally a bomber, but was modified into the EB-66 to serve as an electronics countermeasures (ECM) platform. The primary mission for these aircraft was to fly over contested airspace. They would use the specialized equipment they carried to locate enemy anti-aircraft missile sites. They did this totally unarmed. Their only defense was to attempt to jam the North Vietnamese air defenses, so that they couldn’t fire. In the meantime, they would call in to Allied aircraft to attack or bomb the enemy site.

On 2 April, 1972 Hambleton was flying his 63rd such mission as the navigator on a EB-66C. Hambleton’s squadron was short handed. He was the ranking navigator among a group of other seasoned navigators. He assigned himself to take this mission, which was to guide a flight of three B-52 bombers onto anti-aircraft positions along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The whole crew was experienced, with only the co-pilot While flying at about 30,000 feet just south of the De-militarized Zone (DMZ), an Soviet-made North Vietnamese SA-2 surface-to-air missile locked on to Hambleton’s Destroyer.

The pilot, hearing the tone lock warnings made a hard turn to the south, away from the direction he assumed the missile had been fired. One of the electronic warfare officers (EWO) in the back yelled, “Negative! Negative!”, and the pilot immediately flipped over into a hard turn in the other direction, but it was too late. The Soviet-made missile found its target.

The rear of the plane exploded, Hambleton was raked with shrapnel. At the navigator’s station right behind the pilot, Hambleton saw Major Bolte, the aircraft commander, give the signal to eject. He pulled the cords and ejected as the doomed plane. The ejection sequence, regardless of who triggered the punchout, saw Hambleton’s navigator’s seat being the first out of the plane. While he made it, the pilot, co-pilot, and the three electronic warfare officers in the rear of the plane never made it out before the plane broke up.

The missile exploded just under the rear of the Destroyer. Witnesses from a flight of F-4 Phantom fighters on a bombing mission about two miles behind Bat 21 and forward air control (FAC) aircraft below them saw them get hit. The reconnaissance jet immediately started trailing fire from both wings. Moments later, the ship broke up. Nobody saw any parachutes.

It was a busy day, as you can tell from the sheer volume of aircraft flying over the area that I’ve already mentioned, B-52s, F-4s, the EB-66s, O-2 Skymasters, and Army Hueys and Cobra gunships were all busily striking the enemy. For their part, the enemy too was busy. The American aircrews were fighting against a rush of thousands of North Vietnamese troops.

Suddenly there was a beep on the rescue frequency. One of the Skymaster pilots, then-1st Lieutenant Bill Jankowski answered the rescue radio beep. Hambleton “Bat 21 Bravo” (the “Bravo” from his position as navigator), was on the other end. Jankowski was surprised to learn that Hambleton wasn’t on the ground, he was above the FAC and descending fast. Jankowski got into position to watch where Hambleton was landing. Though he was landing right in the middle of 30,000 enemy troops, he’d been concealed at the final moments by a fog bank. The enemy hadn’t seen him. Yet.

Hambleton landed alone in a dirty rice paddy surrounded by the enemy. He determined that he wouldn’t be captured. He still had his survival radio, which is what he used for the next several days as he not only evaded capture, but helped rain high explosive hell fire from onto the enemy troops trying desperately to capture him. It would become the biggest, most complex, and costliest rescue of the war.

The concept of “leave no man behind” is a relatively new concept in warfare. Throughout history, you didn’t want to leave anyone behind, sure, but the logistics of that in fierce combat zones were impossible. I spoke a few weeks ago of the mass of death left behind at Gettysburg, as the two Armies left that decisive battle and chased each other to the next battle. During World War I, any massed charge atop the trenches would see men fall in no-mans-land and not be retrieved for extended periods. World War II saw the pace of the Blitz tactics of modern combined arms troops charging behind heavy tanks with air and artillery support meant there were many, many mass graves of unidentified servicemen left behind.

This started to change during World War II, where in the Pacific War, the brutality of the Imperial Japanese to their prisoners of war meant every effort would be taken to ensure our wounded or isolated troops wouldn’t fall into enemy hands. Downed aviators would get picked up by flying boat patrols or even Allied submarines. A few years later, during the Korean War, the similarly bleak conditions for those captured by the communist North and their allies, made rescue attempts more concerted. By the time of American involvement in Vietnam, it was rooted in American military doctrine that if you get left behind, we’re coming back for you.

Since Vietnam, the US has had a remarkable success rate in recovering captured troops, and has really lived the “Leave nobody behind” mantra. So it was that Gene Hambleton was going to have a lot of effort expended to rescue him. Throughout the conflict, American rescue aircraft would fly into the most hazardous of circumstances, and sometimes with heavy loss of life and equipment, to try to effect a rescue. Many Medals of Honor, Distinguished Service Crosses, and Air Force Crosses were awarded to these brave aviators.

Hambleton’s case, at least initially, was just like that of any other downed airman. It would soon be unlike any other downed flyer case of the war. Hambleton’s previous assignment working on strategic missile development and his command  meant that he had knowledge of some of the most classified information the Cold War government had. Were he to slip into enemy hands, and were he to break, the North Vietnamese would suddenly have the biggest bargaining chip with their Chinese and Soviet allies they might ever get. With the relatively few Americans now operating in and over Vietnam, it was assumed that the communist intelligence apparatchik were tracking high value American personnel, even those operating out of Thailand like Hambleton. Recovery of Bat 21 Bravo became an operation of critical national security importance.

Jankowski, in his little Cessna observation plane pinpointed where Hambleton went down. He started to take heavy fire from both anti-aircraft positions and small arms fire from grounds troops. A lot more than he was expecting. Hambleton had taken refuge in a copse of bushes, but the enemy was within 100 meters of his position. Jankowski radioed Hambleton’s location, rescue aircraft operating nearby were alerted. They knew that the odds of a successful recovery went down dramatically quick. The first four hours a flyer was on the ground were the most critical.

The rescue flights were hampered by the heavy fire from the enemy, and the large number of troops in the area. They were also hindered by South Vietnamese military operations, which were fighting the North’s troops as they fought to take the Cam-Lo Bridge, less than a mile away from Hambleton’s position. Hambleton had landed next to a major east-west thorough fare, which had tanks and men rolling around it almost constantly.

Hambleton hid, with the enemy less than a 100 yards away, and took an assessment. He had shrapnel wounds from his plane exploding, a finger was ripped up, and he had compression stress on his spine from the force of the ejection. All that said, he was less than nine months away from retirement, so the 53 year old navigator resovled to not get captured.

Interestingly enough, while very few Americans were on the ground at this time in Vietnam, another American was nearby. A Marine Recon officer, then-Captain John Ripley was fighting with friendly forces, and earned a Navy Cross for a truly herculean effort to single-handedly blow up a critical bridge before the enemy took it. I talk about him here.

Two Air Force A-1 Skyraiders (flying under their famous “Sandy” search and rescue callsigns) were tasked with supporting the Hambleton rescue. They assumed, since he’d been shot down over South Vietnamese territory, the rescue would be a fairly simple affair. They and follow-on aircrews were shocked at the volume of anti-aircraft fire. They compared the sheer volume of anti-aircraft fire as flying over Hanoi, the North’s capital. What none of them knew at the time was that they’d flown into the largest combined-arms attack the North Vietnamese Army would press during the war.

The Skyraider was a beloved close air support aircraft. It had seen extensive service by the Navy, Marine Corps, and Air Force early in the war. At this late date in the war, their close air support and light bombing missions had been taken over by newer aircraft, but the venerable Skyraider (which first flew before the end of World War II) was still the preferred close air support platform for USAF search and rescue (SAR). Flying under the callsign “Sandy”, the single-engine piston engined planes were slow enough to operate alongside the SAR helicopters, and could loiter over targets for long periods of time. They could also carry several thousand pounds of munitions to attack enemy troops as they closed in on a downed airman.

With the arrival of the Sandys, Hambleton took to his radio. He calmly called out the coordinates of the enemy, so they could attack the positions. Watching the explosions, Hambleton gave the airborne forward air controllers corrections, who would then relay the better targets to the Sandys and F-4 Phantoms fighting to keep Bat 21 Bravo free. The FACs were all amazed at how cool and calm Hambleton was on the radio. Wounded and surrounded by hostile troops, he kept his composure.

An emergency order for a rescue chopper was put out. Flying nearby was Army 1st Lieutenant Byron Kulland of the 8th Cavalry in a UH-1 Huey. After dropping off his cavalry troop’s operations officer and the civilian photographer he was showing the developing battle to, he proceeded toward Hambleton’s location. Along the way, Kulland’s ops officer directed two AH-1 Cobra gunships and another Huey to join him.

As they came in to Hambleton’s position they had to cross a river. Kulland brought his helicopter in at just 15 feet altitude and was flying slow so the second Huey could catch up. Watching over him was one of the Cobra gunships, about a half mile behind and a few hundred feet higher than him. As soon as Kulland and the Cobra got across the river they were met with a wall of enemy fire. Both rotary wing aircraft were struck multiple times. The Cobra crew returned fire with rockets and guns. The ground fire was too intense, and Kulland’s aircraft already too damaged.

Kulland turned back, but only made it a few miles away. They crashed hard into the ground. Of the crew of four, only the door gunner Specialist 5 Jose Astorga was ambulatory, though wounded. They too were surrounded by enemy troops, and closing in fast. Astorga tried to help his comrades. Crew chief Specialist 5 Ronald Paschall was pinned in the wreckage. Co-pilot Warrant Officer John Frink was awake, but critically wounded, and he urged Astorga to leave the mangled wreckage of the aircraft while he still could. Moments later, the enemy found them and opened fire on the crashed Huey. While Astorga made it out, the enemy fire ignited a massive explosion that killed the other three Americans. Astorga would quickly be captured and held for almost a year by the North Vietnamese.

The Cobra gunship that had escorted Kulland’s Huey also was forced down. The aircraft was considered a total loss, but both aircrew were rescued safely. Hambleton’s rescue was still in its early hours and already two aircraft were lost, three men had died, and one man was captured. The Cobra pilot advised other aircraft not to cross the river, effectively cutting Hambleton off completely, due to the high volume of fire. Hearing that this quick rescue attempt had failed, the Sandys returned to Da Nang. Post-flight inspections would show both aircraft had been badly damaged by enemy fire and would each be out of service for several days under repair.

With night falling, an OV-10 Bronco (a larger twin-engine observation aircraft) took over the FAC duties. While Hambleton had been advised to remain where he was, he moved to a spot he felt was safer and dug a hole in which to ride out the night. The OV-10 and a C-130 remained overhead all night, but both encountered strong enemy fire, and both were almost forced to return to base due to battle damage.

The colonel in command of the joint air rescue command ordered Hambleton’s position remain under 24-hour aerial surveillance. He also ordered a 27 kilometer no-fire zone around him. Hambleton would not be lost to an errant friendly round from any aircraft, artillery, or naval gunfire. The wet jungle became cold as darkness enveloped Hambleton.

Another helicopter rescue attempt was made for dawn on 3 April. The morning saw a thick fog covering the ground. The OV-10 overhead couldn’t see the ground, but continued FAC duties as they guided F-4 Phantoms in to drop anti-personnel bombs around Hambleton. Two Air Force HH-53 Jolly Green Giant helicopters were joined by four Sandys. Meanwhile, the North Vietnamese had become familiar with Allied search and rescue operations. They had a listening post nearby, and correctly surmised that a rescue would continue to be attempted. They placed anti-aircraft (AAA) guns and surface to air missiles (SAM) nearby. They would now be using Hambleton as bait to bring down as many would-be rescuers as possible. One pilot said of flying into this trap as “SAM calls were driving us into the small arms threat. Ground fire was accurate and well disciplined … The [North Vietnamese] were very definitely monitoring and jamming our communications.”

A Coast Guard officer, Lt. Commander Jay Crowe, seconded to the Air Force was flying the first Jolly Green to land at Hambleton’s position. As soon as they broke through the fog, they were met with exceedingly heavy enemy fire. The giant helicopter took an instant beating. The instrument panel in the cockpit was shot up. The Coastie pilot struggled to get the heavy helicopter airborne again. He was able to fight the aircraft to a nearby base. North Vietnamese had rendered another American aircraft out of service.

The second Jolly Green, piloted by Lt. Colonel Bill Harris, despite just watching his wingman almost crash in the attempt, also made to land. Coming through the overcast, he was face to face with ten enemy tanks and concentrated small arms fire. He fought the controls as his aircraft was battered by the constant hits, and made it to within 100 yards of Hambleton’s position. With Harris’s gunners operating all three of his ship’s 7.62 miniguns at the enemy all around him, a call came in from a supporting aircraft. Looking for targets, the pilot radioed, “Where’s the enemy fire coming from?” Harris replied, “From everywhere!” With his aircraft severely damaged, Harris fought his helicopter to gain altitude, and he too was able to just barely limp to safety.

Flying the OV-10 Bronco on FAC duty that morning was Captain William Henderson and 1st Lieutenant Mark Clark. Repeatedly flying around the area of Hambleton, forced to fly at perilously low altitude, Henderson’s aircraft took too much damage and he was forced to crash land on the north side of the river. Henderson survived the landing. Henderson hid for a night in a bamboo patch before villagers found him and cut him down. He would be a prisoner of the North Vietnamese for nearly a year. His co-pilot, 1st Lieutenant Mark Clark, parachuted down, and would in the next couple of days link up with Hambleton.

Unrelated to the Hambleton rescue, another Army UH-1 went down nearby. The Huey from H/HQ, 37th Signal Battalion, 1st Signal Brigade was likely shot down by the same SAM site that took down Bat 21. The crew consisted of Warrant Officer (now CWO3) Douglas L. O’Neil, pilot; Chief Warrant Officer 2 (now CWO3) Larry A. Zich, co-pilot; Specialist Five (now SFC) Allen D. Christensen, crew chief; and Specialist Four (now SSG) Edward W. Williams, gunner. All four were listed as missing in action, and in the decades since their loss, only the remains of Chief Zich have been accounted for.

Back home, Hambleton’s wife Gwen received her tickets to Thailand on the day her husband went down. He was scheduled for R&R the following week, and she was to meet him for it. Instead of packing and heading to the airport, she collapsed at the sight of a two Air Force officers in service dress uniforms, one of them a chaplain, walking up to her door.

Back in Vietnam, the Air Force decided the landing zone (LZ) where Hambleton was stuck was too “hot”. They bombed the area around him for days. On 4 April, a flight of 10 A-1 Skyraiders (half of the available Skyraiders in-country) pummelled the area. Eight of the ten aircraft received heavy battle damage from ground fire, and two were severely damaged. The last of the anti-personnel bombing occurred as dusk settled in, when a flight of two F-4 Phantoms, flying under the weather at just 500 feet of altitude dropped bombs on suspected enemy positions around Hambleton and Clark.

The bad weather continued on 5 April, preventing any attempts at a helicopter insertion, and even bad enough to keep close air support from flying. Hambleton, and now Clark, would next see a rescue attempt on 6 April.

We’ll have to pick this story up next week. Same valor time, same valor channel.

Category: Air Force, Historical, Valor, Vietnam, We Remember