When Casey Went To War

The downing of an enemy aircraft by another airplane is usually a good start for any air story. Casey’s tale, for those that know Casey—understandably—is different. He was flying a HC-130P nibbling at the edge of a stall at the time his story begins, refueling “Jolly Greens.” The helicopters were heading into North Vietnam for a rescue. Later that day Casey got home; a North Vietnamese MIG-21 pilot did not. They both had their moment of infamy flying together in the Laotian mountains.

Some might accuse Casey of excesses in story telling. These allegations could fit the stereotypical image of his Irish heritage. Even Casey confesses to slight exaggerations at times. "Casey,” His wife, Pat once rebuked, “you could leave some blarney!” when he leaned back to kiss the Blarney Stone.

Naval aviators and flight students passing through NAAS Whiting Field, Florida, in the early 1960’s might still recall Casey as the bass player in the Pensacola area’s near-famous Dixieland jazz band, “Slow Roll Seven,” marshaled from volunteer flight instructors. Casey’s instrument (though he admits to not being a musician), called a “gut bucket,” was somewhat unconventional. It consisted of a galvanized washtub strung with a single wire-clothesline stretched on a shovel-handle neck. Casey’s strumming was more entertaining to watch than what the almost single-octave instrument likely added to the ensemble—a charge that might equally apply to his story telling.

Casey has a compelling smile—all over his face—like that of an infant. He meets everyone with this assuring radiance in a disarming way but can quickly change his demeanor to a menacing scowl, switching back and forth instantly as he senses the circumstances. There is only a narrow gap of expressions between. In either case, the grip he locks on his listeners with dark eyes holds that audience with an unbreakable bond. It is impossible to avoid Casey, especially when he launches into a story.

Recently we were recounting episodes reflecting perceived images of our heroic pasts. These events were as we remembered, not necessarily as they happened. Our stories come with perhaps a little embellishment of which older men are often accused. The unstated understanding is, the oft-told anecdotes (at our age) are now only for entertainment. Truth can be a victim in these circumstances yet honor retained.

However, the following tale from Casey is a story even harder to forget. If I said it was another “Casey yarn,” those who know him would nod and smile in complete understanding perhaps tossing a little eye-roll for emphasis. But later, I met others who added pieces to Casey's saga—things he did not say or even know about. A larger chronicle developed.

I learned finally the account of when Casey went to war.

But to back up a moment: Casey spent his days after getting his Navy Wings flying navy ASW missions in S2Fs (S-2’s) and rounded out a navy flying career after ten years flying about 4,000 hours in eight different aircraft; all prop driven. Then an unexpected end came to his apparently successful navy career. He, like hundreds of others, was passed over for promotion to lieutenant commander. This was just before the beginning of the Vietnam War. A lack of a college degree was the one universal anecdotal justification offered around at the time for the services’ purging experienced aviators, many with excellent records.

Casey, wanting to continue flying, found jobs scarce. So with six kids to feed, he sought a billet in other services. The Air Force said, “No,” no college degree. The Army would not take him as a Warrant with his background. However, the Coast Guard offered a direct commission as a lieutenant junior grade. However, acceptance came with a heavy loss of nearly nine years from his former navy rank. He would start over once more in the “right seat” as a junior pilot. Casey agreed. He went to Miami to fly the Coast Guard Albatross (HU-16E) for three years. His next assignment—he volunteered for—was to join the war in Vietnam as a Coast Guard aviator flying with the Air Force.

Now for Casey’s story:

On 28 January 1970, Casey, as aircraft/mission commander of an Air Force HC130P, “King 3,” from 39th AARS operating from Udorn, Thailand, was standing ground alert. To the east over central North Vietnam, “Seabird 2,” an F-105G, “stretch-limo” Wild Weasel, was “on fire” following a run on a SAM (Surface to Air Missile) site. Wingman, “Seabird 1,” observed “two good chutes” then watched one crewmember moving on the ground near an enemy concentration. The other crewmember appeared to have landed “on road 101” in the midst of the enemy.

Two Air Force A-1J’s, were overhead quickly (See Flight Journal, “Down There Amongst Them,” Byron Hukee, Sept/Oct 1998). “Sandy 1” saw the electronics warfare officer captured by a “lot of people and activity around the person.” The “Sandies” continued circling the area searching for the missing pilot for over an hour before finally “Sandy 1” was struck by ground fire, damaging the aircraft. He left leaving “Sandy 2” to continue the coverage. “Seabird 1,” still orbiting, detected then spotted a SAM heading for “Sandy 2.” He called a “break” for “Sandy,” “no doubt saving [“Sandy 2”] from being shot down.” Other aircraft joined to search the area. None received personal radio signals from the down crew. “Sandy 2” observed, “bad guys definitely have one survivor…[he] saw them take him in the grass.”

A major helicopter rescue effort started immediately. But rescue resources muddled around for an hour waiting without confirmation by the survivors “coming up on voice.” A general corroboration by voice contact with downed aircrews through their personal survival-radios was a usual requirement before bringing in “Jollies.” It was the practice of the Search And Rescue (SAR) forces if no voice contact was made with aircraft crewmen on the ground, it was likely they were “either dead, unconscious, or a prisoner, all of which precluded a SAR. Without the survivor’s active participation, a SAR was almost impossible, especially if there was any opposition…”and according to Sandy pilot, Jim George, “there was normally plenty!!”

Casey launched for the “Seabird” rescue to assist “King 2.” He was to rendezvous with two flights of “Jolly Green Giants” rescue helicopters. Two were HH-3E’s, call signs “Jolly 09” and “19.” Four were the larger HH53B & C’s in two sections: “Jolly 70,” “77” and “Jolly 71,” “72.” Accompanying the helicopters were four A-1J’s, call signs, “Sandy 3,” “4,” “5” and “6.”

Casey soon was enveloped in the “fog of war” caused by quick decisions by others before he came on scene. This time, rapid changes to where his flight should rendezvous added in six more deaths to the “Seabird” rescue and nearly the loss of others including Casey and his crew.

It started when “King 2” advised a recommended holding position for the incoming “King 3” SAR flight and their protective air-cover “fast movers” (fighters) eighteen miles west-south-west of the downed “Seabird.” This spot was five miles west, over the boarder, in Laos. However, the Joint Rescue Coordination Center [JRCC] did not concur with this choice and directed the “slow movers” (C-130, A-1’s and helicopters) sixteen miles further to the south-east to a position nineteen miles directly south of the downed aircraft astride the border between North Vietnam and Laos. Missing in this order is the critical note for the fighter cover to follow Casey’s flight to the new location.

One minute after this new position was passed “Wolf 101,” an aircraft over the downed “Seabird,” reported two SAM’s launched and “very heavy groundfire (sic) in [the] area.” “King 2” radioed JRCC advising, the Sandies and Jollies “do not want to go” to the new assigned position. Instead “King 2” introduced a new holding point thirty-eight miles north-west of the last position or about twenty-seven miles west-north-west of “Seabird.” This placed the arriving “King 3” SAR flight about eight miles west of the Vietnam boarder over Laos clear of threatening SAM’s and anti-aircraft fire. Fatefully, this also puts Casey meeting his fledglings nearly twenty miles north-west of the last position given the fighters to cover and closer to the enemy fighter threat from North Vietnam. To further increase the vulnerability to Casey’s flight, his protective fighter defense was on the side opposite any MIG threat.

All aircraft joined “King 3’s” in a loose formation on the 055° radial, sixty miles from the Nakhom Phnom TACAN. “King 3” was positioned to coordinate the rescue and provide in-flight refueling for the helicopters. All could hear intermittent “MIG calls” but most pilots in the flight concluded the enemy fighter threat was farther north. Jack Cody, pilot of “Jolly 70,” noted, “…the whole time, we were getting ‘bandit calls.’ The radios were a constant clatter of chatter, trying to monitor transmissions on UHF, VHF, FM, and HF, all at the same time…It was a lot to deal with…all the other confusion and pandemonium going on…while we had information on MIG activity, it did not fit into any cogent pattern nor did we have a plan to deal with it other than to rely on our MIG Cap. (author’s emphasis)”

Helicopter in-flight refueling began with all aircraft reaching rendezvous two hours and forty minutes after “Seabird” going down. This was also thirty-five minutes after a positive confirmation that both “Seabird” crews were observed captured with no affirmation from them of any kind through their individual survival radios. The rescue attempt, not meeting criteria, might have been scrubbed at this point. The helicopters were still relatively heavy on fuel, but because of further delays confirming the possibility of the extractability of the downed airmen, despite all the evidence to the contrary, mission controllers decided to refuel and extend the waiting period.

Refueling began on a westerly heading over Laos flying away from North Vietnam. The two HH-3’s, “Nitnoys” were first for a top-off. Four HH-53’s “Buffs” were to follow. Four A-1J’s “Spads” flying wing positions on the flight rounded out the aircraft under “King 3” or Casey’s control in the single large formation. Somewhere high overhead, but not under Casey’s control, they expected the fighter cover.

he mountain peaks beneath the flight reached to 7,500 feet with the ridgeline running generally north and south following the boarder between the two countries. “King 3’s” flight was over the western slopes with steep ridges and valleys below. The first refueling hookup with “Jolly 09” began about 8,000 feet, the highest the H-3 could fly, keep up with the C-130 and avoid a stall. The C-130, too, was struggling at stall speeds as Casey remarked, “We had to fly at one knot above stall speed with 70% flaps, which was just over 100 knots, to prevent flying too fast for the helicopter.” Casey once, “…did actually stall-out…however, ‘Jolly’ was able to stay with me.” “Jolly 19,” the next in line, had difficulty rendezvousing. The weather was clear but hazy. Casey noted, “…the visibility was in the neighborhood of about five–six miles or so.” “One-nine” plugged in after Casey did a 360 turn to aid in the join-up. At the same time “Jolly 70” moved into position outboard the left wing of “King 3” for the next turn at the drogue. “Jolly 77” was nearby to follow. Casey was using only the left wing refueling station but the right-hand drogue was extended. The starboard drogue was not preferred by the helicopter pilots except in an emergency due to the extreme turbulence from the C-130’s prop-wash on that side. “Jollies 71” and “72” were at a loose trail position behind the formation and above at about 9,500 feet with a “Sandy” sitting outboard and trailing each slightly in loose wing positions.

Casey said that is when “the MIG-21 hit us.”

John Dyer flying “Sandy 5,” trailing in “Jolly 72’s” seven o’clock position at the extreme left of the formation, saw a flash and explosion in the karst below and to his left. It was the first ATOL rockets fired by a MIG-21—that missed. Dyer looked back quickly to his right at the formation in time to see the second rocket hit “Jolly 71.”

“Sandy 6,” on the opposite side of the formation, flying on “Jolly 71’s” right wing started screaming “MIGS—MIGS, TAKE IT DOWN!” “Sandy 5” saw the MIG-21 pulling away to the right. The two trailing “Sandies” started a futile turn toward it.

Jim Bender in “Sandy 4” was up front flying wing on “King 3” ahead of the pack, “when someone started shouting ‘MIG’s’ on Guard.” He looked back and “saw the smoke trail of ‘Jolly 71’ into the ground.” Next, Bender added, “When I looked back to the west, the refueling ‘Jolly’ had broken the connection and was headed downhill into the weeds. ‘King 3’ dropped the external tanks and also headed downhill to the southwest.” Bender continued, “Since I was the only one with any forward firing ordnance, I armed up everything I had and turned to the east. I saw a silver flash off to the northeast headed off to the north. By now everyone else was headed downhill and off to the west.”

“Jolly 72’s” aircraft commander, Cliff Shipman and his crew watched the rocket that struck “Jolly 71” streak past their starboard side and fly into the open ramp under the HH-53’s tail. “Sandy 5” also saw the missile disappear up the open rear of the Buff where the rear gunner kneeled. The explosion was so complete the largest pieces of wreckage seen were the flitting rotor blades emerging from a fireball, descending to the mountain ridge below.

About two minutes after the first strike, a second MIG flew in from the formation’s six o’clock position. The deadly fighter charged at the now scattered and diving gaggle with the only obvious target likely, the fat-lumbering C-130. “Jolly 72’s” crew saw it coming first. The HH-53C at the time, like all the others, was diving for the jungle. “Jolly 72’s” rear and starboard side gunners got shots off at the MIG as it passed, heading toward the C-130.

Going back a moment: As soon as Casey heard the initial “MIG” call, when “Jolly 71” was hit, he “immediately ordered all aircraft down to the treetops and to egress on a heading approximately 210 [degrees]” As he explained, “This should keep us pretty well clear of any known yahoos in the area…All of us got down to the ground and egressed…I did not know if that darn MIG got anymore ‘Jollies’ or not, or any of the ‘Sandies.’ I could hear some of the conversations. Part of it came in extremely garbled because…I was also getting down and trying to pull in my hoses.” Casey felt a shudder when the port refueling hose and drogue tore from the aircraft due to excessive speed. The hoses with their drogues are what “Sandy 4” saw when he thought the C-130 was dropping tanks.

For a few moments, with an unknown attacker force, it was an individual effort at survival. Helicopters dumped collective and dove in different directions for the jungle treetops like a covey of quails chased by a fox. Casey, evoking open nervousness undiminished by the decades since, exclaimed, “I just started really pushing the airplane. In fact, I was already low and started jinking down over the treetops and getting the hell out of there myself.” It was at this time, he “called for all the aircraft to check in,” so he, “could determine where they were— if there were anymore were hit.” Now low in the mountains, Casey was not able to receive radio transmissions from everyone, so he “started to pull up,” concentrating on accounting for all the aircraft when “Jolly 72” called out the MIG passing along his starboard side heading for “King.”

In the next instant, the scanner aft at the open ramp beneath the tail of the C-130 reported a “fast-mover” at the “Herk’s” five o’clock position closing fast! This is that moment when all those hundreds of hours teaching acrobatics in T-28’s at NAAS Whiting Field ten years before yielded success. As Casey reports, “this is when I really commenced my jinking. I didn’t request anymore check-ins at that moment. I was rather busy.” He picked a canyon running downhill and bounced the Hercules in unpredictable, erratic turns between the walls. At one time he saw bursts in the karst ahead and below his aircraft’s nose he suspects was cannon fire from the MIG. But he was too busy to dwell on this, hustling that lumbering transport out of harm’s way. Moments later the C-130 emerged from the canyon—alone.

The crisis was not quite over for Casey. He flew about twenty-five miles from the area and started a climb to muster the aircraft with him. It was at this instant, as he was pulling up above the forest crown, looking to his left he saw a “fast mover!” The fighter was aiming directly at the now totally vulnerable C-130—with a broadside shot! Casey’s comment, after just making a successful escape, was: “It was smoking in on me and I thought, ‘oh my lord, I have about a minute’s left—maybe less—to be alive.’ When [the fighter] turned a little bit, I caught the profile of the F-4 (U.S. Air Force Phantom II) and it seemed like the whole world just came off my shoulders at that time.”

The truant MIG Cap had arrived.

It is possible that the bullets fired from Shipman’s “Jolly 72,” struck the MIG or that the skillful dodging by Casey drove the attacker into the mountainside. Or it was a combination of both acts that brought the MIG down. “Pham Dinh Tuan crashed into a mountain side and lost his life.” His flight team member in the other MIG-21, Vu Ngoc Dinh arrived home alive to claim credit for shooting down one “CH-53 helicopter.”

Epilogue

Casey was recommended for the Distinguish Flying Cross but the only medals handed out for that day’s missions were eight Purple Hearts, posthumously, to the crews of “Seabird 2” and “Jolly 71.”

“Seabird 2’s” crew, Capt. Richard J. Mallon, pilot; and Capt. Robert J. Panek, electronics warfare officer were seen alive from the air as captives. However, North Vietnam never acknowledged this fact nor were the two recorded as POW’s. Their remains were returned to the United States in 1988. “Jolly 71” was commanded by Major Holly G. Bell, with Capt. Leonard C. Leeser as co-pilot. The crew was SMSgt. William D. Pruett; SSgt. William C. Shinn; MSgt. William C. Sutton; and passenger, Sgt. Gregory L. Anderson. Only the remains of Major Bell were returned in 1988 from the crew of the helicopter.

After his Vietnam tour, 247 combat missions, eight Air Medals, and a Distinguish Flying Cross, Casey returned to the Coast Guard and an air station operating C-130’s. This was a time, that returning Vietnam veterans had little to say about their wartime exploits, often denying a role there through silence. It was an era of imposed shame for the returning warrior. Casey, as well, was atypically quiet. But he, like others with similar backgrounds—junior in rank and high in experience with nearly nine thousand hours now—met with some unusual attitudes among the middle ranking Coast Guard C-130 pilots with one to two thousand hours total time.

Direct commission aviators in he Coast Guard, as Casey was, at all the C-130 stations then were subject to hazing by the regular Coast Guard lieutenant commanders that had far less flying experience. The typical attitude into the 1970’s of many was, “Fly the airplane like I do, or else!” Furthermore, these officers generally controlled the flight schedule and held onto the “left seat” in the C-130, blocking it to juniors in rank. Casey was not allowed to qualify as a SAR aircraft commander in the C-130 at this station although he had performed this role for the previous five years—with the most recent two in the C-130 in combat. He “wasn’t qualified in the Coast Guard model C-130,” or so he was told as a reason. (This problem all but dissolved later when the Coast Guard finally adopted a service-wide pilot standardization program for fixed-winged aircraft. A Coast Guard helicopter standardization program begun in the late 1960’s was highly successful.) Meanwhile, after sixteen years of fixed wing flying, Casey volunteered for helicopter transition as a way around the problem.

Casey’s last job was flying the single engine helicopter, HH-52A Seaguard. He finished his military career amassing a total of nearly ten thousand accident-free flight hours in three U.S. military services.

If you happen to be in a crowd—a party for example—and Casey is there, you will not miss him. He is the guy with the innocent child-like smile, surrounded by others and is the one talking, with a well-used voice, high-pitched and gravelly, just a little louder than the rest. He is the one telling tales.

James C. (Casey) Quinn has many stories to recount and might even tell about when he went to war; if you ask.

1. Toperczer, Istvan, Air War Over North Viet Nam, (Carrollton, TX: Squadron/Signal Publications, Inc., 1998. Date of event reported in book corrected in correspondence with author from Frank Rozendaal, 13 August 1999.

2. James C. Quinn, interviews and correspondence with author, 1999-2001.

3. Ibid. Several personal accounts passed to the author from individuals also “passed over” for promotion.

4. 40th ARRS history http://www.jollygreen.org/40thhist/401970.htm

5. “Jack” and “Joker” rough logs for 28 January 1970. “Joker,” the Joint Rescue coordination center of the 3rd Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Group at Tan Son Nhut AB Vietnam. “Joker,” Rescue Coordination Center at OL-B (Det 2) of the 3rd ARRGP first at Danang and later at Udorn.

6. Jim George, Correspondence with author, 9, 10 November 1999

7. “Joker” Log for 28 January 1970.

8. Jim George

9. “Jack” and “Joker” logs

10. Vietnamese chart TÝ LỆ 1:250 000. ONC chart J-11, 1:1,000,000.

11. Quinn

12. Jack Cody, Correspondence with author, 13 August 1999

13. American slang for the perceived Thai word meaning “little.” The HH- 3 is not a small helicopter; however, in flight with the much larger HH-53 it appears small.

14. Slang reference to H-53’s as “Big Ugly Fat F…”

15. Slang reference to A-1’s, an allusion to the French designed fighter, SPAD of WW I fame.

16. Dick Butchka, correspondence with author, December 2001

17. Quinn

18. Joe Vincent, correspondence with author, 30 July 1999

19. Ibid.

20. Jim Bender, correspondence with author, 2 August 1999 and telephone interviews

21. Cliff Shipman telephone interview with author, 25 August 1999

22. Ibid.

23. Quinn

24. Ibid.

25. Ibid.

26. Slang reference to the C-130 Hercules

27. Quinn

28. Toperczer, Istvan, Air War Over North Viet Nam, p. 38w

29. www.scopesys.com/cgi/today2.cgi

30. Quinn. Author interviews with Direct Commission Aviators at CGAS Barbers Pt, San Francisco and Elizabeth City between 1965 and 1971.

31. Quinn

1999 Barrett T. Beard