Mission to the Northeast Highway
- Christina DeSantis
- Sep 8
- 30 min read
INTRODUCTION
Mission to the Northeast Highway is a firsthand account of courage and survival in one of the most perilous airspaces during the Vietnam War. USAFA Class of 1959 Graduate, RL Penn, takes us deep into Route Pack VI, a region so heavily defended it was dubbed “the most dangerous airspace in the world.”
Through Penn’s vivid recollections, readers glimpse the tension of night missions, the split-second decisions that separate life from death, and the camaraderie that defined fighter squadrons like the 497th Night Owls and the 433rd Satan’s Angels. (For those wondering how the squadrons were named, please see notes at the end of the article.)
This account is preserved by the USAFA Class of 1959 as part of their legacy documentation, honoring the service and sacrifice of those who flew into harm’s way. Whether you’re a student of history or simply drawn to stories of resilience, Penn’s narrative offers a rare and unfiltered window into the air war over North Vietnam.
Mission to the Northeast Highway
by R. L. Penn
RL Penn was a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot assigned to the 497th Tactical Fighter Squadron during the Vietnam War. A graduate of the U.S. Air Force Academy Class of 1959, Penn flew over 90 missions into North Vietnam, including high-risk night operations in Route Pack VI.
His writing reflects not only technical mastery but also the dry wit and emotional clarity of someone who lived through the extremes of combat. His account, “Mission to the Northeast Highway,” is part of the USAFA Class of ’59 legacy archive. See his full bio.
NIGHT MISSIONS OVER NORTH VIETNAM
In most respects, it was a typical Route Package VI mission, except that we had no electronic warning equipment and it was night. Even those differences were routine to me. My squadron got electronic warning gear after I had left, and I had long ago grown accustomed to night missions. Of four men on that mission, three did not survive the war.
Our relentless presence in the daytime had caused the Vietnamese trucks to do much more driving at night. Higher HQ decided to assign two fighter squadrons for operations primarily at night. The 497th and 433rd Tactical Fighter Squadrons (TFS) at Ubon, Thailand, got the odious task. The 497th TFS — The Night Owls — and the 433rd TFS Satan's Angels were both assigned to the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing (TFW), Colonel Joe Wilson Commanding. The author flew with the 497th. One squadron would fly from sundown to midnight, then the other until dawn.
Most of our missions were to the North Vietnam panhandle, Route Packs I, II, and III. The big advantage to this was that their defenses were less robust. Surface-to-Air Missile (SAM) activity was almost none, radar-directed Anti-Aircraft Artillery (AAA) was not very effective against a maneuvering target, and visually-aimed guns could not see us very well. The downside was that there was much more danger of a pilot's losing aircraft control during aggressive maneuvering or flying into the ground.
The 433rd TFS commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Crouch, held a pilot's meeting every Wednesday, and he had just instituted a weekly briefing by an outside "expert" on some subject or another. The first briefer, Captain Chick Waxman, assigned temporary duty (TDY) from Fighter Weapons School, finished his briefing, suited up, flew to Route Pack I, got hit, and parachuted into a treetop. Rescue guys had told us, in that case, to stay in a tree until daylight, and they'd pick us up directly from the tree. Not Chick. He climbed down, fell off a cliff in the dark, broke his neck and died. The next briefer also had a bad night following his presentation — I think he arrived at the Hanoi Hilton via circuitous routing.
THE THEORY: YOU CAN'T GET SHOT DOWN AT NIGHT
So, I was the third lecturer. My pitch was, "You can't get shot down at night". I was very proud of my thesis which involved all sorts of hocus-pocus about the rods and cones in the eye, AAA aiming techniques & tracers, AAA radar gun-laying computers, and other stuff which I didn't understand either, but it sounded very sophisticated. Anyway, Colonel Crouch thought his guys hadn't been aggressive enough and that this should help. You gotta get in close, and concentrate, to do good work, especially at night.
“You can’t get shot down at night.” — RL Penn, briefing his squadron
One way to confirm my theory was to light afterburners at night and get the gunners' attention. The afterburner makes a bright, blue/yellow/white light, about 50 feet long, that can be seen from miles away. Because they lacked depth perception, visual gunners from maybe four miles away would open up. So, why couldn't the gunners approximate our separation distance, but I could? Because to them, I was just a light in the night sky, but to me, they were shapes against some terrain background.
According to my exalted theory, the gunners' eyes couldn't provide accurate depth perception at night by which they could utilize the adjustments indicated by tracers. For the Soviet 37mm gun, every bullet is a brilliant red tracer. Six guns in a battery, two bullets per second per gun, adds up to a lot of bright red tracers! However, this tracer-adjusting system doesn't work at night because human sight, in daylight, depends on color-recognizing cones in the eye. But, at low-level night light, the rods in the eye interpret the available light, and some accuracy is lost — especially in distance recognition. Well, that's what I thought, so I was suggesting that these pilots risk their lives on the validity of my theory. It had been working fine for me!
The sight of those bright red tracers was a thing of great beauty. The closer they came, the more exciting, but they always missed. Tracers are prettier at night because they're so bright. If a pilot is down low, really in the weeds — pretty dicey at night — and 37s are coming really close to the canopy, they seem to go straight, initially, and well in front. Then, as they pass by the canopy, they appear to curve sharply to the rear. Beautiful! Winston Churchill — perhaps quoting an earlier soldier — is reputed to have said during his experience in Cuba, 1898, "There is nothing more exhilarating than to be shot at without result".
“There is nothing more exhilarating than to be shot at without result.” — Winston Churchill, quoted by Penn
There were also 57mm and 85mm guns. Visually-aimed 57mm guns were recognizable by their blue or green pastel tracers — loaded about one in six projectiles. These tracers probably provided the U.S. pilots with more useful information than to the gunners. The pilot immediately knows he's being shot at, so he can choose whether to deal with the problem at hand or to go someplace else. Getting hit by a 37mm projectile may or may not be a major catastrophe, but a 57 packs triple the punch. Obviously, 85mm guns packed a real punch. 57mm guns could be radar-directed — without tracers — and 85s always were. When the pilot sees a muzzle flash, he has one to six seconds to get someplace else other than the position the radar had predicted for him. Really not so difficult to do unless the sky is crowded with bullets.
There were two railroad and highway routes from Hanoi to China. They formed a V shape from Hanoi, one to the Northwest and one to the Northeast. During the summer, the Air Force and Navy concentrated extra effort on these important supply routes. It seemed that the North Vietnamese increased their defenses accordingly. On the 7th and 8th of August, the Air Force lost five fighters in the Kep area: four POWs, 2 KIAs, and 2 men picked up in the gulf. Larry Goldberg and Pat Wynne were hit by AAA and killed trying to get out to the gulf. Their airplane had flight control problems, and they were trying to get to the water, but apparently, the controls failed suddenly and they couldn't eject. The Northeast highway/railroad was a tough place!
The enemy truck drivers operated better in the daytime, so, presumably, there was more truck traffic during the day. Appropriately, we staged many more sorties in the day against trucks and fixed targets. Still, it would have been a huge mistake to allow them the freedom of the night. We ran a few night armed reconnaissance missions and found some targets, but also, importantly, our very presence kept their heads down and slowed their movement.
Route Pack Missions: The Air War’s Most Dangerous Assignments During the Vietnam War, North Vietnam was divided into seven “Route Packages” by the U.S. Air Force and Navy to coordinate air operations. Route Pack VI, which included Hanoi and Haiphong, was the most heavily defended airspace in the world.
Pilots flying into RP VI faced dense anti-aircraft artillery, radar-guided missiles, and strict rules of engagement. Missions here were often flown at night to reduce visibility to enemy gunners—but that brought its own risks, including terrain collisions and disorientation.
RL Penn’s story takes place in this crucible of danger, where survival depended on skill, instinct, and sometimes sheer luck.
All Route Package VI missions elicited mixed enthusiasm among the fighter pilots, but Pack VI at night was definitely not relished. For all the losses, we didn't seem to be getting many trucks. The day raids to Pack VI usually involved a gaggle of airplanes: Douglas EB-66, MiG warning, weather reconnaissance, post-strike reconnaissance, refueling tankers, and rescue standing by. Iron Hand was especially important and was included whenever available. Iron Hand was a special mission which involved a fighter — in the earliest applications an Air Force North American F-100F Super Sabre, or a Navy Douglas A-4 Skyhawk, and later an Air Force Republic F-105 Thunderchief, which had electronic sensing equipment to detect SAM radar activity and its location. This sensing fighter would be accompanied by fighters with bombs. This comprised an Iron Hand package, which would go in first to seek out and suppress SAMs and stay until all fighters were out of the area. Iron Hand motto: "First in. Last out".
Much as the fighter pilots appreciated this escort service, it diverted scarce assets from attacking the primary targets. That's all well and good, except that we didn't have any Electronic Counter Measure (ECM) equipment, and a two-airplane formation doesn't get Iron Hand support. Our only defense was to fly so low that SAMs couldn't get at us. Uhhh? Fly low at night? In mountainous terrain? This was a VERY BAD idea. Not suicide, but very dangerous. Route Packages IV, V and VI were SAM country, especially around the Hanoi area.
The night tactic was that two airplanes would ingress at a couple thousand feet or so, 420 knots, with the wingman seven miles, one minute in trail. Looking at hills on radar from about level creates shadows behind, so maps can be interpreted. Even on a fairly dark night, rivers, railroads, and breaks in trees can be sorted out visually. We used radar and visual to avoid fatal contact with the terrain and inertial navigation to find turn points. At such a low altitude, with just a few hills around, the SA-2 missile could not track us accurately enough to shoot, and visual gunners could not see well enough to be a threat. When close to suspected SAM sites, fly really low.
INTO THE TARGET AREA: BOMBING RUNS AND TACTICAL PATTERNS
The lead fighter carried two pods of eight parachute-retarded flares each. Each flare was one million-candlepower. Lead also carried four 500-pound bombs. The wingman carried all bombs. The flares had an ignition delay of about 20 seconds and burned for four minutes. Over a suspected target, Lead drops two or more flares. Simultaneously, Wingman pulls up, offsets, and rolls in, sort of pointed at the target when the flares ignite. Lead is in a racetrack pattern and drops his bombs about a minute after the wingman. The wingman comes around for a second pass after lead. If we have a good target and four minutes of flare burning time, we could make three or four bombing passes.
The night of 1 June 1966, was a bad time for the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing. Dayton Ragland and Ned Herrald were killed attacking a fixed target, the Than Hoa Bridge. On a night armed reconnaissance mission just northeast of Kep, A.J. Meyers and John Borling, two of the finest officers I ever knew, were nailed by ground fire and spent seven years in jail, a.k.a. The Hanoi Hilton.
THE NIGHT OF 11-12 AUGUST 1966
I was selected to lead a two-ship armed reconnaissance to the Northeast Highway / Railroad — the exact objective that Meyers and Borling had had. We were flying the McDonnell F-4C Phantom II. This would be my 92nd mission North. My backseat pilot — GIB: Guy In Back — was Bert Finzer, new to the squadron and on his first mission to Route Pack VI. As I briefed the mission, I was impressed by his demeanor — quiet, eager, brave.
We contacted Red Crown, a U.S. Navy destroyer very far north in the Gulf of Tonkin that handled radar vectors, refueling rendezvous, and rescue. We refueled over the Gulf of Tonkin and headed to the north of Haiphong, then to the north side of what we called "Phantom Ridge". There were two ridges near Hanoi: Phantom Ridge, a low ridge to the northeast, and Thud Ridge to the northwest. By staying north of these ranges, we were partly shielded from radars and missiles around Hanoi and Haiphong. Follow the ridge west to the highway, a piece of cake. Follow the railroad/highway southwest, climb up to four or five thousand feet and turn gently back and forth — 60-80 degrees bank — to look down for trucks or trains.
That altitude put us in easy view of all sorts of radars, but with the constant turning, there was little defensive reaction. We had no radar warning gear at that time, but SAMs could be seen from miles away at night. Defensive measure for SAMs was to turn to place the missile at 60 or 90 degrees off the nose and start a gentle push-over, maybe -2Gs. The tracking missile also noses down. When the missile, at very high speed, gets close, pull up about 4 or 6 Gs, and the missile can't make the turn.
That maneuver worked pretty well, but not quite perfectly. In any event, it obviously can't be initiated from three or four thousand feet above the ground. What to do at night in SAM country? Nothing, I guess. Just try to stay low enough that SAMs can't lock on.
Finzer was excited. Newest kid in the squadron and totally unafraid. I took the opportunity to illustrate my theory that you can't get shot down at night. I would pop up to four or five thousand feet and maintain straight and level for about a minute. It takes a while for the radar operators to see a target, acquire it, and then six seconds for the Puazo Six computer to project the target's future position and bullet impact point, and then fire. As soon as I saw the muzzle flashes, I'd make a little turn. Radar directed guns had time-cut fuses, which would explode at the place we would have been, had it not been for the little turn. Bert was enjoying the thrill of being shot at.
I noticed down near the southwest end of the route there were quite a few radar-controlled guns making noises. It didn't occur to me why they were there, but I didn't bother 'em. My squadron commander, Jim McGuire, had been in trouble with the wing commander before about my "dueling with AAA". I don't know how he heard about it 'cause I never bragged or nothing like that. Dizzy Dean says that if it's true, it ain't braggin'. It was very exciting, and I thought a 37mm gun was a worthwhile target — especially if there were no other targets. The CO had different ideas of economics, and he thought that an F-4 was a substantially more valuable asset. Pilots were in even shorter supply at the time. Anyway, turn on all the lights, or light the afterburner to get those guys shooting, and it's easy to go right down the tracer path straight to the guns. This works especially well with rockets.
I searched the dark highway for targets until my fuel gauge told me it was time to go home. I had risked my life to carry this stuff so far up north, and I'm not going to haul it back home. Besides, it was dangerous to land with flares on board, so if not dropped on a target, they would be jettisoned at sea. The taxpayers paid real money for these flares and bombs.
Ah!, there's my excuse! I can find only one target — the AAA guns, which had so loudly announced their presence. I had been keeping their location in the back of my mind, so I turned right for them. I had fuel for only one pass, so I gang-loaded all flares to drop at once. I crossed right over the guns at about 6,000 feet and pickled the flares.
HIT OVER KEP: A SUDDEN TURN
I was in a hard right turn, setting switches to drop my bombs, when the flares lit. The radar guns had been sporadically firing, so everyone knew approximately where I was. The sudden introduction of sixteen million candlepower clarified everything for all of us. I see them. They see me. I was over Kep airfield! That's why there were so many guns in one place. Intelligence had estimated 208 AAA guns of various descriptions around Kep airfield, but I hadn't thought much about it. That's a lot of guns. They really meant to defend their two airfields, even though President Johnson had made them off limits to us at that time. Wow! It seemed like everybody started shooting at once.
I was hit pretty hard. The airplane porpoised severely. Maybe the artificial feel system had been shot out or damaged. All modern American fighters have full, irreversible, hydraulic flight controls, not hydraulic boost. Without artificial feel, a slight force on the control stick could cause the hydraulic flight controls to deflect fully. Maybe part of the stabilator had been shot away because I had difficulty holding the nose up. I thought the airplane might blow up any second, however, two seconds later it hadn't blown up. Yet. I yelled to Finzer, "Don't eject". A calm, quiet voice came back, "I'm not". That reminded me to be calm. Pilots are sometimes surprised, but a really superb "stick" never panics and can recover ice-calm composure within a half-second or so. I already had a plan to head to Phantom Ridge — maybe two minutes away — if the airplane wouldn't blow up before then.
I quickly figured that things were more or less OK and I was not anxious to pull the handle that would turn me into a POW. There was no apparent fire because the airplane wasn’t lit up. An internal fire? I don’t know what that could be. The flight controls were functioning, although definitely not normally. Whoops, fuel seemed lower than a minute ago. Very low.
The attraction of Phantom Ridge was that rescue was more likely from there. Well, not exactly “likely,” but not completely impossible. I had heard some talk about Navy rescue helicopters going somewhere north of Phantom Ridge. I carried a .38 revolver in a cowboy holster with bullets along the belt. Like Gene Autry. I also carried a .38 automatic in my vest. I figured to fight like Davy Crockett at the Alamo – well, at least against a bunch of farmers. A rescue mission deep into Pack VI would have been a long shot, but, who knows how long I might be able to hold out in the hills. My friend Rags had convinced me that being a POW is really bad. Worse than really bad.
I got to Phantom Ridge and things were still pretty good. Obviously, there had not yet been an explosion because I'm still alive, so there probably would not be one. Still no fire, and flight controls still functioned. I'm heading east for the Gulf, staying low enough for the hills to shield me from SAMs. If I had been desperately concerned about sudden, catastrophic, loss of control I would have climbed for some bailout altitude, but SAMs seemed the primary threat - psychologically, anyway.
Fuel - Lower Than a Minute Ago
Finzer said, "We still have our bombs." I hadn't thought about them because I'd been thinking about ejection or explosion. I reached for the jettison button when he said, "Let's look for a truck!" Just then I saw headlights ahead. Some guy driving along with his lights on. I rolled in and pickled the bombs: one, two, three. There was a very bright flash. Direct hit. Must have been hauling ammo.
"When he woke up that evening he had not considered that this might be the last day of his life on Earth. He had expected a long, dangerous journey in the night. He never knew what hit him."
Only then, in the pullout, I remembered the damaged flight controls and difficulty getting the nose up. Anyway, I didn't hit the ground. Bert had counted the bombs, "We have one more bomb, let's get that lighthouse." The lighthouse, northeast of Haiphong harbor, was a bone stuck in our throats because it was off limits and always operating - taunting us. Facing imminent death or capture, this kid was still fighting the war. By this time I was thinking that rescue was a possibility just as well as death or capture. Focused on rescue, I jettisoned the external garbage, went feet wet, headed south and called Red Crown for refueling rendezvous.
Red Anchor was the permanent call sign of an Air Force tanker, orbiting over the far north Gulf of Tonkin, available to whoever needed fuel. They had specific orders not to go north of a certain line because the Boeing KC-135 Stratotankers were totally defenseless and were valuable Strategic Air Command assets. This night Captain Martinez violated that standing order.
Fuel Was Low
I'm leaking fuel - a lot! The tanker headed farther north to meet me. My decision, immediately after being hit, to head northeast for the hills was based on two assumptions, which I held at the time. I might have to eject in a couple of minutes - 15 miles - that's hill country. Evade capture? Rescue? Alternatively, a southeast heading would have pointed me directly to the tanker and would have saved over a thousand pounds of fuel. But the direct route would probably have proved fatal. The terrain southeast of Hanoi is very flat, much of it covered with rice paddies and standing water. There the minimum operating altitude for SAMs is quite low, perhaps down to absolute dirt level, because of a technique for optical target tracking and manual missile guidance. It's more convenient to be lucky than smart. The long way around, through the hill country, was the better choice.
I figured that if I had a severe fuel leak I might as well run it through the engines. I stroked the afterburner to speed the rendezvous. No. That's not a good idea-it certainly wasn't. The shipboard radar controllers apparently were not well practiced in rendezvous techniques, and it wasn't going well.
Two F-4Ds the same two aircraft in the lower photo on Page Five fly in a loose route formation. In a tactical formation the aircraft would be much farther apart, but still close enough to support each other. I spotted the tanker on my radar and took over the rendezvous.
Fuel Is Almost Gone
My turn point was perfect. I kept my speed up until the final short distance because of the fuel leak. Very high closing speed. I pulled the throttles to idle and slid right in behind the tanker. A rather spectacular join-up. I made it!
Fuel 0000 - How Accurate Is That Gauge
It had been a really fast join-up dangerously fast. As I advanced the throttles from idle to stabilize under the tanker I looked at the boom operator. His face and white helmet glowed in the red lights around him. He said, "Forward four." I looked at the digital fuel gauge -- 0000. One engine quit, then the other.
“Fuel 0000.” — The moment of truth beneath the tanker
Four feet! In just one or two more minutes the boom operator could have locked the refueling boom into the receptacle and towed me while pumping fuel. Four feet. What might have been. So close! Time's up.
As I eased back on the stick to maintain altitude I slowed rapidly. The tanker quickly disappeared into the distance. It's very quiet without two jets running. It's lonely. And dark.
My wingman, Robinson, was now rendezvousing with the tanker. They continue their jobs there's nothing they can do to help me. Rescue is out there. I'm confident. There are a couple of minutes to reflect.
“These next may be my last words.” — RL Penn, reflecting before ejection
For the only time in my life I thought, "These next may be my last words." Robinson will go back to Ubon and the other pilots will say, "What happened to R. L.? Wha'd he say?" I didn't have any memorable words. Back to the problem at hand. It's not over yet.
Emotions had been alternating pretty fast until now. A half-hour ago some high stakes combat. Ultimately high stakes. A couple of minutes later I was focused on the dreaded POW camp. Then exhilaration on making it to the water. Anxiety and concentration on the race between the fuel gauge and the miles to go to the tanker. The fuel lasted and I'm underneath the tanker.
EJECTION AND SURVIVAL
So, now, finally, I'll have to punch out. Earlier, this was exactly what I had been hoping for get over the water and eject. Now, instead of being happy with my latest good fortune I was disappointed. My heart sank. Dejected. The adrenaline drained quickly. Up close and real, ejection into the water doesn't look like such a hot prospect. Leave this warm womb of a cockpit for the dark, uncontrollable sea? The tanker's lights distanced quickly.
Ejection isn't so difficult a decision - if it's a snap decision. But now there's a quiet minute to think. Think what? Obviously there's no choice. But so many things could go wrong. It's really dark outside. I'm far out to sea. This airplane glides better than a brick, but it ain't forever. The clock's running.
At this time I remembered my Army parachute training at Fort Benning. We always had a reserve parachute. If the main 'chute malfunctions - "cigarette roll," or "Mae West," or whatever - the paratrooper simply jettisons it and pulls the reserve. It's very important to jettison the main before pulling the reserve. So what? This time I don't have a reserve. Not the best mindset when facing the inevitable. This is not the time to think about failure. I could have rationalized that I've already had my share of failures tonight, but by this time it seems like everything is going wrong.
OK Bert, Let's Go
Bert's canopy blew. Wind noise is pretty loud. 300 miles an hour is a lot of wind. That's what will hit me in the face. I'm in no hurry for that. BANG! Bert's seat fired. I wonder if it hurts.
Sit erect. Feet back. Ready. I pull the face curtain. The canopy blew and the curtain came to a mechanical stop. I pulled down with my arms, head and shoulders, bending forward. Not supposed to do that. Supposed to keep back straight so it doesn't break.
Yes, it does hurt. That's a pretty hard slap. I had other things on my mind. Lot of things on my mind - things to do, and decisions to make. "Things to do" should be easy. It's all automatic - just let it happen. I pulled the handle.
The seat's upward trajectory phase of the ejection should have been a fun ride a couple hundred feet up like a human cannonball - but that's a blank space. I've lost a couple of seconds there.
As programmed, I'm out of the airplane and into the dark night. But I'm tumbling in a fast forward roll. Not supposed to happen. I'm really spinning! The seat automatic sequence must have failed!
Martin-Baker, a British company, built the ejection seat and some of us were a bit leery of it because it was so complicated. Every step depended on the step before it. Classic Rube Goldberg! If any part failed the sequence stopped. The canopy fires, which pulls a safety pin from the seat. When strapping in the pilot straps a line to each leg just below the knee to keep the legs from flailing or being bent backwards around the seat double ouch! in a high-speed ejection.
During the ejection sequence these lines are jerked back with great force and held tight. After the seat has separated from the airplane and has slowed to lower airspeed - it knows this by measuring deceleration to be less than four Gs a small parachute, attached to the top back of the seat, deploys to stabilize the seat. The pilot is still strapped in until the seat has descended below 3,000 meters, or about 10,000 feet.
The main parachute is stowed in the seatback until this time. The shoulder harness normally attaches to the seat until separation when it detaches and becomes the parachute risers. Passing 10,000 feet, the pilot's seat belt and shoulder harness are released and a knife of some sort automatically cuts the leg restraint lines. I often wondered what would happen if the leg restraint lines weren't cut before the seat separated would that 100-pound seat jerk my legs off at the knee triple ouch! The small stabilizing parachute is attached to the main parachute, which is strapped to the pilot's back. When the straps are released the pilot is attached to the parachute and the seat falls clear. The small parachute pulls the main chute out of its storage space, and Martin-Baker's work is done. If the reader doesn't think that's complicated, you're missing something.
MY STORY ALMOST ENDED HERE
Vertigo: "Vertigo" is a word used loosely among pilots and others as perhaps a more sophisticated word for "dizziness." Not so! True vertigo is extremely rare among pilots. Military pilots are taught about "spatial disorientation" in theory and in practice. That's different from vertigo. Very different!
Refresher practice for spatial disorientation is provided every year. If a pilot has visual reference to the horizon, spatial disorientation will not be a problem, but if flying by instruments in the clouds, then there is danger of spatial disorientation. The counter action is clear, but not necessarily easy: believe the instruments, fly by the instruments and disregard false physical signs. Eventually the false sensation will go away.
Vertigo is an extreme case of spatial disorientation. The human inner ear has three interconnected semicircular canals containing fluid. Tiny hairs in this fluid sense movement of the fluid, which is caused by different forces on the head and the fluid. If the fluid in two or three of these canals begin spinning it overrides the central nervous system. The victim may feel that he is spinning in two directions at once. This induced rotation is in no way related to actual head movement.
The effect is extreme disorientation. The disorientation will be avoided, at least partially, if the victim is able to recognize true spatial orientation by reference to visual or bodily confirmation of "which way is up." If, however, the victim has no valid reference to constant gravity or sight of the horizon, then the only input is from the inner ear's canals. If the fluid in these canals is spinning wildly, then total confusion results.
A case of vertigo may last only a few seconds, but the recovery is deadly! Absent clear and reliable visual or physical references, the inner ear fluids will continue running wildly and will continue to give powerful signals to the brain. The brain is totally confused.
My experience with vertigo was severe and terrifying. It was like waking from a very bad dream or being hit hard in the head.
"Try to think!
What is this?
Terror!
Total confusion!
Something is wrong, very wrong!
Concentrate!
What's happening?
Where am I?"
I was still spinning, but I gradually began to reason. But the reasoning was jumbled and wildly erroneous, I forced my brain to focus and then to reconstruct what had happened:
Where am I? I have ejected.
What's happening? I am tumbling in space.
I'm in the seat. Over water.
The parachute has failed! I'm going to spin right into the sea with this aluminum chair strapped to my back!
I'm spinning in a forward roll. How can that be if the stabilizing parachute is out? It can't be! The chute didn't deploy, or it tangled in the seat. Either way, the sequence stops.
Actually, I was not spinning. The fluid in my inner ear was spinning. My brain was tortuously recovering from vertigo.
I was about to make one mistake: I was about to abandon the seat and go it alone. Rube Goldberg had an option in case the seat sequence fails. The pilot can pull a small handle in the seat which releases the straps and the pilot kicks the seat away, and pulls the parachute rip cord manually. I forgot that. It's understandable. Not only was I not able to think clearly, but also I was in a bit of a rush because it's not far from 10,000 feet to the water - just over a minute. In other words, I'm finally in a panic. I've been calm and rational for a couple of hours now, but panic finally takes over.
O.K. - so I've forgotten all about the proper procedure for the manual parachute option, what am I to do? I'm not giving up. I’m going to fight this all the way to the end. The conclusion to this life is rushing to me!
The unstrap procedure is the same as I do at the end of every mission: leg restraints, seat belt, shoulder harness. Also, perhaps our frequent practice in emergency ground escape had influenced my imminent mistake. In case of fire, the procedure was to unstrap, scramble out over the windshield, slide down over the nose cone, and run. With the practice I’d had I could unstrap and be on the ground in about three seconds.
Time flies. I had started at about 15,000 feet. Can’t see anything. The spinning had been disorienting. Very. Don’t know how close I am to the water.
I’ll not go easy! I’ll unstrap, jettison this seat, and dive into the water like Tarzan. From 10,000 feet – or 2,000. Dive into the ocean when I don’t know which way is up? Seems like the only way out.
I started the two-second unstrap: leg restraints… SNAP! The main ‘chute opened. The seat fell away. I’m hanging in the parachute straps. The seat had worked exactly as programmed.
My arms hang limply at my side. That was close. One more second and I would have killed myself! I had almost jettisoned a perfectly good parachute, still in the bag.
“I had almost jettisoned a perfectly good parachute, still in the bag.” — After surviving vertigo and a failed ejection sequence
It’s quiet up here. Take a deep breath. Exhale. The vertigo has vanished. My mind clears. All this took about minute from pulling the handle to parachute opening. The rest will be easy. I’ll bob around in the water awhile, get a little rest, then the Navy will pick me up.
This has been an emotional roller coaster. Before the mission I had experienced appropriate apprehension and intense concentration. This increased markedly in the target-area. Being vigorously shot at confirms exactly what is going on and getting hit transforms a serious situation to an emergency. This may be it!
Low point:
Eject immediately?
Airplane may explode?
Good news:
The airplane still flies!
Terror:
Will I be a POW?
Decisive action:
Head for Phantom Ridge!
I have two pistols, 100 bullets, a knife, signal flares and a signal mirror.
Grim reality:
Leaking fuel fast.
Airplane doesn’t fly right.
Bought time:
Made it to Phantom Ridge.
Fuel leak seems slower
Feet wet!
Not over yet:
Ten minutes fuel isn’t enough!
Welcome:
Red Crown on radio.
Heads North for refueling rendezvous.
Massive disappointment:
Four feet short.
“Just in case” last words.
Don’t want to do it.
Trust Martin-Baker:
Punch out!
Catastrophe:
Chute failure.
Fight to the end!
All’s well:
Chute opens.
The struggle to live has left me exhausted. I ponder that for a half minute, then decide I’d better get busy. O.K., get started on the things to do next. Total darkness. The sky is no blacker than the sea. Moonrise was supposed to have been at 00:49. But it’s only a waning crescent and the sky is solid overcast. No stars. Throw away my helmet; still can’t see. Deploy life preserver. Deploy life raft and survival kit. I’m in great shape. I’m ready! Hanging in the ‘chute is a good feeling.
I’m concerned if Bert is all right. Red Crown was on the radio, I wonder how far away they are. Are they coming to get me? Do they know where I am? Ah, I’ll take out my survival radio and call them. I’ll call Bert. Again, irrational. Of course the King [the USS King, DLG-10] is coming to get me. Bert? He’s five miles away, in whichever direction. If he’s not O.K. there’s nothing I can do.
Taking out my survival radio was a bad idea. Just then I hit the water. My radio hit me in the face and disappeared into Davey Jones’ Locker.
I’m so happy to be in the water I feel like I could swim to shore. Routine: survival kit and life raft are attached by a long nylon line. Pull ‘em in and climb aboard the life raft. Easy. Face the raft, grab with both hands, pull it under my chest and down. Roll over and I’m aboard. Pull kit in too. Raft is sort of small – I’m in from my knees to my neck. I’m comfortable. Time to rest again. Discard boots. Be comfy.
Sharks? Poisonous sea snakes? No concern. Five-second break is over.
RESCUE AND RETURN
How to contact Red Crown? My radio is long gone. There is a signal radio in the survival kit, but it’s CW only – I can’t talk on it or receive. There is a safety plug in the switch attached by a sting. Pull string. Oh, but now, is the radio packed with the switch on – and plug in – or off? Not a problem. I’ll turn the switch one way for a half-minute, then the other way.
This unorthodox signaling caused some concern on deck of the USS King. “Here he is!” Then, “He’s gone. Did he drown? He’s back. Get a bearing. Too late.”
The USS King was headed toward the erratic radio signal at flank speed. Wait – we could run over him. Send the helo. Bert must have been doing things right because they picked him up first.
I saw the whirlybird and fired a flare. Bright, bright orange. Beautiful. It burned out, so I dipped it in the water and threw it away – across, my body to the other side of the raft. Throw? Why did I throw the flare? Why not just drop it? That got me some burns from hot, wet ashes. Now fire a smoke flare so the chopper can judge the wind. Unhook the raft and survival kit so they don’t get tangled in the rotor blades. The downwash blows the raft away quickly. There goes a piece of security that I’d come to love. I’ve transferred my trust to the chopper.
I’m winched up to the welcome arms of the crewman kneeling in the door. Incredibly strong arms pull me in. I’m safe! Relax, look around. Bert is back there. What a relief; I’m so glad to see him! His red hair glows in the dark. We made it. Exhale.
We’re quickly back to the USS King. Deck is lit up. I see white X and circle on the deck. We approach carefully. A bit of rocking and weaving. Helicopters do that, I guess. Close to the big X. Jockeying back-and forth, then wave-off. Hard right turn and we’re heading off into the dark.
Another approach. Moving around, sideways, back and forth. Is the ship moving? Is it always like this? Wave-off, hard right turn, into the darkness. We’ll run out of gas and ditch. I don’t want to go back into that water. Earlier I was so happy to get in it, but that was then. Blood on the deck and all around – am I gonna bleed to death? Joke to myself.
Third pass. That surely is a small spot! Touchdown! Several men come out to meet us. Welcome? You bet! These are the most important men in the world.
Next, I’m escorted to the medic’s operating room. I wasn’t exactly expecting the Mayo Clinic, but this place is small. The bright light with reflector dominated the scene. Chief Izquierdo gave me a miniature – 1½ ounce – bottle of brandy. “Drink this, Captain, and I’ll sew you up.” That’s it? “Don’t you have a bullet I can bite, or something?”’ Good laugh, “No. The brandy is traditional. I’ll use Novocain for the stitches.” Captain Tesh greeted me and put me in the Commodore’s state room for a couple hours’ sleep.
Morning. The ship cruised silently, as the crewmen went about their normal duties. I stood at the rail for several minutes – amazed at how calm the sea was. Now that I have time, I reflect on how close I came to the end. Life is so tenuous.
Two or three sailors approached individually, “Congratulations, Captain. I bet ten dollars on you last night.’’ The entire drama had been broadcast on the ship’s speakers. Later, it occurs that there must have been an equal number who bet the other way. Clearly, it would have been in bad taste to own up to it.
Chopper transfers us to the carrier, the USS Constellation (CVA-64). Dinner with Admiral Richardson. I wonder why he chose a carrier for flagship? Aviator. Likes the noise, maybe. Arthur Godfrey was another guest. Godfrey invited me to criticize the war, or President Johnson’s conduct of it. Although I agreed with what he said about the ridiculous targeting restrictions, I was offended. I’d been doing my job and I wasn’t about to criticize the President to a civilian.
Back at Ubon Colonel Wilson ordered me stateside immediately. I was already 13 missions past my end of tour. He had been on my squadron commander’s back about my aggressiveness, and now, sure enough, I’d gone too far. Wait a minute – whose idea was it for me to go up there in the first place?
Glossary of Terms: Vietnam-Era Air Combat
AAA (Anti-Aircraft Artillery): Ground-based guns designed to shoot down aircraft. In Penn’s story, these include Soviet-made 37mm, 57mm, and 85mm guns—some radar-directed, others visually aimed.
SAM (Surface-to-Air Missile): Missiles launched from the ground to intercept aircraft. The SA-2 was the primary SAM used by North Vietnamese forces, often tracked by radar and countered by evasive maneuvers.
Route Pack VI: The most heavily defended airspace over North Vietnam, including Hanoi and Haiphong. Missions here were considered the most dangerous due to dense AAA and SAM coverage.
Iron Hand Mission: A specialized operation to detect and suppress enemy SAM sites. These missions involved electronic sensing aircraft and bombers working in tandem. Motto: “First in. Last out.”
GIB (Guy In Back): Colloquial term for the backseat pilot or weapons systems officer in a two-seat aircraft like the F-4 Phantom. In this story, Bert Finzer was Penn’s GIB.
ECM (Electronic Countermeasures): Technology used to jam or deceive enemy radar and missile systems. Penn’s aircraft lacked ECM, increasing the risk during missions.
Afterburner: A jet engine feature that injects fuel into the exhaust stream for extra thrust. At night, it creates a bright flame visible for miles—used by Penn to provoke AAA fire and test his theory.
Pickle (verb): Pilot slang for releasing bombs or flares. “Pickled the flares” means Penn dropped them over the target area.
Feet Wet: Radio term indicating the aircraft is flying over water—used here as a milestone of safety after escaping enemy territory.
Red Crown / Red Anchor: Call signs for U.S. Navy radar and refueling support ships in the Gulf of Tonkin. Red Crown handled rescue coordination; Red Anchor was the KC-135 tanker.
Phantom Ridge / Thud Ridge: Terrain features near Hanoi used by pilots for navigation and radar shielding. Staying north of these ridges helped avoid detection.
Martin-Baker Ejection Seat: British-made ejection system used in the F-4 Phantom. Penn describes its complex sequence and his near-failure during ejection.
Vertigo: A severe form of spatial disorientation caused by inner ear fluid imbalance. Penn’s experience with vertigo nearly led to a fatal mistake during parachute deployment.
Hanoi Hilton: Nickname for the Hỏa Lò Prison in Hanoi, where many American POWs were held during the war.
Squadron Nicknames:
A Legacy of Identity and Intimidation Names like Satan’s Angels (433rd TFS) and Night Owls (497th TFS) weren’t just symbolic — they reflected the squadrons’ high-risk roles in night missions over North Vietnam. These monikers fostered unit pride, projected psychological edge, and echoed the era’s cultural motifs of rebellion and elite daring. These names helped pilots bond through shared identity, especially when facing extreme danger. It was a way to say, “We’re the ones who go where others won’t.” In the crucible of Route Pack VI, such names became part of the pilots’ armor — a signal to friend and foe alike that these were the crews who flew into darkness and came back with stories worth preserving. The names weren’t just internal—they were meant to intimidate the enemy. Radio chatter, graffiti, and even aircraft nose art carried these monikers.
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