COMBAT VIETNAM: Miracle Mission
COMBAT VIETNAM, by William B. Scott, features 18 compelling stories told by combatants who fought on the ground, in the air, and on the water during the Vietnam War. From daring rescues of downed pilots as enemy forces closed in to handling a crazed water buffalo aboard a C-123K transport, seasoned veterans share their unforgettable and extraordinary experiences. COMBAT VIETNAM is the first book in a series that chronicles true stories, spanning from the Cold War and reconnaissance missions to flight testing, combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and special operations worldwide. Following is one of the stories contained in the book. By William B. Scott
Exactly seven years, to the day, after graduating from pilot training, Major Richard (Dick) Benson saddled up for his 33rd combat sortie, a daytime Visual Reconnaissance (VR) mission over North Vietnam. A few feet behind him, Captain Gerald Dobberfuhl, an experienced reconnaissance officer, settled into the rear cockpit of their camera-equipped RF-4C Phantom fighter. The two had been mated as a crew, while transitioning to the RF-4C at Mountain Home AFB, Idaho, then shipped to Udorn AB in Thailand.
A McDonnell RF-4C embarks on a photoreconnaissance mission over Southeast Asia in August 1971. The “towel rail” antenna on its back was part of a retrofitted system that provided all-weather blind navigation capability. (U.S. Air Force)
At the time, RF4Cs were flying two types of reconnaissance missions. Dick preferred low-and-fast daytime VR. Because Gerry favored the night option and used the LORAN (Long Range Navigation) system to find targets, they compromised: Fly VR missions for three months, then request night LORAN recce. Typically, RF-4C crews worked with F-4 “Fast FACs” (Forward Air Controllers) in eastern Laos, along the North Vietnam border, to locate and photograph targets. The FACs would then mark the area and call in bomb-laden fighters to hit the enemy. Risks were high, because VR and FAC F-4 crews often stayed in strike areas for hours, refueling several times from airborne tankers. The 16 September 1969 mission was slated to revisit a well-defended area Benson and Dobberfuhl had photographed a few days earlier, working with an F-4 FAC. Their objective—a road hugging the side of a mountain pass along the North Vietnam-Laos border—subsequently was bombed by a four-ship flight of F-105 Thunderchief fighters. About 15 minutes after their bombing runs, Benson had made a low pass for post-strike photos, flying a northeast-to-southwest track from the North Vietnam side. The enemy was still manning their guns and opened up on the recce bird racing over a still-smoking target zone. Tracers sliced across the RF-4C’s nose, but enemy gunners had led the fighter a bit too much and the Phantom returned intact. No bullet holes. The same crew wouldn’t be so lucky on 16 September. To visually check repairs made to the mountain road bombed a few days earlier, Benson and Dobberfuhl dropped to tree-skimming altitude and set up for a fast pass from the Laotian side of the border. Dick rolled into a steep right bank and pulled his jet around the shoulder of a mountain, expecting to surprise ground troops. Run in fast, eyeball the road, and get out of Dodge, before the bad guys could react. Banked 120-degrees, RF-4C No. 908 flashed across North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gunners, who unleashed a barrage of lead at the twin-engine, camouflage-green monster. Dobberfuhl heard a sharp explosion, as a single 12.7-millimeter round blasted a hole through the front-cockpit canopy. “I’m hit!” Benson choked. A thumb-size slug had shattered a small compass mounted on his survival vest, obliterated the parachute harness’s chest strap, and plowed a fist-size hole in the pilot’s torso. Ground crews later found a bullet embedded in the fighter’s fuel-control panel, aft of the throttles.
“It felt like a mule had kicked me in the chest. I couldn’t catch my breath,” Benson recalled. Still in control, he rolled wings-level on a northeast heading—into North Vietnam—jammed twin throttles into the afterburner, and pulled up to a steep climb. “Gerry took control, not knowing what shape I was in. Passing through 10,000 feet, I pulled the throttles out of AB, hoping he would understand that the cockpits wouldn’t pressurize with that hole in my canopy.” No way. Dobberfuhl jammed both throttles back into the afterburner and kept them there. Despite burning JP-4 fuel at an enormous rate, the jet blasted through Mach 1 and headed for home supersonically. Gerry had taken flying lessons on his own time, but the 20-ton, twin-engine fighter was in a far different class than the general aviation bug-smashers he’d flown. Slicing into clouds and disappearing from gunners’ sights, Dobberfuhl had plenty to worry about. He had no idea how badly the Phantom was damaged. Were its fuel tanks hit? Could the jet explode at any second? “My eyes turned to the escape handle,” he later recounted in a Guideposts article. One pull and both he and Benson would be ejected from the crippled aircraft. But how badly was the pilot wounded? A low groan from up-front made the decision. Ejecting Benson at supersonic speed almost certainly would kill him. Not an option. Dobberfuhl concentrated on flying the big bird. A quick check of his flight chart showed the closest friendly airfield was Nakhon Phanom (NKP), about 70 miles away. Medical help would be available there. It was Benson’s best chance for survival.
The shadow from an RF-4C is visible in a bomb damage assessment image he took over North Vietnam. (Photo via USAF)
Get him on the ground ASAP! Gerry held the throttles in afterburner, keeping the fighter in supersonic territory. But a host of fear-laced concerns crowded his brain. How am I going to land this bird? he worried. Forward visibility from the RF-4C’s rear cockpit was blocked by an instrument panel and electronic gear. Downward views from the back seat were blocked by broad engine intakes along each side of the fuselage. He’d worry about that later. Dobberfuhl also mentally wrestled with how to extend the landing gear. The gear handle was in the forward cockpit. Yes, he could “blow” the gear down from the back, but it was an emergency measure that risked rupturing the utility hydraulic system and causing all sorts of havoc. Probably lose brakes and nose wheel steering. Not good. Benson was in shock, but still conscious. “Although Gerry was a nav [navigator], I knew he’d done some private aircraft flying, and I often let him fly [the RF-4C] from the back,” Dick said. “I was confident he could get us to NKP. I’m glad he stuck with the aircraft. Nobody would have criticized him if he’d ejected. But I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it, if he’d punched us out.” Approaching NKP, Dobberfuhl called the tower, declared an emergency, and informed controllers he hoped to “take the barrier.” Cables stretched across each end of the runway, suspended several inches off the tarmac by rubber standoffs, could be snagged by a fighter’s extended tail hook. Gerry didn’t know whether he’d have operational brakes, after landing, and taking the barrier would be a smart precaution. Except for one little problem. The Phantom’s tail hook could only be lowered from the front cockpit. He descended, following radio directives from a Ground Controlled Approach specialist. “Above glide slope. Descending. On glide slope. Come left five degrees,” the controller droned, literally talking the crew down. “Somewhere inside of 10 miles, I spotted the runway,” Benson said. “But I was getting tunnel vision from loss of blood. When I felt we had the runway made, I told Gerry I had the field in sight, and lowered the gear, flaps and tail hook. I intended to make an approach-end barrier engagement.” Flying blind from the rear cockpit, making small adjustments as commanded by the GCA controller, Gerry was intensely focused on the approach. “Suddenly, like a ghost, Benson’s voice came through [my helmet’s] earphones. It startled me.” “I…I’ve got the field in sight,” the pilot muttered, barely audible. A firm shake of the stick confirmed he had taken control. Landing and barrier engagement “went okay, and the barrier worked great,” Benson recalled, the epitome of understatement. Dick was fading in and out of consciousness but managed to open his canopy. Dobberfuhl had to crawl forward on the left intake housing, reach into the front cockpit and shut down both engines. Dick recalls “about a dozen hands lifting me out of the cockpit” and being gently taken down a ladder. “I thought I had it made now.” A doctor in NKP’s emergency room worked frantically to save Benson’s life. Intravenous tubes were poked into both ankles. A one-inch incision just below the collarbone provided an opening for an instrument to deal with a collapsed lung. “I thought that was going to finish me off,” Dick admitted. Trying to stem the blood flowing from the hole in his patient’s chest, the physician dug out a small piece of bloodied silver. It was a Saint Christopher medal, a token worn to invoke the Catholic saint of protection. Bonnie Benson had given the medal to her husband before he departed for Vietnam. Although neither was Catholic, “We didn’t want to offend anyone for that year I was in combat,” Dick smiles.
That Saint Christopher had been nicked by the 12.7-mm bullet, driving the silver medal into Dick’s chest. Lying in the emergency room, Benson noticed a white-collared chaplain hovering nearby. Concerned that the padre might be there to administer last rites, Dick croaked, “I’m not Catholic, Father.” “It wouldn’t make any difference, son,” the chaplain said softly. Benson and Dobberfuhl were soon loaded onto a helicopter and flown to Udorn, their home base. When he woke up three days later, Dick was being shaved by an Air Force corpsman brandishing a straight razor. The pilot would log another 30 or so shaves, before leaving the Udorn hospital. In Columbus, Ohio, Bonnie Benson and her two sons came home to find the dreaded Air Force blue staff car waiting for them. Fearing the worst and praying for the best, they were informed that Dick had been severely wounded, but was alive. Details were sketchy. His left lung had collapsed, a few ribs were chipped, and he had several holes in his intestines. Loss of skin and muscle eventually required a skin graft to close the massive chest wound. Dick was hospitalized for six weeks, then flown home to recuperate. Credited with a completed combat tour, he was transferred to Hill AFB, Utah. He eventually returned to the cockpit as a test pilot, flying all models of the F-4, T-38 Talon, and B-57 Canberra, before retiring in April 1976. He soon embarked on a second career as a corporate pilot, flying the Hawker 125 business jet for Thiokol Corporation. Now retired a second time, Benson often reflects on the series of miracles that ensured he still walks the Earth: An enemy gunner’s single round tore a massive hole in the pilot’s chest, but narrowly missed the heart, because a Saint Christopher medal deflected the slug a hair. Maybe. A cool-headed backseater, who could fly a Phantom, had made the tough decision to not eject. Staying conscious long enough to land safely. Having skilled military doctors, nurses, and hospital technicians waiting in Thailand to put him back together. And a strong, loving wife back home, taking care of their family. Speaking at a 445th Fighter Interceptor Squadron reunion, Richard E. Smith, a former prisoner of war who had endured five years of captivity in North Vietnam, honored the real heroes. “It didn’t take heroic skills to get shot up or shot down,” he said. The heroes were those who endured at home, being both mother and father to children, managing all family affairs, “while we were off doing our pilot thing.” Traumatic experiences leave indelible memories. “It’s been over half a century,” Dick says, “but that mission is as vivid today as it was in 1969. Yes, some details have faded with time. But I know, without a doubt: It was in the valley that I had one of my mountain-top experiences.”
Richard “Dick” Benson and William B. Scott with a Vietnam-era F-4 Phantom in the Hill AFB, Utah, air museum. (Photo – Linda G. Scott)
Read more incredible stories as told to author Bill Scott, who sat down with these legends for multiple interviews to learn how it really was.
William B. Scott
William B. Scott is the former Rocky Mountain Bureau Chief for Aviation Week & Space Technology magazine and author/coauthor of seven books. A Flight Test Engineer graduate of the U.S. Air Force Test Pilot School, he’s logged approximately 2,000 flight hours on 81 types of aircraft and holds a BS degree in Electrical Engineering.
Read more on this...
COMBAT VIETNAM, by William B. Scott, features 18 compelling stories told by combatants who fought on the ground, in the air, and on the water during the Vietnam War. From daring rescues of downed pilots as enemy forces closed in to handling a crazed water buffalo aboard a C-123K transport, seasoned veterans share their unforgettable and extraordinary experiences. COMBAT VIETNAM is the first book in a series that chronicles true stories, spanning from the Cold War and reconnaissance missions to flight testing, combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and special operations worldwide. Following is one of the stories contained in the book. By William B. Scott
Exactly seven years, to the day, after graduating from pilot training, Major Richard (Dick) Benson saddled up for his 33rd combat sortie, a daytime Visual Reconnaissance (VR) mission over North Vietnam. A few feet behind him, Captain Gerald Dobberfuhl, an experienced reconnaissance officer, settled into the rear cockpit of their camera-equipped RF-4C Phantom fighter. The two had been mated as a crew, while transitioning to the RF-4C at Mountain Home AFB, Idaho, then shipped to Udorn AB in Thailand.
A McDonnell RF-4C embarks on a photoreconnaissance mission over Southeast Asia in August 1971. The “towel rail” antenna on its back was part of a retrofitted system that provided all-weather blind navigation capability. (U.S. Air Force)
At the time, RF4Cs were flying two types of reconnaissance missions. Dick preferred low-and-fast daytime VR. Because Gerry favored the night option and used the LORAN (Long Range Navigation) system to find targets, they compromised: Fly VR missions for three months, then request night LORAN recce. Typically, RF-4C crews worked with F-4 “Fast FACs” (Forward Air Controllers) in eastern Laos, along the North Vietnam border, to locate and photograph targets. The FACs would then mark the area and call in bomb-laden fighters to hit the enemy. Risks were high, because VR and FAC F-4 crews often stayed in strike areas for hours, refueling several times from airborne tankers. The 16 September 1969 mission was slated to revisit a well-defended area Benson and Dobberfuhl had photographed a few days earlier, working with an F-4 FAC. Their objective—a road hugging the side of a mountain pass along the North Vietnam-Laos border—subsequently was bombed by a four-ship flight of F-105 Thunderchief fighters. About 15 minutes after their bombing runs, Benson had made a low pass for post-strike photos, flying a northeast-to-southwest track from the North Vietnam side. The enemy was still manning their guns and opened up on the recce bird racing over a still-smoking target zone. Tracers sliced across the RF-4C’s nose, but enemy gunners had led the fighter a bit too much and the Phantom returned intact. No bullet holes. The same crew wouldn’t be so lucky on 16 September. To visually check repairs made to the mountain road bombed a few days earlier, Benson and Dobberfuhl dropped to tree-skimming altitude and set up for a fast pass from the Laotian side of the border. Dick rolled into a steep right bank and pulled his jet around the shoulder of a mountain, expecting to surprise ground troops. Run in fast, eyeball the road, and get out of Dodge, before the bad guys could react. Banked 120-degrees, RF-4C No. 908 flashed across North Vietnamese anti-aircraft gunners, who unleashed a barrage of lead at the twin-engine, camouflage-green monster. Dobberfuhl heard a sharp explosion, as a single 12.7-millimeter round blasted a hole through the front-cockpit canopy. “I’m hit!” Benson choked. A thumb-size slug had shattered a small compass mounted on his survival vest, obliterated the parachute harness’s chest strap, and plowed a fist-size hole in the pilot’s torso. Ground crews later found a bullet embedded in the fighter’s fuel-control panel, aft of the throttles.
“It felt like a mule had kicked me in the chest. I couldn’t catch my breath,” Benson recalled. Still in control, he rolled wings-level on a northeast heading—into North Vietnam—jammed twin throttles into the afterburner, and pulled up to a steep climb. “Gerry took control, not knowing what shape I was in. Passing through 10,000 feet, I pulled the throttles out of AB, hoping he would understand that the cockpits wouldn’t pressurize with that hole in my canopy.” No way. Dobberfuhl jammed both throttles back into the afterburner and kept them there. Despite burning JP-4 fuel at an enormous rate, the jet blasted through Mach 1 and headed for home supersonically. Gerry had taken flying lessons on his own time, but the 20-ton, twin-engine fighter was in a far different class than the general aviation bug-smashers he’d flown. Slicing into clouds and disappearing from gunners’ sights, Dobberfuhl had plenty to worry about. He had no idea how badly the Phantom was damaged. Were its fuel tanks hit? Could the jet explode at any second? “My eyes turned to the escape handle,” he later recounted in a Guideposts article. One pull and both he and Benson would be ejected from the crippled aircraft. But how badly was the pilot wounded? A low groan from up-front made the decision. Ejecting Benson at supersonic speed almost certainly would kill him. Not an option. Dobberfuhl concentrated on flying the big bird. A quick check of his flight chart showed the closest friendly airfield was Nakhon Phanom (NKP), about 70 miles away. Medical help would be available there. It was Benson’s best chance for survival.
The shadow from an RF-4C is visible in a bomb damage assessment image he took over North Vietnam. (Photo via USAF)
Get him on the ground ASAP! Gerry held the throttles in afterburner, keeping the fighter in supersonic territory. But a host of fear-laced concerns crowded his brain. How am I going to land this bird? he worried. Forward visibility from the RF-4C’s rear cockpit was blocked by an instrument panel and electronic gear. Downward views from the back seat were blocked by broad engine intakes along each side of the fuselage. He’d worry about that later. Dobberfuhl also mentally wrestled with how to extend the landing gear. The gear handle was in the forward cockpit. Yes, he could “blow” the gear down from the back, but it was an emergency measure that risked rupturing the utility hydraulic system and causing all sorts of havoc. Probably lose brakes and nose wheel steering. Not good. Benson was in shock, but still conscious. “Although Gerry was a nav [navigator], I knew he’d done some private aircraft flying, and I often let him fly [the RF-4C] from the back,” Dick said. “I was confident he could get us to NKP. I’m glad he stuck with the aircraft. Nobody would have criticized him if he’d ejected. But I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it, if he’d punched us out.” Approaching NKP, Dobberfuhl called the tower, declared an emergency, and informed controllers he hoped to “take the barrier.” Cables stretched across each end of the runway, suspended several inches off the tarmac by rubber standoffs, could be snagged by a fighter’s extended tail hook. Gerry didn’t know whether he’d have operational brakes, after landing, and taking the barrier would be a smart precaution. Except for one little problem. The Phantom’s tail hook could only be lowered from the front cockpit. He descended, following radio directives from a Ground Controlled Approach specialist. “Above glide slope. Descending. On glide slope. Come left five degrees,” the controller droned, literally talking the crew down. “Somewhere inside of 10 miles, I spotted the runway,” Benson said. “But I was getting tunnel vision from loss of blood. When I felt we had the runway made, I told Gerry I had the field in sight, and lowered the gear, flaps and tail hook. I intended to make an approach-end barrier engagement.” Flying blind from the rear cockpit, making small adjustments as commanded by the GCA controller, Gerry was intensely focused on the approach. “Suddenly, like a ghost, Benson’s voice came through [my helmet’s] earphones. It startled me.” “I…I’ve got the field in sight,” the pilot muttered, barely audible. A firm shake of the stick confirmed he had taken control. Landing and barrier engagement “went okay, and the barrier worked great,” Benson recalled, the epitome of understatement. Dick was fading in and out of consciousness but managed to open his canopy. Dobberfuhl had to crawl forward on the left intake housing, reach into the front cockpit and shut down both engines. Dick recalls “about a dozen hands lifting me out of the cockpit” and being gently taken down a ladder. “I thought I had it made now.” A doctor in NKP’s emergency room worked frantically to save Benson’s life. Intravenous tubes were poked into both ankles. A one-inch incision just below the collarbone provided an opening for an instrument to deal with a collapsed lung. “I thought that was going to finish me off,” Dick admitted. Trying to stem the blood flowing from the hole in his patient’s chest, the physician dug out a small piece of bloodied silver. It was a Saint Christopher medal, a token worn to invoke the Catholic saint of protection. Bonnie Benson had given the medal to her husband before he departed for Vietnam. Although neither was Catholic, “We didn’t want to offend anyone for that year I was in combat,” Dick smiles.
That Saint Christopher had been nicked by the 12.7-mm bullet, driving the silver medal into Dick’s chest. Lying in the emergency room, Benson noticed a white-collared chaplain hovering nearby. Concerned that the padre might be there to administer last rites, Dick croaked, “I’m not Catholic, Father.” “It wouldn’t make any difference, son,” the chaplain said softly. Benson and Dobberfuhl were soon loaded onto a helicopter and flown to Udorn, their home base. When he woke up three days later, Dick was being shaved by an Air Force corpsman brandishing a straight razor. The pilot would log another 30 or so shaves, before leaving the Udorn hospital. In Columbus, Ohio, Bonnie Benson and her two sons came home to find the dreaded Air Force blue staff car waiting for them. Fearing the worst and praying for the best, they were informed that Dick had been severely wounded, but was alive. Details were sketchy. His left lung had collapsed, a few ribs were chipped, and he had several holes in his intestines. Loss of skin and muscle eventually required a skin graft to close the massive chest wound. Dick was hospitalized for six weeks, then flown home to recuperate. Credited with a completed combat tour, he was transferred to Hill AFB, Utah. He eventually returned to the cockpit as a test pilot, flying all models of the F-4, T-38 Talon, and B-57 Canberra, before retiring in April 1976. He soon embarked on a second career as a corporate pilot, flying the Hawker 125 business jet for Thiokol Corporation. Now retired a second time, Benson often reflects on the series of miracles that ensured he still walks the Earth: An enemy gunner’s single round tore a massive hole in the pilot’s chest, but narrowly missed the heart, because a Saint Christopher medal deflected the slug a hair. Maybe. A cool-headed backseater, who could fly a Phantom, had made the tough decision to not eject. Staying conscious long enough to land safely. Having skilled military doctors, nurses, and hospital technicians waiting in Thailand to put him back together. And a strong, loving wife back home, taking care of their family. Speaking at a 445th Fighter Interceptor Squadron reunion, Richard E. Smith, a former prisoner of war who had endured five years of captivity in North Vietnam, honored the real heroes. “It didn’t take heroic skills to get shot up or shot down,” he said. The heroes were those who endured at home, being both mother and father to children, managing all family affairs, “while we were off doing our pilot thing.” Traumatic experiences leave indelible memories. “It’s been over half a century,” Dick says, “but that mission is as vivid today as it was in 1969. Yes, some details have faded with time. But I know, without a doubt: It was in the valley that I had one of my mountain-top experiences.”
Richard “Dick” Benson and William B. Scott with a Vietnam-era F-4 Phantom in the Hill AFB, Utah, air museum. (Photo – Linda G. Scott)
Read more incredible stories as told to author Bill Scott, who sat down with these legends for multiple interviews to learn how it really was.
William B. Scott
William B. Scott is the former Rocky Mountain Bureau Chief for Aviation Week & Space Technology magazine and author/coauthor of seven books. A Flight Test Engineer graduate of the U.S. Air Force Test Pilot School, he’s logged approximately 2,000 flight hours on 81 types of aircraft and holds a BS degree in Electrical Engineering.
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