American Patriot Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Robert Coram

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The Little, Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: May 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-316-00759-7

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  Prologue

  1: Siouxland

  2: War and Peace

  3: Preparation

  4: The Wild Blue Yonder

  5: Sporty Flying

  6: Building Time

  7: Hit My Smoke

  8: South Toward Freedom

  9: North Toward Hell

  10: The Bug

  11: Another Summer of Love

  12: The Years of the Locust

  13: The Freedom Bird

  14: Three’s In . . . With Unfinished Business

  15: Over the Side

  16: Good-bye Yellow Dogs

  17: Once More unto the Breach

  18: The Fat Lady Never Sings

  19: One More Mission

  Epilogue

  Sources

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  To my daughter, Kimberly Drew.

  And to my grandchildren, Anna Katherine and Ryan.

  Every story has at least two sides.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the “Red Bulls,” the 87th Flying Training Squadron at Laughlin Air Force Base, hosts of my first Dining Out. Also to Mark Mattison, then commanding officer of the 87th, for his splendid exegesis of these events.

  Honor Bound, by Stuart Rochester and Frederick Kiley, is far and away the best book about the POW experience. I borrowed liberally from it, and I thank the authors.

  Thanks be to: Dr. Grant Hammond of the Air War College for his explanation of true heroism; Grace Linden, Curator of History at the Sioux City Public Museum; and Olivia Anastasiadis and Kirstin Julian at the Nixon Presidential Library.

  Thanks to Richard Belcher and Steven Sears, both of whom have sharp eyes and extraordinary knowledge.

  Also Dr. Richard Bernstein, Eric Caubarreaux, Bill Kaczor, Mike McGrath, Larry Myhre, David Nordan, Jack Shanahan, David Strickland, Bill Walters, and Greg Young.

  While I had the best of sources, any mistakes herein are mine alone.

  A special thanks to Lin and Jimmy Rogers of Pleasure Bluff; you lightened the load.

  Finally, as always, to Jeannine. My heart song.

  Preface

  IT is no compliment when a writer’s colleagues read his work and say he has “gone native.” To “go native” not only means a writer has been suborned by his subject but means he is unprofessional, that his work lacks objectivity.

  Nevertheless, I hereby serve notice that in writing this book I went native. Every time I was with Bud Day and the Mistys or the POWs, I recalled that line from James Michener when the admiral is standing on the bridge of an aircraft carrier watching his pilots take off against the terrible defenses at Toko-Ri and says to himself, “Where do we get such men?”

  I think this business about going native comes from writers who believe that the only true biography is one in which the subject’s head is served on a platter. Both the idea and the people who hold it are narrow. Readers don’t care a whit if a writer has gone native. Readers don’t care if a writer admires the person he writes about.

  In the interest of full disclosure I must confess there is a personal element to my admiration for Bud Day. As background, my daddy was an Army top sergeant who spent thirty-three years in uniform. I never had a childhood; I had an extended boot camp and I fought it every day. I rejected everything my daddy represented. He often threatened me with the specter of a military school where I would be “straightened out.” He died when I was sixteen and that was the greatest day of my young life. For reasons I am not quite sure of, I briefly attended a military college. I say “briefly” because I flunked out. Then, again for reasons I don’t understand, I enlisted in the Air Force, where I became what the military calls a “shit bird,” a misfit who was always in trouble. I was in so much trouble that I was court-martialed three times and given an Undesirable Discharge.

  Thereafter, my life was spent as far as possible from all things military.

  But now, as I approach The River, it has become my job to write biographies of military men. This has enriched my life beyond all measure.

  Military men are better than most of us. They live their lives based on clear values — a code of honor and loyalty, a patriotism, a commitment, and a discipline that place them on a moral high ground. It is their job to fight for and, if necessary, to die for their country. They willingly accept that contract. Bud Day and John McCain and Robbie Risner and James Stockdale and Orson Swindle and Larry Guarino and Jack Van Loan and Paul Galanti and Jack Fellowes and several hundred others spent years in the prisons of North Vietnam. Among those POWs were men crippled for life, men driven insane, men killed by their captors, and men who simply disappeared. But those who came home showed the world what Americans are made of.

  Now, even though I went native, it would be a mistake to assume that I abandoned the professionalism gained from more than forty years as a writer. If there is a bias here, it is in the selection of Bud Day as a subject, not in the execution of the book. Only two or three more books are in me, and I want them to be the best I can do. Even though I have unbounded admiration for Bud Day, I did my job.

  More than three years were spent researching and writing this book. In that time, I came to sense an ironic circularity to my life. All that I have run from for so many years — that is, anything to do with the military — I now embrace. All that I have criticized about the military, I now revere. Bud Day’s life revealed to me the truths my daddy tried to teach me more than a half century ago. And the companionship of Bud Day became a surrogate for the affection that never existed between my daddy and me. Today I weep at the knowledge that I rejected the greatest gift a father could pass on to his son. And each military biography I write is a message to my daddy that now I understand.

  Robert Coram

  Moonpie Studio

  Harris Neck, Georgia

  2006

  Prologue

  THE colonel wore a soft cotton shirt with a ruffled front, a clip-on bow tie, and dark blue formal trousers. A waist-length jacket — what Air Force officers call the mess dress blouse — was draped over a chair. On his feet were highly polished black boots with a zipper on the inside, the sort of boots that only a fighter pilot could wear — and carry off — with formal dress.

  It had been almost three decades since the colonel retired, and here he was at Laughlin Air Force Base (AFB) near Del Rio, Texas, in the Distinguished Visitors Quarters. He sat solitary amid a sprawling suite usually reserved for generals. The colonel was almost eighty, and as he pulled himself out of a chair, his left hand shot involuntarily to his upper left thigh. The pain was always there. When he sat for a while and then stood up, the sting and throb radiated down his leg. Over the years the pain had pulled his body into a perpetual stoop. He limped to the refrigerator, where his hosts had provided a bottle of his favorite “white Z” — the zinfandel that was the only thing he drank these days. He poured a glass and walked slowly back across the room, sank into the chair,
and shifted uncomfortably. For thirty years he had searched unsuccessfully for a chair in which he could sit and not feel pain.

  He glanced at the heavy gold watch on his left wrist. The Republican Party of Arizona had given him the big Omega in 1973, the year he always referred to as “the year I got out of jail.” On the back of the watch, in block letters, was written OUR HUMBLE THANKS.

  His escort would soon arrive. He reached up and checked his bow tie. The clip-ons had a tendency to break loose on one side and dangle from his collar. Then his left hand massaged his right forearm; it was bowed, and even a casual observer could see it once had been broken and improperly set. His right hand did not have a baby’s strength. Tonight he would be shaking hands with dozens of officers, and afterward his hand would hurt for days. The colonel stood up again and walked into the bedroom. When he returned, a heavy medal in the shape of a star was draped around his neck. It was surrounded by a wreath and hung from a sky-blue ribbon.

  The colonel’s hand caressed the medal for a moment as he remembered the price he paid to earn it and the price he paid every day to wear it. A military doctor who specialized in traumatic orthopedic injuries had told him that the price would become higher with every passing year. But it was not just the pain. It was the memories, the memories and the nightmares. Nights were hell revisited. The man who had permanently crippled him — “the Bug” — was never far away. The ropes used to truss him into a pretzel and to wreck his body were never far away. Sleeping pills only dulled the pain and pushed the Bug into the middle distance for a few hours. With morning, and many cups of strong coffee, came a few good hours. Then in the afternoons he saw not only the lengthening shadows of the day but the growing shadow of the everlasting night. And he knew that when darkness fell, the back door of hell would open and the Bug would beckon.

  The colonel reached for the glass of wine and shook his head. He was here because of his past; that was what his hosts wanted — -history’s glory. For his hosts, his past was valor and bravery and courage. He was immensely proud of his life, but he was also haunted by what had happened. Burned into his psyche forever were the words that kept him alive during those terrible years:

  Return with Honor.

  Return with Honor.

  Return with Honor.

  The old man did not want to think of the past. For him the present was far more important; he was in the midst of what he suspected would be his last great battle, and the outcome would affect more than a million military retirees. But his hosts knew nothing of that fight, so tonight he would talk of the past.

  “It was all so long ago,” he murmured. “So long ago.” He shook his head almost in despair and said, “It was forever ago.”

  A loud knock sounded. As the colonel stood up and limped across the room, a big smile transformed his face. He opened the door.

  “Good evening, sir,” said a young Air Force captain.

  “Come in. Come in.” The two men shook hands.

  The captain stepped into the room, his eyes locked on the medal around the colonel’s neck: the Medal of Honor. Except for those pictured in the medal recognition books the young officer had studied, it was the first he had ever seen. It is the only medal awarded by the president of the United States. It is the only medal worn around the neck. It identifies its wearer as one who risked his life in combat; whose service to his country was above and beyond the call of duty. It is the only medal that defines a military man for all his days.

  “Sir, I’m here to escort you, if you are ready.” His eyes never left the medal.

  “Of course. Let me put on my jacket.” The colonel’s voice was soft and the boyish smile never left his face.

  He picked up the jacket on the chair and struggled with it. His right arm just wouldn’t straighten enough to slide into the sleeve.

  The captain moved behind the colonel to help. The colonel shrugged and felt the jacket settle into place. “Let’s go,” he said.

  The captain stepped around in front of the colonel and froze, his eyes locked on the colonel’s left breast and row after row of ribbons and medals. Several carried palms or clusters indicating the medal had been awarded multiple times.

  When one Air Force officer meets another, he can tell with a split-second look at the other man’s uniform all he needs to know. Does the man wear wings? If so, are they the wings of a pilot, a navigator, or an astronaut? The colonel wore wings with a wreath topped by a star — the wings of a command pilot, the highest pilot ranking in the Air Force.

  The medals of an officer reveal if he is a warrior or a staff person. A warrior wears medals awarded for combat. A bureaucrat wears meritorious service medals and commendation medals. The medals are stacked in descending order of importance. Thus, one officer can look at the left breast of another, identify the medals, and know the story of that man’s career.

  The captain had never seen so many combat medals on one person.

  There on the top was the Air Force Cross, the highest medal awarded by the Air Force. The captain had never seen an Air Force Cross before. His gaze swept down the colonel’s chest. The Silver Star. The Distinguished Flying Cross with cluster after cluster. What outfit had the colonel been with to fly so many combat missions?

  The Air Medal with nine oak-leaf clusters. Twelve campaign battle stars.

  The arc of a thirty-year military career was there on his chest, beginning with medals from the Pacific Theater of World War II, then Korea, and then Vietnam.

  Three wars. Three wars. My God, the man had served his country during three wars.

  And under the U.S. medals was the National Order of Vietnam, the Vietnamese equivalent of the Medal of Honor.

  The colonel wore the highest award for valor granted by TWO countries.

  The captain regained his composure and escorted the colonel across the street to the officers’ club. Tonight was a Dining Out hosted by the 87th Flying Training Squadron, the famed “Red Bulls” of Laughlin AFB, part of the Air Education and Training Command. The Red Bulls and their begowned ladies were gathered next door in the bar at the officers’ club.

  The Red Bulls train the last true knights of warfare.

  Astronauts, or “rocketeers,” as fighter pilots call them, ride the most powerful beasts; but they usually do it only once. Fighter pilots mount up several times each week. Their first training is “basic fighter maneuvering”: one pilot against another at twenty thousand feet and the closest thing there is to jousting. Played out for real in combat, it is the ultimate sport: the loser goes down in flames and makes a big hole in the ground.

  Every fighter pilot has an ego large enough for a separate zip code. And with good reason. In all the wars since Vietnam, Air Force pilots have flown into enemy territory, stomping down Main Street, beating their chests and daring enemy fliers to rise against them. Overwhelmed in every way, most enemy air forces never left the ground. As a result, in the last three decades, few Air Force pilots have been bloodied in combat.

  The Dining Out is a formal affair rooted in ancient history. From pre-Christian Roman legions, to marauding Vikings, to King Arthur’s knights, a banquet to celebrate military victories has long been customary among warriors. British soldiers brought the practice to colonial America, where it was adopted by George Washington’s army. Close bonds between U.S. Army Air Forces pilots and Royal Air Force (RAF) officers during World War II cemented the custom in the U.S. military.

  The goal for any Dining Out, no matter the branch of service, is to have a speaker who embodies the highest ideals of the military; preferably a combat leader, a man who has demonstrated in battle that he carries on the tradition of ancient warriors, a man whose deeds will forever inspire young men. Such an ideal has become more and more difficult to reach. But tonight a great warrior was speaking to the Red Bulls. And the opportunity to be in his presence was something they would talk about for the remainder of their days.

  A retinue of colonels greeted the old man as he entered the officers’
club. Some military courtesies are dropped when officers are indoors. For instance, protocol does not call for saluting or standing at attention in the presence of a senior officer, much less an officer of equal rank. And officers of equal rank do not say “sir” to each other. But every colonel came to attention and said “sir” as they greeted the visitor.

  A few lieutenant colonels and majors approached the colonel, but the junior officers hung back, drinking and whispering to each other as they stared, hesitant to even approach.

  Some of the colonels wore a row of medals, a few had a couple of rows. But most of their medals were not combat decorations; they were basic “attaboy” awards for showing up for duty. Every colonel there looked at the old man’s medals, and their envy was almost palpable.

  After numerous visits to the “grog bowl,” a commode filled with a napalmlike mixture of various liquors, everyone was in a jovial mood. The younger lieutenants and captains became bold enough to approach the colonel. Those on the outer edges of the circle jostled and elbowed one another as is the nature of young fighter pilots. But as they drew closer to the colonel, they became quiet and respectful, almost like small boys.

  Snatches of their conversation were audible over the rowdiness of the party.

  He’s got more combat medals than all the other medals in this room put together.

  The squadron pilots plus officials from the wing of which the squadron was a part totaled fifty-four officers. That one man wore more combat medals than all the other officers in the room combined was mind-boggling.

  Yeah, plus he’s got THE medal.

  Which president awarded it?

  I don’t know. But I do know he is the most decorated living American officer.

  You mean. . .?

  He’s got more medals than any other person in any branch of the U.S. military.

  The young officers looked upon this man and tried to figure out what was different about him, what there was about him that might rub off on them. In the history of the Air Force, only seventeen men have received the Medal of Honor. Five of those men remain alive. Those five received the medal in Vietnam, and the Vietnam War ended before these young officers were born.