U.S. pilots in Viet Nam—like the airmen in the three other wars Americans have fought this century—laugh off the dangers they face each day in enemy skies. Yet as Hanoi intensifies its flak and missile defenses, they realize all too well the likelihood of death or capture and extend a special kind of respect to those who have eluded both. Into the flyer's pantheon of heroes last week went two young Navy lieutenants. One—whose name the Pentagon withheld to protect other prisoners who might have helped him—escaped from a Laos-based prison camp. He spent 23 days hiding in mountain wilderness, finally was rescued by a "Jolly Green Giant" helicopter after U.S. flyers spotted an S.O.S. he had made with white rags spread on the ground. The other, Robert ("Rick") Adams, 25, is the only airman who has twice been shot down over North Viet Nam and twice been rescued.
"Unscheduled Swim." Rick Adams' attachment to freedom twice prompted him to risk his life rather than eject from mortally damaged aircraft over populated areas, where he would have had scant chance of rescue. His first escape came near Hanoi last October, when his F-8 Crusader was hit by a Russian SAM missile. "I held my breath for a second and the airplane kept flying," he recounts, "but I knew that I was hurt bad, so I leaned on the stick and turned and headed out to sea." Squadron Commander Richard ("Belly") Bellinger, 42, yelled for him to eject, but Adams' radio had quit—though he probably would not have listened anyway. Within seconds, says Adams, "I could see the flames in my mirror, crawling up the side of the airplane. I flew for a couple of more minutes, and the gauges on the panel went crazy."
The decision to bail out was finally made for him when an explosion ripped the plane apart and triggered the ejection mechanism. Adams floated safely down into the South China Sea with nothing worse than burned hands. Bellinger, riding shotgun overhead, drove off a nearby North Vietnamese fishing junk; minutes later, a rescue helicopter ferried Adams to his carrier, the U.S.S. Oriskany, where squadron 162 ("The Hunters") greeted him with a paper missile and a 2-oz. glass of Napoleon brandy, a cherished ritual after a particularly hazardous mission. To his parents in Minneapolis, Adams sent a laconic wire: "Unscheduled swim. Everything A-O.K."
"See You in a Year." An "out-damn-standing pilot," in Bellinger's phrase, Adams was one of only six flyers chosen for the Oriskany's second tour in Vietnamese waters after its winter State side leave. On July 12, three days after the Oriskany reached its Yankee Station strikepoint, Adams was shot down again, this time 23 miles from Hanoi.
Ground fire tore into his Crusader outside Haiphong, setting it aflame and pushing the plane into an all but ungovernable wobble. Unable to reach the sea, Adams cajoled the faltering craft toward a desolate-looking mountain area, away from the densely populated Hanoi-Haiphong complex. Half a mile from a looming mountain peak, at an altitude of 200 ft., he radioed: "Sorry about that. See you in a year"—then he pulled his cockpit ejection loops seconds before the plane piled into the peak.