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Some Air America losses were the unavoidable cost of war. Others were the consequence of asking highly skilled crews to operate without the navigation equipment they should have had.

Time after time, Air America crews were asked to fly demanding missions in aircraft stripped of modern navigation equipment. As a result, experienced pilots were forced to rely on dead reckoning, antiquated automatic direction finders, and visual navigation in mountainous terrain and marginal weather. The following incidents illustrate the tragic consequences of those decisions.

Flights south from Hue to Da Nang could be made by flying over the mountains just north of the airport, following the coastline, or passing between mountain peaks. The ideal method was to fly east over the South China Sea and contact Da Nang Approach Control using a transponder and up-to-date navigation equipment.

However, none of Air America’s aircraft in Southeast Asia had transponders, and the only navigation equipment available in many of them was an antiquated automatic direction finder. An ADF could point toward the wrong radio station, a mountain, or even a lightning storm.

When the weather was below visual flight rule minimums, the proper choices were either not to fly or to use an alternative route by flying at low altitude along the coast or through a pass between mountain peaks. Air America pilots did not always have the luxury of refusing a mission unless visibility was completely obscured. If you wanted to keep your job, you learned to cope.

I was 25 years old when I joined Air America. I was young, but I was a graduate of the Naval Air Training Command. I had received two years of training in combat helicopter operations, served one year in Vietnam flying combat missions, spent another year teaching formation and night flying in the T-28, and attained the rank of captain in the United States Marine Corps.

I considered myself experienced. Nevertheless, I still had a great deal to learn, and flying with older, highly experienced pilots provided a valuable education. Flying for Air America in Vietnam, and especially in Laos, required taking calculated risks. However, I was seasoned enough to know there was a difference between taking a calculated risk and relying on hope.

Before moving into a pilot-in-command position in the Pilatus Porter, I was required to spend six months as a co-pilot in either the C-47 or the Beechcraft C-45. The choice was mine, and I selected the C-47.

Most of Air America’s C-47 fleet came from the United States Air Force under a bailment agreement. The aircraft were not FAA-certified, and nearly all of their navigation equipment had been removed, except for the same type of automatic direction finder installed in the Volpar. That situation placed an excessive burden on the pilots and made completing the mission far more difficult than it should have been.

The C-47 was the largest aircraft I had ever flown. Most of the pilots in command were retired Marine Corps, Navy, or Air Force pilots with an enormous amount of experience. Many were 15 to 20 years older than I was.

My job was to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, handle the paperwork, and keep my mouth shut. Nevertheless, there are reasons large aircraft have two pilots in the cockpit.

Flying into large airfields such as Nha Trang, Da Nang, Qui Nhon, or Pleiku was relatively simple because those airports had control towers and could accommodate aircraft equipped only with ADF navigation. Flying into small airfields without control towers or navigation aids was considerably more difficult. Those flights were usually accomplished using time-and-distance navigation.

We frequently flew into Khe Sanh. When the weather was clear, there was little difficulty locating and landing on its relatively long runway. During the monsoon season, however, Khe Sanh was often completely obscured by clouds. We either had to work our way through the mountains looking for an opening or abandon the trip. Attempting to snake through the mountains required at least some visibility and a reliable escape plan.

On one occasion, I was teamed with Howard Kelly. Howard was a retired U.S. Air Force pilot and approximately 20 years older than I was. During World War II, he had been shot down and escaped through the French Alps. Howard was an excellent pilot who could usually find a way to land almost anywhere.

Our scheduled destination was Khe Sanh, and the weather consisted of heavy clouds and rain. Howard told me he planned to work his way up a valley from the west and pop up when he reached the vicinity of the runway. That plan was acceptable to me.

The problem was that we could not see below us, above us, or straight ahead because of the clouds and rain. Worse, we were below the elevation of the runway.

I repeatedly told Howard that we were too low and below field elevation, but he continued flying straight ahead.

A co-pilot did not take control of an aircraft from the pilot in command without permission. Doing so was considered almost an act of mutiny. My alternative was to close my eyes and pray. I considered it, but I also had enough experience to understand the danger.

I told Howard one more time that we were below field elevation, surrounded by mountain peaks we could not see, and that we needed either to climb high enough to clear the terrain or abort the approach. He said nothing and continued straight ahead.

I faced a dilemma and made a decision.

“Howard, I have the aircraft.”

I took control. Howard released the yoke. I applied full power and climbed straight ahead, hoping we would not strike a mountain. The climb lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an hour.

Then we broke out above the clouds, and I turned toward Da Nang.

Howard said nothing. He sat quietly, staring straight ahead. I was certain I would be fired.

About halfway back, Howard quietly said, “I have the aircraft.”

I released the controls, and we continued to Da Nang and landed. Howard never said anything to me about the incident, and neither did anyone else.

I cannot guarantee that we would not have succeeded in finding the runway at Khe Sanh. That was the kind of flying Air America crews performed every day. Nevertheless, there was a difference between accepting a calculated risk and relying entirely on hope.

I regretted that the incident happened, but I never regretted my decision.

A short time later, I transitioned to the Pilatus Porter as pilot in command, where I had greater control over my own destiny.

Like everyone else, I took calculated risks. Usually, however, I found a way to accomplish the mission while remaining within my limitations and eliminating as many threats as possible. The job would have been far easier with modern navigation equipment.

Instead, we were relegated to using the ADF, which was notoriously inaccurate and could point toward a station other than the one selected. Our other option was to follow valleys visually, but that required being able to see the terrain. Otherwise, we had to remain above the highest mountain peaks in the area.

Two years later, I transitioned from fixed-wing aircraft to helicopters and moved from Saigon to Udorn, Thailand.

Approximately six months after arriving in Udorn, I learned that Howard Kelly and a new first officer, Milton Matheson, who was also retired from the Air Force, had flown into a mountain pass while traveling south from Hue to Da Nang. Everyone aboard was killed.

I felt as though I knew what had happened, but I was not there, and it would be unfair to criticize their decisions. Perhaps both men agreed to continue flying under visual flight rules in instrument weather conditions.

However, had their aircraft been equipped with a transponder and VOR navigation equipment, they could have flown the route using conventional instrument procedures.

Another glaring example was the crash of an Air America Volpar near Da Nang.

The Volpar was a turbine conversion of the Beechcraft C-45. The conversion improved the aircraft considerably, but it still lacked the navigation equipment necessary to fly precision approaches into properly equipped airfields.

Air America pilot Bruce Massey was assigned to fly eight prominent educators from Saigon to Hue, with a refueling stop in Da Nang. The monsoon season had ended in southern Vietnam, and the weather in Saigon was clear. However, when the monsoon ended in the South, the weather in northern Vietnam was often cloudy and rainy.

The Volpar was one of Air America’s most sophisticated aircraft. The educators were seated in a comfortable executive-style cabin and were undoubtedly unaware of the aircraft’s inadequate navigation equipment.

Bruce refueled at Da Nang and departed for Hue. The runway at Hue was obscured by clouds, so he turned back toward Da Nang using the aircraft’s only available navigation aid, the ADF.

Bruce flew into a mountain near Da Nang, killing everyone aboard.

For years, the families were not told the full truth.

Several years later, by coincidence, I met the daughter of one of the educators. She told me she believed the flight had been secret, which it was not. She had also heard that the pilot might have had a girlfriend in Hue and had pushed the aircraft beyond reasonable limits because he wanted to see her.

Bruce Massey was a seasoned professional pilot. I knew him, and he did not have a girlfriend in Hue. Furthermore, the crash occurred near Da Nang, not Hue.

Perhaps he should have remained on the ground in Da Nang. However, the weather there was above minimums, although an instrument approach was required to land. There was no obvious reason not to depart and attempt to land at Hue.

The accident occurred because a sophisticated aircraft had not been equipped with the navigation instruments required to perform the mission safely. Air America was owned by the federal government, and its failure to install the proper equipment raises serious questions of responsibility and liability.

The loss of Bruce Massey and the eight educators was tragic. The matter was largely hushed up, but it should never have happened.

Conditions in Laos were even more difficult. There was no conventional approach control system, and after the radar installation at Lima Site 85 was destroyed, there was no longer a radar station available in the region.

Pilots therefore relied heavily on time-and-distance navigation. The accuracy of that method depended on knowing the actual winds aloft and calculating their effect on the aircraft’s course and groundspeed. The safest option was to remain above the highest terrain in the area and hope that no one fired at you.

Air America’s C-123 aircraft were also loaned by the United States Air Force and were not FAA-certified. They frequently loaded war materials at a munitions storage facility near Udorn, Thailand, known as Pepper Grinder.

Flights bound for destinations in western Laos normally flew north to a point just short of the Mekong River and then turned west.

On December 27, 1971, the winds were stronger than usual, and clouds obscured the ground. C-123 aircraft 293, operated by pilot George Ritter, co-pilot Roy Townley, and air freight specialists Edward Weissenbach and Khamphanh Saysongkham, apparently overflew its intended waypoint and entered Chinese airspace.

Chinese antiaircraft guns shot the aircraft down, killing everyone aboard.

Initially, no one knew what had caused the aircraft to disappear.

Air America Chief Pilot James Rhyne boarded a Volpar, a converted Beechcraft C-45 equipped with turbine engines, and flew to the area. Pamphlets were dropped asking local residents for information about the missing C-123 crew. Rhyne’s aircraft was also struck by gunfire, and he lost part of his lower leg.

None of this would have happened had the C-123 been equipped with navigation equipment that would have allowed the crew to determine its position accurately.

Furthermore, the Chinese should not have fired on the aircraft. The incident was an outrage and may have constituted a war crime. The C-123 and the Volpar were not combat aircraft and posed no immediate threat to anyone on the ground.

Despite years of uncertainty, the families received little information about the fate of their loved ones.

The loss of the C-123 crew devastated their families. For years, they struggled to obtain information and received few meaningful answers. At the same time, the Nixon administration was pursuing its historic diplomatic opening to China.

Whether those broader diplomatic priorities contributed to the absence of a formal protest or a more determined effort to resolve the incident remains an important historical question.

What is beyond question is that the families were forced to endure years of uncertainty while searching for answers that should never have been so difficult to obtain.

Ultimately, it was George Ritter’s son, Philip, whose persistence and years of research led to the identification of his father’s remains.