By Honor Bound Read online

  “There were two things that were driving forces for us boys: scouting and work. Both my brothers and I were Eagle Scouts. You don’t often see three kids in one family make Eagle, but we did it. Our parents encouraged us, and I know they were proud of us. It was something we all did together. All of us had jobs—summer jobs, weekend jobs, before- and after-school jobs. I had paper routes, and I still remember that Sunday-morning edition of the Washington Post. It took some doing to cram it all into the front basket and two side baskets of my bike. It was too big to fold and toss. I had to walk each delivery up to the door, so it took some time. And the last week of the month you had to go out after supper and collect subscription fees from people who took the paper, which meant a late night because you had to get your homework done when you got back home. There were no credit cards or direct payments; it was cash or check, and you were responsible to get those funds to the paper. In addition to paper routes and routine chores, I worked at a filling station pumping gas and performing maintenance on cars. I also had a job with a repair shop fixing washing machines and dryers. In college, I landed a job as a railroad brakeman. When I think back on it, my brothers and most of my friends had jobs. It was a thing of pride. At a very early age, we learned to manage our playtime and our sports time around our jobs and school.

  “Another thing my dad did was teach us to hunt and fish. I did a lot of that with my brothers and with my friends. It all began with Dad taking us out to the dump and shooting .22s. He taught us gun safety as well as how to hit what you were aiming at. Dad died in 1977 at age seventy. He went to bed and just never woke up. I was home at the time building a deck on the back of the house, so I was there to support my mom with the arrangements and to handle the estate issues. My mom lived in the family home until she passed away.”

  I visited Mrs. Norris in 1978 when I was back in Washington on a Navy reserve assignment. When I asked her about her boys, she said, “They were all adventuresome and into one thing or another. But Tommy was both adventuresome and independent. More than the other boys, he could be just plain stubborn.”

  “I went to Montgomery Blair High School. It was a great high school and gave me a great foundation. I had a lot of really good teachers and made friends that I still have to this day. I was into sports, but being small and skinny, I went out for track and wrestling, finally settling on wrestling. It was what I was good at. I lettered three years and won two Metro League championships. I owe a lot to Montgomery Blair; it set me up for success. It also prepared me for wrestling at the college level.

  “My brother Jim ended up at the University of Maryland by way of a year at Ohio Wesleyan University, so I went to Maryland as well. He was in a fraternity, so I joined that same fraternity. It was then that I really got to know my older brother. He went on to law school and became an attorney at the State Department. After two years at a junior college, Kenny followed me to Maryland, so we all graduated from there. I was interested in criminology, so I earned a degree in sociology with a specialty in criminology. During the summer I worked to help pay for my education, and I made the wrestling team as a sophomore. That came with an athletic scholarship, which really helped.”

  Tom excelled at the sport, capturing two Atlantic Coast Conference championships.

  “During the season, I wrestled at 123 pounds. But for the conference tournaments, I went down to 115 pounds. It wasn’t easy to make that weight, but I did it. And,” he added with that familiar, Tom Norris shy smile, “I had a few moves that were my own, and they served me very well on the mat.”

  Tom’s size would later prompt a tall, burly SEAL named Mike Thornton to say, on meeting Tom for the first time, “Damn, I didn’t know they made ’em that small.”

  “After Colonel Anderson briefed the group that evening in Da Nang, he and I got together to go over the details of my role in the operation. Since the higher-ups in the American chain of command had given us a green light to go in on the ground, we were given a lot of support, especially, as you might guess, from the Air Force. Because of the many lives and aircraft lost in previous rescue attempts, there were restrictions on the air support. We could count on fixed-wing close air support, weather permitting, but there were caveats on that as well due to the air defenses. And there would be no helos. The mobile air defenses the NVA had brought south with them were just too effective against slow-flying helicopters. No helos meant that we’d have to walk in and walk out. But I have to hand it to Anderson. It was his operation, and he had it very well thought out and very well coordinated. I mean, the airmen on the ground were told of the mission, and they knew what they were supposed to do before I knew what was expected of me and my team. And we all knew that if it was going to happen, it was going to happen very quickly. There were battle lines in place, but no one knew where the enemy would try to break through or in what strength.

  “My only issue with Anderson was the same issue I had whenever I worked with the Army or the Marine Corps. They had their own way of doing things, and we in the SEAL teams had our ways of doing things. Neither were right nor wrong, just different, and it had to do with how small units operated. In the teams, when we were tasked with a mission, we felt it was just that, a tasking. Given a mission, we would then plan how we were going to do the job and then we’d go out and do the job. It didn’t quite work like that for the Army and the Marines. They often wanted to coordinate what a team in the field was doing from a remote location—make decisions for us on the ground. I didn’t see it that way, but it didn’t mean we couldn’t work together or get the job done. However, once in the field, I felt the tactical decisions were mine to make; once we were out in the field, we’d do it our way. And on this mission, my Vietnamese team leader felt the same way as I did. But one thing we all knew was that there were some very courageous airmen out there on the ground waiting for us.”

  DONG HA AND ON WEST

  “We were up very early Tuesday, 10 April, staging gear, supplies, and radios on the tarmac for the flight north to Dong Ha. The Army had put two Hueys at our disposal to get us up the coast. We might have gotten all of our gear and people into a single chopper, but with all the aircraft being shot down around Dong Ha, helos flying in and out were making the trip in pairs. And thanks to the groundwork by Lieutenant Colonel Anderson, we had the highest priority for on-call support. But Dong Ha was as far as we could go in a helo. Anything farther north or west of there was becoming lethal airspace for helicopters. And at that time, Dong Ha was very much a city under siege.”

  Dong Ha is a strategic city some eight miles from the southern border of the Demilitarized Zone and about that same distance from the South China Sea. It was the northernmost major outpost along Route 1, the major highway that ran the length of the country. Going south along Route 1 from Dong Ha was Quang Tri City, Hue City, and Da Nang. From Dong Ha north, Route 1 ran across the Dong Ha Bridge up to the DMZ. The primary objective of the NVA’s Easter Offensive was to take all of Quang Tri Province and the provincial capital, Quang Tri City, but first, they had to take Dong Ha.

  The city was located on the southern bank of the Mieu Giang River, a major waterway that runs west from Dong Ha toward the city of Cam Lo and the Laotian border, and east into the Cua Viet River and on to the South China Sea. The 3rd ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) Division was tasked with defending the city and the Dong Ha Combat Base located just south of the city. They were doing that, but just barely. The Easter Offensive created a major NVA-ARVN confrontation, and the first real test of ARVN fighting capability and ARVN leadership. The South Vietnamese forces were supported by American advisors and American air power, but it was a South Vietnamese battle.

  The NVA, with speed, surprise, and a veteran Army, seemed to have it going their way but for two stumbling blocks. The first was a Marine named John Ripley. On 2 April, the same day Bat 21 Bravo was shot down, Captain Ripley made his way out onto the underside of the Dong Ha Bridge and loaded it with explosives. Hanging from the steel I-beams
like a grade-schooler from playground monkey bars, Ripley repeatedly exposed himself to enemy fire to load the bridge and finally drop it into the Mieu Giang River. Ripley was ordered not to blow the bridge by those senior to him in the chain of command. They saw the Dong Ha Bridge as an avenue for a counterattack. But Ripley was on the scene and saw the massing of NVA armor. He knew the South Vietnamese could not stand against it. So he took it upon himself to act. And his actions delayed the ultimate capture of Dong Ha by several weeks. “Ripley at the Bridge” is now Marine Corps legend.

  The second stumbling block for the NVA was the spirited defense by some of the ARVN and South Vietnamese marine units. Many of them broke and ran, and some of them were simply overwhelmed by armor and superior numbers of the enemy. Yet there were isolated pockets where South Vietnamese units held on and made the NVA pay dearly. On 9 April, the day before Anderson and Norris arrived at Dong Ha, elements of the 20th Tank Regiment and a well-led battalion of South Vietnamese marines combined to destroy more than forty NVA tanks and kill close to one thousand enemy troops. It was the actions of these South Vietnamese units and their American advisors, along with the courage of John Ripley, that temporarily blunted the NVA offensive and created a window in time for Anderson and Norris to attempt their recovery.

  “Once we got to Dong Ha, there was no doubt that both the city and the base were under attack. The Dong Ha Combat Base, the hard-packed dirt airstrip at the base, and the city itself were under a constant North Vietnamese artillery barrage. The only Americans remaining at Dong Ha were advisors who ranged from the divisional to the battalion level. It was through these senior advisors that Anderson had arranged for us to brief the senior Vietnamese commanders on what we were trying to do and to secure the forward outpost from which we would be operating. Our first meeting was with Brigadier General Vu Van Giai, the commander of the 3rd ARVN Division and the senior commander at Dong Ha. Just Anderson, myself, and Lieutenant Tho were at this meeting. General Giai was one busy fellow who had a lot on his plate, and he made it clear at the outset that he had only a few minutes for us. Through an interpreter, Colonel Anderson told him of our mission and reconfirmed that we would be able to conduct our recovery operation from the northwesternmost outpost of his battle line. And through his interpreter, General Giai said that he would support us with transportation and outpost support. He also told us, directly in his broken English, that he thought we were crazy and that our mission had little chance for success.

  “Our second briefing was with Colonel Nguyen Trung Luat, the commander of the ARVN 1st Armor Brigade. Again, Anderson conducted the briefing while Tho and I stood at his side. It was a short, ten-minute overview of our plan, hastily delivered to Colonel Luat and a few of his senior staff officers. Luat was tasked with the defense of Dong Ha and, specifically, the western approaches to the city. It was his units, specifically elements of the 20th ARVN Tank Regiment and the Vietnamese 3rd Marine Battalion, that had helped to stall the NVA advance after they had moved into western Quang Tri Province in strength. It was ‘his’ outpost that we would be working from. Also at the briefing was the senior American advisor to Colonel Luat, Lieutenant Colonel Louis Wagner. It was good to see Wagner there. While the Vietnamese commanders listened politely, I knew they had bigger fish to fry. They really didn’t have time for a few Americans on the ground behind enemy lines, nor an American-led ground element that was trying to rescue them. But we could count on the American advisors to be aware of our movements and warn us of any major enemy movements in our area.”

  Louis Wagner stood with the Vietnamese leadership of the ARVN 1st Armor Brigade during the defense of Dong Ha and later in the defense of Quang Tri City. He was emblematic of those Army and Marine Corps advisors who risked their lives on a daily basis as they worked with their South Vietnamese counterparts in the face of the North Vietnamese offensive. There were, and are, mixed reviews on the courage and effectiveness of the South Vietnamese units during the Easter Offensive. Yet when there was a South Vietnamese army or marine unit that held their ground, or fought a spirited holding action or conducted an orderly retreat, there was usually one of these courageous American advisors on hand to provide support and direction.

  During the collapse of the defenses around Dong Ha in late April, Lieutenant Colonel Lou Wagner, though wounded in action, led the ARVN 1st Armor Brigade in a breakout of an NVA encirclement. He was subsequently awarded the Distinguished Service Cross.

  “After the two briefings, we saddled up in an M113 armored personnel carrier and headed west on Route 9 toward the city of Cam Lo, some six miles west of Dong Ha. It was late afternoon on 10 April. Cam Lo was now held by the NVA, so both the city and the Cam Lo Bridge were in enemy hands. Our outpost was midway between Cam Lo and Dong Ha, and just east of NVA-controlled territory.”

  While Anderson was conducting his briefings at the Dong Ha Combat Base and the team was assembling their weapons and radios for the mission, the Air Force was conducting cryptic, clear-transmission briefings of their own for their airmen on the ground. With no hope for a helicopter-borne rescue, the airmen were now being positioned for a ground-force rescue. There were now three of them.

  The first was First Lieutenant Mark Clark, call sign Nail 38 Bravo. Clark was in the backseat of an OV-10 close-air-support aircraft that was working against NVA ground targets around the location of Bat 21 Bravo—Lieutenant Colonel Hambleton. On 3 April, a SAM missile struck his OV-10. Both Clark and the other pilot, Captain Bill Henderson (Nail 38 Alpha), managed to eject and safely parachute to the ground. Henderson landed just north of the Mieu Giang River and after a night of evading the enemy on the ground, was captured by the North Vietnamese. They tended his wounds and moved him north in accordance with their guidelines for the handling of captured American airmen. Mark Clark landed on the southern bank of the river and went to ground. He immediately reported his position on his survival radio and that he was safe and well concealed. But he was in enemy-held territory and several klicks (one thousand meters, or a kilometer) west of friendly lines. On 3 April, the city of Cam Lo, located just south of the Cam Lo Bridge, was still in ARVN hands, but units of NVA infantry had crossed the river and had linked up with elements of the Viet Cong. The city fell to the NVA a few days later. Nail 38 Bravo was safe but surrounded by the enemy. Mark Clark was a young, very fit officer, and was the closest of the three to friendly forces.

  Just over a thousand meters almost due west of Mark Clark’s position and some seven hundred meters north of the Mieu Giang River was Gene Hambleton. On 10 April, Hambleton had been on the ground for close to eight days and was becoming weaker and more discouraged. Perhaps more than anyone, he had seen and heard the ongoing efforts his brother airmen were undertaking to recover him. And the terrible price. Days earlier, he had watched in horror as a CH-53 rescue helo had been struck by a SAM and crashed, killing all six crewmen aboard. His despair must have been unfathomable.

  On 7 April, yet another OV-10 flown by First Lieutenant Bruce Walker was hit by a surface-to-air missile. The aircraft, Covey 282, was flying out of Da Nang on an artillery spotting mission. Both Walker and his spotter, marine First Lieutenant Larry Potts, managed to eject from the dying OV-10. Potts never came up on his survival radio, and was never heard from again. Walker landed safely and immediately was in communication as he sought a good hiding place. Yet Bruce Walker, Covey 282 Alpha, was not close to the river, or to Bat 21 Bravo or Nail 38 Bravo. He landed some seven thousand meters north of the outpost from which Anderson and Norris were to launch their recovery operation. He was close to four miles inside enemy-held territory, and well away from the Mieu Giang River.

  The three evading airmen had survival radios—URC-64 UHF radios that were their only means of communication. These were unencrypted transceivers, so they were subject to monitoring by the enemy. But they were the downed airmen’s lifeline. Air Force airborne forward air controllers (FACs) and close-support aircraft were maintaining near-24/7 communications wit
h them and putting in air strikes around their positions to keep them relatively safe. Since their survival radios transmitted in the clear, the FACs used cryptic transmissions and the careful use of coded phrases to coach the men on the ground through what was to be a waterborne rescue attempt. For Hambleton and Clark, this was relatively straightforward. But Walker had more real estate and a great many more enemy troops between him and safety than did the other two. His recovery seemed at this point to be the most difficult.

  “By the time we were in the APC and headed down Route 9, I knew there was a major battle taking shape, and I only hoped we could do our job and get in and out of there as quickly as possible. A little more than twenty-four hours ago, I was sitting in the air-conditioning at SOG headquarters in Saigon, talking with my new boss about what my Sea Commando teams were doing. I was looking forward to a hot shower, a good meal, and a good night’s sleep before I headed back up to Camp Fay. Now here I was on a tricky mission, running ahead of a major North Vietnamese offensive to recover airmen trapped behind the lines. I think Colonel Anderson was more aware than I of what was going on, since he’d been following the shoot-downs from the beginning and coordinating things. And I know he was both anxious to rescue these guys, and he was also looking for a success. His organization, the Joint Personnel Recovery Center, was being shut down, even as he was working the problem of this rescue. To date, the JPRC had never had a successful recovery. He wanted to close up shop on a positive note. And I understood that at the time; it was a matter of professional pride for him.