This ace for Air Force was unbeatable

AIR FORCE ACADEMY — The old black-and-white photo shows a young guy with a big, toothy grin climbing out of the cockpit of an F-4 Phantom, looking like Hollywood’s version of the classic fighter pilot.

That was Steve Ritchie in summer 1972, after the former Air Force Academy halfback became the only Air Force pilot “ace” of the air war in Vietnam — and perhaps the last one ever.

The 66-year-old retired brigadier general was reminiscing about that moment this week as he strolled across the Air Force Academy campus, where the past bumps into view at every turn.

In the distance was Falcon Stadium, where Air Force and Navy play today in a service academy rivalry that serves as a poignant reminder of the ultimate shared mission.

Forty-five years ago on the same field, Ritchie helped lead his undermanned football team to a berth in the Gator Bowl.

Across the way was the dorm room that once belonged to Bob Lodge, a classmate who was shot down and killed in 1972 over Hanoi as Ritchie, flying nearby, frantically called for him to bail out.

To his left is a dormitory named for Lance Sijan, a former teammate who was shot down in North Vietnam in 1967, evaded enemy forces for 46 days and died in captivity.

But now Ritchie was standing in a corner of the academy’s Terrazzo, next to the same F-4 Phantom he flew the day his life shifted into military legend.

An ace is defined as a pilot who has destroyed at least five enemy aircraft, and Ritchie earned his title by downing five MiG-21s from May 10 to Aug. 28 in 1972 during his second tour in Southeast Asia. He is the only Air Force pilot ace in more than 50 years, and given the nature of modern warfare, might well be the last.

In the late 1980s, his plane was placed on display at the academy, largely for its inspirational value for cadets. Ritchie inspires, too, frequently speaking to cadets about his war experiences and the link between football and combat.

“Going back to see that airplane is always a bit emotional,” Ritchie said. “It’s an old friend: We went to war together, we were victorious, we survived. And there she is — at the old schoolhouse. Hopefully, she serves as a bit of testament to what we’re about. Our job at the Air Force Academy is to train warriors. And that airplane is a warrior.”

Ritchie certainly is.

Not only is he the only American pilot to down five MiG-21s, he also flew more than 800 hours of combat during 339 missions, took part in rescue operations deep in North Vietnam, helped change the way American pilots are trained and received the Air Force Cross and four Silver Stars and 10 Distinguished Flying Crosses.

Well past military retirement age, Ritchie still flies an F-104 Starfighter in air shows — “At this point in my life, it’s like kicking in the afterburners” — thanks in part to a daily regimen of 500 push-ups, 300 cross-crawls and 600 stomach crunches, which he logs in a daybook.

“I’m on pace for 130,000 push-ups and 93,000 stomach crunches this year,” he said, running a hand through his graying blond hair.

Ritchie has retained the classic fighter pilot’s temperament — tough, blunt, demanding, relentlessly confident — as well as the lingo. “I’ll reply with coordinates,” he e-mailed when setting up a meeting place.

At the academy, Ritchie occasionally found himself confined to quarters for defiant behavior. He vowed never to return when he graduated in 1964, but he now lives within easy driving distance of the school, where he is frequently asked about his combat experiences, including the day he destroyed two MiGS in less than 90 seconds.

“The reason Steve succeeded as a football player is the same reason he succeeded as a fighter pilot,” said Allan McArtor, an AFA teammate and Vietnam pilot. “He simply refused to believe that anybody could do something better than he could. Steve was going to compete in anything, whether it was the best-looking girl at the dance or on the football field. I wasn’t surprised at all that he ended up an ace. He’s a warrior. Nobody loves war, but I have to say it’s OK to love combat. Steve loved combat, and so did I.”

A team with heart

Ritchie grew up in North Carolina, the son of a tobacco company employee who fought in World War II under Gen. George Patton. Though Ritchie flew once with his father in a Piper Cub, he focused on football through high school, even after he broke both his legs in junior high.

A doctor told him to abandon the sport; he dismissed the advice as quickly as he rejected suggestions to attend a local college.

“I like the idea, ‘Go west, young man,’” he said of his decision to attend Air Force.
Ritchie, a walk-on in football at the academy, played on the junior varsity team a couple of years, working his way up the depth chart like a classic overachiever.

“That was the description of all of us,” said Terry Isaacson, the quarterback of the 1963 Falcons team that finished 7-4. “We weren’t very big, we weren’t very fast. But we had a lot of heart.”

Although the Falcons hardly were considered a national power in 1963 previews, they stunned Washington in the season opener and shocked nationally ranked Nebraska in Lincoln, with Ritchie forcing a fumble with a jarring hit in the final moments. It was the Cornhuskers’ only loss that season.

“It was the greatest football game in my entire career. Can you imagine beating Nebraska in Lincoln when [they finished No. 5 in the nation]?” said Ritchie, who sees a link between football and combat.

“Just think of the basics. The teamwork. The communication. The discipline. The hard work. Overcoming obstacles when you think they’re impossible. All those things are directly related to combat. You learn all of those basics in football.”

Preparing for war

Far from being a daredevil, Ritchie prided himself on being obsessive about preparation when he reported to flight school in Laredo, Texas, in August 1964, poring over manuals and charts. He was a natural. The aircraft fit him and he fit it.

“I was ready. I worked my butt off. I learned everything I could,” he said.

Ritchie went to war in 1968, landing at Da Nang Air Base in Vietnam.

“I popped the canopy and the stench from the open sewers — damn. It was April Fool’s Day, I was 25 and I said: ‘This is going to be hell on Earth.’ It was — only worse,” he said.

“The first time I ever saw an unlike airplane was a MiG-21 near Hanoi. They didn’t allow us to train against dissimilar aircraft then. They didn’t let us train the way we were going to fight.”

The rules of engagement were even more disheartening to Ritchie. American pilots weren’t allowed to bomb enemy airfields for much of the war and at times weren’t allowed to fire back if fired upon.

“It was immoral,” he said.

Returning from Southeast Asia in 1969, Ritchie attended the Air Force Fighter Weapons School, its version of Top Gun training. After becoming one of the youngest instructors in school history, he volunteered for a second tour in Vietnam in 1972.

On April 16, President Nixon authorized regular airstrikes north of the 20th parallel; soon, Ritchie found himself 30 miles west of Hanoi, locked on to a MiG-21, poised for his first kill. But as he prepared to squeeze the trigger, he noticed the needle of his fuel gauge slipping toward minimum. Following pilot protocol, he headed back to his base.

“I did the right thing, but I regretted it the next two days. I figured I’d never get another shot,” he said.

Battles in the air

When a MiG slid into his cross hairs two days later, Ritchie fired two Sparrow missiles at a range of 6,500 feet; the second exploded under the fuselage, forcing the MiG pilot to bail out as his plane exploded into flames.

But less than a minute later, four MiG 19s swooped in from above and destroyed Lodge’s plane. “They were upside down, on fire, out of control at 7,000 feet,” he said.

Ritchie and the other pilots returned to the area throughout the week, hoping Lodge and back-seater Roger Locher had survived and evaded capture. But their radio calls went unanswered — until June 1, 22 days after the crash, when they picked up a call about 50 miles northwest of Hanoi.

“Hey, guys, I’ve been down here a long time. Any chance of picking me up?” said Locher, who was only two miles from one of North Vietnam’s most important airfields.
Back at Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base, the Americans quickly launched one of the most difficult and dangerous rescues of the war, a mission that was aborted because of intense enemy fire.

The next morning, Gen. John Vogt, commander of Air Force operations in Vietnam, canceled the strike mission to Hanoi, freeing 150 aircraft for another rescue attempt.
They rescued Locher that day; when he strolled into the officers’ club that night, his rescuers and colleagues applauded for 20 minutes.

But their luck quickly changed.

“June was a bad month,” Ritchie said. “We lost some friends, we lost airplanes, we had no victories. I had a little talk with myself, said, ‘I don’t know what my job is in this war, but I’m just going to do the best I can.’”

The next day, while leading a flight of four F-4 Phantoms, Ritchie spotted a MiG-21; instead of turning to chase the plane, and risk a trap, he rocketed past the enemy and shot down the trailing MiG 47 seconds later. He destroyed the lead MiG 42 seconds after that.

“There are so many people who could’ve done what I did,” he said. “But they didn’t have the opportunity. There were some people who had the opportunity who were not ready when the opportunity came. But I had worked really hard. I was on my second tour. I didn’t run from the flight — I went to the fight. There were a few guys who ran from the fight.”

After Ritchie’s fifth kill, the Air Force pulled him from active duty to eliminate the risk of him being shot down and captured, which would have been a propaganda coup for the enemy. But Ritchie knew the score back home, even for an ace.

“I don’t think we’re considered heroes anymore,” he told reporters shortly after his final flight. “It’s been an unpopular war.”

Back on the ground

In 1974, at the urging of Sen. Barry Goldwater, Ritchie resigned his regular commission to mount an unsuccessful run for Congress in North Carolina. He worked in private business and for the government in ensuing years and has given more than 5,000 speeches.

Today, his office walls are lined with reminders of a high-flying life. There are photos with President Ford, Gen. Jimmy Doolittle, Goldwater, actor Jimmy Stewart and Ritchie’s son, Matt, an Air Force Special Forces parajumper.

There are notes and letters from astronauts, actors, Presidents Nixon and Reagan. There’s a photo of his ‘63 Air Force team.

But the ultimate memento is the F-4 Phantom on ceremonial display at the Air Force Academy.

Before the Navy-Air Force game three years ago, some Midshipmen surreptitiously painted the jet Navy blue.

“I admire the courage of the kids. I think that’s one of the best pranks ever done. I love that kind of courage,” Ritchie said.

The game itself is a symbol of the military’s importance in American life, as enduring as the plane Ritchie flew on the day that defined his life.

“To me, [the plane is] inspirational,” said Col. Paul Ackerman, the academy’s vice superintendent, who was a cadet from 1978-82. “For me, Steve Ritchie has been an inspiration for years.

“When I got here, Steve Ritchie, Lance Sijan ... they were the ones I wanted to grow up to be like, the ones everyone wanted to grow up to be like.”