The history of a near-century of combat search and rescue, with an account of how the discipline was created and how it is administered—or neglected—today.

After Southeast Asia, analysts and force planners came to the realization that there was a fundamental difference between search and rescue (SAR) in a permissive area and in an area that was not permissive (i.e., under enemy control). This second condition is now called combat search and rescue or CSAR. At the time of Desert Storm, the two forms of rescue were defined thusly: Search and Rescue (SAR): Use of aircraft, surface craft, submarines, personnel, and equipment to locate and recover personnel in distress on land or at sea. Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR): A specialized SAR task performed by rescue-capable forces to effect recovery of distressed personnel from hostile territory during contingency operations or wartime.2 The development of this rescue capability has been well established. Dr. Robert Futrell documented our efforts in Korea in The United States Air Force in Korea, 1950-1953. His work was followed by Dr. Earl Tilford's Search and Rescue in South east Asia, which eloquently chronicled the heroic efforts of the rescue crews in that conflict who brought back literally thousands of airmen. It extensively documented what is now considered the "golden age" of rescue. This work is meant to follow in those traditions and will focus on our CSAR efforts in the Persian Gulf War of 1991, or more specifically, the period of Operation Desert Storm, 17 January to 28 February 1991. Overall, CSAR in Desert Storm appears to have been a mixed bag. Because of advances in precision weaponry, Global Positioning System (GPS) technology, countermeasures, and training, relatively few coalition aircraft were shot down. Forty-three coalition aircraft were lost in combat, most over high-threat areas. Eighty-seven coalition airmen, soldiers, sailors, and marines were isolated in enemy or neutral territory. Of that total, 48 were killed, one is still listed as missing, 24 were immediately captured, and 14 were exposed in enemy territory. Of those who survived, most landed in areas controlled by enemy troops. Of the few actually rescueable, six were not rescued for a variety of reasons, but primarily because of limitations in CENTAF's ability to locate them accurately and in a timely manner.

Beginning with the birth of combat aircraft in World War I and the early attempts to rescue warriors trapped behind enemy lines, Leave No Man Behind chronicles in depth nearly one hundred years of combat search and rescue (CSAR). All major U.S. combat operations from World War II to the early years of the Iraq War are covered, including previously classified missions and several Medal-of-Honor-winning operations. Authors George Galdorisi and Tom Phillips (both veteran U.S. Navy helicopter pilots) highlight individual acts of heroism while telling the big-picture story of the creation and development of modern CSAR. Although individual missions have their successes and failures, CSAR, as an institution, would seem beyond reproach, an obvious necessity. The organizational history of CSAR, however, is not entirely positive. The armed services, particularly the U.S. Air Force and Navy, have a tendency to cut CSAR at the end of a conflict, leaving no infrastructure prepared for the next time that the brave men and women of our armed forces find themselves behind enemy lines. The final chapter has not yet been written for U.S. combat search and rescue, but in view of the life-saving potential of these forces, an open and forthright review of U.S. military CSAR plans and policies is long overdue. Beyond the exciting stories of heroic victories and heartrending defeats, Leave No Man Behind stimulates debate on this important subject.

The heroic combat search and rescue work of the United States Air Force’s pararescue jumpers, or PJs, is something worth knowing about. After all, these courageous PJs are the first in line to find and rescue fallen soldiers and civilians in the most dangerous of war zones—often risking their own lives in the process. In these pages, the basic principles, history, and structure of American combat search and rescue teams is thoroughly covered, with particular focus on true stories of PJ rescue missions and the equipment, vehicles, and weapons they use.

The official United States Air Force report is called “Rescue at Ban Phanop.” But, to the hundreds of men who flew on this mission, it is simply known as “Boxer 22.” It was the largest search and rescue (SAR) mission in the Vietnam War that resulted in a survivor being rescued by a USAF helicopter. The recovery area was on the Ho Chi Minh Trail near the small village of Ban Phanop. For 3 days hundreds of airplanes fought to protect and rescue two pilots. Hundreds of NVA troops were equally determined to prevent the rescue. The resulting heroics by the air rescue force against seemingly impossible odds are legends that are still told at USAF fighter squadrons around the world. Read to what extremes your Air Force went to rescue “Just One Man”.

A first hand look at the way Combat Search And Rescue was conducted when it really came into its own during the Vietnam War, as seen through the eyes of a fixed-wing pilot who volunteered for the job of employing and supporting the Jolly Green helicopters in their efforts. And since not every day resulted in a shoot down of friendly aircrews, a look at how the rest of the one year tour of duty was occupied when rescues were not imminent, plus some of the more entertaining diversions pilots can conjure up when allowed to exercise their innate talents for such. Because of the mission, manning and reputation of the 602nd Fighter Squadron (Commando), the fixed wing portion of the Rescue Force that went after downed aircrews in Southeast Asia, the author volunteered to join and served with that unit from June 1968 to June 1969. Six months after completing his tour and returning stateside he retired from Active Duty to the family cattle ranch where his wife and children stayed during his combat tour. His youngest son insisted that he write of his experiences during that tour and this book is the result that evolved over the years. The author lives in Northern Oklahoma with his wife of 65 years, and is doing research for another, unrelated book.

As a third-class cadet at the US Air Force Academy in July of 1970, I saw the war in Vietnam as a major determinant of my future. I just did not know then what part I might play in the conflict and felt a youthful, impatient need to decide on my Air Force career so I could see myself in what looked like the war of my generation. I found my calling on a beautiful California afternoon when 22 of us cadets were treated to a ride in an HH- 53C Super Jolly Green Giant of the Air Rescue and Recovery Service, a part of the Military Airlift Command. I enjoyed the ride. I sat beside a pararescueman, or "PJ," looking out at the treetops as we skimmed along. Turns were exciting, with the crew windows open up front and the wind flowing through the cabin. Unlike the rides I had taken in fighters and bombers, I was not breathing through a rubber mask, and I felt like I was in touch with the world below-a participant instead of a spectator. Afterwards, TSgt Stu Stanaland, the PJ, explained that the pilot, Maj Marty Donohue, was one of the best in the rescue business. Months later back in school, we were all captivated by news of the attempt to rescue US prisoners of war (POW) at Son Tay in North Vietnam. When I learned that the raid had been conducted using rescue helicopters, I read all I could find about the mission. President Nixon later decorated the mission leaders, saying they had performed flawlessly and fought courageously without losing a man; and the mission had not succeeded only because of bad intelligence-the POWs had been moved from the Son Tay camp. As I watched the presentation on television, I spotted Major Donohue among the honorees. Now I was hooked. I made a career decision to fly helicopters, get into rescue, and join those guys for life. That resolution held up through my senior year when the commandant of cadets told all us prospective helicopter pilots we were making a mistake that would deny us a rewarding career. "If you become helicopter pilots, you will not be in my Air Force," he said. Still, it was what I wanted most to do and what I did. While in HH-53 transition, the most respected instructor pilot-an Air Force Cross recipient named Ben Orrell-told me rescue was a job to be proud of and that it would be sufficient in itself to make a career rewarding. Soon after, and still a second lieutenant, I flew my first combat mission-the Mayaguez recovery in 1975. We flew as wingman to another HH-53, which included Sergeant Stanaland among its crew members. I had joined those rescue guys. The years between then and now have seen many changes but almost nothing new. The rescue men-and now also women- are called to enter dangerous territory, flying low and slow, going where a usually faster, less-vulnerable aircraft has recently been shot down. Instead of having a couple of days' time to prepare and entering the mission into the air tasking order (ATO) several days prior to execution, the rescue folks go there from a "cold start" launch from alert status. They could enhance their preparation by reading the ATO and plotting where the danger areas for shoot-downs might be, but a large, complex air campaign may cover an entire country. As you may deduce from this book, a major lesson learned from Desert Storm is that making the command and control arrangements murky and time-consuming further complicates the task of air rescue. Also, they may not be adequately equipped for the mission, yet the demand for immediate, must-succeed operations remains. During the first Gulf War of 1991, air rescue was in a state of transition and largely performed by aircraft and crews assigned to special operations units.