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Black Hats and White Hats Koskinas

The Effect of Organizational Culture

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After you have read this research report, please 

give us your frank opinion on the contents. All 

comments––large or small, complimentary or 

caustic––will be gratefully appreciated. Mail them 

to CADRE/AR, Building 1400, 401 Chennault 

Circle, Maxwell AFB AL 36112–6428.

Black Hats and White Hats Koskinas

The Effect of Organizational Culture

and Institutional Identity on the

Twenty-third Air Force

Thank you for your assistance.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

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COLLEGE OF AEROSPACE DOCTRINE,

RESEARCH AND EDUCATION

AIR UNIVERSITY

Black Hats and White Hats

The Effect of Organizational Culture 

and Institutional Identity on the 

Twenty-third Air Force

Ioannis Koskinas

Lieutenant Colonel, USAF

CADRE Paper No. 24

Air University Press

Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama 36112-6615

December 2006
ii

Air University Library Cataloging Data

Koskinas, Ioannis.

Black hats and white hats : the effect of organizational culture and institutional 

identity on the twenty-third Air Force / Ioannis Koskinas.

 p. ; cm. – (CADRE paper, 1537-3371 ; 24)

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 1-58566-159-7

1. United States. Air Force. Air Force, 23rd—History. 2. United States. Air 

Force.—Reorganization. 3. United States. Air Force. Tactical Air Command—History. 

4. United States. Air Force. Military Airlift Command—History. 5. Special operations (Military science)—United States—History. 6. Search and rescue operations—

United States—History. 7. Interservice rivalry (Armed Forces)—United States. I. 

Title. II. Series. III. Air University (U.S.). College of Aerospace Doctrine, Research 

and Education.

358.4130973—dc22

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author and do not necessarily represent the views of Air University, the United States Air Force, 

the Department of Defense, or any other US government agency. Cleared for public release: 

distribution unlimited.

This CADRE Paper and others in the series are available electronically at the Air University Research Web 

site http://research.maxwell.af.mil and the AU Press 

Web site http://aupress.maxwell.af.mil.
iii

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Contents

Chapter Page

DISCLAIMER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ii

FOREWORD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

ABOUT THE AUTHOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

1 INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

2 UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL 

CULTURE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

3 HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR FORCE 

SPECIAL OPERATIONS FORCES . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

4 HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR 

RESCUE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

5 ORGANIZATIONAL CHANGE: THE RISE 

OF THE TWENTY-THIRD AIR FORCE . . . . . . . . 101

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126

6 ORGANIZATIONAL CHANGE: THE FALL 

OF THE TWENTY-THIRD AIR FORCE . . . . . . . . 137

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

7 FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

APPENDIX: DESERT ONE ANALYSIS . . . . . . . . 183

ABBREVIATIONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195

BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
Illustrations

Figure Page

1 Percent of the Department of Defense 

(DOD) budget . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

2 Gunship evolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

3 ARS/ARRS personnel assigned between 

1946 and 1981 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Tables

1 Comparison of the CSAR and AFSOF 

mission areas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84

2 ARS/ARRS commanders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

CONTENTS

vi
Foreword

On 1 March 1983, the United States Air Force activated the 

Twenty-third Air Force to consolidate the Air Force Special 

Operations Forces (AFSOF) and the Air Rescue and Recovery 

Service (ARRS). The Twenty-third Air Force’s stewardship of 

AFSOF and rescue forces lasted until 1989, when the Military 

Airlift Command separated the two communities. Although 

brief, the Twenty-third Air Force’s experience provides sufficient data for a thorough analysis of the effect of organizational 

culture and institutional agendas on the evolution of a nascent 

organization. The basic hypothesis explored in this paper is 

that organizational culture and institutional agendas significantly affected the rise and fall of the Twenty-third Air Force.

The significance of this research effort is clear considering 

the 1 October 2003 merger of Combat Search and Rescue 

(CSAR) and AFSOF under the aegis of the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC). In light of recent events, this 

study’s ultimate goal is to provide a preview of how culture may 

affect AFSOC’s endeavors to strengthen CSAR capabilities. By 

studying the past, this paper looks for glimpses into the future.

DANIEL R. MORTENSEN

Chief of Research

Airpower Research Institute, CADRE

vii

ix

About the Author

Lt Col Ioannis “Gianni” Koskinas holds a BS, University of 

Connecticut; MS, Troy State University; master of military operational art and science degree (MMOAS), Air Command and Staff 

College (ACSC); and master of strategic studies degree (MAAS), 

School of Advanced Air and Space Studies (SAASS). A military 

parachutist and a senior navigator with 128 combat hours and 

more than 2,700 hours in the AC-130U and MC-130P/N, he 

has served in numerous joint assignments, including tours 

with the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC), Fort 

Bragg, North Carolina; North Atlantic Treaty Organization’s 

Combined Air Operations Center (CAOC) 7, in Larissa, Greece; 

and as chief of the strategy-plans team, Operation Iraqi Freedom, CAOC, Al Udeid AB, Qatar. He is currently reassigned to 

JSOC. Lieutenant Colonel Koskinas is a distinguished graduate of Air Force Reserve Officer Training Corps and Squadron 

Officer School. He earned the coveted William T. Ryder award 

(top officer graduate), US Army Airborne School, Fort Benning, 

Georgia, and was a top-15-percent graduate of ACSC. Most recently, he graduated in the top 2 percent from SAASS. Lieutenant Colonel Koskinas is married and has one daughter.

xi

Acknowledgments

My first thanks go to my thesis advisor, Col Ed Westermann, 

whose literary talents have compensated for some of my writing 

shortfalls. His advice and insightful comments were always on 

target. I will not forget what he has done for me, both as my 

advisor and as a confidant. Similarly, I am forever indebted to 

LTC Harold Winton, USA, retired, for his tireless efforts to improve this product. His commitment to perfection, to this 

school, and to the country has been nothing short of inspirational. I would also like to acknowledge my “unofficial” advisor, 

Lt Col Richard “Newt” Newton, USAF, retired, from the Joint 

Special Operations University. In addition, I must highlight the 

staff of the Air Force Historical Research Agency for their incredible support and patience in the declassification of much of 

the evidence presented in this project.

Next, I must extend my deepest gratitude to those who guided 

me through the troubled waters of the Twenty-third Air Force. 

Their unique insights and keen intellects have made me work 

harder to produce a product worthy of their contributions. Most 

notably, I would like to thank Gen Paul Hester; Gen Duncan 

McNabb; Gen Norton Schwartz; Maj Gen John Folkerts; Maj 

Gen Donald Wurster; Col Mark Bracich; Maj Gen Richard 

Comer, USAF, retired; Maj Gen Robert Patterson, USAF, retired; Col Thom Beres, USAF, retired; Col Steve Connelly, USAF, 

retired; Col Kenneth Pribyla, USAF, retired; and Col John R. 

Atkins, USAF, retired, for taking time from their busy schedules 

to talk to me. Similarly, I am indebted to LTC James Corum; Col 

John Blumentritt; Col Tom Ehrhard; Lt Col Ed “Otto” Pernotto; 

Lt Col Todd Woodrick; Lt Col Robert Belomy; Col John Zahrt; 

Col Ron Dietz, USAF, retired; Col Dennis Drew, USAF, retired; 

Col Gordon “Gordy” Ettenson, USAF, retired; CMSgt Tom 

Green, USAF, retired; Lt Col John “Joe” Guilmartin, USAF, retired; Col James Kyle, USAF, retired; Lt Col David Mets, USAF, 

retired; Col Kenny Poole, USAF, retired; Col Jerry Uttaro, USAF, 

retired; and Col Gary Weikel, USAF, retired, for their advice, 

comments, and insight. 

Finally, I must offer a special thank-you to Gen Norton 

Schwartz; Brig Gen Eric Fiel; Col Tracy “Moose” Amos; Col 

Dennis Barnett, USAF, retired; and LTG Michael Canavan, 
USA, retired. Their support and mentoring throughout my career have been “above and beyond” the call. Ultimately, however, the two individuals who deserve the greatest tribute are 

my wife and daughter. I could not have done this without their 

support and patience.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

xii


Chapter 1

Introduction

The farther backward you can look, the farther forward 

you can see.

—Winston Churchill

History must be learned in pieces. . . . Assemble what 

pieces there are, contrast and compare, and try to remain 

in their presence till [you] can begin to see and hear . . . 

what living men and women once saw and heard.

—Peter Cahill

In a move to consolidate its Air Force special operations 

forces (AFSOF) and the Air Rescue and Recovery Service (ARRS), 

the United States Air Force (USAF) and the Military Airlift Command (MAC) activated the Twenty-third Air Force on 1 March 

1983. When interviewed, the former ARRS commander and 

new Twenty-third Air Force commander, Maj Gen William J. 

Mall, offered a reason behind the creation of the new numbered 

air force:

We created [the] Twenty-Third AF [Air Force] primarily to enhance the 

special operations (SOF) mission. The move capitalized on the synergism that exists between SOF and the combat rescue forces because 

their mission, training and equipment [are] very similar. . . . It makes 

sense to manage the training, tactics, maintenance, and supply from one 

headquarters. By equipping and training our forces under a common, 

event centered standard, we provide the military with the capability to 

move our forces from one mission area to another to best accomplish 

both tasks. This actually gives us more assets and greater flexibility if a 

contingency arises.1

Although this merger lasted only until 1989, the Twentythird Air Force experience provides sufficient data for a thorough 

analysis of the internal effect of organizational culture and institutional agendas. This study seeks the answer to the following 

question: how did organizational culture affect the institutional 

growth of the Twenty-third Air Force? To answer the question, 

this study explores the impact of organizational culture on the 

evolution of the ARRS and AFSOF up to 1989. By exposing the 
INTRODUCTION



reader to the effects of institutional agendas on the organizational growth of the Twenty-third Air Force, this research paper 

looks for hints into the future by studying the past.

The significance of this research effort becomes evident considering the 1 October 2003 merger of Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) and AFSOF under the auspices of the Air Force 

Special Operations Command (AFSOC).The AFSOC commander, 

Lt Gen Paul V. Hester, in a message welcoming CSAR to AFSOC, 

offered the following explanation for the merger: “The history of 

teamwork [between AFSOF and CSAR professionals] is one of 

the powerful reasons behind the realignment. Our forces use 

similar weapon systems, training and operating concepts to 

conduct personnel recovery missions. . . . Our objective is to 

improve the mission, training, equipment and career opportunities for the entire AF CSAR community. Ultimately our goal is 

to enhance AF CSAR capabilities.”2 By analyzing the Twentythird Air Force experience, this paper seeks to provide a preview of how organizational culture may affect AFSOC’s current 

endeavors to strengthen CSAR capabilities. 

Much of the evidence presented in this paper is derived from 

interviews and personal correspondence with some of the leaders who shaped the Twenty-third Air Force. Additionally, it draws 

on documents preserved at the Air Force Historical Research 

Agency (AFHRA) that were declassified specifically for this project. The research also utilizes previous School of Advanced Air 

and Space Studies (SAASS) theses and other professional military education research projects. In presenting the evidence, the 

paper intends to structure the argument in a way that documents an important segment of the CSAR and AFSOF histories, 

codifies their institutional identities, and considers the influence of their cultural biases on the Twenty-third Air Force. 

Chapter 2, “Understanding Organizational Culture,” introduces 

the reader to organizational theory and identifies some of the cultural factors that obstruct organizational change. It also codifies 

the cultural identities of the military services that have had the 

most significant influence on the organizational growth of AFSOF 

and CSAR, namely the United States Army and Air Force.3

Chapter 3, “Heritage and Culture of Air Force Special Operations Forces,” introduces the reader to the secretive world of 

USAF special operations. It traces the history of the air com-
INTRODUCTION

mandos from their early struggles to create a unique capability, 

through their ascendancy in war, and to their downward spiral 

in peacetime. It accounts for historical experiences that have 

significantly affected AFSOF’s cultural identity, which is distinct from that of the dominant Air Force tribe. It also attempts 

to draw some lessons from AFSOF’s experience and codify its 

culture on the eve of Desert One, the failed attempt to rescue 

the US hostages from Iran.4 These experiences are sometimes 

similar to and, at other times, different from those of CSAR.

Chapter 4, “Heritage and Culture of Air Rescue,” is a tale of 

two extremes. During most of their history, rescue units either 

have existed in a noncombat role in peacetime or fully combatcapable role in wartime. This chapter reviews the “rescue” heritage from its infancy in 1946 to the aftermath of the Vietnam 

War. It accounts for the distinctly different rescue experiences 

in combat and in the relatively peaceful interludes between 

wars that have shaped the character of this community. The 

chapter concludes with a review of CSAR’s post-Vietnam cultural identity. Collectively, chapters 3 and 4 provide an account 

of the AFSOF and “rescue” heritage and detail the distinct character of these communities. A thorough account of the collective heritage of the two subcultures provides the bridge between 

organizational theory and Twenty-third Air Force practice. 

Chapter 5, “Organizational Change: The Rise of the Twentythird Air Force,” examines some of the early organizational 

challenges associated with the merger of the AFSOF and “rescue” communities. It begins with early efforts to consolidate 

the USAF helicopter force under a single manager. From there, 

it briefly reviews Desert One, the most significant event of the 

1980s for AFSOF and CSAR. Additionally, the chapter evaluates various tribal reactions to Air Force transformation efforts 

by reviewing several cases in which culture, institutional agendas, and leadership affected the organizational growth of the 

Twenty-third Air Force.

Chapter 6, “Organizational Change: The Fall of the Twentythird Air Force,” analyzes the AFSOF/ARRS reactions to three 

initiatives that proved critical in the evolution of the nascent 

organization and contributed to the fall of the Twenty-third Air 

Force. In light of these proposals (initiatives 16 and 17, and 

Forward Look), the chapter investigates how institutional pri-
INTRODUCTION

orities and biases influenced the leaders charged with the task 

of integrating the two communities. Additionally, the chapter 

explores the effect of interservice friction between the Air Force’s 

priorities and those of the United States Special Operations 

Command (USSOCOM). Together, chapters 5 and 6 examine 

the reasons behind Twenty-third Air Force’s inability to balance the differing interests of its two primary constituent 

forces—CSAR and AFSOF. 

Based on the Twenty-third Air Force experience, chapter 7, 

“From the Past, the Future,” proffers possible solutions to recurring issues and tries to preclude friction by identifying cultural fault lines. Based on the evidence presented in the previous chapters, this chapter answers the thesis question and 

offers ways to improve current and future CSAR capabilities.

Notes

(All notes appear in shortened form. For full citation, see the appropriate 

entry in the bibliography.) 

1. “Major General William J. Mall, Jr.,” pp. 1–3.

2. Hester, “AFSOC Welcomes CSAR Units,” p. 2.

3. The United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM) also exerted its “service-like” influence on the Twenty-third Air Force. This entity is 

analyzed in chaps. 6 and 7.

4. Officially, the code name Rice Bowl was associated with the planning 

stages, while Eagle Claw denoted the execution phase of the attempted rescue. Unofficially, the term Desert One is colloquially used to describe the 

entire operation. The term originated from the code name assigned to the 

infamous landing zone. Chap. 5 and the appendix address this operation in 

greater detail.


Chapter 2

Understanding Organizational Culture

To point out to a person of another culture some behavior 

we might find incomprehensible risks offending that 

person. So we tolerate rather than confront culturally 

based communication breakdowns, and this makes 

matters worse because we develop a mutual fiction 

that we understand each other when in fact we don’t. 

The poor performance of many mergers . . . can often be 

explained by the failure to understand the depth of cultural misunderstanding that may be present.

—Edgar H. Schein

As in all cultures, all facts, truths, realities, beliefs and 

values are what the members agree they are—they are 

perceptions.

—J. Steven Ott

CSAR and AFSOF are but small entities in a loosely aligned 

federation of different tribes inside the United States Air Force 

and an even smaller part of an interservice struggle to advocate 

service-oriented agendas.1 This observation is the lynchpin in 

understanding the institutional reactions to the merger of the 

ARRS and AFSOF in 1983. This chapter begins with an overview of Edgar H. Schein’s theory on organizational culture and 

an analysis of Warren G. Bennis’s ideas on the cultural factors 

that obstruct organizational change. This segment defines culture, establishes a link between culture and leadership, analyzes this interaction in different stages of organizational development, examines cultural factors that obstruct organizational 

change, and identifies challenges to organizational mergers. 

The majority of the chapter, however, evaluates the cultural 

identities of the military services that have had the most significant effect on CSAR and AFSOF, namely the Army and the 

Air Force.
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE



Organizational Culture Theory: 

A Conceptual Base

Throughout the twentieth century, organizational theorists 

and management experts have searched for a better understanding of the inner workings of institutions. The already sizeable and still growing body of literature offers many working 

definitions of organizational culture.2 An analysis of several 

models of organizational theory reveals certain similarities that 

are perhaps best summarized by Schein’s theorem on institutional identity. 

Schein describes culture as “a pattern of shared basic assumptions that the group learned as it solved its problems of 

external adaptation and internal integration, that has worked 

well enough to be considered valid and, therefore, to be taught 

to new members as the correct way to perceive, think, and feel 

in relation to those problems.” He bases his definition on the 

premise that “certain things in groups are shared or held in 

common,” suggesting that culture “is not only shared but deep 

and stable.”3 To clarify, Schein sees the commonalities that 

bind groups into a coherent whole as the essence of culture. 

Another organizational theorist, Ralph Kilmann, argues, “The 

real power of culture resides in the tacit assumptions that 

underlie it. These habitual ways of seeing and thinking about 

the world are like automatic pilots. They are powerful because 

people rarely think about them, though they influence almost 

everything people do.”4 Although Schein agrees that the integration of values, climate, rituals, and patterns of behavior defines a group’s culture and thus, over time, defines the group’s 

organizational culture, he views leadership as providing “the 

attitude and motivation” behind culture. Schein argues that 

perhaps the most important factor in the development of institutional identity is leadership: leaders have a significant influence on an organization as it develops through the different 

stages of organizational development, namely from infancy, 

through midlife, and to maturity.5

In the early stages of institutional growth, Schein suggests 

that leaders must “recognize their own role not only in creating 

the culture but also their responsibility in embedding and developing culture.” By emphasizing the influence of leadership 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE



on the process of culture creation, he argues that leaders can 

become more aware of the impact of “their own assumptions 

about what is right and proper, how the world works, and how 

things should be done” on various enterprises.6

In the organizational midlife phase, institutional identity is 

firmly established. Hence, Schein proposes that “culture becomes more of a cause than an effect. . . . Because culture 

serves an important anxiety-reducing function, members cling 

to it even if it becomes dysfunctional in relationship to environmental opportunities and constraints.” In response, midlife 

leaders must distinguish between cultural assumptions that 

promote institutional health and those that hinder the organization’s capacity to accomplish its mission. According to Schein, 

successful leaders must be able to recognize the influence of 

organizational subcultures. Additionally, culture becomes less 

tied to the leader’s personality and perhaps more influenced by 

what Schein calls “sacred cows [and] holdovers from the founding period.”7

In Schein’s schema, the final stage of organizational development occurs when an organization, bound together by a strong 

unifying culture, matures to a point that “culture now defines 

what is to be thought of as leadership . . . and how authority 

and power are to be allocated and managed.” In this stage, culture may blindly perpetuate itself and in effect resist adaptation to new environmental realities. He maintains that a leader 

must evaluate the cultural assumptions that bind an organization to a particular behavior pattern and, if necessary, initiate 

a transformation process based on a new set of alternative assumptions. Although some of these leaders may come from 

within the organization, Schein offers that “formally designated 

senior managers of a given organization may not be willing or 

able to provide such culture change leadership.” Accordingly, 

the theorist suggests that “leadership then may have to come 

from other boundary spanners in the organization or from outsiders. . . . [This outsider] first learns what the present state of 

the culture is; unfreezes, redefines and changes it; and then 

refreezes the new assumptions.”8

Bennis builds on Schein’s ideas but takes a more pessimistic 

approach to organizational culture. He argues that an “unconscious conspiracy in contemporary society prevents leaders 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

from taking charge and making changes.” According to Bennis, 

within any institution, “an entrenched bureaucracy with a 

commitment to the status quo undermines the unwary leader.” 

Partly to blame for this phenomenon are social forces that reflect a friction between common good and individual rights that 

oppose a leader’s desire to take charge of an organization and 

effect change—especially during turbulent times such as organizational mergers. Bennis offers a way to “counter the turmoil 

and inertia that threaten the best laid plans”: effective leadership that empowers an organization to create a system that 

facilitates a leader’s vision rather than “being preoccupied with 

checks and controls of people who want to beat or exploit the 

system.”9 In the end, both Bennis and Schein agree that organizational culture and leadership are equally important in determining the effectiveness of an institution. This is particularly true when considering the turbulent environment of 

organizational mergers. 

Although most material on organizational fusions and acquisitions is focused on business dealings, Schein’s approach to 

this specialized area has significant transfer value to military 

mergers. He argues that leaders initiate mergers in order to 

make the resulting organization more competitive. Leaders, 

however, have a natural propensity to ignore the cultural aspects of such restructuring until after the merger is under way. 

In fact, he suggests that “most leaders make the assumption 

that they can fix cultural problems after the fact.” To the contrary, Schein contends “that leaders must make cultural analysis as central to the initial merger/acquisition decision as is 

the financial, product, or market analysis. . . . Leaders must 

understand their own culture well enough to be able to detect 

where there are potential incompatibilities with the culture of 

the other organization.” Beyond a thorough cultural analysis of 

the organizations, leaders must communicate the potential 

synergies, conflict areas, and other cultural realities to all those 

involved in the decision process. Ultimately, Schein warns 

against getting “caught up in the political processes that prevent the cultural realities from being addressed until after the 

key decisions have been made.”10

 Transitioning to military-specific organizations, the next 

section deals with the interservice and intraservice cultural dif-
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

ferences that had an effect on the evolution of Air Force combat 

rescue (CR) and SOF. Identifying the cultural realities that influenced the organizational development of CSAR and AFSOF 

is a prerequisite to gaining a better understanding of the heritage of these two Air Force subcultures.

Military Service Culture: 

The Masks of War

Carl H. Builder argues that “like all individuals and durable 

groups, the military services have acquired personalities of 

their own that are shaped by their experiences and that, in 

turn, shape their behavior.” He elaborates that “it is one step to 

attribute a personality to an institution; it is an even larger step 

to imbue that personality with motives.” This study maintains 

that Builder’s approach has shortcomings; nevertheless, he 

succeeds in taking the complex concept of service culture and 

extracting the fundamental servicecentric ideas. These are 

ideas, according to Builder, which have “become so familiar as 

to be hidden from view.” In effect, Builder is able to see past the 

facade that services use “to screen some of their motives or 

self-interests: the masks of war” and hypothesizes that by becoming aware of a service’s culture, one can “understand the 

past, present, and future behavior of the services.”11

Understanding the personality of the Air Force and Army is a 

prerequisite to gaining an appreciation of the institutional assumptions that have perpetuated a consistent aversion towards 

maintaining robust CSAR and AFSOF capabilities during 

peacetime. Deciphering certain cultural assumptions can help 

break the cycle of Air Force abuse of CSAR and AFSOF in the 

immediate aftermath of war. This way, the Air Force may not 

have to recreate capabilities and, in effect, reinvent these organizations once emergencies occur. 

The following analysis of service identities is limited to the 

Army and the Air Force because of their overwhelming and recurring influence on the CSAR and AFSOF communities.12 This 

study follows Builder’s method of analysis by examining five 

areas that purposefully hope to reveal differences between the 

two services: altars of worship, concerns with self-measurement, 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

10

preoccupation with “toys versus the arts,” insecurities about 

service legitimacy and relevancy, and the influence of intraservice distinctions among elites and subgroups.13

Altars of Worship

The term altar of worship refers to the principle or ideal that 

each service treasures the most. Builder offers a few examples: 

“for the knights of old, the altar might be the code of chivalry. 

For the hippies or flower children of the 1960s, it might be 

love.”14 At the most basic level, the Army sees itself as the service that most identifies with the American citizenry.15 According to Builder, “if the Army worships at an altar, the object 

worshiped is the country; and the means of worship are service.”16 This conviction is deeply embedded in the US Army 

psyche. For example, the 1981 edition of Field Manual (FM) 

100-1, The Army, states that “the Army ethic must strive to set 

the institution of the Army and its purpose in proper context—

that of service to the larger institution of the nation, and fully 

responsive to the needs of the people.”17 Although one could 

make the same argument for all the other services, what makes 

the Army unique is that it sees itself as the most faithful servant of the people of this country.18 Essentially, intensity of 

outward expression of service beliefs is just as important as the 

substance of the institutional self-perception.

Most observers readily accept Builder’s argument that the US 

Air Force worships at the altar of technology—“[the USAF] has 

identified itself with the air weapon, and rooted itself in a commitment to technological superiority.”19 He observes that, unfortunately, “the dark side of this commitment is that it becomes 

transformed into an end in itself when aircraft or systems, rather 

than missions, become the primary focus.”20 To early airpower 

advocates, the airplane was the ultimate manifestation of the 

gifts of technology.21 After all, technology helped to secure the 

Air Force’s independence from the US Army in 1947.

22 But the 

USAF fascination with technology does not stop with the airplane, its most recognizable artifact. The Air Force has demonstrated its affinity to technology in the way it has nurtured highly 

technical mission areas such as the use of space.23
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

11

Although Builder’s argument focuses on the negative aspects 

of the Air Force’s fascination with technology, there are some 

practical reasons for the USAF affinity that Builder ignores. For 

example, flight operations require a more technically capable 

force than do terrestrial activities. Although all the armed services have an aviation component, the Air Force has the preponderance of aviation assets, and, thus, its culture is more 

influenced by technology than that of the other services. As a 

result, the support personnel that make up more than 80 percent of the Air Force population are more technically capable 

than the corresponding support force in the other services.24

As later chapters show, CSAR and AFSOF personnel represent a curious blend of the Army and Air Force altars of worship. Although influenced by the greater Air Force fascination 

with technology, the CSAR and AFSOF communities are heavily 

affected by a profound identification with their unique specialization. CSAR forces worship at the altar of altruistic sacrifice 

embodied in their motto “that others may live.”25 AFSOF worships at the altars of mystery and secrecy. Fighting the nation’s 

wars in the shadows, as embodied in their motto “the quiet 

professionals,” has deeply affected AFSOF personnel.

Measuring Themselves: Institutional Standard of Health

When considering institutional health, one quickly realizes 

the importance of the budget. Arnold Kanter advocates that 

“for the military services, the size of their budgets—both absolutely and relative to those of the other services—is the measure of organizational success.”26 Considering that the service 

shares of the budget have remained remarkably stable over the 

past 40 plus years (fig. 1), however, one must search deeper in 

order to distinguish how each service measures itself and how 

important these measurements are to them.27

The salient measure of the Army’s ability to fight and win the 

nation’s wars is focused on the common soldier and the size of 

the force, argues Builder.28 In support of this argument, Harold R. 

Winton, a professor at SAASS and a retired Army officer, observes, “To most Army officers it is axiomatic that ground soldiers with weapons decide the outcome of any war.”29 According to Builder, the Army’s emphasis on numbers of troops 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

12

should not come as a surprise because the Army’s “combat 

success is traditionally measured in the taking and controlling 

of territory. . . . The controlling (secure occupation) of territory 

remains a task mostly for people—lots of them. . . . [Therefore] 

when the Army does talk about its size, it tends to be in terms 

of people, not equipment.”30

Almost entirely antithetical to the Army’s position, the Air 

Force has an institutional craving for newer and more technologically advanced equipment.31 According to Mike Worden, this 

obsession with technology was quite specific. He points out 

that, even in its infancy as a service, “the Air Force funneled 

most of its research and development funds towards making 

bigger airplanes fly faster, higher, and farther at a time when 

many in the Army and a few in the Air Force were calling for 

Figure 1. Percent of the Department of Defense (DOD) budget. Regarding 

the military services, the trend for over 40 years has remained approximately 

the same: Army 25 percent, Air Force 30 percent, Navy 30 percent. (Reprinted from “Budgets,” USAF Almanac 2003, Air Force Magazine Online [May 

2003], p. 77.)










































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UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

13

alternative technologies as well as smaller airplanes that flew 

slower, lower, and closer.”32 As a result, the Air Force measures 

itself more in terms of aircraft (technological) superiority than 

the actual number of available aircraft (quality over quantity).33

Builder provides the perfect example of the quality-overquantity preference when he suggests that “the Air Force does 

not lament the size of its bomber force so much as it does the age 

of its B-52s. . . . [USAF] concern about self-measurement becomes 

acute only if its qualitative superiority is threatened. . . . To be 

outnumbered may be tolerable, to be outflown [sic] is not.”34

Later chapters demonstrate that the CSAR and AFSOF communities measure their institutional health in a way that blends 

the Army and Air Force positions. As in Army studies, an examination of CSAR and AFSOF culture suggests that humans 

are more important than hardware. But in accordance with the 

Air Force measurement of institutional health, the CSAR and 

AFSOF communities prefer quality to quantity.

Toys versus the Arts: Institutional Preoccupation

Each service puts a different emphasis on its equipment 

and/or its basic skills as soldiers, Airmen, sailors, or marines. 

The Army and Air Force offer polar comparisons of this phenomenon. The Army has historically preferred basic soldiering 

skills over equipment.35 In support of this assertion, Builder 

notes that “[an Army artilleryman’s] pride is in the art of laying 

a battery of guns for accurate fire. The kind of gun . . . is incidental; the power and satisfaction is in the knowledge and skills 

required to do something that is more important and general to 

warfare.” At the same time, he qualifies his statement by suggesting that, in the 1980s, “the Army seems to be moving towards the other services in an attachment to machines. . . . The 

Army is getting hooked on toys too.” Builder attributes this 

shift in emphasis partially to the rapid technological changes 

confronting the post-Vietnam-era Army. He also suggests that 

the Army’s desire to increase its budget slice in “a toy-oriented 

defense program” has played an increasingly decisive role in 

Army procurement strategy.36

Still, the Army is not as preoccupied with equipment as is 

the Air Force.37 According to William C. Thomas, “the USAF 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

14

fascination with machines breeds a tendency toward occupationalism.”38 Builder expounds on Thomas’s observation by 

suggesting that when it comes to the Air Force’s raison d’être 

(i.e., flying airplanes), “Air Force pilots often identify themselves 

with an airplane: I’m a [C-] 141 driver. . . . I flew buffs,” and 

warns that the affinity towards occupationalism may lead to 

extremes. The danger exists, he speculates, when the pride of 

association with a particular aircraft or occupational code overshadows loyalty to the institution. Then, he argues, “If the machines were somehow moved en masse to another institution, 

the loyalty would be to the airplanes (or missiles).”39 This assertion is not that far-fetched when one considers early Air Force 

history. After all, aviators such as Billy Mitchell and his disciples 

saw themselves as pilots first and Army officers second.40

One notable variation of the Air Force tendency towards 

occupationalism exists in special mission units such as CSAR 

and AFSOF. These are small communities with a strong sense 

of mission that have retained the Air Force’s traditional fascination with particular aircraft but have developed a very narrow focus. CSAR and AFSOF operational capabilities and missions are unique and, therefore, are distinguished from their 

mainstream Air Force counterparts. In that sense, these two 

communities tend to identify with their special missions as well 

as their particular weapon system. Because of their relatively 

small size and the high-risk/high-gain types of missions assigned to the two communities, their institutional histories have 

played a significant role in their organizational development.

According to Col Ken Pribyla, USAF, retired, former director 

of operations for the ARRS, “in every unit that wore the rescue 

patch and especially the units that were designated as ARRS’s, 

the heroics were constantly reiterated . . . splashed in magazines to remind all.”41 Pribyla’s comment hints of the emotional 

attachment to the “rescue” mission. Besides their institutional 

identity with their collective past, however, rescue personnel 

also tend to relate heavily to their particular aircraft. As Lt Col 

John F. Guilmartin, USAF, retired, a distinguished historian and 

former rescue pilot, notes, “Flying the H-53 [rescue helicopter] 

was like a passionate love affair with a beautiful nymphomaniac 

with a nasty temper and a black belt in karate: there were times 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

15

when it was lots of fun, and there were times when it scared the 

hell out of you; it always had your attention.”42

Similarly, AFSOF personnel tend to identify both with their 

mission and their aircraft. For example, Col Billy Napier, USAF, 

retired, a longtime gunship aviator, argues that the designation 

“special operator” relates to both the air support to customers 

such as Army Rangers and special forces, as well as to the specialized aircraft that air commandos fly.43 This camaraderie 

with their customer has colored the gunship identity perhaps 

more than the tendency to associate with a particular airplane 

(e.g., AC-47, AC-130A, etc.). Col Gordon F. Bradburn, a former 

commander of the 14th Air Commando Wing (ACW) in Southeast Asia, supports Napier’s observations. In the official history 

of the 14th ACW, Bradburn noted, “I think we’re going to find 

that the 14th Air Commando Squadron is the greatest thing 

since sex, so far as protecting a base is concerned.”44

Col Thomas Beres, USAF, retired, an MC-130E navigator who 

participated in the 1980 attempt to rescue the American hostages from Iran, gives this colorful description of the “Talon” culture in the late 1970s: “In MC-130s you had no, none, zip, nada, 

MAJCOM [major command] identity, only an aircraft identity, 

MC-130s Combat Talons, but, if you liked to be a part of a close 

crew flying un­attached around the world doing a neat mission, 

the MC-130 was for you! We knew we were doing things no one 

else in the world was doing with C-130s. That was what made us 

special, not that we were in something called special operations” 

(emphasis in original). He also suggests that the Talon community attracted a particular kind of crewmember, in that what newcomers to the units “were made to realize was that: if you wanted 

a career you should not be in MC-130s! You should go into MAC 

C-130s or better yet C-141s or C-5s or anything else that either 

TAC [Tactical Air Command] or MAC had since they had a career 

track. . . . Because we did not have a good career track we either 

got folks who loved independence and the mission or cast offs 

from TAC and MAC” (emphasis in original).45 As the next chapter 

will demonstrate, these observations on career progression, or 

lack thereof, were representative of the whole AFSOF community. But in the end, as was the case with their parent service, 

the collage of AFSOF subcultures—Spectre, Talon, and Pavelow 

mafias—has been deeply wedded to specific airframes.
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

16

Institutional Legitimacy and the Struggle for Relevancy

Builder defines institutional legitimacy as “the confidence of 

the service in its rightful independent status” and relevance as 

“the persistence of [a service’s] missions and capabilities.” Of 

all the services, the Army is most secure in its absolute organizational legitimacy and continuing relevance. As Builder points 

out, the Army has remained resolute in its idea that “there may 

be air campaigns and support from the sea, but in the end, 

someone [had] to take and hold the ground.”46 In effect, the 

Army is confident that the other services exist to support the 

ground-force commander.47

For example, in the aftermath of the Vietnam War and with a 

clear and present danger of a Warsaw Pact invasion in Europe, 

the Army realized that it could not win the ground battle without help from the Air Force.48 Particularly in the 1970s and 

1980s, the Army developed an increasingly disproportionate 

dependence on USAF support on the battlefield. Expounding 

on Builder’s ideas, Winton suggests that although Airmen depend upon soldiers to protect them from the enemy, this reliance is not as strong as the soldiers’ reliance on air support: 

“The asymmetry of this dependence lies at the root of many of 

the tensions that exist between the Army and the Air Force regarding air-ground operations.”49

The Air Force, conditioned by its early experience under the 

control of the Army, although confident of its relevance, has 

displayed an attitude of insecurity regarding its institutional 

legitimacy. Even though its fight for autonomy officially ended 

in 1947 with its establishment as an independent service, it 

took a long time for the Air Force to come to terms with the 

concept of organic air support embedded in the sea and land 

services.50 For instance, the Air Force has always been uneasy 

about the Navy’s ability to retain, rely upon, and control organic aviation support. To the Air Force, the naval arrangement creates a dangerous precedent. If the Navy controls aviation in support of naval operations, why should the Army not 

control aviation support for ground operations?51 In fact, one 

hypothesis for the Army’s motivation behind the creation of attack aviation was the “Army mistrust of the Air Force’s ability 

to provide badly needed Close Air Support (CAS).”52 As Builder 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

17

suggests, the Air Force’s “legitimacy as an independent, autonomous institution still rests on the decisive and independent 

nature of the air war. Support of the ground troops and interdiction . . . may be the ultimate ends, but the means to those 

ends is success in waging the air war and that is the true business of the Air Force.”53

By the 1950s, Air Force relevance was defined in terms of 

deterrence and readiness. Gen Curtis E. LeMay, one of the most 

influential USAF leaders of the 1950s and early 1960s, made it 

clear that the mission of the Air Force was to deter war by 

“maintaining general aerospace supremacy” and if deterrence 

failed, “to repel and defeat the aggressor’s forces.” His reason 

for maintaining a strong Air Force was “to respond to any kind 

of military challenge the Communists may make.”54 The pervasiveness of the deterrence mission in all aspects of Air Force 

thinking is clearly annotated: Air Force leaders must understand their “responsibility to further the mission of deterrence 

and readiness” (emphasis in original).55 Shannon Brown suggests that the Vietnam experience helped dislodge the Air Force 

from this single-minded approach to Air Force legitimacy and 

relevance, convincingly arguing that “competing operational 

missions clearly were eroding the deterrence mission that had 

served as a touchstone for basic Air Force leadership doctrine 

for over a decade.”56

Eventually, as the Air Force matured as a service, it became 

more confident and secure in its role as an equal partner to the 

other services.57 An example of this evolution is the Army and 

Air Force commonality of purpose associated with the AirLand 

Battle doctrine of the post-Vietnam era. At the time, like the 

Army, the Air Force was increasingly concerned with the possibility of a Warsaw Pact invasion of Western Europe. The Army 

and Air Force cemented a symbiotic partnership that dictated 

their force-structure initiatives in the 1980s due to the Soviet 

threat, as well as the lessons gleaned from the 1973 Arab-Israeli 

War: “the clarity of the Army’s vision” of how the United States 

would fight a future war, and the close cooperation between the 

chiefs of the two services.58 For example, in the 1970s and 

1980s, the Air Force remained marginally sensitive about its 

legitimacy as an independent service and remained supremely 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

18

confident of its relevance and its ability to produce decisive results in war.59

In terms of organizational relevance, CSAR and AFSOF subcultures did not fit either the USAF deterrence model of the 

1950s and early 1960s or the Army-devised AirLand Battle 

doctrine of the 1980s. The rescue and special operations Air 

Force subcultures have had to exist within the deterrence and 

AirLand Battle worlds, but never played a significant role in the 

mainstream Army and Air Force missions. CSAR forces have 

struggled to justify their existence in peacetime. In limited wars 

like Korea and Vietnam, rescue forces proved extremely valuable. For example, Earl Tilford remarks, “As the [Vietnam] war 

dragged on, the cost in aircraft and aircrews rose and the rescue of aircrew members became even more crucial.”60 But in 

peacetime, CSAR did not compete well with USAF institutional 

priorities such as deterrence and AirLand Battle doctrines.

Like CSAR forces, AFSOF was not an Air Force organizational 

priority. In fact, both the Air Force and Army looked down upon 

their respective special forces. Or as Susan Marquis puts it, 

“Special Forces were generally regarded by their conventional 

leadership as something to be tolerated, an assignment to fill in 

the time between serious conventional assignments.”61 As a 

consequence, the AFSOF and CSAR communities have evolved 

along different paths from those of conventional US military 

culture. Ultimately, beyond the interservice issues that affected 

the evolution of the Army and Air Force cultures, several intraservice issues equally impacted the institutional identities of 

each service and resulted in a change of organizational focus.

Intraservice Distinctions: 

The Stratification of Subgroup Culture

Builder, Worden, and others contend that intraservice distinctions, particularly among officers, are based on one’s specialty and occupation. Builder suggests that the Army and Air 

Force are “quite similar in their intra-service distinctions. . . . 

Both have divided their officers into two groups that stand on 

different levels . . . a two-caste system of status.” He contends 

that in the Army, the split is between “the traditional combat 

arms (e.g., infantry, artillery, and armor) and all others, who 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

19

are seen in support roles to the combat arms.” In the Air Force, 

Builder argues, “the division is between pilots and all others.”62

The service elites who rise to the top of their respective services dictate which “tribe” controls the destiny of the institution. This statement is important in understanding the stratification of different subgroups inside an institution and the 

influence they may exert over the organization’s destiny. According to Builder, the combat-arms branches have controlled 

the direction of the Army.63 Schein calls this the “line of succession.”64 Paradoxically, Army branch distinctions do not have an 

outright effect on promotion opportunities and power within 

the service.65 Kanter clarifies this assertion further by noting, 

“It is perhaps symptomatic of the relatively low salience of intraArmy cleavages that when Army officers are promoted to flag 

grade, they remove their branch insignia from their uniforms.”66

As mentioned earlier, the Air Force intraservice distinctions 

are primarily associated with a system that distinguishes between pilots and others. More important to this study, however, 

is a deeper understanding of the Air Force’s caste system that 

creates dominant clans within tribes. The most extreme, and 

thus most emblematic, example of Air Force tribalism is the 

changing of the guard between bomber and fighter pilots in the 

years between the Vietnam War and Operation Desert Storm. 

Until 1960 Strategic Air Command (SAC), charged with the ultimate mission of delivering atomic weapons to the enemy’s heartland, had the greater part of the military budget.67 General 

LeMay, commander of SAC (1947–53), used to say, “Flying fighters 

is fun. . . . Flying bombers is important.”68 The Vietnam experience influenced the professional and intellectual growth of the 

generals who would lead the USAF in the 1980s and beyond. 

Simply put, the formative experiences of the USAF officer corps 

in Vietnam led to a leadership transformation within the USAF.69

This change in leadership affected the way the USAF conducted business in the 1980s, and arguably still influences Air 

Force behavior.70 A new outlook on joint warfare accompanied 

Air Force leadership’s changing of the guard from “bomber barons” to “fighter mafia.” The new leaders were used to supporting ground operations and, therefore, were not as adverse to a 

new concept of aerial warfare that supported the Army’s AirLand Battle doctrine. When Charles A. Gabriel became the first 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

20

fighter pilot chief of staff of the Air Force (CSAF) since Gen Hoyt 

S. Vandenberg, he initiated a paradigm shift in the USAF organizational focus.71 As Bruce Danskine argues, “warfighting, rather 

than deterrence, became the priority.”72 This initiative became 

the sine qua non of the Army and Air Force partnership in 

the 1970s and 1980s. But more importantly, Army doctrine 

heavily influenced the way the Air Force shaped its force to 

fight the next war. 

Air Force doctrine describes and guides the institutionally 

accepted use of air and space forces in war.73 Danskine argues 

that as USAF doctrine evolves, it reflects changes in tribal preeminence. His analysis clearly makes the connection between 

tribal supremacy and the establishment of budget priorities. 

For over three decades, SAC’s mission was the cornerstone of 

Air Force doctrine; thus, the ruling hegemon received the lion’s 

share of the budget. Danskine suggests that “as doctrine focused 

more on limited warfare, fighter tribe generals came into power. 

Budget spending favored tactical weapon systems.”74 So we see 

that AirLand Battle doctrine not only affected Air Force doctrine, but also influenced the USAF budget.75

Builder argues that, in contrast to the Army combat arms 

that reflect “a brotherhood of guilds” which acknowledge “their 

interdependence and pay tribute to their siblings,” the Air Force 

elites are more apt to believe that they can “get the job done 

largely on their own.”76 Col Tom Ehrhard, a professor at SAASS, 

attributes the Army and Air Force institutional behavior to the 

predominant leadership styles adopted by the two services. He 

suggests that the Army operates under a “feudal system,” whereas 

the Air Force prefers a “monarchic” style of leadership.77

Ehrhard agrees with Builder that the Army senior leadership 

has habitually made decisions based on consensus. The Air 

Force has charted its institutional course according to the 

dominant tribe in power. This distinction is crucial when one 

considers the way the USAF elites (first bomber and then fighter 

pilots) have treated culturally diverse communities such as 

CSAR and AFSOF throughout the years. Since the Air Force 

chief of staff (the monarch) has always risen through the ranks 

of the dominant tribe that controlled this branch, its leadership 

considered CSAR and AFSOF combat supporters and, as such, 

more often as an afterthought than a priority.78 The heritage of 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

21

these two communities suggests that they are not part of the 

core institutional vision of the dominant Air Force subgroups—

bombers and fighters. Therefore, it should come as no surprise 

that neither CSAR nor AFSOF have rated high in USAF organizational priorities throughout their distinguished histories. 

These ideas are further developed in following chapters, but 

by now the reader should have a better appreciation of USAF 

organizational culture. Beyond interservice cultural cleavages, 

Kanter fittingly observes that “each of the services is itself a 

complex organization composed of numerous subsidiary units 

and components.”79 Additionally, as Ehrhard aptly concludes, 

“The Air Force’s centralized power structure . . . [led] to rigidities 

not conducive to the development of innovation except during 

the period of fighter-bomber conflict. . . . The Air Force required 

external agencies (namely the [National Reconnaissance Office] 

and [Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency]) for innovative development during its monarchic stages, but also had a 

great capacity for innovation when backed by powerful chiefs of 

staff.”80 In the context of this paper, the United States Special 

Operations Command (SOC) played a significant role in AFSOF’s 

cultural development in the 1980s. 

It appears, then, that organizational culture matters. It affects institutional identity, growth, and leadership dynamics. 

As Schein contends, culture establishes the paradigm of basic 

assumptions that defines institutional identity; over time, this 

pattern shapes what the organization considers as “right and 

proper, how the world works, and how things are done.”81

Blending Schein’s ideas on organizational culture with Builder’s 

propositions on Air Force and Army motives and self-interests, 

this chapter has explored service culture. Only when armed with 

a better understanding of generic intraservice and interservice 

cultural differences that color the growth of combat rescue and 

SOF can the reader begin to understand the impact of culture 

on the organizational development of these two communities. 

This chapter has also introduced the concept that AFSOF 

and CSAR forces are two minor mission areas within a loosely 

aligned federation of different tribes inside the Air Force. “Each 

service,” Stephen Rosen argues, “is far from monolithic. . . . 

[They are] complex political communities.”82 Within the Air 

Force, the dominant tribes have been first the bomber and then 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

22

the fighter communities. Throughout their organizational growth, 

the AFSOF and CSAR secondary subcultures have struggled 

for survival within a service that has advocated dominant tribeoriented agendas. Although this chapter makes the organizational development of AFSOF and CSAR appear homogeneous, 

we must more deeply analyze their histories before addressing 

one of the most significant phases of their developmental process—the Twenty-third Air Force experience. The cultural identities of the AFSOF and CSAR cannot be derived from generic 

intraservice discussions. On the contrary, in order to better 

understand these communities, one must examine them in the 

context of their historical experiences.

Notes

1. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 378. The term tribe is interchangeable with subcultural groups, but denotes that kinship rather than formal 

ties bonds the members of the tribe. Schein suggests that leaders tend to 

ensure that their successors keep the culture in “an appropriate direction.”

2. Morgan, Images of Organization, p. 397. Morgan borrows from Kroeber 

and Kluckhohn to make this point. In Culture, their classic work on the meaning and use of culture within the social sciences, these two authors identify 

almost 300 definitions and provide a detailed analysis for 164 of the 300.

3. Schein, Organizational Culture, pp. 8, 10, 12; Ott, Organizational Culture 

Perspective, pp. 50–51; Pacanowsky and O’Donnell-Trujillo, “Organizational 

Communication,” p. 50; Dennison, Corporate Culture, p. 2; and Peters and 

Waterman, In Search of Excellence. In terms of other organizational models, 

this author summarizes the research as follows: Morgan, in Images of Organization, describes culture as shared meaning, shared understanding, and 

shared sense making, “an active living phenomenon through which people 

jointly create and recreate the worlds in which they live” (pp. 141–42). Ott 

takes a similar approach to Morgan’s and posits that organizational culture 

is a dynamic, evolving concept rather than a static “thing” that can be discovered and analyzed through empirical research (pp. 50–51). Pacanowsky and 

O’Donnell-Trujillo go as far as to suggest that “organizational culture is not 

just another piece of the puzzle, it is the puzzle.” From their point of view, “a 

culture is not something an organization has; a culture is something an organization is” (p. 50). Dennison, on the other hand, takes a much more practical approach when he posits that “culture refers to the underlying values, 

beliefs, and principles that serve as the foundation for an organization’s management system as well as the set of management practices and behaviors 

that both exemplify and reinforce those basic principles” (p. 2). For a listing 

of the elements of organizational culture see figure 3-1 in Ott, p. 53.

4. Kilmann, Saxton, and Serpa, Gaining Control of the Corporate Culture, 

pp. 267–68. Kilmann argues that the term culture refers to the “conclusions 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

23

a group of people draws from its experience . . . what people believe about 

what works and what does not . . . ranging from conventional practices, to 

values, to assumptions.” Ibid.

5. Schein, Organizational Culture, pp. 10, 377.

6. Ibid., pp. 376–77.

7. Ibid., pp. 377–78.

8. Ibid., pp. 379–80.

9. Bennis, “Why Leaders Can’t Lead,” pp. 220–27.10. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 385.

11. Builder, Masks of War, pp. ix, 7, 8, 10, 12, 14. Builder admits that, 

“even for individuals, personality sketches can be misdrawn; the discernment of personality remains an art, not a science” (p. 8). Additionally, he argues that institutions, which are usually made up of a large number of individuals, are more complex than the sum of the members of the organization. 

In the end, as former senator Sam Nunn argues, “Builder provides us with a 

better understanding of some of these key national security institutions—the 

American military services” (p. ix). Note that Builder makes the distinction 

that while the institutions hold up the mask of war to cover the pursuit of 

service interests, the warriors within the services do not hide behind any 

masks (p. 14).

12. If the author (Koskinas) has been successful, the link between USAF 

and United States Army (USA) influence on CSAR and AFSOF will be established in the CSAR and AFSOF heritage chapters.

13. The “five faces of the service personalities” are first introduced in 

Builder, Masks of War, p. 17.

14. Ibid., p. 18.

15. Palmer, 25-Year War, p. 209. Builder suggests that “evidence of the 

Army’s roots in the citizenry is to be found in its composition—over a third of 

the Army’s force structure (as measured in divisions) is vested in National 

Guard units.” Builder, Masks of War, p. 209n8.

16. Builder, Masks of War, p. 18.

17. Army Field Manual (FM) 100-1, The Army, 14 August 1981, p. 24. For 

further evidence of the lasting relevance of these concepts, see FM-1, The 

Army, 14 June 2001, chaps. 1 and 5. According to the latest version of the 

document, “the Army’s nonnegotiable contract with the American people is to 

fight and win our Nation’s wars. . . . The Army’s purpose is to serve the 

American people, protect enduring national interests, and fulfill national military responsibilities” (ibid., p. 1).

18. Builder, Masks of War, p. 20. For more examples of what the Army 

thinks of itself, see The Army, FM 100-1, 29 Sept. 1978, p. I; and The Army, 

FM 100-1, 14 Aug. 1981, p. 24.

19. Builder, Icarus Syndrome, p. 6.

20. Ibid.

21. Builder, Masks of War, p. 19.

22. This relates to aircraft as instruments of war and, more specifically, 

the strategic-bombing mission.
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

24

23. Builder, Masks of War, p. 19. For more on the militarization of space 

and further examples of the USAF’s adoration of technology, see Hays et al., 

“Spacepower for a New Millennium”; and Lambeth, Mastering the Ultimate 

High Ground.

24. Ehrhard, “Armed Services and Innovation,” pp. 7–8, 23. He argues 

that due to the practical requirements of the profession, Air Force enlisted 

personnel are typically more educated and technically capable than the enlisted force of the other three services and stay in the service longer. For instance, 79 percent of Air Force enlisted members have college experience, 

compared to 3 percent in the Marine Corps, 5 percent in the Navy, and 10 

percent in the Army.

25. Discussed in great detail in chap. 3.

26. Kanter, Defense Politics, p. 8.

27. Ibid., p. 18.

28. Builder, Masks of War, p. 22. He expands on this subject by suggesting that other quantitative measurements, such as the number of active divisions, are often considered alternative indicators of the Army’s health status.

29. Winton, “Ambivalent Partnership,” p. 401.

30. Builder, Masks of War, pp. 22, 210n17. In this context, Builder draws 

a parallel with the Central European “Fulda Gap” model. In terms of force 

structure, the Army liked the idea of fighting a war in Central Europe. It 

promised to be the largest land war in which the United States might conceivably take part. For more reasons, see p. 142.

31. Ibid., p. 21.

32. Worden, Rise of the Fighter Generals, p. 37. See also Caddell, “Orphan 

of Unification,” pp. 303–6. According to Caddell, the Air Force’s narrow focus 

on strategic bombing hampered the development of “rocket/missile technologies, drones, transport, and fighter-bomber aircraft” (p. 306).

33. Builder, Masks of War, p. 21. See also Smith, “Air Force Culture and 

Cohesion,” p. 44.

34. Builder, Masks of War, p. 22.

35. Ibid., p. 24; see also Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 70–71. Chinnery’s observations support Builder’s argument. Chinnery suggests, as noted in chap. 

3 of this paper, that air commandos were the first to receive the AR-15 rifle, 

while the Army retained its M-14 weapons.

36. Ibid., p. 24.

37. Ibid., p. 23.

38. Thomas, “Cultural Identity of the US Air Force.” Builder agrees with 

Thomas’s assertions but suggests that this propensity is stronger with pilots 

and with time in the service. He credits this to the USAF’s dependency on 

technology and specialists. Additionally, Builder concludes that “it will be 

difficult to slow the tendencies toward occupationalism if the institution has 

no core identity.” Icarus Syndrome, pp. 8–9.

39. Builder, Masks of War, pp. 23–25.

40. Davis, Post War Defense Policy, p. 120. Davis draws a powerful distinction between Navy and Air Force pilots. Although an in-depth discussion 

of naval aviation is beyond the scope of this paper, Davis makes a convincing 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

25

argument that while Billy Mitchell advocated an aviation service separate from 

the Army, Navy fliers had always been Navy officers first and aviators second.

41. Pribyla to author, e-mail, 13 Jan. 2004.

42. Guilmartin, Very Short War, p. 187.

43. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 56.

44. Ballard, United States Air Force in Southeast Asia, p. 42.

45. Beres to author, e-mail. Colonel Beres later commanded the 8th SOS 

and 353rd Special Operations Group.

46. Builder, Masks of War, pp. 27, 30.

47. JP 1-02, Department of Defense Dictionary. JP 1-02 defines supported 

commander as follows: “the commander having primary responsibility for all 

aspects of a task assigned by the Joint Strategic Capabilities Plan or other 

joint operation planning authority. In the context of joint operation planning, 

this term refers to the commander who prepares operation plans or operation 

orders in response to requirements of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of 

Staff. . . . In the context of a support command relationship, the commander 

who receives assistance from another commander’s force or capabilities, and 

who is responsible for ensuring that the supporting commander understands 

the assistance required.”

48. Winton, “Ambivalent Partnership,” pp. 400, 402, 407.

49. Ibid., p. 402.

50. Note that for the land services, the Air Force had to start dealing with Army 

organic air-support assets only in the 1960s. This phenomenon reflects the 

introduction of Army helicopters in sizeable formations and air-assault units.

51. Builder, Masks of War, p. 27.

52. Winton, “Ambivalent Partnership,” pp. 413–14.

53. Builder, Masks of War, p. 28.

54. Air Force Manual (AFMAN) 50-3, Air Force Leadership, p. 10.

55. Ibid., p. 11.

56. Brown, “Sources of Leadership Doctrine.” 

57. Based on observations earlier in the chapter, Schein would call this 

the midlife organizational development stage.

58. Winton, “Ambivalent Partnership,” pp. 405–6. Winton points out that, 

during the 1973 Arab-Israeli War, the Israelis and Egyptians lost more tanks 

and artillery pieces than the United States had in its entire inventory. Gen 

William E. DePuy, commander of Training and Doctrine Command (TRADOC), 

applied the lessons learned during this war to “the fashioning of an American 

Army tactically capable of repelling a Warsaw Pact invasion in Europe” (p. 430). 

For more on this see Herbert, Deciding What Has to Be Done, pp. 30, 33.

59. Builder, Masks of War, p. 28.

60. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 81.

61. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 41.

62. Builder, Masks of War, p. 26.

63. Ibid.

64. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 378.

65. Builder, Masks of War, p. 26.
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

26

66. Kanter, Defense Politics, p. 108. Builder adds the following to Kanter: 

“This may be definitional [rather] than symptomatic: The name ‘general’ was 

originally intended to apply to those officers capable of commanding all the 

branches in a combined arms force.” Masks of War, p. 211.

67. Worden, Rise of the Fighter Generals, p. 55. Note that this statement 

does not encompass the Korean War experience (1950–1953).

68. Ibid., p. x.

69. Ibid.

70. Ford, “Air Force Culture,” p. 60. According to Ford, in 1960 bomber 

generals held 77 percent of the top Air Force leadership positions, vice 11 

percent of the positions held by fighter pilots. In 1975 the ratio had changed 

to 43 percent bomber and 41 percent fighter pilots. By 1990 the ratio was 18 

percent bomber and 53 percent fighter pilots.

71. Vandenberg, biography. Gen Hoyt S. Vandenberg, the second Air Force 

chief of staff, was a “fighter general” since he spent the majority of his flying 

career as an attack/pursuit pilot.

72. Danskine, Fall of the Fighter Generals, p. 55.

73. Air Force Doctrine Document (AFDD) 1, Air Force Basic Doctrine, p. 1. 

According to AFDD 1, “doctrine is a statement of officially sanctioned beliefs 

and warfighting principles that describe and guide the proper use of air and 

space forces in military operations” (p. 1). In essence, USAF doctrine represents 

the Air Force’s “common frame of reference” and helps shape the way Airmen 

organize, train, and fight. Roughly speaking then, doctrine is the Air Force’s 

cultural manifesto. The effect of doctrine is further explored in chap. 6.

74. Danskine, Fall of the Fighter Generals, pp. 70–71. Danskine contends 

that Air Force nuclearcentric doctrine, from 1960 onward, began to evolve to 

slowly account for “lower end” warfare. My research confirms his assertions. 

According to AFMAN 1-2, USAF Basic Doctrine (1953), the Air Force wanted to 

deliver a “decisive blow upon any chosen point. . . . The consequent need for 

a force capable of immediate employment makes it imperative that airforces 

be maintained in instant readiness to launch a full-scale attack immediately 

upon the outbreak of hostilities” (pp. 16–17). AFMAN 1-1, USAF Basic Doctrine

(1964), suggests, “No longer can there be a strict distinction between peace 

and war in the pre–World War II sense. Instead, there exists a vast spectrum 

of conflict within which infinite variations of conflict intensity and character 

are possible. At one extreme is . . . thermonuclear war; at the other is a realm 

of economic, political, social, and educational competition. War is possible in 

many parts of this spectrum and can occur at different intensities” (p. 1-1).

75. Since doctrine reflects Air Force cultural norms and accepted beliefs, 

AirLand Battle doctrine influenced the greater Air Force culture significantly. 

Later chapters will demonstrate that the Air Force is not as homogeneous as 

the previous assertion suggests. Nonetheless, it is safe to assume that just as 

AirLand Battle doctrine significantly affected basic Air Force doctrine, it also 

affected basic Air Force culture.

76. Builder, Masks of War, pp. 27, 33. Builder calls the Army branches a 

brotherhood of guilds because they are organized according to their skills. He 

further suggests that the “family bonds” of groups of craftsmen that take the 
UNDERSTANDING ORGANIZATIONAL CULTURE

27

“greatest pride in their skills joined together in a brotherhood because of their 

‘dependency upon each other in combat’ ” (p. 33).

77. Ehrhard, “Armed Services and Innovation,” p. 12.

78. Ibid., pp. 11–12.

79. Kanter, Defense Politics, p. 18.

80. Ehrhard, “Armed Services and Innovation,” pp. 25–26.

81. Schein, Organizational Culture, pp. 376–77.

82. Rosen, Winning the Next War, p. 19. In “Armed Services and Innovation,” 

Ehrhard argues convincingly that the services are engaged in continuous 

“ideological struggles, not just with each other, but internally” (p. 2).

29

Chapter 3

Heritage and Culture of Air Force 

Special Operations Forces 

Attempting to capture the history of USAF special operations from the beginning of the cold war to the end of the 

Second Indochina War is an exercise in humility, the historian’s worst nightmare in some respects. The clandestine or covert nature of their worldwide operations, their 

need (and talent) for deceptive cover stories, and their 

support to intelligence agencies and special forces of US 

and foreign countries all combine at different times and 

places to mislead the unwary researcher.

—Col Michael E. Haas, USAF, Retired

When the hour of crisis comes, remember that 40 selected 

men can shake the world. 

—Yasotay (Mongol warlord)

As Colonel Haas suggests, the surreptitious nature of AFSOF 

and the worldwide scope of its activities make it difficult to document that organization’s heritage. But fighting the nation’s wars 

“in the shadows” has deeply affected the AFSOF culture. For 

that reason, this chapter highlights the experiences that have 

most significantly influenced the organizational ethos of this 

community. This chapter exposes the reader to the rich history 

of the secretive community collectively known as AFSOF, draws 

a number of lessons from the AFSOF experience from World War 

II to 1980, and evaluates AFSOF culture based on the historical 

experience. It makes the case that SOF prior to Twenty-third Air 

Force was not a homogeneous organization but a collage of 

loosely connected subcultures with their own institutional identities shaped by their unique experiences and heritage. 

Origins of Air Force Special Operations Forces: 

Building a Capability

In preparation for Operation Overlord, the cross-channel invasion of France, small numbers of Allied special operations 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

30

forces began infiltrating Europe as early as 1942.1 The Office of 

Strategic Services (OSS) was responsible for US clandestine activities in occupied Europe preceding Overlord.2 OSS covert actions 

included guerrilla warfare, sabotage, and support for indigenous 

resistance fighters. Starting in 1940, its British counterpart, 

the Special Operations Executive (SOE), used Royal Air Force 

(RAF) aircraft to infiltrate agents into Axis-held territory and 

resupply resistance forces. In addition, SOE personnel often 

coordinated partisan activities.3 In the summer of 1943, when 

the OSS was finally ready to start large-scale operations in occupied Europe, a significant capability was missing. Based on 

a review of OSS official records, Bernard Moore suggests, “[For 

the OSS] the last major element needed to begin operations on 

the Continent, and to France in particular, was their own clandestine air capability. . . . [The] OSS needed a dedicated air 

capability of its own, and it needed one fast.”4

In August 1943, Gen Carl A. Spaatz, at the time the commander 

of North African Air Forces, allocated three B-17 bombers to 

support OSS activities.5 After two months of intensive night 

low-level training, a single, specially modified B-17 from the 

Special Flight Section of the 5th Bombardment Wing, Twelfth 

Air Force, “dropped ten containers of weapons, ammunition 

and other items to a group of Maquisards.”6 This mission 

marked the start of the ever-expanding special air activities in 

the European theater by specially trained aircrews that came 

to be known as carpetbaggers.

7

In October 1943, General Spaatz authorized the creation of a 

special air unit in Africa. At the same time, Gen Henry “Hap” 

Arnold, commander, Army Air Forces, approved the activation 

of an American special air unit in the China-Burma-India (CBI) 

theater of operations.8 Lt Col Philip Cochran became the first 

commander of the 1st Air Commando Group (ACG).9 The 1st 

ACG’s primary task involved support for Lord Louis Mountbatten’s 

British commando forces in the CBI. With Arnold’s backing, 

Cochran assembled a “composite wing” made up of different 

aircraft: C-47 and UC-64 transports, P-51 fighters, L-1 and L-5 

utility aircraft, CG-4A and TG-5 gliders, B-25 bombers, and 

four YR-4 helicopters.10 In fact, the first combat use of the helicopter involved an Airman from the 1st ACG.11
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

31

After the war, air commando and carpetbagger units were 

disbanded. Clay Blair notes that by 1947, the newly created 

USAF “shrank from 218 to 38 groups, only 11 of which were 

rated operationally effective. . . . Lost from memory as if it had 

never existed was the Unconventional Warfare (UW) expertise 

learned at such cost in World War II.”12 As the USAF shrank, 

AFSOF capabilities and special equipment developed by the 

special units in the European and the CBI theaters simply disappeared.13 Following its creation as a separate service, the 

USAF focused almost exclusively on strategic bombing, the 

mission that most prominently justified its divorce from the US 

Army.14 Although not all Air Force leaders supported this monolithic approach to strategic bombing, the USAF “monarchic” 

system guaranteed that in times of fiscal scarcity, most resources would be allocated to the supreme mission and, by 

default, to the dominant tribe.15 In light of the apparent primacy of strategic bombing, the Air Force did not see a requirement for a UW capability during peacetime. As Haas explains, 

the consequence of this inattention was that the USAF had to 

“reinvent the wheel all over again on the bloody Korean peninsula in 1950.”16

The Korean War 1950–53

In the first months of the war, Air Force special operations 

supported a variety of military and Central Intelligence Agency 

(CIA) initiatives. The Far East Command Liaison Group (FEC/

LG) controlled all special operations military activities on the 

Korean peninsula. Specifically, it was responsible for the infiltration of partisans and covert operatives by land, sea, and/or air 

into territory held by North Korea.17 The FEC/LG tried to keep 

its activities separate from those of the CIA’s Joint Advisory 

Commission–Korea (JACK) because the latter jealously guarded 

its operational independence from military control. Ultimately, 

the Air Force, stuck in the middle of an interagency controversy, provided air support to both organizations.18

The USAF had very little capability to conduct the clandestine insertions described above. When the North Koreans attacked, both the FEC/LG and JACK were in dire need of infiltration platforms. In response, the Air Force rushed Detachment 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

32

(Det.) 2 of the 21st Carrier Squadron to Taegu Air Base (K-2), 

South Korea, commanded by [then] Capt Henry “Heinie” Aderholt.19

According to Aderholt, “I was taking all comers; if they wanted 

to do something, we did it.”20 Shortly after their arrival in South 

Korea, Aderholt’s “special air missions” crews started resupplying frontline troops with badly needed ammunition. Additionally, Det. 2 participated in Operation Aviary, the code name for 

the paradrops far behind enemy lines.21

General Vandenberg, the Air Force chief of staff, addressed 

the USAF’s inability to support the Korean UW requirements.22

On 23 February 1951, seven months after the war began, Col 

Bob Fish, a former World War II carpetbagger, activated the 580th 

Air Resupply and Communications Wing (ARCW) at Mountain 

Home AFB, Idaho.23 According to Haas and Kelly, the 580th was 

ostensibly the first of six wings with a twofold wartime mission—

first, “to prepare, reproduce, and disseminate psychological 

warfare materials as directed by the theater commander,” and 

second, to introduce, evacuate, and resupply partisans.24

The activation of the 580th Wing marked the rebirth of AFSOF. 

In April 1951, the USAF activated the 581st ARCW at Mountain 

Home AFB, and in July 1952, the 581st relocated to Thirteenth 

Air Force, Clark Air Base, the Philippines.25 The 581st ARCW 

would become the key element of the USAF’s unconventional 

warfare activities in Korea.26 As was the case with World War 

II–era air commando groups, the 581st ARCW was made up of 

several different types of aircraft organized into one flying and 

five support squadrons.27 The 581st Air Resupply Squadron 

represented the business end of the ARCW spear. The unit consisted of specially modified B-29 bombers, C-119 heavy transports, C-54 transports, C-118 transports, SA-16 amphibious 

aircraft, and H-19A helicopters.28 According to official records, 

the 581st ARCW and all the other USAF units that supported 

UW during the Korean War performed brilliantly; but as was 

the case at the end of World War II, when the United States 

signed the armistice on 27 July 1953, much of the capability 

developed during the Korean War was quickly lost overnight. 

The 581st shrank from a wing to a group, losing three of its six 

squadrons, with personnel manning plummeting in the remaining squadrons to approximately 50 percent of authorized 

strength.29 This rapid drawdown of SOF forces is emblematic of 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

33

a pattern of benign neglect in peacetime that has influenced 

the way AFSOF crews think of their organizational relevancy 

within the Air Force.

Action beyond Korea during the Cold War—

Supply versus Demand

In the decade between the Korean and Vietnam wars, the 

USAF—specifically, the 580th ARC Group (ARCG)—engaged in 

an interservice (Army–Air Force) and interagency (Department 

of Defense [DOD]–CIA) struggle “for ownership of the nation’s 

unconventional mission.”30 Haas argues that by 1952 “it was 

beginning to look like the Air Force really was going to take the 

lead Department of Defense role in unconventional warfare. . . . 

The ARCS’s [Air Resupply and Communications Service] hot 

enthusiasm and three years of experience supporting the CIA 

appeared to give the Air Force the lead role in DOD psy-war/

special operations.”31 In fact, Air Force UW capabilities went far 

beyond mere support to the CIA. The 580th ARCG, one of three 

active groups providing a UW capability globally, got directly 

involved in UW on the ground as well as in the air. For example, 

the 580th Holding and Briefing Squadron put USAF officers in 

nearly identical roles with their Army special operations and 

CIA guerrilla-warfare counterparts.32

As the Cold War intensified, the need for psychological warfare support in countering Soviet propaganda around the world 

increased.33 The official history of the ARCS notes that as early as 

April 1953, the USAF expressed its desire for that service to confine itself to projects that concerned the Air Force.34 Haas argues 

that the USAF did not appreciate that it “was picking up the 

financial and manpower costs for what were essentially nationallevel propaganda programs.”35 The Air Force’s problem was that 

the demand for infiltration, exfiltration, and other UW activities 

continued to grow at a time when the USAF wanted to limit its 

involvement in UW activities. In the end, due to budgetary constraints and competing priorities, the USAF elected to deactivate 

the ARCS on 1 January 1954. Haas suggests that this action 

“signaled the end of [Air Staff] interest in a special operations 

force at a service command level.”36 Although the CONUS 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

34

(continental United States)-based ARCS ceased to exist, the Air 

Force had three active ARCGs overseas. From agent-support 

missions on the edge of the Iron Curtain (Greece, Germany, 

Iran, etc.) to the insertions of Tibetan guerrillas “on top of the 

world,” Air Force special operators conducted their duties in 

“silent success.”37 These missions had a significant effect on 

the culture of the shadow warriors. The AFSOF institutional 

identity was shaped by missions on the fringes of what was 

possible, with little public recognition of their sacrifices.

In spite of AFSOF’s silent successes, the USAF attempted to 

minimize the manpower and equipment cost of supporting UW 

activities. The Air National Guard (ANG) came to the rescue of 

the USAF in 1955 when California, West Virginia, Maryland, 

and Rhode Island agreed to activate ARCGs in support of the 

USAF UW mission.38 The mission was identical to that of the 

active duty units, but the 1956 deactivation of the three overseas ARCGs resulted in the complete deterioration of AFSOF 

capabilities. Fortunately, the ANG stepped in to fill the vacuum 

in the late 1950s. In addition to providing support to intelligence operations around the world, the ANG helped train the 

Cuban-exile pilots who led the Bay of Pigs invasion.39 More importantly, when the USAF decided to revive its active duty UW 

force with the highly classified “Jungle Jim” program, the ANG 

provided training for the precursor to the 1st ACW and Special 

Air Warfare Center (SAWC).40

In retrospect, it appears that the USAF was unwilling to commit limited resources to the UW mission, even though national 

objectives required a UW capability. Although the evidence 

supports this hypothesis, it is important to understand that 

the Air Force was still in the early stages of its institutional 

growth.41 Schein’s proposition that successful leaders must be 

able to recognize the influence of organizational subcultures 

becomes relevant here. Additionally, culture becomes less tied 

to the leader’s personality and perhaps more influenced by what 

Schein calls “sacred cows [and] holdovers from the founding 

period.”42 In this segment, the reader should recognize that the 

concept of strategic/atomic airpower represented the sine qua 

non of airpower thinking. UW and, consequently, AFSOF health 

are habitually not an Air Force priority in the interwar years.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

35

The gift of hindsight may suggest that the USAF should have 

paid more attention to the UW mission. However, in the context 

of its time, the United States considered the Korean experience 

and UW a “sideshow.” Dennis Drew suggests that for the US 

military, “the real threat remained in Europe, where the Soviets 

faced the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) with powerful forces and a threatening attitude. . . . [There was not] much 

room for thinking about protracted revolutionary warfare in 

the years following the Korean conflict.”43

Regarding USAF policies, Drew argues, “US airmen focused 

on organizational independence from the US Army and on missions that best justified independence (i.e., strategic bombing 

and, to a lesser extent, deep interdiction).”44 That is to say, in 

the years between the Korean and Vietnam conflicts, the USAF, 

much like the rest of the armed forces, struggled to develop a 

theory for the war it wanted to fight, not necessarily the war it 

would have to fight. Drew concludes that the USAF “assumed 

that preparation for global war meant preparation for wars of 

lesser magnitude. As demonstrated in the Philippines, Malay, 

and Indochina, the problem was not wars of a lesser kind but 

wars of a fundamentally different kind.”45

While the desire to keep Air Force money, people, and equipment oriented towards more traditional Air Force activities is 

understandable, doing so had an effect on special forces. The 

USAF’s institutional approach towards special operations would 

remain an issue of contention between AFSOF and its parent 

service well beyond the 1950s. Special forces were not able to 

get popular support because their successes remained necessarily hidden from public view due to the veil of secrecy that 

shrouded AFSOF involvement—covert activities, by definition, 

do not get much publicity.46 This leads to yet another factor that 

diminished special forces: in a sense, the clandestine nature of 

AFSOF’s activities concealed the erosion of its capabilities.47

Drew paints an accurate picture of the USAF approach to 

special operations and low intensity conflict, explaining that 

“wedded to the concept of atomic airpower (and its power to 

justify an independent Air Force) . . . American airmen virtually 

ignored the problem of insurgent warfare until they entered the 

Vietnam War.”48 What Drew does not mention, however, is that 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

36

beyond the intellectual neglect of revolutionary warfare, the Air 

Force had eliminated all its UW capability from active service. 

Once again, AFSOF crews had to accept that, as “special” as 

their missions might be, they would have to contend with a 

conventionally minded Air Force that did not appreciate their 

contributions to the US national security and, thus, was not 

willing to support their activities. This inattention and lack of 

appreciation was deeply ingrained into the AFSOF culture and 

inculcated into incoming air commandos. The fact that they 

received little recognition became a badge of honor for AFSOF 

crews, as they began to see themselves as “special operators” 

first and “Airmen” second.

The Vietnam Air Commando Revival

The incentive to revive the capabilities of active duty air commandos resulted more from world events and interservice rivalry than USAF initiative. On 6 January 1961, Soviet premier 

Nikita Khrushchev gave a speech in which he summarized a 

wide-ranging strategy for Soviet world domination.49 According 

to James Corum and Wray Johnson, Khrushchev’s plan tried 

to exploit instability and anticolonial anger in the developing 

world by “promoting revolutionary insurgency.”50 In 1961 Pres. 

John F. Kennedy signed National Security Action Memorandum 

Two “instructing the armed services to develop a counterinsurgency capability.”51 In other words, a national countervailing 

strategy to the Soviet-sponsored “wars of national liberation,” 

not an appreciation of the role of counterinsurgency (COIN), 

spurred the USAF to reestablish a robust UW capability. An 

additional motivating factor was the Air Force’s desire to counter 

Army efforts to dominate the emerging UW mission.52 A Thirteenth Air Force message to Headquarters Pacific Air Forces 

(PACAF) describes this struggle over roles and missions:

USAF interests are suffering in SEA [Southeast Asia]. The trend toward 

an Army dominated and controlled COIN . . . effort is clear. Because the 

USAF position in COMUSMACV’s [Commander United States Military 

Assistance Command Vietnam] structure is weak in both numbers and 

rank, the Army is able to impose their will. . . . Their case will cost the 

USAF in roles and missions and will cost U.S. lives in future actions. 

Army people are, in effect, being trained to consider our tactics ineffective 

and our capability limited, while being oversold on Army organic air.53
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

37

In response, on 14 April 1961, TAC activated the 4400th Combat Crew Training Squadron (CCTS), nicknamed Jungle Jim, 

at Eglin AFB, Florida.54

Composed of 124 officers and 228 enlisted men and equipped 

with 16 C-47s, eight B-26s, and eight T-28s, the 4400th CCTS 

had a charter to teach counterguerrilla tactics to South Vietnamese aircrews, among others.55 As stated in the unit’s official 

records, the USAF charged Jungle Jim with the task of “preparing small cadres for conducting—at the scene of insurgency 

activity—the training of friendly foreign air forces in counterinsurgency operations.”56 But Jungle Jim was not simply a 

training organization; it also represented America’s initial cadre 

of special-operations advisers to foreign air forces. The latter 

mission brought air commandos to Laos and South Vietnam. 

As part of Project Mill Pond, air commandos deployed 12 B-26s 

and two RB-26s to Thailand. The aircraft were “sanitized” by 

removing any USAF markings. Similarly, the pilots assigned to 

Mill Pond went through the formal process of resigning from 

active military duty. According to Haas, these measures were 

part of a deception plan for any such pilot that offered the USAF 

the opportunity to “deny any involvement or knowledge of his 

activities should he be killed or captured by the Communists. 

Faceless and a long way from home, he is totally on his own if 

things turn sour.”57 Describing his experiences while assigned 

to Mill Pond, Lt Col Jerome Klingaman, USAF, retired, offers 

this unique insight:

During the war in South East Asia, for instance, I was a combat aviation adviser with Lao fighter pilots who had no operative parachutes, 

survival vests, or beepers, and I used their equipment. At the time, however, we were operating out beyond conventional Air Force control and 

supervision. We cast our lot with the Royal Lao Air Force guys and 

sometimes suffered the same fate, so no one should be surprised that 

the advisers identified closer with the Lao combat pilots than with their 

USAF counterparts at the big bases in Thailand. This is not a criticism 

or qualitative judgment on the state of affairs; it was just a fact of life. 

At that time, I did not think anything about it.58

Concurrent with Project Mill Pond, air commandos from the 

4400th Combat Crew Training Group (CCTG) deployed to South 

Vietnam. Responding to the requirements listed in Headquarters 

PACAF Operation Plan (OPLAN) 222-61, in August 1961, the 

4400th deployed a detachment of 41 officers and 115 Airmen 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

38

(with four RB-26s, four SC-47s, and eight T-28s) to Bien Hoa 

Air Base in South Vietnam.59 Code-named Farm Gate, Det. 2’s 

original mission focused on advising, training, and assisting 

South Vietnamese air force pilots in interdiction and CAS operations.60 This renewed Air Force interest and commitment to 

the UW mission, however, had some unintentional consequences. For example, interacting with foreign crews, enduring 

prolonged exposure to exotic locations, and flying sanitized 

aircraft as a “civilian” bred a culture of self-sufficiency, selfreliance, and secrecy.61

Air commandos played a major role in the growth of the 

South Vietnamese air force from 4,000 airmen in 1962 to almost 13,000 in 1965.62 By 1965, however, US senior political 

and military leaders had decided on a more robust US presence 

and, consequently, a more active role in the counterinsurgency 

campaign. As conventional USAF involvement in the process of 

the Americanization of the war increased, focus shifted from 

the UW mission to a much more conventional approach towards defeating the Vietnamese insurgents. US military attention moved from solely targeting the COIN struggle in South 

Vietnam to coercing North Vietnam to end its support for the 

Vietcong. In effect, the US military forgot that in COIN operations, “both antagonists have the same center of gravity—the 

people.”63 Colonel Haas warns of the danger in this approach 

by contending that “once the killing starts, it’s difficult to remember that nation building was the original plan.”64

The Americanization of the war in Vietnam involved an evolutionary process closely related to the early air commando activities in South Vietnam. On 6 December 1961, Farm Gate 

was authorized to conduct offensive operations against the 

Vietcong.65 Initially, the only stipulation was that Farm Gate 

crews had to fly with at least one South Vietnamese crew member on board; but soon the Vietnamese pilots realized that they 

had become a mere “cover” for US aircrews to conduct strike 

missions. According to Corum and Johnson, “Farm Gate veterans recalled afterward having to incarcerate these Vietnamese 

passengers (for that is all they were) to ensure that they would 

not run away before missions. . . . In less than five years, Vietnamese pilots moved literally and figuratively from the front 

seat to the rear seat to being pushed aside altogether.”66 Before 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

39

long, Farm Gate abandoned the pretense of training, and 

American crews replaced the Vietnamese markings on their 

aircraft, conducting the strike missions without any Vietnamese pilots on board.67

General Aderholt, who became commander of the 1st ACW in 

1964, suggested that this transition occurred primarily because 

of a leadership failure in Saigon. According to Aderholt, Gen 

Rollen H. Anthis, commander of the 2nd Advanced Echelon,68

“didn’t know [sh--] from shinola about [counterinsurgency] 

warfare. . . . We should never have had our regular Air Force 

and Army units over there. It should have been dealt with as an 

insurgency, and it should have been the Vietnamese’s fight and 

not ours.”69 Although the conventionally minded 2nd Advanced 

Echelon leadership was clearly unfamiliar with the UW mission, 

it is important to understand that its behavior was emblematic 

of more significant intraservice cultural differences. General 

Aderholt’s comments, albeit much more colorful, are quite in 

line with Schein’s ideas on potential clashes of organizational 

culture. General Anthis was not mindful of what Schein calls 

“the power [that leaders] have to impose on those enterprises 

their own assumptions about what is right and proper, how the 

world works, and how things should be done.”70 Anthis did not 

understand the intricacies of UW. Sadly, he represented the 

majority of USAF leaders. His approach was symbolic of a USAF 

institutional notion that COIN operations were an inferior, 

rather than a fundamentally diverse, form of war.71

In a 1961 interview, Gen Thomas D. White, CSAF, noted 

that “our [USAF] philosophy is based on the fact that offense is the best defense . . . [yet,] the original mandate of 

the Farm Gate was to provide training support to the South 

Vietnamese in a strategically defensive effort.”72 At best, 

this suggests that the air commando mission was uncharted 

territory for the US Air Force; at worst, Farm Gate’s mission 

ran counter to US Air Force theory and doctrine.73 Although 

the Air Force had experimented with COIN operations during the Greek Civil War and the anti-Huk campaign in the 

Philippines, this was the first time it had created a unit for 

the COIN mission.74 But as Drew suggests, the idea that the 

COIN mission ran counter to USAF doctrine is more plau-
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

40

sible than the possibility that it represented a new central 

tenet of airpower theory. 

According to Drew, “Air Force airmen seemed either supremely 

uninterested in the subject, or assumed that in terms of airpower, protracted revolutionary warfare was just conventional 

warfare writ small.”75 Air commando activities throughout SEA 

suggest, however, that traditional Air Force thinking eventually 

yielded to unconventional tactics and procedures, not as a matter of forethought but due to necessity and practicality.76 Two 

projects that represented USAF support for the UW mission 

and also provided examples of AFSOF’s overt and clandestine 

activities, respectively, were the debut and evolution of the 

side-firing gunship and the activities of the 75th Air Studies 

Group (ASG).77

The evolution of gunships in Vietnam was closely associated 

with COIN operations and the effort to counter Vietcong activities in South Vietnam. When the first air commandos arrived in 

South Vietnam, the Vietcong operated throughout rural areas 

with near impunity.78 In response, the South Vietnamese government introduced two-way radios to isolated villages and outposts. As the South Vietnamese air force became more capable 

with help from Farm Gate, it responded to Vietcong attacks in 

a timely manner.79 A lack of night attack capability restricted 

these quick-response missions to daylight operations. Air commandos adapted by using C-47s and C-123 transports as 

“flareships,” dropping flares in order to illuminate the battlefield during Vietcong attacks.80 The flareship tactics were so 

effective that the Vietcong would terminate their assaults 70 

percent of the time when confronted by aircraft deploying 

flares.81 But the Vietcong soon adapted their own tactics. Capitalizing on the limited number of transport aircraft, the Vietcong would “simply outwait the flareship’s fuel endurance before resuming the attack.”82

Not to be outdone by the Vietcong, the USAF modified the 

flareships and transformed the Air Force concept of CAS.83

Capt Ronald W. Terry, assigned to the Aeronautical Systems 

Division, Wright-Patterson AFB, Ohio, developed a way to maximize the orbiting flareship’s value by adding 7.62 mm miniguns to the platform.84 Although many in the fighter community were openly skeptical of the gunship concept—particularly 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

41

Gen Walter Sweeney, Jr., commander of TAC—the CSAF overruled Sweeney and authorized the operational testing of this 

concept in Indochina.85

The gunship “trials” were so successful that on 14 November 

1965, the USAF deployed the first 20 FC-47s of the newly activated 4th Air Commando Squadron (ACS) to Tan Son Nhut Air 

Base (AB), South Vietnam.86 In trying to satisfy the “gunshiphungry” Seventh Air Force, the US Air Force activated a second 

AC-47 squadron, the 14th ACS, to Nha Trang in January 

1968.87 By the end of the same year, the Air Force deployed the 

AC-119G/K as an interim step until the AC-130 could be 

brought online.88 According to Jack Ballard, the biggest difference between early gunship models and the AC-130A was that 

while the AC-47s and AC-119s had only the capability to defend “allied troops from trouble,” the AC-130A was to be able to 

“conduct a far more predatory mission, one that sent the huge 

gunship actually looking for trouble” (emphasis in original).89

Although the AC-130A/E (fig. 2) capabilities improved over 

time, their primary missions remained the same: armed reconnaissance and CAS. Throughout the war, spurred by the applause of MACV ground units, the USAF recognized gunship 

heroics publicly and repeatedly.90 But there was a “black” side 

to the air commandos that received little or no recognition due 

to the secrecy associated with its mission—the 75th ASG.

The 75th ASG was the air arm of the Joint UW Task Force, 

responsible for the execution of OPLAN-34A. In January 1964, 

Pres. Lyndon B. Johnson approved OPLAN-34A: its objective was 

similar to that of the better-known Operation Rolling Thunder. 

Both plans sought to put pressure on North Vietnam and reduce Hanoi’s ability to aid the Vietcong in South Vietnam.91 But 

while Rolling Thunder was an overt operation, OPLAN-34A 

sought plausible deniability. Although official US policy restricted 

military ground activities within the confines of South Vietnam, 

OPLAN-34A authorized clandestine actions in “South and North 

Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Burma, the southern provinces of 

China and Hainan Island in the Gulf of Tonkin.”92 These activities were so secretive that Gen William C. Westmoreland, MACV 

commander, created the MACV Studies and Observations 

Group (SOG), a bland name for the anything but bland UW 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

42

task force of air commandos, Green Berets, SEALs, and Marine 

Corps personnel.93

The 75th ASG was also the air arm of SOG operations behind 

enemy lines.94 In contrast to the gunship crews that primarily 

performed “white SOF” or conventional operations, MACVSOGs 

were considered “black SOF,” whose missions the US government could plausibly deny. This distinction played a major role 

in the way white SOF and black SOF communities fared after 

the war and the way that unit identities developed over time.95

Although little is written about the 75th ASG itself, its activities 

can be divided into two main categories: fixed-wing and rotarywing operations.

Figure 2. Gunship evolution. Note that the weapons configuration for the AC130s ranged from a combination of four 7.62 mm miniguns and four 20 mm cannons (earliest models), to twin 20 mm cannons and twin 40 mm guns for the 

AC-130E (Surprise Package). In February 1972, the AC-130E (Pave Aegis Package) was modified to carry twin 20 mm cannons, a 40 mm gun, and a 105 mm 

howitzer. (Reprinted from Jack S. Ballard, The United States Air Force in Southeast Asia: Development and Employment of Fixed Wing Gunships, 1962–1972

[Washington, DC: Office of Air Force History, 1982], pp. 139, 173.) 

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HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

43

Fixed-wing operations were primarily utilized for the infiltration and exfiltration of SOG personnel deep into enemy territory.96 In May 1964, the air commandos at Hurlburt Field, Florida, 

started training all-Asian crews in C-123 aircraft for low-level 

infiltration of SOG operators behind enemy lines. On 15 July, 

these crews formed Det. 1, later designated “First Flight,” 75th 

Troop Carrier Squadron, in Nha Trang, South Vietnam.97 Partially due to the success of the First Flight project and partially 

due to the increased use of American SOG operators along with 

their Asian counterparts, the USAF created an even more secretive American counterpart to Det. 1. In 1965 the USAF directed the conversion of 14 C-130Es to a UW configuration 

under the project name Stray Goose.­ The SEA element was 

designated Combat Spear, and eventually all aircraft became 

known as Combat Talon.98

Rotary-wing operations primarily centered on OP-35 activities—the infiltration of reconnaissance teams or the recovery of 

downed US aircrews in Laos, Cambodia, or North Vietnam. The 

problem was that the United States had no UW helicopter capabilities in 1965. When the 20th Helicopter Squadron (HS), 

nicknamed Pony Express, first arrived at Tan Son Nhut AB on 

8 October 1965, it was simply a transport squadron.99 But by 

June 1966, three of the four flights assigned to the 20th HS 

and 11 of its CH-3s moved to Udorn AB, Thailand, to support 

UW activities.100 In June 1967, a number of UH-1F Huey helicopters from the 606th ACS, the Green Hornets, were assigned 

to the 20th Special Operations Squadron (SOS) as well.101 In 

September 1967, the Dust Devils of the 21st HS joined the 

Pony Express crews in the UW mission, and both squadrons 

were redesignated SOSs in August 1968.102 The 20th and 21st 

SOS, together with the South Vietnamese 219th HS, comprised 

the SOG’s rotary-wing assets.103 These crews were not UW experts when they were first given the mission, but they adapted 

quickly—unfortunately, not without casualties.104

The 20th SOS experiment offers a good example of how these 

units transformed, to the SOG’s relief, under fire. Maj “Smokey” 

Hubbard, one of the UH-1F pilots who transferred to the 20th 

SOS, perhaps put it best: “the crews were primarily trained to 

carry toilet paper and people to the missile silos in the Midwest.”105 The UH-1 pilots made up for their inexperience with 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

44

their valor and eventually became “the preferred [helicopter] 

unit for SF [Special Forces] operations across the borders.”106

Or as John L. Plaster, a SOF veteran, puts it, “The Green Hornets . . . were the prime reason a lot of SOG men came out of 

Cambodia alive.”107 This transformation from a squadron carrying toilet paper to a unit that earned the respect and gratitude of the elite MACVSOG significantly affected the 20th SOS 

mind-set. Haas argues that in a span of a few months, the 20th 

SOS crew members transitioned from B-Team status “into the 

starting lineup in the big leagues.”108

While few operations associated with the SOG ever received 

national recognition, one stands out as the exception—Operation Kingpin, the SOG raid on the prisoner of war (POW) camp 

at Son Tay, North Vietnam. Although the raiders failed to recover any POWs, the performance of the air component of the 

operation was remarkable, considering the poor state of preparedness within both AFSOF and Air Rescue Service (ARS) at 

the start of the conflict in SEA.109 The raid on Son Tay offers a 

good example of how far the AFSOF and ARS capabilities had 

progressed since 1965. At the same time, it presents an operational model of the way that Air Force special-warfare units, 

like AFSOF and ARS, can complement each other.110

By 1970 the 20th SOS’s rotary-wing assets consisted solely of 

UH-1Fs/Ps, while the 21st SOS began to transition from CH-3s to 

CH-53Cs.111 According to Guilmartin, the 21st SOS’s CH-53s did 

not have an air-to-air refueling capability. But as Guilmartin argues, the “Knives” achieved the extended range “required for special operations with . . . 650-gallon external tanks.”112 Although 

not ideal, the addition of the CH-53C to the AFSOC inventory provided a clear signal of the Air Force’s combat commitment to 

strengthen its SOF rotary-wing capabilities. But as the force modernized, America was disengaging from SEA; and soon after the 

Vietnam War came to an end, America’s AFSOF shrank considerably. After a string of hijackings and a number of successful recoveries of the hostages by Israel in 1976 and Germany in 1977, 

the US government formed an elite army commando unit at Fort 

Bragg, North Carolina. But no senior military leader warned Pres. 

Jimmy Carter of the fact that the USAF had eroded its capability 

to carry this force to its objective—most likely, overseas.113 The 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

45

result was the Desert One debacle, the failed attempt to rescue 

US hostages from Iran in 1980.114

Lessons Learned and Relearned

H. G. Wells wrote, “Human history becomes more and more a 

race between education and catastrophe.”115 Like that of the ARS, 

AFSOF history is gallant and rich, offering numerous examples of 

lessons learned and relearned. We continue with an admittedly 

brief survey of AFSOF history through the Vietnam War by reviewing three recurring lessons that military and civilian leaders 

consistently failed to recognize between 1946 and 1980. 

First, according to what is now accepted as a “SOF Truth,” 

“competent [Air Force] Special Operations Forces cannot be 

created after emergencies occur.”116 Similar to the ARS experience, the USAF ignored the lessons from World War II and the 

Korean War, allowing its active duty special-operations capabilities to deteriorate to a critical point. When the country called 

on the Air Force to respond to the danger in SEA, it had little, 

if any, residual capability. As Col Jerry Thigpen, USAF, retired, 

noted, “None of the original Air Force personnel assigned to 

MACSOG [Military Assistance Command Studies and Observation Group] had any previous background in UW operations,” 

resulting in the failure of the USAF to maintain its UW capabilities.117 This historical survey of AFSOF heritage clearly demonstrates that these forces, though very valuable in war, are 

often neglected in peacetime. It also suggests that time and 

training are key requirements for these units to mature and 

reach a high level of competence. 

Although some of the units had stringent selection criteria 

for the Airmen recruited for AFSOF duty, like the original Jungle 

Jim advisers and special-access programs such as the Stray 

Goose and Combat Spear projects, other programs such as the 

gunship and rotary-wing units were constituted in an ad hoc 

fashion that cost the lives of many inexperienced crew members.118 Additionally, according to TAC’s official history documents, “the aircraft were selected simply because the Air Force 

had no better alternative on hand for the kind of bush warfare 

described vaguely in military directives as sublimited [sic] 

warfare and guerilla operations.”119 Unfortunately, not having 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

46

learned from its past experiences, as the Vietnam War began 

winding down, the USAF allowed its SOF capability to erode 

once again.120

The second lesson relearned is that technology matters. As 

Colin S. Gray so aptly reminds us, “[special operations forces] 

need every advantage that technology can provide . . . [because 

they], virtually by definition, are acting at the edge of the envelope of military feasibility.”121 This chapter should make it clear 

that America relied heavily on SOF to counter the “wars of national liberation” in the 1960s and early 1970s. But the need to 

maintain a healthy UW force had to compete with other Air 

Force institutional priorities. According to Col James H. Kyle, 

deputy commander for the failed attempt to rescue the US hostages from Iran in 1980, AFSOF had to “fight for its existence 

each budget cycle as the bucks [went] up for grabs. The emphasis and most of the funds [were] lavished on new generation 

fighters, bombers, missiles or transports.”122 This observation 

points to the third and, by far, the most important lesson examined in this chapter.

Although SOF, in general, enjoyed many tactical successes, 

in order for special operations to reach their maximum potential, they need “an educated consumer, political and military 

patrons who appreciate what SOF should, and should not, be 

asked to do.”123 President Kennedy and Secretary of Defense 

(SecDef) Robert S. McNamara supported UW and SOF. General 

Westmoreland (MACV commander) and the Vietnam-era Joint 

Chiefs of Staff (JCS) leadership, however, did not. According to 

Richard Shultz, Army leaders were against special warfare and 

tried hard to neutralize President Kennedy’s vision. They believed that “conventionally trained infantrymen could accomplish the counter-insurgency mission.”124 Essentially, they saw 

the UW mission as peripheral to the main effort in Vietnam. As 

far as the JCS was concerned, the UW campaign was a burden 

that the White House had forced on the Pentagon. But because 

much of the military establishment, including the MACV commander, saw little value in the UW mission, they focused on 

winning the war via conventional means. 

Because the senior military commanders in-theater neither 

appreciated nor valued SOF, no credible military leaders could 

protect SOF from “President Johnson’s unrealistic expectations 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

47

for the utility of SOF.”125 According to Gray, “Johnson believed 

that light cross-border raiding could reduce Hanoi’s will to fight 

on. Moreover, he hoped to achieve momentous results cheaply 

and quietly.” The military elites could have compensated for 

Johnson’s inexperience and lack of appreciation for the SOF 

Truths, but the conventional military establishment did not 

have a firm grasp on the UW/SOF intricacies either. 

AFSOF and CSAR histories demonstrate that the two communities can regenerate after years of neglect. But this regeneration 

comes at a cost in blood and treasure. The 20th SOS experience 

described earlier provides a great example of a unit that was created under fire and performed magnificently. But the 20th SOS 

history, like many SOS and ARS unit histories, is written in 

blood because the organization had to mature under extremely 

difficult conditions. AFSOF and ARS/ARRS crew members received their specialized training while flying over enemy territory. Their extreme experiences bound them together in tightknit groups and microcultures common in special-warfare units 

but foreign to most conventionally minded service leaders. 

After World War II, the Korean War, and Vietnam, in the face 

of shrinking budgets, America’s specialized airpower—AFSOF 

and CSAR—has struggled to remain healthy and viable through 

peacetime. Perhaps the sum of the three lessons outlined above 

is that these two communities face their greatest challenges in 

peacetime rather than in war. As Gray concludes, if special 

forces are to fulfill their strategic potential, “they must have 

sponsors in the unified commands, in the military service and 

central civilian bureaucracies, and in the White House and the 

Congress.”126 This concept will play a significant role in later 

chapters that explore the rise of AFSOF in the 1980s and the 

demise of the USAF CSAR forces.

In the end, SOF personnel cannot wait for emergencies to occur before they educate their civilian and military masters. The 

onus is on the SOF community to ensure that its respective 

service and civilian leaders understand their capabilities and 

limitations. As the next chapter demonstrates, the same caveat 

applies to the CSAR community.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

48

The Culture of Air Force 

Special Operations Forces 

What elements of an AFSOF culture emerge from that organization’s experience? This review of the air commando heritage demonstrates that the AFSOF community was not a homogeneous entity but rather a collage of subgroups with their own 

identities, accepted assumptions, and beliefs. In the years between Vietnam and the AFSOF/CSAR merger in 1983, Air Force 

special operators were divided in three distinct cliques—Talon, 

Spectre, and Helicopter.127 These communities developed their 

distinctive characteristics and group identity in relation to their 

aircraft and missions. Here we dissect the three subcultures 

that survived the post-Vietnam drawdown, compare their impression of one another, and consider the interaction between 

these subcultures and the Air Force. We conclude by analyzing 

a distinct capability eliminated from the Air Force arsenal—aircommando aviation advisers.

Col Jerry Uttaro, USAF, retired, a legend in the Talon community, argues that if he had to put a label on the one thing 

that made Talon crews feel special it would have to be their 

unique mission.128 Uttaro describes the Talon community as 

follows: “We knew what we did was different and special. We flew 

special type aircraft. We supported Special Forces from other 

services and countries. Every mission was different. Every mission was at night, low level, and we were either picking up 

something important or inserting something important. You 

got this feeling in the school house, in the squadrons, and at 

the bar. . . . I would always hear some ranking officer say—

there ain’t nothing special about special ops. That’s when I 

knew we were really special.”129

Another Talon legend, Col Gordy Ettenson, USAF, retired, 

describes the post-Vietnam Talon ethos as focused on the longrange, single-ship infiltration. Ettenson argues that the Talon’s 

cultural identity focused on “total self-sufficiency that tended 

to breed distrust of anyone outside our own system and the 

absolute reliance on you and your crew. This was a distinguishing characteristic, but also one that, no matter how good we 

really were, made it difficult for us to play nice with others. It 

did breed arrogance. Some of us recognized it, some didn’t.”130
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

49

Ettenson further describes the Talon culture by suggesting that 

this was the only community within AFSOF with international 

flair. Although SOF helicopters had a detachment in Panama, 

two Talon units (1st and 7th SOS) were the only AFSOF squadrons stationed overseas. In the 1970s, according to Ettenson, 

the Talon community “truly felt themselves to be the international force, the only ones in the know about theater requirements. . . . Only Talons were [permanently] assigned overseas, 

and it was mostly Talon people who staffed the few theater SOF 

staffs that existed then.”131 In that sense, the Talon community 

was further segmented by theater. Ettenson argues that once a 

crew member was assigned to the Pacific or Europe, the tendency was to associate him with that geographical niche. Therefore, Talons developed quite differently than the rest of AFSOF.

Much like the Talon mission, SOF helicopters delivered teams 

and equipment behind enemy lines. According to Guilmartin, 

these helicopters often had air support on call, “but it was not 

ordinarily required or even desired.” In order not to compromise the customer’s landing zones, SOF helicopter crews tried 

to avoid enemy detection during their ingress to the objective. 

Guilmartin indicates that “as a rule, special operations helicopters worked independently, either individually or in small 

formations. . . . By nature, special operations missions were 

covert and planned in detail well in advance. . . . [Their] mission was conducted in the shadows.”132 The secrecy associated 

with their mission shaped the SOF helicopter approach to war. 

Simply put, their Vietnam experiences molded their cultural 

identity so as to value independence of action over coordination 

with conventional forces. The crews preferred self-reliance to 

dependence on conventional support.

Much like the Talon crews, SOF helicopter aviators developed an “alone and unafraid” tactical style that centered on the 

grim determination to complete their mission with little coordination with the rest of the Air Force.133 There was one exception 

to this rule, however. Towards the end of the Vietnam War, the 

21st SOS’s Knives handled most of the rotary deep-infiltration 

missions. But as mentioned earlier, the Knives were not air refuelable. In order to compensate for this deficiency, rescue 

helicopters augmented the 21st SOS for those missions that 

demanded this unique capability. 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

50

Col Gary L. Weikel, USAF, retired, who flew UH-1Fs with the 

20th SOS before transitioning to HH-53s in the 40th ARRS, 

sheds light on this complementary relationship, arguing that 

the 40th ARRS and the 21st SOS conducted “most of the SOF/

UW missions interchangeably.” Weikel suggests that the ability 

to conduct air-to-air refueling was a big discriminator (for differences in special operations and search and rescue missions, 

see table 1, chap. 4). According to Weikel, “More distant objectives, be it the SOF or CSAR, drove the selection of the aerial 

refueled bird/unit and not organizational affiliation. When the 

20th was restarted in late 1975, it was populated with guys 

who flew together in Super Jollies and Knives and all participated together, so there really was not a lot of them/us.”134

Although the 21st SOS and 40th ARRS were collocated and 

worked well together, there was tension between the two squadrons.135 Guilmartin argues that rivalry between the two units 

“was stupid at the time, [and it is] stupid now!” He also suggests this tension was largely due to the organizational culture 

of the two communities. Administratively, AFSOF helicopters 

belonged to TAC. The fighter community was the heart and 

soul of the TAC culture, while, according to Guilmartin, the 

21st SOS saw itself as a TAC stepchild. To the contrary, the 

21st SOS considered the 40th ARRS “the MAC fair-haired 

boys.”136 Imagine two collocated units flying equally dangerous 

missions and the 40th ARRS getting credit and recognition for 

its aircrew recovery exploits, while the 21st SOS remained in 

the shadows. Col Steve Connelly, USAF, retired, a rescue and 

AFSOF legend, explains that “the rescue guys were getting all 

the medals and the SOF guys didn’t like it.”137

Guilmartin offers another example that describes differences 

between the two squadrons, suggesting that the Knives (21st 

SOS) were “stalkers”—meaning that the nature of their missions required them to be meticulous in their planning and 

secretive in their implementation. As he points out, the “Jollys” 

(40th ARRS), on the other hand, were reactive and overt because “they had to launch on incomplete information. . . . [They 

resembled] a bar room brawler.” But the ARRS mission in Vietnam was “high visibility, high profile, [and] popular with the 

fighters.”138 This popularity with the fighter community had 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

51

some perks that added fuel to the rivalry between AFSOF and 

ARRS helicopter crews. 

Since the 21st SOS did not have its own maintenance at 

Nakhon Phanom, it had to depend on TAC support. Guilmartin 

argues that “TAC priorities were getting fighters in the air, not 

fixing SOF helicopters.”139 The 40th ARRS, on the other hand, 

had its own maintenance support. Maintenance envy is but 

another example of the AFSOF perception that the rescue guys 

were treated well, while the AFSOF counterparts were not. 

Chapter 4 addresses this issue from the rescue perspective, 

but in terms of the AFSOF helicopter community, a genuine 

rivalry between the 21st SOS and 40th ARRS reflected the rift 

between the two cultures.

Unlike the Talon and helicopter communities who conducted 

their missions in the shadows, Spectre crews relished the limelight. As mentioned earlier, gunship crews focused on the CAS 

of US troops in contact with the enemy.140 Although they did 

not operate in the same low-level environment with other 

AFSOF platforms, they shared the notion that they normally 

worked independently of conventional air forces. Unlike the 

SOF helicopters and Talons, gunships relied on US air superiority in order to carry out their missions. Due to their flight 

characteristics, gunships had to operate at night and in a limited threat environment. Although gunship missions differed 

significantly from those of conventional and other SOF aircraft, 

most American commanders in SEA recognized and appreciated their contributions. This exposure to MACV and the Seventh Air Force ensured that Air Force leadership fully acknowledged these gunship accomplishments. 

In 1971 CSAF Gen John D. Ryan remarked, “One of the most 

successful developments arising from our experience in SEA is 

the gunship. . . . We intend to keep this capability to deliver a 

tremendous volume of sustained, accurate firepower in the 

tactical force.”141 If the United States were to remain vigilant 

against the so-called wars of national liberation, it would have 

to expand its capabilities to deliver surgical firepower, a mission tailored to the gunship array of sensors and weapons. In 

the end, the gunship’s cultural personality was heavily influenced by the concept of precision firepower and the close relationship with the ground customers.142 Also, the gunship legacy 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

52

differed from that of the rest of AFSOF in the sense that AC-130 

crews worked in the limelight while Talons and SOF helicopters 

operated in the shadows. 

Although USAF and MACV leadership in SEA honored 16th 

SOS crews with medals for combat performance, the corporate 

Air Force did not recognize their institutional value with promotions. According to Dr. David Mets, a professor at SAASS 

and former 16th SOS commander, “The promotion rates were 

rotten, and there were many people who had been passed over 

in other commands who were forced into gunships by MPC 

[Military Personnel Center] merely to fill the MPC squares for 

remote tours and the like. When I got into the 16 SOS, I believe 

we had 26 lieutenant colonels in the squadron and more than 

half had been passed over.”143

The other AFSOF subcultures—Talons and helicopters—

experienced similar promotion rates.144 They demonstrated the 

Air Force’s lack of appreciation for the clandestine sacrifices of 

AFSOF crew members, thus creating a feeling of discontent 

among those individuals. The gunship culture developed along 

a different path than did the rest of AFSOF because the AC-130’s 

organizational development differed slightly from that of the 

other AFSOF subelements. Nonetheless, although the Talon and 

helicopter experiences were more comparable, the AC-130 community eventually shared the same fate as its AFSOF cousins. 

Ultimately, the common bond between the gunship, Talon, and 

AFSOF helicopter communities was the fact that none of them 

integrated well within the conventional Air Force structure. 

In the context of AFSOF’s collective history, the Talon, helicopter, and gunship experienced similar organizational growth. 

Although the subgroup cultures differed, the AFSOF community slipped into relative anonymity following its departure from 

SEA. Alternatively, as Haas aptly puts it, “The force lapsed into 

the backwaters of Air Force priorities.”145 Nonetheless, this 

trend started to dissipate after the 1980 failure to rescue US 

hostages held in Iran. SOF failed to recover the hostages but 

succeeded in renewing national interest in the unique capabilities resident in America’s special forces. As far as AFSOF 

was concerned, the Iran hostage-rescue attempt catalyzed 

change and innovation, providing the impetus for a paradigm 

shift in AFSOF’s organizational development. 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

53

This look at AFSOF culture has attempted to codify the institutional identity for the three aviation subcultures that survived, albeit barely, the post-Vietnam budget cuts and organizational purging. Simply put, the Air Force chose to ignore the 

UW lessons learned during the first three decades of its existence. After the Vietnam War, AFSOF was almost eliminated. 

To stay relevant by drawing itself closer to its parent service, 

AFSOF began moving away from the UW mission (most likely, 

however, it did so to separate itself from the Vietnam experience). As Klingaman contends, “When AFSOF came back on 

line in the late 1970’s, they were geared for direct action (DA) 

airlift and gunship operations, not for training and advising 

foreign aviation forces, the mission for which they were originally created. That is when AFSOF departed from the traditional special operator role to the more conventional side of 

things in the airlift and gunship realms.”146

Chapter 5 further addresses the Air Force’s neglect of AFSOF, 

but for now, the reader should understand that the Air Force 

was not alone in eliminating the UW mission. In the 1970s, the 

Army removed the word counterinsurgency from its lexicon.147

The long-term consequence of this conventionally minded leadership decision was that, in the 1980s, an entire generation of Air 

Force and Army leaders chose to deliberately ignore a mission 

area that had been a central element of US national policy. 

In the end, AFSOF heritage, in many ways, is the story of an 

organization that has proved its worth in combat but has struggled to convince the Air Force of its relevance in peacetime. The 

next chapter explores the Air Rescue Service, an entity that has 

developed along a similar organizational path.

Notes

1. Moore, “Secret Air War,” p. 6; and Ambrose, Band of Brothers, pp. 71–89. 

Note that the reference to “Fortress Europe” has been widely used to describe 

Axis-held continental Europe during World War II.

2. Ibid. For insight into the intelligence-gathering activities of the OSS, see 

Troy, Donovan, pp. 5–8.

3. Foot, SOE in France, pp. 74–79.

4. Moore, “Secret Air War,” p. 12. Note that Moore cites (n. 36) JCS 170/1, 

OSS/NATO Records, Miscellaneous File, National Archives, Records Group 

226, Entry 97. According to JCS 170/1, the OSS plan had requested covert 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

54

air transport in 1942 in order to support OSS/Algiers. Although General 

Eisenhower approved the concept in theory, the OSS plan did not bear fruit 

until August 1943, when General Spaatz agreed to provide three aircraft to 

OSS/Algiers. See also Moore, “Secret Air War,” pp. 14–18.

5. Ibid., p. 18.

6. Ibid., p. 20. The term Maquisards was commonly used as a nickname 

for the resistance fighters in the southern half of France. It is derived from 

Maquis, a scrub plant common to the arid hills of southern France and Corsica. The French resistance army itself was often known as the Maquis (ibid., 

p. 62).

7. For more of the exploits of the Army Air Forces’ special operations in 

Europe, see ibid., pp. 20–55.

8. Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 16–17.

9. Ibid., p. 17. Chinnery notes that Lt Col John R. Alison was initially cocommander but soon became the deputy to Lt Col Philip G. Cochran. Also, 

the 1st ACG is the final name of the organization that Colonels Cochran and 

Alison created. The unity was first called Project 9, then Project CA 281, 

5318th Provisional Unit (Air), and Number 1 Air Commando Force, before 

evolving to the 1st ACG.

10. Ibid., pp. 24–35. Aircraft listing also found in 16th Special Operations 

Wing (SOW), 16th Special Operations Wing Heritage. For more on Operation 

Thursday, arguably the most notable air commando operation in the CBI 

theater, see Kelly, From a Dark Sky, pp. 3–36; and Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 

19–24. For more on the Chindits (the nickname of the special force in the CBI 

theater), see Kirby, War against Japan; and Chinnery, March or Die. Many 

historians list the 1st ACG as the first ever composite wing.

11. Ibid. In April 1944, 2d Lt Carter Harman, a YR-4 helicopter pilot, extracted US/British commandos from a crash site, making him the pilot of the 

first helicopter combat rescue.

12. Blair, Forgotten War, p. 9.

13. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, p. 103.

14. Rearden, “U.S. Strategic Bombardment,” pp. 384–85, 445–51. Drew 

(“Air Theory,” p. 327) suggests that “US airmen focused on organizational 

independence from the US Army and on missions that best justified independence (i.e., strategic bombing and, to a lesser extent, deep interdiction).” 

15. Crane, American Airpower, p. 5. Crane argues that Lt Gen Otto P. 

Weyland was “one of the few senior USAF leaders who retained his faith in 

tactical airpower after World War II.” For reference to the Air Force “monarchic” 

system, see Ehrhard, “Armed Services and Innovation,” p. 12. In terms of 

organizational culture, chap. 2 explored this concept in more detail.

16. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 9.

17. Ibid., p. 16. Note that the FEC/LG later designated Covert, Clandestine, 

and Related Activities–Korea as CCRAK. Haas points out that the CCRAK 

acronym had both a classified and an unclassified interpretation. The Covert, 

Clandestine, and Related Activities—Korea was the classified version, while the 

unclassified version was Combined Command for Reconnaissance Activities–

Korea. Although other organizational titles were used throughout the Korean 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

55

War history of SOF, in the name of consistency, the author uses CCRAK as 

the term that describes this organization throughout the conflict.

18. Ibid., p. 18. Haas documents that by the end of 1952, the CCRAK 

force included over 16,000 partisans.

19. Ibid., p. 13. Note that Det. 2 had no special UW training. According to 

Haas, “Lost from memory as if it had never existed was the unconventional 

warfare expertise learned at such cost in World War II by both the Carpetbaggers and the Air Commandos. It would have to be learned all over again.”

20. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, p. 104.

21. Ibid., pp. 104–7. The agents were supplied by the Koreans; the Americans called them “rabbits.” Some rabbits were men; some were women. All in 

all, about 1,000 “rabbits” parachuted behind enemy lines. Some of these missions went all the way up to the Yalu River. According to Aderholt, the CIA 

sponsored most of the deep infiltration missions, while the Far East Command 

was more concerned with the reconnaissance and surveillance of enemy 

troop disposition. For Operation Aviary, see Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 19. 

For more on Captain Aderholt and the exploits of Det. 2, 21st Troop Carrier 

Squadron (otherwise known as Unit 4), see Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 30–39.

22. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, pp. 112–13. The USAF recognized its deficiencies in UW in the early winter of 1950. As the rest of the paragraph suggests, 

it would take several months until the UW capability materialized with the 

creation of the ARCW wings.

23. Ibid., pp.112–14. General Vandenberg’s vision was to establish an 

ARCS and six ARCSs that supported paradrops of propaganda material and 

agents anywhere in the world. General Vandenberg wanted to divest these 

missions from the CIA and establish them under the Air Force. ARCS aircraft 

would include B-29s, C-119s, C-54s, SA-16s, and later H-19A helicopters. 

Chinnery points out that although the plan called for six wings, only three 

materialized. Of the three wings—580th, 581st, and 582nd ARCWs—only the 

581st ARCW saw action in Korea. Any Time, p. 58.

24. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, pp. 113–14; and Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 79.

25. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 79.

26. The 581st ARCW is used as an example of USAF activities in the Korean War. Another key element of the AFSOF heritage was the activities of a 

number of Fifth Air Force units; most notably, the activities of B-Flight, 

6167th Operations Squadron, Fifth Air Force, and of the 6004th Air Intelligence Support Squadron (AISS) (Dets. 1, 2, and 3). Stationed at Seoul City Air 

Base (K-16), B-Flight conducted classified missions involving the transporting and resupplying of personnel deep behind enemy lines, dropped leaflets 

or conducted other psychological operations such as “speaker missions,” and 

carried out “firefly operations” (flare drops that aided ground units and 

bomber aircraft in night attack of the enemy). Det. 1 of the 6004th AISS provided technical intelligence, Det. 2 provided positive human intelligence, and 

Det. 3 handled the support for escape and evasion activities. A detailed explanation of all of these units goes well beyond the scope of this paper, but for 

more information on these endeavors, see Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 40–65; 

and Schetta, Guerrilla Warfare. With reference to the 1950s air activities in 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

56

Vietnam, see Corum and Johnson, Airpower, p. 236. They suggest that “the 

United States became increasingly committed to the defense of South Vietnam, and when President Eisenhower became alarmed about ‘falling dominoes,’ U.S. analysts pressed for direct American military intervention.” Chinnery, Any Time, p. 58. Also, according to Chinnery, the 581st ARCW, although 

mostly focused on operations in Korea, also supported UW activities in Indochina (1953) (ibid.).

27. History, 581st Air Resupply and Communications Wing, Operations 

Plan 3-52. Haas also lists the other squadrons in the wing: 581st Maintenance Squadron, 581st Air Materials Assembly Squadron, 581st Holding and 

Briefing Squadron, 581st Communications Squadron, and 581st Reproduction Squadron. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 79–80, 92. For more on their individual squadron missions, see ibid or OPLAN 3-52.

28. History, 581st ARCW, pp. 40–65. According to OPLAN 3-52, the 581st 

ARS had 28 aircraft (12 B-29s, four C-119s, two C-54s, two C-118s, four 

SA-16s, and four H-19As). In addition to other missions flown directly from 

Clark AB, OPLAN 3-52 outlined the following concept of operations: Four 

B-29s were sent on 60-day rotations to the 91st Strategic Reconnaissance 

Squadron, Yokota AB, Japan. Each aircrew flew a total of 15 tactical leafletdrop missions. Four C-119s and crews were placed on 90-day rotations supporting the 315th Air Division (AD). The 315th AD commander alone designated the particular unit to be supported—most of these sorties were 

conventional troop-carrier missions. Two SA-16s were placed on “extended 

temporary duty” in support of the UW activities of B Flight, 6167th Air Base 

Group, Seoul City Airport (K-16), Korea. Painted black for obvious reasons, 

since they flew at night, these amphibians were responsible for the infiltration and exfiltration of covert operatives behind enemy lines. Four H-19As 

were also stationed at K-16. Parked next to the H-19 helicopters of the 2157th 

Air Rescue Squadron, their mission was the same as that of the SA-16s. Additionally, as a secondary mission, the 581st H-19As aided in the rescue of 

downed aircrew members. The C-118s and C-54s were used for special missions in support of a number of USAF and CIA initiatives. Information on the 

concept of operations is derived from a letter that Col George Pittman, USAF, 

retired, sent to Haas in 1994. See Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 80–81.

29. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 92–93.

30. Ibid., p. 113.

31. Ibid., p. 107.

32. Ibid., p. 113. Also, for more on the H and B training, see ibid., pp. 

113–15, in which Haas outlines the 580th’s Special Warfare Course and the 

ARCS Individual Training Standard 50-2-2 (proficiency requirements).

33. Ibid., pp. 107–8. A good operational example of the DOD role in UW 

activities was Operation Think (the high-altitude balloon and low-altitude 

resupply missions in support of CIA and DOD intelligence and counterpropaganda activities).

34. History, Air Resupply and Communications Service, 1 July–31 Dec. 

1953, p. 20.

35. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 108.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

57

36. Ibid. Even though the ARCS experiment had grown far beyond the 

USAF’s expectations, Department of the Air Force Letter 322, supported by 

General Order 174, directed the organizational dissolution of the ARCS.

37. For more on US efforts to counter communist expansion in the Greek 

Civil War, see Corum and Johnson, Airpower, pp. 93–110. The comment “top 

of the world” refers to Tibet and the Himalayas (for more, see Haas, Apollo’s 

Warriors, pp. 137–45). “Silent Success” was the unofficial motto of the 580th 

ARCG; its official motto was Libertas per Veritatem, Freedom through Truth 

(Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 121).

38. Cole, “Maryland Air Commandos,” pp. 262–73; Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 129–35; and Elliot, Modern Army, pp. 103–4. The term special air 

warfare (SAW) encompassed the air aspects of counterinsurgency, unconventional warfare, and psychological operations. As a frame of reference, Elliot 

points out that prior to 1960, the Continental Command supervised the ANG. 

Cole and Haas suggest that UW activities were controlled by a number of different commands, contributing to a lack of unified direction toward a particular USAF UW mission vision.

39. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 147–61. Although not part of the air commando groups in the ANG, Major Aderholt (who was working for the CIA at the 

time) and 80 guardsmen from the ANG’s 117th Tactical Reconnaissance Wing 

based in Birmingham, AL, and the Arkansas ANG helped train the Cuban 

exiles for Operation Pluto, the Bay of Pigs invasion. When the invasion took 

place on 15–19 April 1961, four of the 16 Alabama and Arkansas ANG crew 

members flying in the initial assault were killed in the aerial combat over the 

Bay of Pigs. See also Persons, Bay of Pigs; and Ferrer, Operation PUMA.

40. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, pp. 124–39. There were other significant missions that took place during the 1950s that are not covered in this paper—

events such as the planned CIA rescue of Allen Pope using the Fulton Recovery System or the early US activities in Laos—but the size and scope of this 

paper do not allow the in-depth analysis of every AFSOF mission.

41. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 377.

42. Ibid.

43. Drew, “Air Theory,” p. 327; and Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 107–8. 

Besides the Soviet threat, however, the USAF had to contend with an interservice turf battle over roles and missions. Although in 1952 the Air Force 

appeared poised to assume the lead UW role, by 1956 the USAF had moved 

all its UW capability to the National Guard.

44. Ibid., pp. 328, 349. According to Drew, “The professional journal of the 

US Air Force published only two significant articles concerning airpower and 

the ongoing insurgencies in Southeast Asia during the entire decade of the 

1950s.” One of the articles was on the Huk rebellion in the Philippines and 

another on airpower and limited war. The latter included a harsh critique of the 

French use of airpower in Indochina (ibid., pp. 38, 349).

45. Ibid., p. 328.

46. In later chapters, I address the negative influence of the veil of secrecy 

on the careers of AFSOF officers. This indifference damaged AFSOF morale 

and created a mutual distrust between Air Force elites and special operators.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

58

47. Drew, “Air Theory,” p. 327. Drew suggests that military budget cutting 

by the Eisenhower administration “played directly into the hands of people 

who believed that atomic airpower could deter all forms of warfare.” Separately, the author of this thesis suggests that the covert nature of SOF hides 

the community from the view of the very people who could keep pressure on 

the USAF to maintain a robust AFSOF capability—the civilian leadership. 

Chaps. 5 and 6 demonstrate how DOD/congressional support helped 

strengthen AFSOF capabilities.

48. Ibid., p. 347.

49. Corum and Johnson, Airpower, p. 237. The authors outline Khrushchev’s speech as follows: “According to Khrushchev, war could be divided into 

three categories: general war, which he rejected as too dangerous; local, or 

limited wars, which he feared because of their potential to develop into general war; and wars of national liberation [emphasis added], which he endorsed 

as inevitable and desirable.” President Kennedy recognized the danger. As 

early as 1954, Kennedy had warned about the problem of insurgency. He had 

read the works of Mao and Che Guevara and studied the counterinsurgency 

campaigns in the Philippines and Malaya. For Kennedy’s wisdom on COIN, 

see p. 474 of Corum and Johnson.

50. Ibid., p. 237.

51. “Urgent National Needs,” p. 906.

52. In other words, had the Air Force not responded promptly, the Army 

might have taken advantage of the USAF indecision and created an organic 

air capability to support its UW ground forces. This observation previews a 

point that will be further explored in later chapters (i.e., when the USAF acts 

indecisively in the defense of certain roles and missions, the USA tries to 

create organic capabilities to compensate for USAF uncertainty).

53. Message, 240807Z OCT 62, cited in Tilford, Search and Rescue, pp. 

44–45. According to a 13 June 1980 letter from the Det. 3 HQ ARRS commander, Colonel Henjum, to the ARRS commander, by 1966 the Army and 

Air Force reached an agreement in which Army helicopters would concentrate on theater airlift and AF helicopters would handle the SOF mission. 

This was the first formal agreement establishing the demarcation of Army 

and AFSOF helicopter missions.

54. Chinnery, Any Time, p. 68. Regarding the interservice controversy, see 

Corum and Johnson, Airpower. The authors suggest that for the US Air Force, 

“the creation of a tiny special unit for counterinsurgency was considered adequate” (p. 273). The USA, on the other hand, wanted to “secure the dominant 

position in conflict less than general war.” Ibid.

55. Corum and Johnson, Airpower, p. 245.

56. Hildreth, USAF Special Air Warfare, p. 2.

57. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 170–71. According to Haas, pilots’ credentials were “sanitized” when they resigned from active duty, but their military 

records “were sent to a special intelligence unity, while substitute, authenticlooking records continued through the military’s out-processing system. . . . 

The process of being sanitized, or sheepdipped as it is widely called in the 

special operations community, is not a program taken lightly by the potential 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

59

volunteer.” In effect, the individual had to provide a cover story for friends 

and family for his retirement/separation from active duty, and so forth.

58. Klingaman to author, e-mail, 18 Mar. 2004.

59. Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 68–71. By March 1962, TAC had renamed 

the 4400th CCTS as the 4410th CCTS and had activated the 4400th Combat 

Crew Training Group at Hurlburt Field. Det. 3 was activated in April 1962 

with the mission of providing counterinsurgency and civic-action training to 

personnel from Latin American countries. In May, Det. 3, code-named Bold 

Venture, relocated to Howard AB, Panama. The unit operated two of each of 

the following aircraft: C-46, U-10A, T-28, and B-26. That summer the 4400th 

CCTG, redesignated the 1st ACG, trained in hand-to-hand combat, received 

the most up-to-date weapons (they received the Colt AR-15 rifle, while the 

Army retained the M-14 rifle), and worked on the design and installation of a 

public address system for psychological operations on all the aircraft assigned 

to the group. Although the 1st ACG kept busy at Hurlburt and in Panama, 

the bulk of the air commando activity took place in Southeast Asia.

60. Assistant Director for Joint Matters, Book of Actions, pp. 961–64.

61. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 163–89.

62. Corum and Johnson, Airpower, p. 248.

63. Drew, “Air Theory,” pp. 325, 334. As conventional USAF involvement 

in the process of the Americanization of the war increased, there was a shift 

in focus from the UW mission to a much more conventional search for the 

enemy’s center of gravity. As the USAF focus shifted from solely targeting the 

COIN struggle in Indochina to focusing on coercing North Vietnam to end its 

support for the Vietcong, the US military, in effect, forgot that in COIN operations, according to Drew, “both antagonists have the same center of gravity—

the people.”

64. Haas, Air Commando! p. 64.

65. Corum and Johnson, Airpower, p. 246.

66. Ibid., p. 475.

67. Ibid.

68. Farm Gate organizationally fell under the control of the 2nd Advanced 

Echelon, Thirteenth Air Force. As Aderholt’s comments suggest, this relationship was rocky from the start because the air commandos quickly found out 

that General Anthis, commander of 2nd Advanced Echelon, neither grasped 

nor understood the value of the UW mission.

69. Trest, Air Commando One, pp. 123–24.

70. Schein, Organizational Culture, pp. 376–77.

71. Drew, “Air Theory,” pp. 332–33. Drew suggests that while air commandos at the Special Air Warfare Center were “doing their homework” on 

the classic concepts of insurgency warfare, USAF “doctrine (and by inference, 

its thinking and theory) remained where it had been since the advent of nuclear weapons and the creation of the independent Air Force.”

72. “Are We Abusing Technology,” p. 45.

73. Corum and Johnson, Airpower, p. 272. Conventional Airmen have resisted any adaptation to the central tenets of airpower theory—the inherent 

offensiveness of airpower, the necessity for air superiority, the dominant role 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

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of strategic bombardment, and the need of independence (control of air units 

and overall institutional autonomy). Ibid., p. 269. This does not suggest that 

the air commandos had all the right answers and that the 2nd Advanced 

Echelon had it all wrong. The author of this research paper uses Corum and 

Johnson’s argument to suggest that the USAF treated the Vietnam War as a 

“conventional war” without realizing that, unless the Vietcong massed as a 

conventional force, the American approach was not going to work against 

irregular forces. This issue will be expounded later in this chapter.

74. Although the idea of airpower supporting UW operations is nearly as 

old as the airpower experience itself, extensive employment of such a strategy 

did not come about until well after World War II. For more on the first time 

that UW was coupled with airpower, see the Arab Revolt (1916–1918). T. E. 

Lawrence used aerial raids to augment the Arab guerrilla campaign against 

the Turks. Lawrence, Seven Pillars, 341–42. Corum and Johnson discuss the 

Greek and Filipino COIN campaigns. The Greek Civil War (1943–1949) and 

the Philippine government’s struggle against the Hukbalahap (Huk) Insurgency (1946–1956) were primarily land operations, but airpower played a 

significant role in each COIN campaign. In both campaigns, US advisers 

helped the “Cinderella” service (Air Force) in Greece and in the Philippines in 

becoming a decisive factor in COIN operations. For more on the subject, see 

Corum and Johnson, Airpower, pp. 93–138. According to Corum and Johnson, the lessons of greatest importance from both campaigns were first, the 

need to integrate all of the instruments of national power—economic, information, military, and diplomatic—in the pacification effort; and second, the 

need for inspired leadership—Alexandros Papagos (Greece) and Ramon 

Magsaysay (Philippines)­—in the sense that these leaders inspired the loyalty 

of the armed forces and the genuine support of the majority of the people: 

Military effort was most successful when subordinate to political goals.

75. Drew, “U.S. Airpower Theory,” pp. 815–16.

76. The necessity and practicality are associated with the US containment 

policy and political emphasis on UW. “The US wasn’t the only country alarmed 

at the prospect of North Vietnamese expansionism. The Thai government offered a small number of its military pilots to Water Pump for combat over 

Laos.” Haas, Air Commando! p. 50. Please note that Water Pump was the code 

name for Det. 6, 1st ACW, Udorn, Thailand, deployed March 1964. Det. 6 

deployed to Thailand as part of Project 404, the highly classified joint operations against North Vietnamese intrusion into Laos in order to resupply the 

Vietcong along what became known as the “Ho Chi Minh Trail.” Because of 

the 1962 Geneva accords that were supposed to guarantee the neutrality of 

Laos, Water Pump could not, theoretically, fly missions against the Ho Chi 

Minh Trail; therefore, Det. 6 produced the Thai and Laotian pilots who supported the Laotian government in countering Communist Pathet Lao. Haas 

reviews the process in which Water Pump trained “Air America” pilots in the 

T-28 to fly combat-rescue support over the trail. Haas, Air Commando!

pp. 48–50. Another aspect of the air commando contributions in Thailand 

was that of the Air Force Military Civic Action Officer Program designed 

to neutralize the potential Communist insurgent threat to the multiple 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

61

Thai air bases that were home to USAF units fighting the war against North 

Vietnam. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 239–45; and Berger, United States Air 

Force in Southeast Asia, p. 292. Note that Det. 6 later became part of the 

606th ACS (1966), which later became the 56th ACW (1967). Haas, Air Commando! p. 51. The 56th Wing would later contribute (1970s) to the foreign 

internal defense mission against the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia.

77. This is to distinguish fixed-wing (side-firing) gunships from rotarywing (forward-firing) gunships.

78. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 258–59.

79. This is a classic demonstration of COIN operations via airpower. Airpower was able to assure the South Vietnamese peasants that their government was able to protect them from the Vietcong. For more on COIN operations 

using airpower, see various examples in Corum and Johnson, Airpower.

80. Napier, “Air Commandos in Vietnam,” p. 140. According to Napier, air 

commandos used C-47 and C-123 transports to initially drop 50,000-

candlepower and, later, 3,000,000-candlepower flares.

81. Ibid.

82. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 259.

83. Ibid.

84. Ballard, United States Air Force in Southeast Asia, pp. 1–3, 8. The initial 

proponent for the contemporary gunship idea was Ralph E. Flexman, an assistant chief engineer with Bell Aerospace Company, Buffalo, NY. He had read 

of missionaries in South America who delivered mail to remote areas by flying 

their aircraft in a pylon turn and lowering the mail by line. He shared his ideas 

with a number of Air Force professionals, including Capt John C. Simons, 

who made the original test arrangements for a proof-of-concept demonstration (pp. 3–7). Captain Terry, a test pilot with Air Force Systems Command 

who had prior combat experience in South Vietnam, took Flexman and Simon’s 

ideas and developed a tactical scenario employing the side-firing weapon system that might defend hamlets and forts. In August 1964, the USAF tested 

this concept as part of Project Tail Chaser, using a C-131. Convinced of the 

C-131’s capabilities, the air commandos (using the General Electric SUU-11A 

7.62 mm minigun) quickly recognized the value of this new technique.

85. Ibid., pp. 12–14. General LeMay, CSAF, and Gen John P. McConnell, 

the then vice-CSAF and future CSAF, both supported the air-commando 

gunship initiative. But Ballard notes that General Sweeney was opposed the 

side-firing gunship tactics because, theoretically, it placed a “highly vulnerable aircraft in a battlefield environment in which I [General Sweeney] believe 

the results will not compensate for the losses of Air Force personnel and aircraft.” Additionally, as Ballard points out, “[Sweeney] saw a successful gunship weakening the Air Force in its battle with the Army over the use of helicopters in offensive fire-support missions. Conceivably this might encourage 

the Army to use [organic to the Army] transports in a ground support role.” 

Ballard notes that Captain Terry “conned his way through the CSAF’s outer 

office in a moment of administrative confusion to deliver his pitch for the 

gunship.” See also Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 260.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

62

86. The 4th ACS was created in July 1965. Of the 20 aircraft assigned, 16 

were used for combat activities, while four were used for command support 

and attrition. See Napier, p. 34; and Ballard, pp. 28–32 (reference operational 

testing in South Vietnam), p. 33 (reference 4th ACS movement to Vietnam, 

code name Sixteen Buck), and p. 34 (aircraft numbers and initial organization under the 2nd AD and 6250th Combat Support Group). Note that by 

May 1966, the 4th ACS aircraft were given the designation AC-47. Also cited 

in Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 98–103.

87. The 14th was redesignated the 3rd ACS in May 1968. The 3rd and 4th 

ACSs were part of the 14th ACW. The wing achieved three major milestones 

in 1968. It was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation in June 1968; it reached 

the 100,000th mission mark by 13 July (successfully defending 2.284 allied 

outposts); and on 1 August 1968 the wing was renamed the 14 SOW, 3rd and 

4th Special Operations Squadrons. Ballard, United States Air Force in Southeast Asia, p. 63.

88. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 268–73. The first AC-119 gunships were 

employed under the flag of the 71st SOS (December 1968). Later, the USAF 

activated the 17th SOS and 18th SOS (AC-119G/K). The AC-119s employed 

two 20 mm cannons and four 7.62 mm miniguns. For a detailed account of 

AC-119 activities, see Ballard, United States Air Force in Southeast Asia, pp. 

176–220.

89. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 276. Note that the Seventh Air Force kept 

the AC-47s and AC-119s in South Vietnam and placed the new AC-130s in 

Thailand. In the early 1970s, when the United States started transferring the 

older gunships to the Vietnamese (part of the “Vietnamization” of the conflict), the USAF streamlined to one type of aircraft. The only AC-130 unit in 

Southeast Asia was the 16th SOS stationed at Ubon, Thailand (primarily, 

although the AC-130s initially moved to Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut airport in 

response to the Tet offensive of 1968). Ballard, United States Air Force in 

Southeast Asia, pp. 90–121; and Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 278–82.

90. Ballard, United States Air Force in Southeast Asia, pp. 52, 69. Although 

the USAF clearly recognized and decorated the gunship crews accordingly, 

more important to the crews was the praise they received from their ground 

customers. Ballard documents several examples of gunship heroics and of 

the close relationship they developed with the ground units that they supported. The pages I’ve listed describe the Spooky (4th ACS) exploits in support of I Corps and in COIN operations in northern Laos.

91. Rosenau, Special Operations Forces, p. 14. Rosenau provides a good 

overview of OPLAN-34A activities. For Operation Rolling Thunder objectives, 

see Thompson, To Hanoi and Back, especially pp. 20–31; see also Hone, 

“Strategic Bombardment,” pp. 495–500.

92. Chinnery, Any Time, p. 106.

93. Saal, SOG: MACV Studies, p. 79. See also Conboy and Andradé, Spies 

and Commandos, pp. 81–100 (reference Operation Switchback and the origins of OPLAN-34A). For more information on the activation of MACVSOG, 

General Order no. 6, see Shultz, Secret War against Hanoi, pp. 37–40.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

63

94. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 293; see also Rosenau, Special Operations 

Forces, p. 16. Note that OPLAN-34A had several subsets. These are summarized in p. 15 of Rosenau. OPLAN-32 dealt with the air activities, OPLAN-33 

and OPLAN-39 accounted for psychological operations, OPLAN-34 was associated with the insertion of indigenous forces, and OPLAN-35 addressed 

the infiltration of reconnaissance teams or the recovery of downed US aircrews. 

One should note that in addition to the aircrews described here, AFSOF 

played a key role in the SOG ground activities. The USAF contribution to the 

ground element of SOG and to countless forts and hamlets (such as Khe 

Sahn) came in the form of Butterflies and Ravens. These were the call signs 

for the USAF combat controllers assigned in Vietnam. For more see Kelly, 

From a Dark Sky, pp. 175–92.

95. The organizational development and cultural identity of black SOF 

units were distinct from those of white SOF units. Later chapters address the 

white SOF and black SOF concept in greater detail. Partly due to classification issues and to some extent due to the nature of the missions, 75th SOG 

personnel had very little in common with the Green Beret mission. For more, 

see Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 291–313; and Saal, SOG: MACV Studies.

96. Their customers were involved in OPLAN-34 activities (insertion of US 

and indigenous forces) and OPLAN-33 and OPLAN-39 (psychological operations). Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 293; and Rosenau, Special Operations 

Forces, p. 16.

97. Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 106–7. According to Chinnery, Duck Hook 

was the first Big Safari project undertaken by Lockheed Aircraft Services. Air 

commandos trained 38 Nationalist Chinese and 22 South Vietnamese aviators and interpreters (10 were of the latter category). Chinnery points out that 

these crew members were later designated Det. 1, 775th Troop Carrier Squadron. Their squadron patch had seven stars in it for the seven geographical 

areas/countries outlined in endnote 75. See also Plaster, SOG, p. 24.

98. Thigpen, Praetorian Starship, p. 17. For more on evolution of the Combat Talon, the 1st SOS, 15th SOS, and 90th SOS, as well as more on the 

overall Combat Talon activities in Vietnam, see ibid., pp. 19–120. This book 

is a true labor of love. Thigpen’s detail and thorough research are truly remarkable, considering the secretive nature of the Talon activities.

99. Chinnery, Any Time, p. 110. Dates and locations were confirmed with 

the AFHRA, 30 Jan. 2004.

100. Ibid.

101. Ibid., p. 114. Chinnery accounts for the transfer of UH-1F Hueys from 

the 606th ACS to the 20th HS. These Hueys retained the call sign Green Hornet, and some were modified as helicopter gunships (redesignated UH-1Ps).

102. Ibid., p. 113. The 21st SOS also flew CH-3 helicopters.

103. Chinnery, Any Time, p. 111. Please note that the 219th HS, the King 

Bees, flew H-34s. The infiltration and exfiltration of special forces teams in 

Laos were known as Prairie Fire, while similar missions in Cambodia were 

given the code name Daniel Boone (p. 114).
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

64

104. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 308. It should be noted that the Green 

Hornets paid a big price for their lack of experience and the dangers associated with the UW mission.

105. Ibid.

106. During their tour of duty in SEA (that ended in 1972), they lost 19 

helicopters—13 in direct combat. Mutza, “Covertly into Cambodia,” pp. 26–28.

107. Plaster, SOG, p. 109.

108. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 308.

109. Both ARS and AFSOF aircraft took part in the “raid” on Son Tay. 

Although interesting and deeply ingrained in the organizational memory of 

both ARS and AFSOF personnel, the story is not pertinent to the discussion. 

It is but one example of how these two communities can work together to 

achieve a common objective. If successful, my attempts to describe the heritage of the two communities in chaps. 2 and 3 should make the Son Tay raid 

yet another example of the professional cooperation and of the honorable 

and gallant performances that this paper has established as the norm, not 

the exception, during contingency operations. For more information, see 

Schemmer’s Raid, perhaps the most authoritative book on the rescue attempt on Son Tay. See also Tilford, Search and Rescue, pp. 103–12; and 

Thigpen, Praetorian Starship, pp. 139–58.

110. The Son Tay model is discussed in the conclusion of this chapter.

111. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 311.

112. Guilmartin, Very Short War, p. 42.

113. Chinnery, Any Time, p. 223.

114. Please note that Operation Rice Bowl was the code name for the 

planning phase of the failed attempt to rescue the American hostages held in 

Iran. Operation Eagle Claw was the operational phase of the mission. Desert 

One is an unofficial term often associated with the rescue attempt. Although, 

technically, Desert One was the code name for the first landing zone in Iran, 

in order to prevent confusion, this chapter uses this well-known term to refer 

to the entire rescue mission. Even if not totally accurate, it is sufficient for 

this chapter. Chap. 5 and the appendix examine the Desert One experience 

in greater detail.

115. Wells, Outline of History, chap. 41.

116. USSOCOM, SOF Truths.

117. Thigpen, Praetorian Starship, p. 15.

118. Mutza, “Covertly into Cambodia,” p. 26. As the statistics on the Green 

Hornets suggest, inexperience costs lives. Again, according to Mutza, during 

their tour of duty in SEA (ending in 1972), the Green Hornets lost 19 helicopters, 13 in direct combat.

119. History, Tactical Air Command, 1 Jan.–30 June 1961, p. 433.

120. In 1974 AFSOF was redesignated the 834th Tactical Composite Wing 

(TCW), “effectively bringing to a close the most aggressive, far-reaching effort 

by the USAF to support unconventional warfare. In July 1975, the USAF renamed the 834 TCW as 1 SOW, and by 1979 it was the only SOF wing in the 

Air Force.” In the wing, AFSOF retained some capability, namely AC-130H 

Spectre gunships, MC-130E Combat Talons, and CH-3E Jolly Green and UH-1N 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

65

Huey helicopters; this, in effect, meant that AFSOF no longer possessed a 

long-range infiltration via helicopter capability. Two MC-130 Combat Talon 

squadrons of four aircraft each remained overseas. The Air Force Reserve 

(AFR) retained an AC-130A gunship group at Duke Field, FL, and one HH-3E 

Jolly Green squadron at Davis-Monthan AFB, AZ. AFSOC, Heritage of Quiet 

Professionals, p. 9.

121. Gray, “Handfuls of Heroes.”

122. Chinnery, Any Time, p. 224. Comments by Col James H. Kyle, the 

deputy commander of the joint task force (JTF) assembled after the Iran hostage crisis in 1980.

123. Gray, “Handfuls of Heroes.”

124. Shultz, “Great Divide,” p. 92.

125. Gray, “Handfuls of Heroes.”

126. Ibid.

127. Beres to author, e-mail, 6 Mar. 2004. The term SOF mafia is a comparable synonym often associated with AFSOF, but the term would not come 

into widespread use until the mid-1980s. For example, AFSOF helicopter 

crews flew three airframes (UH-1, H-3, and CH-53) between Vietnam and the 

Twenty-third Air Force merger. After the merger, the AFSOF helicopter mafia 

would slowly evolve into the Pave Low mafia, referring to the MH-53 aircraft 

that became the vanguard of the AFSOF helicopter force under the Twentythird Air Force stewardship.

128. Uttaro to author, e-mail, 18 Feb. 2004.

129. Ibid.

130. Ettenson to author, e-mail, 4 Mar. 2004.

131. Ibid., 10 Mar. 2004.

132. Guilmartin, Very Short War, p. 40.

133. Ettenson to author, e-mail, 4 Mar. 2004.

134. Weikel to author, e-mail, 8 Mar. 2004; and Green to author, 6 May 

2004. Green argues that the ARRS helicopters had the extended range and, 

thus, more flexibility. The 21st SOS helicopters compensated for their limited 

range by prepositioning (mostly via airdrop) fuel in “Lima sites” along the 

ingress route.

135. Guilmartin, speech to Air Command and Staff College (ACSC).

136. Ibid.

137. Connelly, interview with author, 30 Jan. 2004, Fort Walton Beach, 

FL. See also Green to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004. The promotion-rate issue 

was a particular concern amongst the enlisted force. AFSOF crews, due to 

the classification of their missions, did not receive medals as frequently as 

did other communities, such as ARRS helicopter crews, who sometimes flew 

interchangeable missions. Since medals count towards enlisted promotions, 

there was a level of animosity between enlisted crews because, all other 

things being equal, enlisted crew members in ARRS helicopters (in SEA) were 

promoted ahead of their AFSOF peers.

138. Guilmartin, speech to ACSC.

139. Ibid.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AFSOF

66

140. Ettenson to author, e-mail, 4 Mar. 2004. See also JP 1-02, Department of Defense Dictionary, reference terms “contact report” and “contact 

procedures.” In land warfare, the phrase “in contact” is used when forces 

have detected the enemy. In aerial warfare, it is associated with established 

communications between aircraft and/or ground-control agencies.

141. Ryan, “Transitional Adjustments,” p. 11; see also Ballard, United States 

Air Force in Southeast Asia, p. 258. Ballard also quotes Gen William W. Momyer, 

TAC commander, as saying, “With its multiple sensors, I think this is the best 

weapon for either air or ground support of a night engagement” (p. 258).

142. Ballard, United States Air Force in Southeast Asia, p. 232; and Haas, 

Apollo’s Warriors, pp. 278–82. For example, in just the five months between 

Nov. 1971 and Mar. 1972, allied aircraft damaged or destroyed 10,609 trucks 

along the Laotian panhandle. The top three truck killers, in descending order, 

were the AC-130, AC-119, and the F-4. In terms of hamlet protection, all types 

of gunships played a critical role in the defense of South Vietnamese cities during the 1968 Tet offensive. Haas relates the story of a single AC-130 saving the 

lives of 1,000 Army of the Republic of Vietnam solders from certain death or 

capture during the siege of the Ben Het Ranger camp on 5 May 1972. Please 

note that I am focusing on the AC-130 (vice AC-47 or AC-119) because by 1972 

all non-C-130 gunships had been turned over to the South Vietnamese.

143. Mets to author, e-mail, 7 Mar. 2004. While deployed to SEA, Lieutenant Colonel Mets, USAF, retired, became the 16th SOS commander.

144. Connelly, interview with author, 30 Jan. 2004.

145. Haas, Apollo’s Warriors, p. 282. Haas notes that the AC-130s redeployed to the United States in Dec. 1975. The 16th SOS became the sole active duty gunship squadron in the USAF’s sole remaining SOW—the 1 SOW.

146. Klingaman to author, e-mail, 18 Mar. 2004.

147. Corum, “Terrorism and Small Wars.”
67

Chapter 4

Heritage and Culture of Air Rescue

Our development . . . has been a history of relearning 

lessons already learned by someone else, but who unfortunately could not or did not document it for others to 

profit by it.

—Col Frederick V. Sohle, Jr.

[These things we do] . . . that others may live.

—Code of Air Rescue, coined by

Brig Gen Richard T. Kight

The last chapter offered insight into the development of the 

traditions and norms of special forces. This chapter explores 

the evolution of the legacy and cultural identity of the Air Rescue 

Service, later designated Air Rescue and Recovery Service. Recounting the events that shaped the early organizational development of a combat-rescue capability—wartime experiences in 

World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, as well as the interwar periods 

between conflicts—provides the background required to assess 

the institutional identity of the Air Force rescue community in 

1980. This review accounts not only for the organizational development, but also for the institutional principles that define 

the rescue culture. Following a brief analysis of three lessons 

learned and relearned between 1946 and 1979, this chapter constructs a model of rescue culture that grew from three decades 

of experience. This analysis also reveals the institutional biases 

that affected ARRS organizational behavior in the 1980s. 

Origins of Air Rescue Service: 

Building a Capability

In the late 1920s the Consolidated Air Corporation developed 

a “flying boat” for the United States Navy, which became the 

first aircraft used in a search and rescue role.1 During the interwar years, the United States never developed a doctrine for 

airborne SAR; but even without defined rescue procedures, the 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

68

Army Air Corps (AAC) performed the rescue mission on land, 

while the Navy and Coast Guard were responsible for rescue at 

sea.2 The AAC did not pursue a comprehensive approach to air 

SAR until World War II. As a result, the United States entered 

the war with almost no air-sea rescue capability.3

Gen Henry “Hap” Arnold, chief of the AAC, approved the first 

plan for global air rescue on 6 July 1943.4 This initiative led to 

the creation of dedicated air-sea rescue units, dubbed emergency rescue squadrons, in the European and Pacific theaters 

of operation. While a hodgepodge of rescue assets, these units 

assumed responsibility for rescues along transoceanic flight 

paths.5 Based on the enemy threat and the long transoceanic 

routes, US SAR activities were primarily centered at sea early 

in World War II. 

As the war continued, however, US military leadership became more conscious of the requirement for a variety of rescue 

capabilities on land as well as over water. Throughout the war, 

Airmen explored various alternatives for the recovery of personnel in different environments. According to Frank Ransom, 

an ARS historian, “the need for a land rescue capability led to 

the development of the helicopter as a rescue machine.”6

Even in the early years, however, the debate over rescue went 

beyond possible platform options. Organizational issues were 

contentious. At the end of the war, US armed forces could not 

agree on which service should bear responsibility for the rescue 

function. The issue was not settled until Lieutenant General 

Vandenberg, assistant chief of staff at Headquarters Air Corps, 

struck a bargain with the Coast Guard late in 1945, a deal 

which led to the creation of the ARS. 

Headquarters ARS was established on 1 March 1946 at 

Andrews Field, Maryland. Its primary mission was to provide 

for and oversee all SAR activities in the United States.7 Within 

a few months, however, ARS was responding to rescue and 

humanitarian relief operations not only in the United States, 

but also abroad. From delivering thousands of pounds of food 

to blizzard-struck sections of the American Midwest, to rescue 

operations in Greenland and Bolivia, ARS’s reputation as a lifesaving organization grew.8 Concurrently, in the five years between World War II and the Korean conflict, the ARS began 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

69

forming its organizational identity. Institutionally, this identity 

was quite different from that of the rest of the Air Force. 

According to Builder, the nascent Air Force was entirely oriented towards strategic bombardment. He argues that by associating the USAF with nuclear war, General Vandenberg 

“connected the Air Force mission directly to the security of the 

nation.”9 But while the Air Force was competing with the other 

services for the lion’s share of the defense budget, the ARS had 

to compete within the Air Force for a mission that was not 

directly associated with the USAF’s primary mission area—

strategic bombardment.10 In other words, from the very early 

stages of institutional development, the ARS and USAF foci 

were incongruent: one concentrated on saving lives; the other 

on nuclear deterrence. 

Air Rescue Service and the Korean War

On 25 June 1950, North Korea attacked its southern counterpart, and the ARS had to adjust its organizational agenda from 

peacetime activities to combat rescue and recovery. Conrad C. 

Crane, a historian of the Korean War, suggests that much like 

the rest of the USAF, the ARS “lacked the resources and competence to carry out [its] assigned missions.”11 ARS leadership 

and aircrews proved ill-prepared for war, but they responded as 

best they could. 

On the first day of the war, elements of the 3rd Rescue Squadron were dispatched to Kimpo Airfield, Seoul, South Korea, in 

case an evacuation became necessary.12 Throughout the war 

(1950–53), the 3rd Rescue Squadron (later redesignated 3rd 

Air Rescue Group) rescued nearly 10,000 United Nations personnel, including nearly 1,000 combat saves.13 Of the latter, 

170 were USAF Airmen shot down behind enemy lines.14 Additionally, during the Korean War the helicopter “demonstrated 

its value in the medical evaluation role. The rough Korean roads 

made the evacuation of wounded by land vehicle slow and 

arduous, while helicopters transported the injured [to mobile 

hospitals] smoothly and quickly.”15 In the end, the ability of the 

ARS in Korea to effect rescues depended on the ability to reach 

the crash or parachute site quickly.16
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

70

ARS achievements were highlighted when the 3rd Air Rescue 

Squadron became the first unit to be awarded the Presidential 

Unit Citation for actions during the Korean War.17 The Air Rescue Service’s impressive record during the Korean War demonstrated the need to preserve combat-rescue capabilities in 

peacetime. But beyond the medals and the unit citations, the 

ARS had gained a reputation for risking its crew members’ lives 

in order to save others. Thus, Brig Gen Richard T. Kight, ARS 

commander, coined the motto “that others may live,” an adage 

that would serve as the guiding principle for all rescue men 

who would follow.18

But even in the earliest stages of its cultural development, 

the ARS faced the dilemma of having to fit into a military that, 

at least initially, did not share its single-purposed enthusiasm 

for this particular, albeit noble, mission. For example, early Air 

Force doctrine insisted that airpower was inherently offensive.19

Heavily influenced by their World War II experiences, General 

of the Army Douglas MacArthur, the Combined Forces commander, and his top Air Force commanders targeted offensive 

operations.20

As it would turn out, offensive operations (e.g., strategic 

bombardment, air interdiction, etc.) and air rescue were not 

mutually exclusive. As rescue capabilities improved, ARS crews 

contributed to the primary mission of offensive operations by 

returning downed aircrews to flying duties and denying the 

enemy the opportunity to exploit the intelligence and propaganda value of an American POW. Additionally, ARS exploits 

improved the morale of US aviators who knew that ARS would 

do its best to rescue them if they were shot down.21 Unfortunately, the Air Force did not want to use the Korean model as 

the blueprint for its post–Korean War force structure. Because 

Air Force leadership considered the limited war experience in 

Korea an anomaly, it tended to ignore lessons learned during 

the war and instead chose to harness all its efforts, and limited 

resources, on nuclear deterrence. Wayne Thompson sums up 

Air Force priorities:

The Air Force had entered the [Korean] war committed to the heavy bomber 

armed with atomic weapons . . . [and] a strategy of deterrence. . . . Far 

from undermining these principles, three years of limited warfare had 

reinforced them, persuading the leadership of the Air Force that the 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

71

United States should stand ready to attack the Soviet Union and not divert its strength against aggression by proxy. . . . [In General Vandenberg’s] 

opinion the North Korean invasion of the South did not mean that deterrence had failed—after all, the Soviet Union had not taken advantage 

of the war in the Far East by attacking elsewhere. . . . The threat of total 

devastation seemed the likeliest means to prevent aggression by the 

Soviet Union and its satellite states, or so it appeared in 1953.22

It was evident that by the end of the Korean War, the ARS 

and the USAF had different priorities. Whereas the ARS motto, 

“that others may live,” had become the defining axiom of the 

rescue subculture, the Air Force slogan could just as easily 

have been “that others may die.” Although the rescue forces 

had demonstrated their relevance in recovering Americans in 

limited war, military leaders considered the Korean War an 

anomaly. Even if Air Force leaders appreciated the benefits of 

the ARS in the Korean War, its importance depreciated in the 

context of massive nuclear retaliation.23

The Years between the Korean and 

Vietnam Wars: 1953–64

Even though the Air Force reduced ARS manning between 

the Korean and Vietnam wars, the scope of the ARS peacetime 

commitments widened. The Air Force scaled back Rescue Service from a peak force of 54 squadrons and 7,900 Airmen in 

1954 to 11 squadrons and 1,450 men in 1961.24 On one hand, 

rescue units continued to support the USAF’s worldwide commitments; on the other, according to ARS official records, the 

USAF became “responsible for coordinating SAR activities in 

the contiguous United States (or inland region).”25 In turn, the 

USAF delegated this mission to the Continental Air Command 

and the ARS. 

Additionally, the domestic support mission was formally 

documented in the National Search and Rescue Plan, a document first published in May 1956.26 In the same month, Headquarters (HQ) Air Force assigned the local base rescue mission 

to ARS.27 The ARS had to make major adjustments in order to 

respond to the ever-increasing peacetime responsibilities 

with ever-decreasing rescue resources. A USAF directive, 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

72

published on 25 September 1958, described the new emphasis 

of the post–Korean War ARS:

ARS will be organized, manned, equipped, trained, and deployed to 

support peacetime air operations.

No special units or specially designed aircraft will be provided for the sole 

purpose of wartime search and rescue. . . .

Wartime rescue operations will be dictated by the capabilities of equipment used for peacetime SAR, and will be conducted in accordance with 

JANAF [Joint Army, Navy, Air Force] and Standard Wartime SAR procedures.28 (emphasis added)

Although the ARS kept the mantra “that others may live,” the 

organization degraded slowly to a skeleton command whose 

technical orientation centered on the space recovery mission 

and local base rescue rather than the recovery of aircrews under combat conditions.29 This is not to suggest that Air Force 

leaders did not appreciate the concept of combat SAR. After all, 

as Blumentritt indicates, “many of [the] senior airmen had 

flown in Korea” and had witnessed the benefits of a rescue force 

in combat.30 This degradation supports the widely accepted notion that Air Force leadership considered the limited war experience in Korea an anomaly and, therefore, realigned its efforts 

and budgetary priorities on nuclear deterrence. 

This organizational neglect of the combat-rescue mission 

suggests that the ARS was severely handicapped in the early 

stages of the SEA conflict. This was due not to some conspiracy 

to hamper ARS capabilities, but rather to the same benign neglect discussed in chapter 3. After all, in the 1950s, the US 

doctrine of massive nuclear retaliation remained the central 

theme of US defense policy. Thomas C. Schelling calls this the 

“diplomacy of violence,” stating that “we have a Department of 

Defense but emphasize retaliation—to return evil for evil.”31 At 

the strategic level, the USAF was working under the assumption that the Soviet Union was America’s most likely and most 

dangerous adversary.32 In this context, Air Force leadership did 

not see the need to maintain a credible aircrew-recovery combat 

capability because in case of nuclear war, according to US defense policy, the crews would not have much to come home to. 

With the Soviet threat in the forefront, USAF force structure, 

doctrine, and mind-set remained enthralled with strategic nuclear airpower. As Drew submits, Air Force basic doctrine 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

73

“seemed to assume that the struggles in Southeast Asia did not 

exist and, for the most part, that the Korean War had not happened.”33 The ARS’s link to the strategic nuclear mission was 

via supporting the local base-rescue initiative and, later, by 

providing helicopter support to the remote missile-silo locations. 

The consequence of the USAF’s inattention to the CSAR mission in peacetime was that ARS crews were ill-prepared to face 

the difficulties of a war short of the massive retaliation model. 

When ARS units first arrived in SEA in March 1964, crews 

and aircraft proved unprepared for their wartime mission.34

Limited funds forced the ARS to relinquish most of its helicopters in the 1950s.35 Unfortunately, as time would show, helicopters would prove to be the most effective platforms for the 

recovery of aircrews in the jungles and mountains of Vietnam.36

In terms of organizational culture, almost a decade’s worth of 

ARS aviators was exposed only to noncombat applications. In 

fact, the ARS was so successful in its peacetime role that this 

generation of aviators identified itself with a critical, albeit noncombat, mission.37 They considered themselves relevant regardless of the fact that combat was not emphasized.

Ultimately, the lack of USAF forethought, evident in the 1958 

USAF directive restricting the ARS mission and the severe reduction of ARS manning, meant that the ARS was poorly equipped for 

any wartime tasking.38 The ARS had become what the USAF 

wanted it to be—a peacetime-oriented organization. Between the 

Korean and Vietnam wars, CSAR skills atrophied due to a lack of 

combat-oriented training. Because the ARS had not trained for 

combat since the Korean War, its crews and planners had to learn 

under fire—not the preferred training environment. 

The Vietnam War Experience: 1962–75

In his survey of ARS history, John L. Vandegrift argues that 

the ARS leadership “was not convinced that it had a legitimate 

wartime rescue mission.”39 One cannot make this evaluation 

without considering service-doctrinal considerations and political 

sensitivities. The assumptions of ARS headquarters were endemic 

to the accepted military and political establishment’s mind-set 

of the late 1950s and early 1960s. Robert D. Schulzinger contends that “throughout this period of gradually increasing 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

74

American participation in the fighting, the Johnson administration struggled to limit the US role” in Vietnam.40 In fact, 

President Johnson made it clear early in his presidency that 

the United States was “not about to send American boys 9 or 

10,000 miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to 

be doing for themselves.”41

On balance, it is easy to put the blame for having a low combat priority on the ARS leadership 40 years after the fact. Placed 

in the context of the times, however, one may begin to understand that the ARS mentality was emblematic of the existing 

attitudes perpetuated by its military and civilian leaders. Tilford 

perhaps puts it best: “Rescue was no less ready for the very different and difficult kind of warfare in Indochina than any other 

organization in the Air Force, or the entire U.S. military.”42

 In line with Tilford’s comments, the USAF had to convince 

US Army leadership in charge of MACV that a “dedicated and 

trained rescue force was needed in Vietnam.”43 In short, while 

the Air Force lacked the foresight to maintain a CSAR capability 

during the interwar years, once it realized that it needed CSAR 

in-theater, it could not convince the MACV leadership (mostly 

populated with Army officers) of the importance of a properly 

trained and adequately equipped Air Force CSAR force. Concurrently, this ill-trained and poorly equipped rescue force had 

to contend with Air Force/Army controversy over roles and 

missions. According to Tilford, the Air Force had a hard time 

convincing the Army that “the recovery of downed aircrew 

members involved more than hovering and dropping down a 

rope, [while] the Army insisted it could handle the mission as 

part of its regular helicopter activities.”44 In essence, this was 

an interservice controversy over roles and missions that went 

beyond just CSAR procedures.45

The debate between the two services was partly due to doctrinal incompatibilities and a clash of personalities between the 

Air Force and the Army-dominated MACV leadership. The relationship between commanders improved almost instantaneously 

with the arrival of Maj Gen Joseph H. Moore in March 1964.46

According to Tilford, General Westmoreland (MACV commander) 

and General Moore (2nd Air Division commander) were childhood friends; thus, the cordial relationship between these two 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

75

key personalities “provided the biggest booster of tactical air 

support in Vietnam.”47

As noted in chapter 2, Schein proposes that leaders have a 

significant influence on an institution as it advances through 

the different stages of organizational development.48 The interaction between Generals Westmoreland and Moore reinforces 

Schein’s hypothesis. General Westmoreland allowed more leeway to the Air Force contingent in Vietnam because he trusted 

General Moore. Although relations improved, the doctrinal differences proved much more troublesome and enduring. 

Regarding CSAR, a major problem between the Army and Air 

Force was that each service had its own method of dealing with 

personnel recovery (PR) operations.49 A good example of the 

lack of joint procedures and lack of Air Force capabilities, stemming from its pre–Vietnam War lack of combat attention, is the 

story of A1C William Hart “Pits” Pitsenbarger.

On 11 April 1966, Airman Pitsenbarger, a pararescue jumper 

(PJ) assigned to Det. 6, 38th ARRS, Bien Hoa AB, South Vietnam, distinguished himself above and beyond the call of duty.50

On that day Pitsenbarger was the PJ on board Pedro 73, one of 

two HH-43 helicopters on alert at Bien Hoa. Pedro 73 and Pedro 

97 were launched in order to evacuate approximately 25 

wounded soldiers of Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Infantry Division (US).51 Robert L. LaPointe, a Vietnam veteran and 

longtime PJ, states that “because of the triple canopy jungle, a 

hoist equipped helicopter was needed.”52 For that reason, the 

ARRS helicopters responded.

SSgt David Milsten, the noncommissioned officer in charge 

of the PJ section at Bien Hoa AB, wrote, “We know these Army 

recovery missions are no picnic, but till now we have been real 

lucky. These [medical evacuations] are not our job. . . . [The 

Army] Dust Off UH-1s do a great job, but must land to pick up 

casualties. Air Rescue could do a much better job with HH-3s, 

picking up 10–15 at a time. But as long as we only have our 

HH-43s, we’re stuck.”53 Milsten was referring to the HH-43 

capacity to carry a maximum of two wounded soldiers at a 

time. The PJ on board would ordinarily treat the patients on 

the way to nearby field hospitals, but because of Charlie 

Company’s unfamiliarity with the “Stokes litter,” Airman Pitsenbarger volunteered to go with the Army soldiers in order to 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

76

facilitate faster extractions.54 Pitsenbarger, with complete 

disregard for his own safety, treated numerous wounded soldiers awaiting evacuation and defended the perimeter while the 

two helicopters worked feverishly to evacuate the casualties. 

After four hours of continuous fighting, Pitsenbarger was killed 

by enemy fire.55 Lt Martin L. Kroah, 3rd Platoon commander, 

C-Company, recalled, “I am certain the death count would have 

been much higher had it not been for the heroic efforts of Airman Pitsenbarger.”56 He was awarded the nation’s highest military honor, the congressional Medal of Honor, posthumously 

on 8 December 2000. 

Airman Pitsenbarger’s mission was exemplary not only of the 

sacrifices that ARRS personnel made throughout the Vietnam 

War, but also of the doctrinal shortfalls between the Army’s and 

Air Force’s personnel recovery assets. In Pitsenbarger’s Medal of 

Honor award ceremony, Secretary of the Air Force F. Whitten 

Peters said, “Amid the gloom and waste of war, we see, occasionally, a brief but brilliant flash of personal valor: of heroism 

so radiant that it lights up everything and everyone near it.”57

But beyond their valor and utility in combat, PJs hold another 

coveted position in CSAR history. According to Guilmartin, PJs 

have always been the “soul and conscience of combat rescue.” 

He points out that their “strong sense of institutional continuity 

and an unshakeable faith in the importance of the combat rescue mission” have been instrumental in the CSAR organizational development.58 But as the war became increasingly unpopular in the United States and strategically unviable in SEA, 

the question became, why risk ARS personnel in order to recover downed crew members? 

Marcus Flavinius, a Roman centurion, emphatically proclaimed, “If it should be otherwise, if we should have to leave 

our bleached bones on these sands in vain, then beware of the 

anger of the Legions!”59 Col Darrel Whitcomb, USAF, retired, a 

historian and Vietnam veteran, provides a much simpler explanation: “The survivor is one of ours and we never leave our 

people behind.”60 He suggests that because the Vietnam War was 

a conflict with limited objectives, the nation was willing to pay 

only a limited price for waging the war. Although the goals were 

narrow, the experience had a powerful influence on the cultural identity of the ARS community. The Vietnam War codified 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

77

an unspoken covenant that has since bound Airmen together. 

Whitcomb eloquently describes this bond: “By 1972, after eight 

years of war, we were still fighting there without any real dedication to a cause, except withdrawal. Like warriors from earlier 

wars, we fought for each other. We kept that article of faith that 

if we went down, the Jolly would come for us. In fact the helicopter became the symbol of that bond or covenant. To the 

rescue crews, it was a call sign. To the rest of us, it was a prayer. 

To many, it was salvation. It was the bond.”61 This contract, 

written with the blood of ARS crew members like Pits Pitsenbarger, sent a message to Airmen that whether or not the United 

States won the war, American aviators were not expendable. 

Although this bond was prevalent in combat, it lay dormant 

in peacetime.62 For a decade, the Air Force had considered the 

Korean War experience—oriented towards limited objectives—

an anomaly and, thus, remained resolute about the primacy of 

the massive-retaliation strategy.63 In a war between the two 

superpowers, the Air Force did not need a robust CSAR capability. With the survival of the nation at stake, it made no sense 

to expend resources for the recovery of downed aircrews. The 

Korean and Vietnam experiences, however, demonstrated a need 

to maintain a healthy CSAR component within the Air Force 

arsenal. At least in the immediate aftermath of the war, it appeared as if the Air Force had learned from its experience.

Lessons Learned and Relearned

Ultimately, the ARS was successful in SEA due to the “imagination and innovation within a system receptive to change 

[that] brought improvement through the introduction of novel 

tactics and new equipment.”64 ARS, and later ARRS, personnel 

saved 4,120 lives, with 2,780 considered combat saves.65 The 

1958-era maxim that “wartime rescue operations will be dictated by the capabilities of equipment used for peacetime” 

proved erroneous when confronted by the problems of combat 

aircrew recovery in the jungle and mountainous terrain of SEA.66

Although most historians agree that the rescuemen risked their 

lives “so that others may live,” one cannot help wondering 

whether more lives could have been saved had the USAF, ARS, 

and later the ARRS learned from their previous experiences. 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

78

The evidence suggests, however, that other organizational priorities had overshadowed solutions to CSAR problems. 

Based on this review of the rescue heritage, one can only 

conclude that the organizational growth of the CSAR community is peppered with lessons learned and relearned.67 By the 

end of the Vietnam War, CSAR capability included helicopter, 

tanker, and specific CAS units that specialized in CSAR procedures. Maj Gen Richard L. Comer, a veteran rescue and AFSOF 

pilot, declares the Vietnam War the “golden age of CSAR.”68 Reflecting on the Vietnam experience, three problem areas stand 

out and deserve greater attention. 

The first lesson ultimately comes down to the following observation: the CSAR community struggled for survival and relevancy in peacetime because the USAF leadership did not see a 

need for a CSAR capability in its vision of future wars. Consequently, the USAF did not commit the necessary resources to 

maintain a healthy peacetime CSAR capability (fig. 3).69 Although 

fiscally attractive, this reasoning appears flawed. Maintaining a 

viable CSAR force costs money; reinventing it after hostilities begin costs lives.

Since CSAR has not been a key element of the USAF’s strategy 

between the Korean and Vietnam wars, it has not been an Air 

Force resource priority during interwar periods.70 After all, to 

bomber pilots, the dominant tribe within the USAF for almost 

four decades, proper preparation for war entailed a monolithic 

focus on nuclear deterrence.71 Therefore, ARS/ARRS organizational growth had to stem from its peacetime mission during 

the interwar years because it could not influence the dominant 

tribe’s vision of war. Missile silo support, local base rescue, and 

space program support contributed to the USAF preoccupation 

with nuclear deterrence, but it did not prepare rescue forces for 

combat. Ironically, CSAR would become an Air Force necessity 

in wartime. 

In hindsight it appears that, institutionally, the USAF concluded that if it were ready for the most dangerous scenario—

nuclear exchange with the Soviet Union—it could handle any 

minor emergencies with its residual capabilities. But in the 

case of CSAR, these residual capabilities did not exist in peacetime. So, unable to outcompete more dominant tribes for resources, the ARS clung to a peacetime mission that allowed it 








































































                 

+OREA

$RAWDOWN

3%!	

$RAWDOWN

Figure 3. ARS/ARRS personnel assigned (vertical axis) between 1946 

and 1981 (horizontal axis). (Reprinted from Donald D. Little, Aerospace 

Rescue and Recovery Service, 1946–1981: An Illustrated Chronology [Scott 

AFB, IL: Office of MAC History, Military Airlift Command, 1983], p. 72.)
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

80

to exist in a vegetated state until a national emergency revived 

it to a more potent wartime footing.72

As it would turn out, this proved to be a dangerous gamble. 

Both the Korean and Vietnam experiences suggest that flexibility 

and readiness of the peacetime force often make the difference 

between success and failure in combat.73 Before the USAF deployed rescue assets in SEA, in the interwar period that Tilford 

refers to as “the dark age of CSAR,” American Army and Marine 

aviators died in rescue attempts because “the available crews 

lacked rescue training and were ignorant of proper recovery 

procedures. There was a misconception . . . that rescue entailed nothing more than flying over a downed crewman and 

picking him up.”74

The second lesson from the first three decades of CSAR experiences suggests that rescue doctrine, as well as tactics, techniques, and procedures, must be flexible. This is partially due 

to the extreme diversity of environmental factors that affect 

combat personnel recovery. If anything, the first three decades 

of rescue history suggest that rescue aircrews must be trained 

to respond in a variety of scenarios and conditions, and across 

the entire spectrum of conflict. This is especially true since 

CSAR’s peacetime requirements commit them to global operations, but threat considerations and the terrain must dictate 

the way its forces approach their mission.

For example, in order to overcome the difficulties posed by the 

topography and enemy defenses in Vietnam, ARRS developed the 

Search and Rescue Task Force (SARTF) construct.75 Although 

some SARTF-like tactics were employed during the Korean War, 

the coordinated use of helicopters (HH-3s, HH-53s) and fixedwing aircraft (primarily A-7s, A-1s, OV-10s, AC-130s, and HC130s) truly came of age during the Vietnam experience.76

The helicopters had the responsibility of recovering the 

downed aircrew member while the fixed-wing aircraft located 

the survivors, provided command and control, and suppressed 

enemy fire.77 Unlike the SOF CH-53s that flew at night, and 

most often unescorted, the SARTF “packages” flew mostly during daylight hours and in good weather. As the war dragged on 

and the cost in American casualties rose, the USAF placed 

heavier emphasis on the rescue of downed aircrew members. 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

81

Tilford suggests that by 1967 rescue missions “generally took 

precedence over normal strike missions and aircraft were often 

diverted from their assigned targets to support the A-1s and 

rescue choppers.”78 None of these missions were ever the same, 

but with time SARTF procedures improved and became an integral part of the rescue modus operandi. As Americans grew 

more skeptical of US involvement in SEA, rescue forces became 

more determined not to leave anyone behind. This desire to do 

everything possible to recover American flyers—and more importantly, the Air Force institutional support (the ready diversion 

of aircraft from other missions) to effect those missions—has 

created, in the minds of rescue forces, the CSAR paradigm.79 But 

as CSAR forces began to withdraw from Vietnam, SARTF tactics 

remained deeply ingrained in the rescue culture as the tactics 

that delivered them from the abyss of early Vietnam experiences.

Although SARTF procedures worked in the jungles of Vietnam, Tilford emphasizes that the SARTF concept would not be 

as effective “in the highly defended, relatively open areas of Europe, over the flat sands of the Middle East, or above the barren 

hills of Korea.”80 Edward Westermann supports Tilford’s argument and warns, “Although SARTF may still have a place in 

certain threat environments, we must recognize that the proliferation, improved lethality, and portability of surface-to-air 

missiles (SAM) and antiaircraft artillery (AAA) jeopardize this 

method of recovery.”81

The final lesson involves the need for an advanced rescue 

and recovery vehicle. In this regard, CSAR culture outwardly 

shares the Air Force’s institutional fascination with equipment. 

The first helicopter that saw service with the ARS in Korea, the 

H-5, had no armor, possessed limited range, and could carry 

only four people, including the copilot and pilot.82 Although the 

ARS later acquired the H-19, SH-21B, and H-43A/B, these 

helicopters were only marginally faster than the H-5; furthermore, they were based more on the peacetime requirements of 

local base rescue and space-program support than on wartime 

requirements of speed and ruggedness.83 When one considers 

the relationship between response speed and the potential for 

a successful save, this is particularly important. A Korean War 

ARS newsletter explains this relationship: the time it took “to 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

82

react to downed aircrew members was frequently considered 

the primary measure of effectiveness.”84

According to a 3rd Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Group 

study of SEA rescue experiences, “forty-seven percent of all unsuccessful rescue attempts resulted from the slow speed of the 

helicopters. For the downed airman this meant capture or 

death.”85 Platform capabilities not only made a difference to the 

survivor, but also improved the rescue helicopter’s survivability. 

Perhaps no story outlines this observation better than the 

events surrounding the death of Airman Pitsenbarger, described 

earlier in this chapter. 

Even with the introduction of the HH-3, however, the aircraft’s speed and range proved insufficient. Likewise, when 

HH-53Bs arrived in the SEA area of operations on 14 September 1967, although able to fly faster and further, ARRS helicopters did not have the onboard systems required to perform 

rescues at night or in poor weather.86 Despite the fact that the 

HH-53B/C “represented the best in rescue technology,” an urgent need for the capacity to operate at night and in adverse 

weather conditions emerged from the SEA conflict.87

These lessons represent the 30-year sum total of the ARS 

and ARRS experiences between the creation of the service in 

1946 and the drawdown after the Vietnam War in 1976. The 

ARRS took the lessons learned in Vietnam and tried to accommodate the requirements outlined in Southeast Asia Operational Requirement 114 by developing a night, adverse-weather 

platform that represented the future of ARRS: This platform 

was the HH-53H (Pave Low III), which after a lengthy testing 

phase became operational in early 1980. 

The Air Rescue Service Culture

Whitcomb declared, “CSAR is combat, not just rescue.”88 The 

history of the ARS offers numerous examples of the community’s dual personality. Rescue experiences both in combat and 

in the relatively peaceful interludes between wars have shaped 

the character of this community. Much like AFSOF, the CSAR 

community as a subgroup within the greater Air Force has enjoyed a substantial increase in resources and capabilities during wartime, only to have these assets erode in peacetime.89
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

83

Although AFSOF and CSAR forces share in this “feast or famine” experience, the CSAR community has had to bind itself to 

peacetime rescue requirements in order to ensure survival during the interwar years. In other words, to survive the interwar 

years marked by USAF institutional inattention to the rescue 

community, the ARS leaders insidiously reversed Whitcomb’s 

observation, suggesting that CSAR was just rescue and not combat. Incredibly, as this chapter has demonstrated, the early postVietnam ARRS force structure represents the first time in the 

rescue community’s history that the Air Force demonstrated the 

intent to maintain a robust CSAR capability during peacetime. 

Unfortunately, this commitment was starting to erode by 1979.

The following analysis addresses ARRS rotary- and fixed-wing 

airframes, specifically selected for two primary reasons. First, 

these assets represent the combat arm of the ARRS arsenal 

and, therefore, were most influenced by the ARRS wartime experiences.90 Second, within the rotary- and fixed-wing subelements 

of the ARRS culture, potential friction points must be identified 

prior to an in-depth comparison of the ARRS and AFSOF cultures. This section demonstrates that the ARRS community, 

much like the AFSOF community, was not as homogeneous as 

Whitcomb makes it sound. Finally, in an effort to relate the 

rescue cultural analysis to its AFSOF counterpart, this chapter 

concludes with an evaluation of the most controversial friction 

point between the two Air Force subcultures—the relationship 

between CSAR and AFSOF helicopter communities (see table 1 

for a comparison of CSAR and AFSOF missions).

The helicopter community includes two distinct ARRS subelements. Colonel Connelly argues that the helicopter community was segregated into “light-lift and heavy-lift” subcultures.91

The light-lift (UH-1H/N/P) crew members flew primarily missilesilo support and local base rescue support (noncombat) missions. The crews of heavy-lift helicopters (HLH) (primarily HH-3s 

and HH-53s) flew a variety of combat-rescue missions.92 The 

two subcultures reflected the dual personality of ARS/ARRS. 

The noncombat support missions dominated the ARRS agenda 

in the years between World War II and Korea, as well as in the 

interwar period between the Korean and Vietnam conflicts. 

For the first time in its history, the post-Vietnam ARRS had 

the support of Headquarters Air Force to maintain a CSAR ca-
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

84

pability during peacetime. According to the 1979 ARRS official 

history, “the foremost mission [of the ARRS] continued to be 

combat rescue (CR). Emphasis was placed on combat plans 

and exercises, and training was adapted to combat conditions 

in various environments.”93 At the same time, the ARRS retained custody of the noncombat rescue requirements most 

often associated with the interwar ARS/ARRS doctrine. To 

clarify, in the aftermath of the Vietnam War, the ARRS had to 

accommodate two distinctly different helicopter cultures. But 

the Vietnam experience had affected the two ARRS helicopter 

communities in different ways; therefore, organizational development progressed along different paths. 

Doctrinally, the two communities had different institutional 

priorities. According to ARRS Regulation 55-6, “combat SAR continued to hold the top mission priority . . . for ARRS helicopters 

and HC-130 aircraft. Tropical storm reconnaissance held the 

Table 1. Comparison of the CSAR and AFSOF mission areas

CSAR AFSOF

• Rarely involves planned employment of 

ground forces

• Rarely joint in nature

• Reactive

• Result of other actions in the campaign 

plan

• Results advertised

• Discovery by opposition does not usually 

end the mission

• Most effective during daylight

• Personnel recovery is only mission

• Not rehearsed

• Rely on general support

• Require localized air superiority

• [Most often] require task force

• Usually involves planned employment of 

ground forces

• Usually joint in nature

• Proactive

• Planned targets or objectives are part of 

campaign plan

• Results rarely revealed

• Discovery by opposing forces usually 

means plan is compromised and aborts 

the mission

• Most effective at night

• Personnel recovery is corollary activity to 

main mission objectives

• Premission activities include extensive 

rehearsal

• Specialized support, intel, weather, 

logistics, etc.

• Air superiority not required

• [Most often] does not require task force

Source: Veda Incorporated, Combat Search and Rescue Report to the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the 

Executive Agent for Combat Search and Rescue: Combat Search and Rescue Requirements and 

Capabilities Study (Washington, DC: Veda Incorporated, 10 Feb. 1997), p. 18. (Lieutenant Colonel 

Blumentritt graciously provided this document.)
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

85

highest operations priority for WC-130s, and aerial sampling 

was the most important mission for WC-135s.”94 The regulation, however, identifies certain key exceptions: “[The] top mission priority for the H-1s of the 37 ARRS was SAC security 

support and the top priority for H-1s of Det. 2, 67 ARRS, was 

very important person (VIP) and distinguished visitor (DV) support.”95 The assets of the 37th ARRS and Det. 2, 67th ARRS, 

accounted for 57 percent of the ARRS active duty light-lift inventory.96 In essence, 57 percent of the ARRS light-lift helicopter 

(LLH) force did not have CSAR as its primary mission. In contrast, the entire HLH force—70 airframes—retained a CSAR 

mission emphasis.97 Col Ron Dietz, USAF, retired, sums up this 

situation: “There indeed were different communities within 

ARRS. . . . The light-lift folks did not have the CSAR as a core 

mission . . . so it should not be surprising that they were of a 

different mindset.”98

In many ways, the light-lift force was symbolic of the ARS/

ARRS of old, while the heavy-lift force represented the combat 

orientation of the ARRS.99 Essentially, the lessons learned and 

relearned during the Korean and Vietnam wars mattered little to 

a light-lift community that primarily dealt with Cold War requirements such as security support for SAC missile sites, security 

assistance for convoy escorts, and peacetime SAR support.100 On 

the other hand, the heavy-lift force considered the Vietnam War 

as its defining moment—a conflict that, at least in the minds of 

the HH-3/HH-53 helicopter crews, demonstrated the requirement for a standing CSAR force.101 Combat veterans of heavy-lift 

forces, who primarily encompassed the ARRS institutional 

memory, reminded the Air Force leadership of the price of neglect by advocating a robust combat-rescue capability.102

The Vietnam experience had slowly imprinted the two helicopter communities with different cultural perceptions: Steven 

Ott summarizes the evolution of an organizational culture: 

“[The] facts, truths, realities, beliefs and values are what the 

members agree they are.”103 Both communities were totally 

convinced of their organizational relevance, but there were 

compelling differences between the two subcultures. For instance, according to the ARRS official history, some of the LLH 

detachments “were assigned the primary mission of combat 

rescue, but the [U]H-1 helicopters assigned to these detach-
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

86

ments had more limited range and capability than the HLHs. 

Most LLHs performed civil SAR or other specialized tasks,” including missile site and convoy escort support.104

Although the Vietnam experience did not force the light-lift 

community to make major adjustments to its modus operandi 

and equipment, the war had been a catalytic event for the 

heavy-lift culture. For the first time in ARRS history, the Air 

Force supported the notion of a combat-capable rescue force in 

peacetime. In the late 1970s, the Air Force seemed committed 

to providing the necessary funds, equipment, and manning to 

support combat-rescue requirements.105 Because of their combat experiences and reputation within the Air Force, CSAR aviators vigorously influenced the ARRS helicopter agenda.106

The following list of the top five ARRS readiness priorities in 

1980 exemplifies this CSAR influence: 

1. R&D [research and development] funding for the rescue H-X helicopters.

2. Funding for spares for rescue HC-130, HH-53, and HH-3 aircraft.

3. Acceleration of [rescue] H-3/HH-53 Analytical Conditioning Inspections . . . and the H-53 Maintenance Enhancement Program.

4. Accelerated purchase of night vision goggles [primarily used by rescue].

5. Accelerated procurement of the M-60 machine gun for [the] LLH.107

Furthermore, the replacement platform for the H-3, forecasted 

to reach initial operational capability (IOC) status in 1986, was 

a medium-lift airframe immensely influenced by the HLH 

force.108 Complementing the H-X, the CSAR subelement of the 

ARRS helicopter community was able to secure funds to convert nine HH-53B/C helicopters to the HH-53H Pave Low.109 In 

brief, unlike the interwar period between the Korean and Vietnam wars, the USAF had apparently recognized the need to 

maintain a robust CSAR capability in peacetime. Parallel to the 

HLH initiatives, the ARRS also attempted to improve the postVietnam HC-130 aircraft fleet, a key enabler to long-range, HLH 

operations.

In 1974, according to ARRS official records, Military Airlift 

Required Operational Capability (ROC) 4-72 “validated a requirement for conversion of 22 HC-130Hs to a tanker configuration [HC-130P/N].”110 The Air Force and MAC, however, failed 

to fund this modification, and in 1980 USAF Program Manage-
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87

ment Directive Requirement 0903(1) negated the earlier ROC-72. 

Although official records show that the ARRS “considered the 

priority for the modification of HC-130Hs to a tanker configuration second only to the acquisition of the H-X,” the Air Force 

did not support this initiative.111

Simply put, the ARRS had a vision for its HC-130 fleet that 

the USAF did not want to fund. ARRS records indicate that in 

December 1978, the ARRS “requested funds for FY [fiscal 

year] 1981 to convert only four aircraft to the tanker configuration. . . . The 1978 cost [of modification] per aircraft was about 

$1,000,000 [cost in 1972 was $300,000].”112 By 1 January 

1980, 12 HC-130Hs belonged to Air Force Reserve (AFR) 

squadrons, four to the Air National Guard, and only six were 

left in the ARRS squadrons.113 In order to compensate for this 

lack of USAF support, the ARRS had to make some organizational adjustments.

As an integral part of a deployable SARTF, the HC-130H/P/N 

community centered on helicopter-support operations. Unlike 

the LLHs (non-air-refuelable) dispersed in a number of small 

detachments, in order to accommodate the SAC missile-site 

support and local base rescue requirements, HLHs and HC130s were combined in composite squadrons.114 According to 

a 1980 ARRS capabilities document, these squadrons were 

“a deployable, self-contained [combat] rescue force. They 

contain[ed] a mix of HC-130P/N (tanker aircraft), HC-130H 

(non-tankers), and air refuelable HLHs. The combination of 

unit tankers and helicopters permit[ted] a rapid response to 

contingencies.”115

The symbiotic relationship between HC-130 and HLHs was 

first cultivated in SEA, but even in peacetime, the two communities maintained their “supporting and supported” relationship.116 According to Colonel Pribyla, an HC-130 navigator and 

former ARRS director of operations, “while the WC-130, WC135, and missile-site support missions had been added to [the 

ARRS] fold, the overriding culture centered on the heroics of 

the brotherhood who had flown the Pedro [H-43], H-3 and H53 

Jolly’s in Vietnam. The HC-130 tanker and Airborne Mission 

Command (AMC) types shared in that heritage somewhat, so 

they basked a bit in the light as well.”117
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

88

Colonel Pribyla convincingly attests that the HLH and HC130 relationship was rough at times. He contends that the primacy of the helicopter in the CSAR subculture left the HC-130 

community feeling unappreciated.118 Colonel Connelly adds, “I 

am a helo guy so I can’t speak about FW [fixed-wing] attitudes 

. . . [but tanker crews] will both go wherever they have to, to 

pump gas to a helo so the helo crew can get medals while the 

only acknowledgement the tankers get is, ‘Can you give me another thousand pounds?’ ”119 Regardless of their uneven relationship, however, the helicopter and HC-130 communities 

were integral in advocating a robust CSAR capability. Subsequently, although the Air Force was theoretically supportive of 

a healthy CSAR force, it failed to adequately fund the most significant ARRS/CSAR initiatives. 

On 18 May 1979, after months of “sidestepping the highly 

volatile issue” of the H-X and the conversion of the HC-130H 

to the HC-130P/N, these programs were not funded in the FY 

1981 budget.120 Although doctrinally the USAF had accepted 

the need to maintain a healthy CSAR force following the Vietnam War, this new appreciation did not translate into financial support for the projects that could fulfill future CSAR requirements. In addition to the fiscal turmoil, however, the 

ARRS heavy-lift community had to contend with another friction point.

As noted in the previous chapter, during the latter half of the 

SEA experience, the 40th ARRS and 21st SOS had been collocated at Nakhon Phanom (NKP), Thailand. Through shared experiences, the two units developed a unique relationship that 

can best be described as a “sibling rivalry.”121 As with any relationship, there are good and bad aspects of the sibling bond. 

CMSgt Tom Green, USAF, retired, submits, however, that enlisted troops had positive feelings about the relationship between the two communities.122 According to Chief Green, 

We would occasionally (less than often) chide each other about each flying our own missions. Jolly chant—you crash, we dash; Dustys—you 

call, we haul. . . . As far as the enlisted crews, we shared a hootch bar, 

picnic area out back that was built by both unit’s [sic] efforts, and 

volleyball net that assured outlets for friendly rivalry. . . . Some of this 

tension was fueled by an abundance of alcohol, . . . [but] we really were, 

for the most part, a good motley crew that watched out for each other 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

89

but understood that we each had our own mission and I believe shared 

a mutual respect for each other.123

Although Green states that there was “healthy competition” between the 40th and 21st crews, Guilmartin promotes the view 

that the competition sometimes turned to strife. 

At times petty arguments and personalities created what 

Guilmartin calls “a hell of a lot of rivalry, hell of a lot of tension” 

between rescue and AFSOF helicopter crews.124 According to 

Colonel Connelly, “the ARRS guys got lots of medals and the 

country was behind their efforts. The SOF guys were deep into 

an unpopular war, somewhat clandestine war in Laos, and 

their missions were hush hush, no medals. ARRS guys got promotions. A resentment built, although it might have been there 

long before I was aware of it.”125 Connelly adds a unique perspective to the sibling rivalry. In describing the relationship 

between the 40th and 21st, Connelly stresses each unit’s selfperceptions and the subculture’s relevance within the Air Force 

community. This assertion echoes the intraservice-relevance 

argument developed in chapter 2 (i.e., subgroup stratification 

inside the greater institution can influence the organizational 

development of the different subgroups). In this case, Connelly’s 

observation concerning ARRS and AFSOF heavy-lift helicopters 

is indicative of the cultural differences between the ARRS and 

AFSOF subcultures. 

These differences reflected the diverse ARRS and AFSOF organizational development throughout the Vietnam War. As 

mentioned in the previous chapter, the 40th ARRS HH-53 helicopters flew SOF missions interchangeably with the 21st SOS 

CH-53 helicopters, primarily when the CH-53s could not reach 

their objective due to fuel considerations. But after the Vietnam 

War, ARRS crews did not want to continue their association 

with AFSOF or the special operations mission. Nonetheless, “in 

1975, the Vice CSAF, Gen William V. McBride issued a policy 

which said in essence that ARRS forces would continue to perform the combat-rescue mission and would be used for special 

operations only on a case-by-case basis.”126 A series of MAC 

and ARRS commanders struggled with the white hat versus 

black hat conundrum associated with the ARRS and AFSOF 

heavy-lift helicopter force. According to the official ARRS history,
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MAC/ARRS had developed, over a period of many years a “white hat” 

image. The people of many countries equated MAC and ARRS with humanitarian missions and lifesaving missions. If the MAC/ARRS helicopters assumed regular missions involving covert operations in connection with unconventional warfare and special operations, then the 

people of the US and foreign countries might perceive MAC/ARRS in a 

“black hat” image. A “black hat” image might generate problems in 

achieving overfly clearances and use of foreign bases during exercise 

and contingencies.127

Interestingly enough, Connelly concedes that “the division 

[between ARRS and AFSOF crews was] stupid, petty, and only 

sustained by leadership. The lieutenants never cared where 

they served, and the captains seldom cared.”128 In reviewing over 

a decade’s worth of historical documents, something that perpetuated the white hat/black hat conundrum was the fact that 

none of the ARS/ARRS commanders had any rescue experience 

prior to assuming command of the ARS/ARRS (see table 2). 

One can deduce then, that ARRS often lacked the command 

vision to overcome any cultural idiosyncrasies, such as the white 

hat/black hat syndrome. This “bottom-up” approach to an ARRS 

vision colored the organizational development of the community 

and affected its institutional identity. An implication of the bottomup cultural development phenomenon was that ARRS leaders, 

influenced by the prevailing cultural winds, steered away from 

AFSOF-like missions (e.g., Operation Rice Bowl) because they 

did not want to associate the rescue white-hat culture with the 

special black-hat image. These cultural perceptions significantly 

affected USAF efforts to merge the ARRS and AFSOF communities in the 1980s, spotlighted in the next chapter.

In the end, there is considerable evidence suggesting that the 

Air Force appeared willing to maintain a robust rescue force. The 

Vietnam experience had convinced Air Force and ARRS leaders 

of the value of a viable CSAR force in peacetime. After the Vietnam 

War, fighter pilots, who had benefited the most from successful 

CSAR operations in SEA, had a vested interest in retaining a 

healthy CSAR capability. One of the unintended consequences 

of the “rise of the fighter pilots” was that CSAR finally had an 

advocate within the Air Force’s (soon to be) dominant tribe. Unfortunately, it was not lack of capability that kept the ARRS from 

responding to challenges of the 1980s, but rather poor ARRS 

leadership, as the next chapter demonstrates. 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

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Notes

1. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 6. 

2. Ibid., p. 5.

3. Ransom, Air Sea Rescue, p. 1. 

4. Ibid., p. 4. General Arnold was the commanding general of the Army Air 

Forces (AAF) during the war (Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 6). Tilford provides information on the 5th Emergency Rescue Squadron, responsible for 

8th Air Force rescue activities (p. 7; see also Ransom, Air Sea Rescue, p. 38). 

5. Ransom, Air Sea Rescue, p. 34.

6. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 7. See also Ransom, Air Sea Rescue, p. 

175, for the contributions of air-sea rescue squadrons during World War II. 

Table 2. ARS/ARRS commanders

ARS/ARRS Commanders Dates of Command Background

Col Wallace Ford 26 May 46–30 Nov. 46

Not Available 

(Interim Commander)

Col (later Brig Gen) Richard Kight 1 Dec. 46–8 July 52 Bomber/Transport Pilot

Col J. C. Bailey 9 July 52–18 Aug. 52

Not Available 

(Interim Commander)

Brig Gen Thomas DuBois 19 Aug. 52–31 July 59 Bomber/Transport Pilot

Brig Gen (later Maj Gen) Thomas 

Cunninghama 1 Aug. 59–21 June 63 Bomber/Airlift Pilot

Col Theodore Tatum 21 June 63–1 Aug. 63

Not Available 

(Interim Commander)

Brig Gen Adriel Williams 1 Aug. 63–7 Mar. 65 Airlift Pilot

Maj Gen Allison Brooks 8 Mar. 65–23 Apr. 70

Fighter/Bomber/

Airlift Pilot

Brig Gen Frank Everest Jr. 24 Apr. 70–25 Feb. 73 Fighter/Test Pilot

Brig Gen Glenn Sullivanb 26 Feb. 73–31 July 74 Bomber Pilot

Maj Gen Ralph Saunders 1 Aug. 74–28 Sept. 79 Bomber/Airlift Pilot

Maj Gen Cornelius Nugteren 29 Sept. 79–20 Aug. 81 Fighter/Airlift Pilot

Maj Gen William Mallc 21 Aug. 81–1 Mar. 83 Airlift Pilot

a

 Brig Gen Cunningham was the only commander promoted to a higher rank after commanding the ARS/ARRS.

b

 There is a discrepancy between the “dates in command” presented by Little and information on the Air Force Link. Little lists 26 Sept. 73 as the effective start date. Based on the 

Air Force Link information, this appears to be a typo, and thus the information in this table 

reflects the Air Force Link data.

c

 In addition to commanding the ARRS, General Mall had the honor of being the first commander of Twenty-third Air Force. The date 1 Mar. 83 reflects the activation of Twenty-third 

Air Force. Maj Gen Robert Patterson assumed its command on 20 Sept. 85 (this is covered 

in detail in the next chapter).

Source: Little, Donald D. Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Service, 1946–1981: An Illustrated Chronology (Scott AFB, IL: Office of MAC History, Military Airlift Command, 1983), pp. 64–65; and 

“Biographies,” Air Force Link, http://www.af.mil/bios.
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

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Although unorganized and undermanned, the air-sea rescue units were able 

to save nearly 5,000 AAF crew members. 

7. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 1.

8. Ibid., pp. 2–3.

9. Builder, Icarus Syndrome, p. 149.

10. Meilinger, Hoyt S. Vandenberg, p. 195. Meilinger suggests that Vandenberg was an exceptionally well-rounded general officer who was able to 

secure $21.1 billion (nearly 50 percent of the defense budget) for the Air 

Force in 1953 (ibid.). In terms of ARS requirements, see Tilford, Search and 

Rescue, p. 9. Although both the ARS and USAF had to endure the same budget cuts and force limitations, ARS had a hard time competing with Air Force 

priority projects. Blumentritt proposes that “from a fiscal standpoint, this 

organization [ARS] competed poorly with US Air Force offensive weapon systems, such as the F-86 Sabre jets and the B-45 Tornado bombers” (emphasis 

in original). Blumentritt, “Playing Defense,” p. 28.

11. Crane, American Airpower, p. 6.

12. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 3.

13. Ibid.

14. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 13. According to Tilford, this represented 10 percent of the 1,690 USAF Airmen who were shot down behind 

enemy lines. Additionally, ARS picked up 84 Airmen from other services and 

allied air forces (11 Navy, 35 Marine, five Army flyers, and 33 from allied airmen) (ibid.).

15. Ibid., p. 12.

16. Blumentritt, “Playing Defense,” p. 13.

17. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 14.

18. Ibid., p. 119. This information comes from a 22 Apr. 1978 Tilford 

interview with the Korean-era commander of the ARS, General Kight.

19. AFMAN 1-2, USAF Basic Doctrine, pp. 7–8. This remains an enduring 

principle of Air Force culture today. For more, see AFDD 1, Air Force Basic 

Doctrine, p. 14.

20. Crane, American Airpower, pp. 40–42. Crane argues that Lt Gen George 

Stratemeyer, the Far East Air Forces (FEAF) commander, shared General 

MacArthur’s faith in the potency of the air arm. According to Crane, Stratemeyer believed in the offensive nature of airpower and believed that, given 

enough aircraft, the FEAF could decisively repel the invasion of South Korea 

and coerce the Chinese to end their support to the North Koreans. General 

MacArthur, or the Air Force leadership for that matter, considered the capability to recover aircrews a major consideration in the development of their 

war strategy (ibid.).

21. AFDD 2-1.6, Combat Search and Rescue, p. 3. Today, Air Force doctrine suggests that a robust CSAR capability assists the joint force commander (JFC) in three ways. First, a successful CSAR restores “personnel to 

areas under friendly control.” Second, it denies adversaries the opportunity 

to exploit the intelligence and propaganda value of captured personnel.” Finally, it increases morale and, inherently, operational performance (ibid.). 

Although current doctrine reflects a much more advanced CSAR organiza-
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

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tional development and a more enlightened Air Force outlook, it inadequately 

addresses the inherent worth of CSAR to the JFC. 

22. Thompson, “Air War over Korea,” p. 52. 

23. By the end of the Korean War, ARS manning had grown to over 7,900 

personnel. However, by 1961 budget restrictions forced a reduction to just 

1,600. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 15. 

24. Vandegrift, History of Air Rescue Service, p. 88. See also Tilford, Search 

and Rescue, p. 15; and Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 18. According to Little, 14 

squadrons were inactivated, leaving ARS with only three squadrons. This 

suggests that not only was rescue downsized, but it was also spread thin to 

accommodate the local base rescue initiative, equipment recovery for the 

space program, as well as SAR on a worldwide scale. For documentation on 

the SAR and the local base support plan, see Tilford, p. 15.

25. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 12.

26. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 16.

27. Military Airlift Transport Service (MATS) Special Plan 138-61, National 

SAR, 1 Mar. 1961 (cited in Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 13). This initiative 

was based on data provided by USAF studies. According to this data, 70 percent of all aircraft accidents occurred within 20 miles of the base. 

28. USAF to MATS, letter, 26 Sept. 1958, as cited in Tilford, Search and 

Rescue, p. 16. 

29. Tilford, Search and Rescue, pp. 18–19; Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 19. 

Of note, in order to accommodate the local base rescue mission requirements, between 1961 and 1962 the USAF increased the ARS authorized 

manning requirements from 1,500 to 2,700. 

30. Blumentritt, “Playing Defense,” p. 30. 

31. Schelling, Arms and Influence, pp. 1, 7.

32. Thompson, “Air War over Korea,” pp. 51–52.

33. Drew, “Air Theory,” p. 331. Drew bases this comment on a survey of 

the 1953, 1954, 1955, and 1959 versions of Air Force basic doctrine (AFMAN 

1-2) (ibid.).

34. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 24.

35. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 37.

36. Ibid.; Blumentritt, “Playing Defense,” p. 30; and Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 30. The one exception, perhaps, was the H-3, a helicopter originally 

developed as an antisubmarine platform that was later used in support of the 

US space program. But the first CH-3C (AFSOF variant) did not make its 

Vietnam début until 1965, while its rescue counterpart, the HH-3, did not log 

its first rescue in Vietnam until 11 June 1967.

37. Ibid., pp. 9–18. Little fills nine pages of ARS exploits during this time 

period. From recovery of aircrews as part of the local base rescue concept to 

the rescue of 26 Philippino passengers of a DC-7 that crashed off the coast of 

Polillo Island, ARS worked hard so “that others may live” (p. 18).

38. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 18. At the end of 1960, ARS had only three 

squadrons and 1,450 personnel (ibid.). 

39. Vandegrift, History of Air Rescue Service, p. 168; and Tilford, Search and 

Rescue, pp. 31, 39, and 154. Although this segment addresses the Vietnam 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

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War as a single entity, Tilford points out that “the fighting in Southeast Asia 

actually involved several wars” (p. 31). Rather than divide the rescue experiences 

between US actions in Laos prior to 1964, air support to forces in South Vietnam, or the air war over North Vietnam, this section will concentrate on the 

time frame between Apr. 1962 and Oct. 1975. The account begins with the 1 

Apr. 1962 activation of the first official ARS unit in Vietnam, Det. 3, Pacific 

Air Rescue Center (Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 39) and ends with the final 

withdrawal of rescue forces from Vietnam in Oct. 1975 (ibid., p. 154). 

40. Schulzinger, Time for War, p. 154.

41. Johnson, Public Papers of the President, pp. 1390–91.

42. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 155.

43. Tilford, Crosswinds, p. 48.

44. Ibid.

45. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 49. Tilford suggests that the Army’s appreciation that the large influx of ground forces meant that its helicopters 

and twin-engine transports (i.e., Caribou) alone could not handle the increased support requirements—with need comes compromise. 

46. For rescue deployments to SEA and deconfliction with the Army, see 

Tilford, Crosswinds, p. 48. One of the biggest roles and mission debates involved COIN. (COIN is analyzed in depth in the next chapter.) Also, regarding 

roles and missions, the Army/Air Force controversy over duplication and 

redundancy of roles and missions had been a point of contention between the 

services long before Vietnam and would continue to plague service relations 

long after the end of the SEA conflict. This issue will be discussed more in 

depth when addressing the “31 initiatives” in later chapters. For more on the 

USA role in medical evacuation (or Dust Off) missions in Vietnam, see Cook, 

Rescue under Fire. For air mobility issues, see Futrell, Ideas, vol. 2, pp. 172–

92, particularly p. 182. For Army refusal to put helicopter gunships under 

the single air manager construct, see Trest, “Legacy of Halfway Unification.” 

47. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 49. See also Henjum to ARRS commander, letter, 13 June 1980 (cited in History, ARRS, 1980, vol. 1, p. 22). 

Colonel Henjum’s entire letter is in vol. 2, supporting document (supt. doc.) 

I-50. Although this improvement in “tactical air” issues does not directly 

translate into better relations regarding CSAR or USAF helicopter procedures, 

it signals a change for the better in the dealings between services. The USAF/

USA roles-and-missions controversy over helicopters would not be resolved 

until 1966. According to Colonel Henjum, the USA would be responsible for 

the theater helicopter mission, and the USAF would be responsible for the 

helicopter special-operations missions. The CSAR “issue” remained in flux 

throughout the entire war. 

48. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 377.

49. AFDD 2-1.6, Combat Search and Rescue, p. 1. Although the term personnel recovery was used during Vietnam, its definition has evolved throughout the years. Since most readers of this paper are probably familiar with the 

current definition of the term, PR is used in this context according to the current USAF definition. According to AFDD 2-1.6, PR is the umbrella term for 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

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operations focusing on recovering captured, missing, or isolated personnel 

from danger. 

50. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 26.

51. LaPointe, PJs in Vietnam, p. 7. Charlie Company was inserted on 10 Apr. 

as part of Operation Abilene. The concept of operations was to insert the Army 

troops, reinforce them by USA helicopters, and support them with indirect fires 

(artillery) and a combination of USA helicopter gunships and USAF fighters. 

Unfortunately, the Vietcong drew Charlie Company into a carefully planned ambush (p. 8). Complicating matters for the ill-fated soldiers, USA artillery rounds, 

instead of silencing enemy mortars, fell accidentally on the US soldiers. Additionally, the triple-canopy jungle made it impossible for the USA helicopters to 

evacuate the wounded, since these helicopters were not hoist equipped.

52. Ibid., p. 8. This comment explains the rationale behind an ARRS helicopter response vice an Army helicopter extraction of the ambushed team. 

53. Ibid., p. 17. Even today, the Army does not have any dedicated CSAR 

assets. CSAR is a secondary mission for medical evacuation and watercraft 

units. For more information see JP 3-50.2, Doctrine for Joint Combat, appendix A, p. A-1.

54. LaPointe, PJs in Vietnam, p. 9. The Stokes litter, the designation for a 

metal-wire basket/bed, was lowered through a hole in the jungle canopy; the 

patient was strapped in, and the litter was hoisted up to the hovering helicopter. If the jungle canopy was too thick to allow the litter to go through, the 

helicopter would lower instead a “forest penetrator.” Pitsenbarger volunteered 

to go on the ground because the Army soldiers did not know how to strap in 

the wounded in the Stokes litter. Additionally, while Pedro 73 and 97 shuttled 

wounded to the rear, Pits was able to treat the ever-growing number of 

wounded soldiers awaiting transportation. 

55. History, Det. 6, 38th Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron, Mission Narrative.

56. USAF Collection, Written Statement, Martin L. Kroah’s recommendation (cited in LaPointe, PJs in Vietnam, p. 14).

57. Correll, “Pitsenbarger Medal of Honor.” 

58. Guilmartin to author, e-mail. 

59. JP 3-50.2, Doctrine for Joint Combat, p. 1-1. (Letter from Marcus Flavinius, Centurion in the 2nd Cohort of the Augusta Legion, to his cousin 

Tertullus, circa 50 BC.)

60. Whitcomb, “Combat Search and Rescue,” p. 32.

61. Ibid., p. 33.

62. Green to author, e-mail, 6 May 2004. Chief Green emphasizes that 

although dormant, the bond between other aviators and the Jolly Green 

crews had its perks. For example, the “Jolly Greens” never had to buy a drink 

in a bar while a Vietnam-era fighter pilot was around.

63. DeBerry et al., “Flexible Response,” pp. 169–71, 196–97. This point 

primarily addresses the “finite deterrence” favored by the Eisenhower administration. President Kennedy’s “flexible response” policy focused on matching 

response to provocation. 

64. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 156.
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65. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 24. Also, according to Carl Berger, the 

ARS (later designated ARRS) saved 3,883 personnel. Berger, United States Air 

Force in Southeast Asia, p. 243. This number is also quoted in Tilford, Search 

and Rescue, pp. 155–56.

66. Tilford, Search and Rescue, pp. 13–16, 156. 

67. This statement reflects a neglect of lessons learned during and between World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. 

68. General Comer, USAF, telephonic interview with author, 9 Feb. 2004, 

Maxwell AFB, AL.

69. Chap. 2 addressed the distinction between the bomber/fighter-pilot 

tribes. So far this paper has covered the time period between the birth of the Air 

Force and the immediate aftermath of the Vietnam War. The next chapter will 

cover the 1980s in detail, while chap. 6 addresses the challenges of the 1990s.

70. In defense, throughout its history, the corporate Air Force adamantly 

adhered to the Roman aphorism Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum (if you 

want peace, prepare for war). (For more see Flavius Vegetius Renatus, Epitoma 

rei Militaris [A Summary of Military Matters], Liber III [end of prologue], c. 390 

AD.) This Roman proverb is often paraphrased as si vis pacem, para bellum. 

For the latter, and admittedly more widely known version of the proverb, see 

Luttwak, Strategy, p. 1. Luttwak uses this proverb, an axiom “worn down by 

overuse,” to describe the paradoxical logic resident in the realm of strategy. 

71. This idea is thoroughly discussed in chap. 2 of this paper. See also 

Brown, “Sources of Leadership Doctrine.” Citing the original SAC motto, 

“Peace is Our Profession,” Brown explains that by the early 1950s, the emerging role of the Air Force was clear: first, the US defense against the Soviet 

Union must be based on airpower; and second, in light of the possibility of 

thermonuclear war, the best way to assure preparedness was via a “strong 

air force in being” (p. 39).

72. General Comer, Peterson AFB, CO, telephonic interview with author, 

Maxwell AFB, AL, 9 Feb. 2004; Green to author, e-mail, 10 May 2004; and 

Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 42. Comer and Green argue that after the Vietnam War, CSAR forces maintained some of their “combat edge” by attending 

Red Flag exercises. This was in stark contrast to the lack of combat training 

between the Korean and Vietnam wars.

73. For a lesson learned on Korean flexibility, see Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 17. ARS became too hampered and fixated on the peacetime roles to 

the point that it completely neglected the wartime mission. For a lesson 

learned on Vietnam, see p. 156.

74. Ibid., p. 42.

75. For early experimentation with SARTF procedures, see Tilford, Search 

and Rescue, pp. 94–95. 

76. Green to author, e-mail, 10 May 2004; and Lynch, USAF Search and 

Rescue, p. 43. Chief Green convincingly points out that “AC-130 involvement 

was minimal, if not rare. Simply [put], SAR was a daylight mission, [and thus] 

not compatible with gunship missions . . . in a high threat [daylight] environment.” Lynch provides a comparison of HH-3 and HH-53 capabilities (p. 91).

77. Westermann, “Air Rescue Service.” 
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97

78. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 96. For example, Tilford describes one 

mission, in Dec. 1969, in which US aircraft flew 336 sorties in support of a 

rescue mission to recover a navigator. Tilford quotes Col William M. Harris IV, 

37th ARRS commander, as saying that “rescue efforts have called upon every 

conceivable military resource as well as . . . Air America, special ground 

teams, clandestine operations, frogmen, aircraft carriers, tanks, and so on.” 

In addition to conventional aircraft, Tilford gives an example of when rescue 

forces used the AC-130 (pp. 135–36). For another account of rescue efforts 

taking priority, see Whitcomb, Rescue of Bat 21.

79. Tilford, Search and Rescue, pp. 81–133, especially 103–12. Tilford 

suggests that CSAR came of age between 1967 and 1970, as exemplified by 

the raid on Son Tay on 20 Nov. 1970 (pp. 103, 112).

80. Ibid., p. 156.

81. Westermann, “Air Rescue Service.”

82. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 13.

83. Ibid., pp. 14–18; conclusions and lessons learned are deduced by this 

author and therefore represent his opinions. 

84. “ARS Pilot Makes Two Minute Rescue,” p. 3.

85. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 82.

86. Ibid., pp. 90, 92–93. See also Durkee, USAF Search and Rescue, pp. 

18–19. Tilford uses information from Southeast Asia Operational Requirement (SAOR) 114, 3 Apr. 1967 (p. 92). SAOR 114 made several proposals to 

remedy the situation, primarily suggesting that infrared technology was the 

most promising direction. The first low-light-level television and viewing devices were installed on HH-53Bs at Udorn AB, Thailand, in Nov. 1969 (ibid., 

p. 93). However, the device was not considered reliable for night recovery of 

aircrew members until 21 Dec. 1972 (40th ARRS performed the first nightrecovery-system pickup in HH-53 history). Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 45. 

Even then, the system was not fully adequate for night or adverse weather 

conditions. For more on the limitations of the system, see Tilford, Search and 

Rescue, p. 93. 

87. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 93.

88. Whitcomb, “Combat Search and Rescue,” pp. 28–35.

89. Combat search and rescue is a term not commonly used in the early 

days of the ARS. In fact, it did not become part of the common vernacular 

until the early 1980s. I use this term because the commonly accepted term 

(CSAR) accurately describes the ARS community’s activities. That is to say, 

although the term was not, technically, common in the early days of the 

ARS/ARRS, it accurately describes the combat nature of the community. 

Special thanks to Chief Green for pointing out this detail.

90. Guilmartin, Very Short War, p. 40. Admittedly one could argue that 

fire-support platforms were an integral part of the CSAR culture as well, but 

the evidence suggests that they were associates rather than charter members 

of the community. For example, according to Guilmartin, an A-7 squadron 

stationed in Korat, Thailand, was assigned the rescue escort mission. These 

pilots worked closely with the 40th ARRS, but their association with rescue 

crews lasted only as long as their assignment to said squadron. So although 
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98

the Air Force recognized the need for a habitual relationship between rescue 

and certain fighter units, this was an ad hoc relationship rather than a doctrinally mandated requirement. It therefore makes sense to concentrate on 

the helicopter and HC-130 aspects of the CSAR culture.

91. Connelly to author, e-mail, 21 Mar. 2004. 

92. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, pp. 43–44. Both light- and heavy-lift communities supported the “space shuttle recovery” missions. “The Space Shuttle 

missions were assigned the nation’s highest priority, 1–2,” and alert requirements for this mission included three UH-1N helicopters (“rotors turning”) 

and HC-130s (airborne alert) (ibid., pp. 43–44). Chief Green argued that in 

practice, based on his experiences, HH-53s instead of UH-1s covered these 

launches. According to Chief Green, the HH-53s had to be airborne during 

the actual launch (Green to author, e-mail, 10 May 2004). 

93. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1979, p. 2. This history also notes that in 1979 

MAC/ARRS was “considering a revision of AFMAN 2-36, Jan. 1967, which 

concerned the doctrine for search, rescue and recovery”; a proposed revision 

was submitted to HQ USAR/XOO on 10 Oct. 1979. Additionally, the history 

indicates that ARRS Regulation 23-3 was revised and updated on 30 Oct. 

1979 with the following ARRS mission statement: “ARRS discharges USAF 

responsibilities for combat rescue, provides helicopter support for SAC missile wings, conducts aerial sampling and weather reconnaissance operations, 

provides search and rescue support for USAF global air and space operations, and fulfills other essential DOD/USAF requirements” (ibid.).

94. ARRSR 55-6, Search and Rescue, quoted in History, ARRS, vol. 1, 

1980, p. 99. 

95. Ibid., p. 99.

96. Ibid., p. 70. Note that the 37th ARRS had 46 UH-1s and Det. 2, 67th 

ARRS, had four UH-1s: of the 88 active duty UH-1s assigned to the ARRS, 50 

airframes (or 57 percent) did not have combat rescue as their primary mission. That is not to say that these assets did not perform peacetime search 

and rescues, but CSAR was not their primary mission (ibid.).

97. Ibid., p. 71. ARRS heavy-lift helicopters, as of 1 Jan. 1980, consisted 

of 16 CH-53s, 22 HH-3s, one CH-53, 25 HH-53B/Cs, and six HH-53Hs (Pave 

Low) (ibid.).

98. Dietz to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004.

99. Blumentritt, “Playing Defense,” pp. 4, 33. While some light-lift pilots 

may argue that this assertion overstates the distinctions between the two 

communities, the evidence is convincing that within the ARRS light-lift helicopter CSAR capabilities were extremely limited compared to those of the H-3 

and HH-53. For example, by 1979 there were no ARRS UH-1s stationed overseas, thus suggesting that the ARRS utilized its heavy-lift force primarily for 

CSAR and its light-lift force for missile and space support, as well as peacetime search and rescue. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1979, p. 82. Green argues that 

some of the “near-animosity” between the light- and heavy-lift communities 

developed as a result of the heavy-lift aircrew perception that the light-lift 

crews did not help out during the Vietnam War by cross-training to the HH53/HH-3 helicopters. According to Green, this would have eased the burden 
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

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of having to deploy on multiple extended rotations “back over to SEA.” Green 

to author, e-mail, 10 May 2004.

100. History, ARRS, vol. 2, 1980, supt. docs. I-92-8, p. 2; I-92-12, p. 6; 

and I-92-18, p. 11.

101. Earlier in the chapter, I quoted Guilmartin, who suggested that pararescuemen were the “soul and conscience of combat rescue” (see n. 58 in 

text). Since most of the CSAR capabilities resided in the heavy-lift force, it is 

safe to assume that the heavy-lift force, including the majority of PJs in the 

ARRS, remained the CSAR conscience of the ARRS.

102. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, pp. 23–24.

103. Ott, Organizational Culture Perspective, p. vii.

104. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1979, p. 9.

105. In comparison to previous postwar “drawdowns,” ARRS fared well 

after Vietnam. See fig. 3. By 1980 the ARRS had over 4,200 personnel assigned to its collage of missions. The equipment was superior to that in any 

other interwar period in its collective history.

106. Connelly to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004. See also Little, Aerospace 

Rescue, p. 73; Dietz to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004; and Green to author, 

e-mail, 10 May 2004. According to Little, the CSAR community had been 

awarded two Medals of Honor and 35 Air Force Crosses. This evidence suggests that this segment of the ARRS helicopter population was certainly wellrecognized and respected within the greater Air Force community. Please note 

that Little’s list of award recipients includes one individual (Capt Leyland 

Kennedy) as receiving the Air Force Cross twice. The list in Little’s book does 

not reflect the award of the Medal of Honor to A1C Pitsenbarger in 2000 (the 

figure above does) (p. 73). Colonel Dietz indicates that while there was an effort to balance leadership opportunities at ARRS headquarters between lightand heavy-lift aviators, the CSAR community was certainly in the majority 

(Dietz to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004). 

107. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 13. 

108. Message, CINCMAC to CSAF, 23 July 1980. Cited in History, ARRS, 

1980, vol. 2, supt. doc. I-54-1. The “H-X” refers to the next-generation helicopter. In this message, Gen Robert E. Huyser, commander in chief of Military Airlift Command (CINCMAC), asked Headquarters USAF to accelerate 

the H-X project from IOC in 1986 to 1984. (Subject is discussed in detail in 

the next chapter.)

109. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 19. 

110. Ibid., p. 89. 

111. Ibid., p. 90. As the next chapter demonstrates, in the early 1980s, 

USAF C-130 priorities (to some a contradiction of terms) started to shift towards support of a new aircraft variant. According to the 1980 ARRS history, 

the FY 1981 budget and FY 1982 program objective memorandum (POM) 

(created in 1979) “identified a new need for ten C-130 aircraft to be modified 

into EC-130s (C-130s equipped with electronic countermeasures equipment). 

As part of the USAF-wide search for alternative airframes to serve this need . . . 

five [ARRS] aircraft were identified for possible modification and reassignment to TAC” (ibid.).
HERITAGE AND CULTURE OF AIR RESCUE

100

112. Ibid., 1979, p. 111. Vol. 1 of the 1979 ARRS history reveals the low 

priority the USAF gave the ARRS at the time—based on the USAF plan to 

install a C-130 simulator at Kirtland AFB, NM, the “ARRS would receive the 

tenth of a series of ten MAC C-130 simulators” (ibid.).

113. Ibid. 

114. Ibid., p. 9. The 1979 ARRS history notes that the ARRS was assigned 

five composite HC-130/HLH squadrons: “Three of these [units] performed 

combat rescue and other tasks in the western US and western Pacific areas, 

and two units . . . performed [the same] in the eastern US and western Europe.” 

Additionally, there was one composite squadron with a similar mission in the 

AFR (305th ARRS) (ibid.).

115. Ibid., vol. 2, 1 Jan.–31 Dec. 1980, supt. doc. I-92-18. According to 

the “ARRS Objective Plan FY 1981–1985,” the ARRS composite squadrons 

(33rd ARRS, Kadena AB; 71st ARRS, Elmendorf AFB; 41st ARRS, McClellan 

AFB; 55th ARRS, Eglin AFB; and 67th ARRS, RAF Woodbridge) had a common mission—CR and SAR (ibid.).

116. Pribyla, interview with author, Alexandria, VA, 6 Nov. 2003.

117. Pribyla to author, e-mail, 13 Jan. 2004. 

118. Pribyla, interview with author, Alexandria, VA, 6 Nov. 2003. Reemphasized in Pribyla to author, e-mail, 1 Jan. 2004. 

119. Connelly to author, e-mail, 21 Mar. 2004. 

120. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1979, p. 41. This volume also notes that the 

H-X ended up as the number-two unfunded MAC program. The MAC package of recommendations, in response to the USAF decision not to fund the 

highest ARRS priorities involved resubmitting their priorities in order: “1) H-X 

CSAR Rescue Replacement Helicopters, 2) Survival Avionics System, and 3) 

Increase in HC-130 Flying Hour Program” (p. 45).

121. Green to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004.

122. Ibid., 25 Mar. 2004.

123. Ibid.

124. Guilmartin, speech to ACSC.

125. Connelly, interview with author, 30 Jan. 2004, Fort Walton Beach, 

FL. See also Green to author, e-mail, 26 Mar. 2004.

126. Henjum to ARRS commander, letter, 13 June 1980. Henjum notes 

that in 1966, the Army and Air Force reached an agreement in which Army 

helicopters would concentrate on theater airlift, and Air Force helicopters 

would handle the SOF mission. According to Colonel Weikel, the 21st SOS 

and 40th ARRS flew most of the UW/SOF missions interchangeably. Weikel 

to author, e-mail, 8 Mar. 2004.

127. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 15. 

128. Connelly to author, e-mail, 21 Mar. 2004.
101

Chapter 5

Organizational Change

The Rise of the Twenty-third Air Force

After [a recent] study, TAC concluded that neither it nor 

the Air Force would benefit by a consolidation of special operations force TAC-gained units under [MAC]. . . . 

The disadvantages insofar as TAC was concerned 

clearly outweighed the advantages.

—History of TAC, 1980

This chapter analyzes the ARRS/AFSOF merger through the 

lens of organizational culture. By approaching this merger from 

a cultural perspective, the reader is exposed to the internal influences that resisted change, the external impetus to change, 

and the leadership vision that provided the direction for change. 

The chapter begins with a review of TAC’s and MAC’s reactions 

to Headquarters USAF’s early efforts to consolidate the assets of 

AFSOF and ARRS. Next, it examines the Desert One debacle and 

considers the impetus and barriers to the AFSOF/ARRS merger.1

Then it analyzes the AFSOF and ARRS institutional agendas 

that influenced the earliest stages of the Twenty-third Air Force 

merger and explores the different organizational priorities, 

what Builder would call the AFSOF and ARRS masks of war. 

The chapter concludes with a review of several examples in 

which culture, institutional agendas, and poor leadership impeded Twenty-third Air Force’s organizational growth. 

Early Consolidation Efforts

The merger between AFSOF and ARRS assets had its roots in 

a number of 1970s initiatives that attempted to designate a 

single manager for all USAF helicopters. Until 1983, MAC and 

TAC, the primary managers of the USAF helicopter fleet, could 

not reach consensus on the matter.2 MAC/ARRS had the most 

helicopters in the USAF inventory and therefore appeared to be 

the likely candidate for the single-manager role. But ARRS 
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102

leadership had difficulty accepting an arrangement that merged 

the white-hat and black-hat communities.3

After the Vietnam War, according to official records, ARRS 

leaders opposed the idea that “traditional” rescue assets “should 

perform offensive military roles such as special operations 

functions as well as SAR and combat rescue missions.”4 An 

excerpt from the 1976 official ARRS history highlights the ARRS 

aversion to the AFSOF mission: “In 1972–1973, during the 

post-SEA planning, MAC and ARRS had reaffirmed the position that rescue forces should perform combat rescue functions 

but should not perform covert combat operations. This option 

was consistent with the concept of MAC as a humanitarian organization, performing airlift to people in need, aeromedical 

evacuation, aerospace evacuation, aerospace rescue, weather 

reconnaissance, and other services” (emphasis added).5

MAC, however, was not the only command apprehensive 

about the single-manager concept. TAC was equally as skeptical 

of a USAF-wide helicopter consolidation for a variety of reasons. 

The post-Vietnam TAC was mostly concerned with the Soviet 

threat in Eastern Europe because “the Soviets had closed the 

technology gap and were substantially outproducing the United 

States in the tactical fighter arena.”6 TAC’s main priority was 

the modernization of its fighters because “the enemy [Soviet 

bloc] buildup in central Europe was recognized as substantially greater than the NATO tactical air forces.”7 Having designated its fighter modernization programs as its top priorities, 

TAC could not support a robust AFSOF capability in light of 

post-Vietnam budget cuts. Because of TAC’s helicopter rangesupport requirements, however, it solicited help from MAC/

ARRS in order to equip TAC AFSOF units.8

TAC wanted to control a robust helicopter force primarily for 

range support of its fighter aircraft but did not want to pay for it. 

In fact, it wanted MAC/ARRS to provide the aircraft for AFSOF 

and all range-support activities.9 Ironically, TAC considered the 

entire AFSOF community as a collage of minor mission areas 

that should be in the Air Force Reserve (AFR) or ANG and not 

under TAC. Essentially, TAC’s goal was to divest itself of what 

it considered extraneous resources. In an example of what is 

colloquially referred to as a “robbing Peter to pay Paul” solution, AFSOF helicopter squadrons, to include the 20th SOS, 
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were equipped with ARRS UH-1Ns and CH-3s.10 In other words, 

MAC/ARRS had provided TAC with the assets necessary to reconstitute its meager post-Vietnam AFSOF rotor-wing capability.11

Even though MAC controlled the preponderance of assets, TAC 

did not want to cede control of its helicopter force to MAC. 

Colonel Beres, a Desert One veteran, offers this description 

of the AFSOF state of affairs in the late 1970s: “We only had 

some old H-3s and UH-1Ns so we did very little helo [helicopter] 

ops. Rotary was a dying mission area. In fact we all knew it was 

only a matter of time before the MC-130 and AC-130 mission 

ended up in the Reserves and ANG. In fact, in 1978–79 there 

was a drive at the Air Staff to put all MC-130s in the ANG.”12

Supporting Beres’s comments, Colonel Kyle asserts, “The top 

brass at [TAC] . . . considered the program [AFSOF] an albatross 

and wanted to dump it. They resented—even despised—missions 

involving counterterrorism, counterinsurgency, and guerilla 

warfare because of the volatile political overtones and cost in 

manpower and funds.”13 Summarizing AFSOF’s precarious position, Colonel Ettenson observes, “The best that could be said 

for AFSOF in the ’70s was that we were beneficiaries of benign 

neglect by TAC. At the worst, we suffered foolish conventional 

interference. In fact, twice during my first tour at Hurlburt 

(1976–79) we were zeroed out of the USAF budget.”14

While AFSOF units struggled to survive within the TAC environment, ARRS attempted to slow the erosion of its already 

thinly stretched assets. Although General Saunders, the ARRS 

commander, opposed the blending of black-hat and white-hat 

units, he recognized that TAC was sapping his resources to 

meet its demands.15 In effect, although theoretically opposed to 

the notion of consolidation, General Saunders had no other 

practical option than to entertain the single-manager concept 

and, if it ever materialized, to propose that the ARRS would assume the lead role in this new arrangement.

The first initiative involving a more comprehensive helicopter consolidation took place in 1978. On 22 May 1978, 

General Vandenberg, Headquarters USAF director of operations and readiness, asked all MAJCOMs that possessed 

helicopters to submit their views on the single-helicoptermanager idea; however, little consensus emerged on the 

subject.16 Again, TAC and MAC did not support the single-
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manager idea because they could not agree on a “viable solution” to the organizational dilemma.17

Thus, although on the one hand the consolidation efforts were 

driven by a search mandated by Headquarters USAF for a possible solution to worldwide helicopter shortfalls, TAC was not 

interested in expending intellectual or fiscal capital on this issue.18 On the other hand, MAC wanted to resolve this issue quickly 

because it felt that ARRS could manage the limited helicopter resources best. As an ARRS historian conveyed, “No new Air Force 

helicopters were being purchased, and every major mishap meant 

one less helicopter in the Air Force helicopter inventory.”19

A key element of ARRS’s uneasiness with the single-manager 

idea was leadership’s reaction to the initiative. In September 

1979, during his last ARRS commanders’ conference, General 

Saunders declared that he did not favor the notion of an amalgamation of the ARRS and AFSOF missions.20 His primary concern was with the consolidation of the ARRS/SOF mission in 

Europe, as Army aviation accounted for most of the SOF support activity in the theater. According to ARRS historian Don 

Little, General Saunders was “concerned that if ARRS assumed 

SOF functions, the Army might eventually absorb the ARRS 

resources; or the assumption of the SOF mission could lead to 

the exclusion of other ARRS missions, such as civil SAR.”21 His 

distaste for AFSOF matched his commitment to maintaining 

ARRS’s white-hat image. In hindsight, it is hard to justify 

Saunders’s rigid attitude, considering the practical benefits of 

an ARRS/AFSOF helicopter consolidation (e.g., a centralized 

personnel pool of ARRS/AFSOF aviators). In the end, the evidence suggests that the ARRS culture heavily influenced his 

decision-making process, suggesting that, at least in this case, 

culture rather than the commander’s vision shaped the organizational development of the ARRS.22

Although he had over 11,000 (primarily airlift) flying hours, 

General Saunders had no connection to the rescue community 

prior to his assignment as ARRS commander.23 Because the 

ARRS institutional identity was firmly established during the 

Vietnam War, one can assume that the ARRS identity after the 

war, in conjunction with a cadre of ARRS leaders affected by 

their combat exposure to SEA operations, heavily influenced 

Saunders’s command vision. It appears then, as Schein claims, 
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that culture had become “more of a cause than an effect. . . . 

Because culture serves an important anxiety-reducing function, members cling to it even if it becomes dysfunctional in 

relationship to environmental opportunities and constraints.” 

That is to say, the evidence suggests that the ARRS’s culture 

was a key factor in Saunders’s position. Regardless of the benefits of a greater consolidation effort, the ARRS culture gravitated toward what Schein called “sacred cows [and] holdovers 

from the founding period.”24

On 29 September 1979, Brig Gen Cornelius Nugteren assumed 

command of the ARRS.25 General Nugteren was more amenable 

to the ARRS assumption of the single-manager role for all USAF 

helicopters than his predecessor had been. On 15 November 

Nugteren briefed Gen Lew Allen, Jr., CSAF, on his vision for the 

single-helicopter-manager concept. The ARRS commander argued, “MAC/ARRS already controlled three-fourths of the USAF 

helicopter force, [so] it seemed logical to make MAC/ARRS the 

USAF single-manager, serving the needs of all USAF commands.”26 By late 1979, MAC/ARRS leadership reengaged 

Headquarters USAF on the single-manager concept.

Clearly, for most of the 1970s, specific organizational identities heavily influenced MAC and TAC resistance to the singlemanager idea. In fact, major-command-level institutional priorities prevented resolution of the issue until 1980. Ultimately, 

according to official records, “The impetus for helicopter consolidation came from a different direction. National interest in 

helicopters, and in [the] special operations function, was reexamined as a result of the abortive Iranian rescue mission of 

April 1980.”27

Desert One—Focusing Event 

and Impetus for Change

On 4 November 1979, supporters of Ayatollah Khomeini, the 

spiritual leader of the Iranian Islamic Revolution, stormed the 

US Embassy in Tehran and captured 63 hostages.28 In response, 

the US government scrambled to put together an ad hoc task 

force to rescue those Americans.29 Although an elite counterterrorism Army unit had completed certification training in No-
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vember 1979, it had no Air Force counterpart. As the ensuing 

Desert One hostage-rescue attempt demonstrated, the USAF 

was not properly organized to deal with this contingency.30

On 24 April 1980, after six months of preparation, USAF 

MC/EC-130s and Navy RH-53D helicopters, flown by AFSOF 

and Marine Corps crews, respectively, infiltrated a 132-man 

ground element deep into Iran to a landing strip code-named 

Desert One. When three helicopters failed to reach their landing site, President Carter ordered the mission aborted based on 

established criteria and the recommendation of his field commander.31

Most SOF operators agree that the Desert One failure ushered 

in a new era for the ARRS and AFSOF.32 Simply put, the Iran 

hostage-rescue mission was the catalyst for the reprioritization 

of US special forces within the DOD. Existing accounts of the 

failed attempt, however, still leave certain questions unanswered. 

One of these questions strikes at the heart of the cultural divide 

between the ARRS and AFSOF communities. Early on when joint 

task force (JTF) planners determined that the AFSOF helicopter 

force was unable to meet mission requirements, why did they not 

solicit helicopter and crew augmentation from the ARRS? 

After several interviews with 23rd Air Force–era officers, the 

answer to this question appears as polarized and emotionally 

charged as the black-hat/white-hat discussion. On one side, 

ARRS veterans defend that they never “got the call”; on the 

other, former air commandos accuse the ARRS of “turning 

down the mission.”33 After examining a decade’s worth of ARRS 

and TAC archives at the AFHRA, the author found no documentation to support the AFSOF assertion.34 On the contrary, 

the evidence presented in the appendix suggests that the ARRS 

was neither officially consulted nor tasked for the assault portion of the first Iran hostage-rescue attempt.35

Ultimately, Desert One was a focusing event. According to 

John W. Kingdon, “Problems are often not self-evident by indicators.”36 Kingdon proposes that problems most often “need a 

little push to get the attention of people in and around government. That push is sometimes provided by a focusing event 

such as a crisis or disaster that comes along to call attention to 

the problem, a powerful symbol that catches on, or the personal experience of the policy maker.”37 In this example, even a 
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cursory survey of the 1st Special Operation Wing’s (SOW) capabilities in 1979 would have indicated the decrepit state of AFSOF 

equipment. It appears, however, that the status of AFSOF’s institutional health was directly proportional to TAC’s low estimate of AFSOF’s mission relevance. But, as noted earlier, TAC 

considered AFSOF an irrelevant mission area and recommended its relegation to the ANG or AFR.38

Supporting Kingdon’s focusing-event hypothesis, the evidence 

suggests that the failed hostage-rescue attempt called attention to a preexisting problem; terrorism was on the rise, and 

the United States did not have the resources/capability to 

counter this emerging threat. Thus, Desert One produced the 

impetus for the revitalization of American SOF capabilities and 

provided a powerful symbol for policy makers and SOF leaders 

on which to focus their attention. In effect, Desert One was sufficiently important to gain SOF revitalization “a prominent place 

on the policy agenda.”39

Similarly, Beres supports the idea that “a new mindset of 

SOF took hold” in the months leading to Desert One and in the 

training for Project Honey Badger (code name for the planning 

and rehearsal efforts in anticipation of a second rescue attempt).40 According to Beres, “Before 1980 Air Force people 

thought in terms of . . . Unconventional Warfare (UW) as a subset of Special Operations, not SOF as an integrated joint operation. . . . Suddenly we needed a new bag of tricks to do a new 

mission called joint counter terrorism” (emphasis in original).41

A modern joint SOF emerged from the ashes of Desert One. 

Beres affirms that “the Holloway Commission changed everything after the Desert One failure.”42

Ultimately, the failed rescue attempt and the recommendations that came out of the Holloway Commission provided the 

impetus and basis for the creation of a standing counterterrorist joint task force (CTJTF) and the revitalization of SOF.43 This 

transformation began when President Carter directed the immediate reconstitution of a second hostage-rescue force for another attempt to recover the Americans held in Iran. As part of 

Project Honey Badger, Headquarters USAF transferred nine 

Pave Low III HH-53Hs from MAC/ARRS to TAC/1st SOW.44
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Project Honey Badger and the Cultural 

Influence of the Pave Low III Transfer

In January 1980, the ARRS’s flagship helicopter, the HH-53H, 

had nearly completed its production and operational-testing 

cycle.45 Once operational, the Pave Low III would represent the 

most modern and advanced airframe in the ARRS inventory.46

On 14 May 1980, Gen Robert C. Mathis, vice-chief of staff of 

the Air Force (VCSAF), ordered MAC/ARRS to transfer the nine 

HH-53H helicopters to TAC/1st SOW “at the earliest possible 

time.”47 On 18 May, eight of the nine Pave Low IIIs arrived at 

Hurlburt Field, home of the 1st SOW, on what they thought 

was an extended temporary duty (TDY) deployment.48 Colonel 

Connelly, one of the initial cadre of ARRS pilots accompanying 

the Pave Lows to Hurlburt, reports that, at least initially, the 

ARRS crews “were well received with cold beer and red scarves.”49

Describing his first visit to the 20th SOS, however, Connelly 

adds, “[This was] my first and only experience of seeing a unit 

patch in a urinal—the ARRS patch was there. It was not something I was pleased about. I started forming opinions that the 

rivalry between navy pilots and AF [Air Force] pilots or bomber 

and fighter pilots, was nothing compared to ARRS and SOF 

helo pilots.”50

Considering that this transfer was initially designed as a 

“temporary assignment,” it seemed totally inappropriate for 

AFSOF leaders to allow this behavior. In light of the national 

importance of the Honey Badger mission, one would think that 

AFSOF’s leadership would have tried to reduce, rather than 

increase, friction between the two communities in the early 

stages of this project. Another move highlighted the Air Force’s 

neglect of cultural dynamics as Headquarters USAF abruptly 

declared the permanent reassignment of the Pave Low III airframes from MAC to TAC on 17 June 1980.51 Overnight, the 

former ARRS crew members that represented the majority of 

the new 20th SOS’s crews were forced to sever their connections 

with ARRS.52 In the end, according to Maj Gen (sel) John Folkerts, 

the initial cadre of ARRS pilots and crews who transferred to 

the 20th SOS quickly became assimilated into the AFSOF culture as a result of the Honey Badger “shared experiences.”53
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From the rescue perspective, the ARRS felt slighted by 

what it perceived as a disproportional national emphasis on 

the AFSOF mission.54 In an “eyes only” personal message to 

CINCMAC, CSAF General Allen outlined the USAF’s reorganization rationale:

Dutch, my staff has restudied problems associated with the transfer of 

Pave Low III helicopters. We are in the unfortunate position of having to 

allocate a scarce resource between two competing demands, combat 

rescue and the counterterrorist (CT) mission, and we cannot satisfy 

fully the requirement of both. The important contribution the ARRS 

makes in promoting a humanitarian image for the USAF is fully recognized; however, the national-level priority afforded the CT force necessitates Pave Low assignment against that mission.

After reviewing what we have available in the CT capability, senior OSD 

[Office of the Secretary of Defense] officials are actively working the establishment of a permanent integrated force capable of achieving an 

effective response to future terrorist incidents. . . . Deemed essential to 

this structure are the unique capabilities of Pave Low.

As you know, the principal Air Force contribution will be Fixed and Rotary elements from the 1st SOW. I have looked at alternatives to the 

Pave Low assignment but have concluded [that] these assets must be 

organizationally integrated into TAC. . . . 

The personnel sensitivities of this transfer are well understood. . . . Your 

staff, in coordination with TAC and MPC, should develop the required 

manpower actions in order to fulfill the requirements.

It is recognized [that] the transfer of Pave Low assets will leave an obvious hole in ARRS capability. . . . For the long term, I’ve directed the staff 

to work in conjunction with MAC to prepare options for rebuilding an 

enhanced combat rescue capability. The basis may be to develop some 

of the Pave Low capability in the forthcoming H-60 or an alternative 

candidate.55

A month later, the new CINCMAC, General Huyser, updated the CSAF with the following explanation: “Even though 

I still contend transferring the ARRS assets to the 1st SOW 

was not to the best interest of the Air Force, for the long run, 

I’m not going to cry over spilled milk. I do suggest, however, 

if the Air Force wants a rescue capability for both peacetime 

and wartime we better get with the program of restoring some 

lost capability.”56

Although ARRS crews were equally as dedicated to Honey 

Badger, the MAC/ARRS leadership was extremely concerned 

with the long-term diversion of ARRS assets from the traditional 

CSAR mission to the SOF-centric hostage-rescue effort. Besides 
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the nine Pave Low IIIs that transferred to TAC/1st SOW, ARRS 

committed an additional six HH-53B/Cs, eight HC-130s, and 

329 personnel to Project Honey Badger on extended TDY status.57

For several months, the ARRS crews trained intensively, side by 

side with their AFSOF cousins, in preparation for a possible second rescue mission.58 Although ARRS crew proficiency and capabilities improved tremendously as a result of the intensive 

training, Desert One and Honey Badger had an uneven organizational effect on the two communities. 

In an excerpt from the personal, eyes-only message that 

General Huyser sent to Generals Allen and Mathis, CSAF and 

VCSAF respectively, one can sense the MAC/ARRS frustration building over the handling of Honey Badger:

As you well know, the recent Honey Badger tasking has caused a serious degradation of the USAF H-53 fleet. The Pave Low III transfer to 

TAC—coupled with the open-ended loan of additional non–Pave Low 

HH-53s and HC-130 tankers and associated maintenance personnel, 

special tools, and spares—has resulted in a severe loss of rescue capability within MAC. Two of our rescue squadrons are no longer capable 

of supporting RDJTF [rapid deployment joint task force], PACAF, and 

NATO contingency plans. The 1550 ATTW has been severely degraded 

as an Air Force flying training school and, as a result, has been forced 

to cancel three consecutive H-53 classes. This disruption of our USAF 

H-53 training program will have a long-lasting impact not only on ARRS 

but on all [MAJCOMs] which rely on the 1550 ATTW to train their H-53 

crewmembers [read TAC].

I recognize the national significance of Honey Badger and other highpriority missions and will continue to support them to the utmost of our 

ability. However the adverse impact of manning and equipping an ad 

hoc unit on short notice clearly illustrates the need for more efficient 

management of these scarce resources. I believe that our national interests can be best served with all USAF helicopters, including SOF being 

centrally controlled under a single manager. . . . Moreover, an amalgamation of SOF/ARRS resources would have negated the need for a special task force because an in-being, cohesive, well-trained unit would 

have already existed. . . . I strongly believe that if all helicopters and 

SOF C-130s were consolidated under MAC, a stronger, more viable force 

could be projected in response to international contingencies without 

the intercommand difficulties and personnel disruptions which have 

occurred in the recent past.59

General Huyser’s comments reflect a new approach to the 

helicopter reorganization initiative that had been a source of 

tension between TAC and MAC, long before the transfer of Pave 

Low IIIs, in support of Project Honey Badger.60 Prior to the first 
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111

Iran rescue attempt, both MAC’s and ARRS’s position on the 

single-manager consolidation of assets focused exclusively on 

the amalgamation of helicopter forces.61 After Desert One and 

the HH-53H transfer to TAC, CINCMAC insisted on a more 

comprehensive merger. 

For the first time, MAC advocated a consolidation that included all AFSOF assets. So by the time Project Honey Badger 

was suspended in January 1981 in the wake of the release of 

the American hostages, MAC had made it abundantly clear that 

“although TAC had won some of the helicopters, MAC/ARRS 

continued to concentrate on the acquisition of all of the USAF 

helicopters. Putting it another way, TAC had drawn a circle 

taking in the HH-53Hs, but MAC/ARRS was drawing a bigger 

circle to take in the 1st SOW.”62

From the AFSOF perspective, the Holloway Commission 

highlighted the deficiency of joint SOF capabilities in a forum 

that even conventional leaders could not afford to ignore. For 

AFSOF crews, the Pave Low transfer and a new national-level 

interest in the special operations mission had a tremendous 

effect on their psyche. Colonel Beres affirms, “We had highlevel interest and real Generals that cared. . . . The SECDEF 

himself [asked] Captains like me what I needed; we told him 

straight up what we needed to do the mission and he gave it to 

us. What could be cooler than that!”63

Paradoxically, although AFSOF had just suffered the loss of 

an airplane and five crew members in an operation widely considered a failure, many air commandos remember the Honey 

Badger experience as a period of high energy and excitement 

over the prospect of rebuilding a long-neglected special operations capability. Beres proposes that AFSOF crews remained 

energized because “though [some in] the DOD treated us like 

failures after Desert One, those that were ‘read in’ [had the 

clearance and the need to know about the mission] gave us 

some real respect.”64 In aggregate, AFSOF crew members remained optimistic, enthusiastic, and, organizationally, totally 

committed to preparing for a second chance to rescue the 

Americans held in Iran. 

According to Beres, “We accepted . . . that [although] UW in 

the post Viet Nam era was out of fashion [it remained] our primary mission. The national will would not allow us to engage in 
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more Vietnams and we did not really have a lot of utility in WW 

II.”65 Marquis adds that “by 1980 little remained of the forces 

that fought in Vietnam.”66 Using the Desert One and Honey 

Badger experiences as the baseline for the new AFSOF, air commandos strove to establish its organizational relevance. 

This renewed sense of self-importance was intrinsically 

linked to the joint-training regimen associated with the early 

1980s SOF experiences. As Marquis points out, “The inability 

of Delta to quickly deploy in the late 1970s and early 1980s 

brought attention to the great deficiencies in SOF aviation. 

Eventually, this weakness became the focus of early efforts to 

reform and rebuild American special operations forces.”67 As a 

result, post–Desert One air commandos defined their relevance 

as part of a CTJTF; as such, they started to identify more with 

their joint counterterrorism colleagues than with their ARRS 

counterparts.68 In hindsight, it appears that USAF leaders did 

not consider the polarizing effect of reassigning this ARRS highvalue asset. The evidence presented so far suggests, however, 

that Air Force leadership most likely assumed that they could 

sort out the cultural fallout after the changes were implemented. 

In due course, Project Honey Badger had several tactical, 

operational, strategic, and cultural effects on the AFSOF and 

ARRS organizational dynamics. Tactically, the preparations for 

a second rescue attempt created a close working relationship 

between AFSOF and ARRS crews and improved the capabilities 

of both communities. For example, Pave Low III helicopters 

were able to perfect their aerial-refueling procedures while 

working with rescue HC-130s. Similarly, HH-53B/C and 

HC-130 crews returned to their respective ARRS units after 

Honey Badger but continued to practice the procedures for using night vision goggles (NVG) in special operations and special 

skills that they had developed during their extended TDY with 

a rejuvenated AFSOF.69

Operationally, TAC wanted to retain control of AFSOF assets, 

while MAC wanted to be in command of both ARRS and AFSOF 

resources/missions. According to official records, TAC made 

the 1st SOW a direct-reporting unit to Headquarters TAC in 

September 1980.70 Although AFSOF crews associated with 

Honey Badger “liked this new SOF mission,” many of them 

“were still suffering from a lack of promotion and a general 
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113

higher headquarters indifference.”71 In 1981 TAC reorganized 

the 1st SOW under the Ninth Air Force. With promotions and 

recognition on the rise, lower operations tempo (after Honey 

Badger), and a seemingly sincere TAC interest in the SOF mission, many air commandos enjoyed working for Lt Gen Larry D. 

Welch, Ninth Air Force commander.72 The evidence suggests 

that TAC’s recently discovered concern for AFSOF was buttressed by high-level attention. For example, Pres. Ronald 

Reagan included “revitalizing SOF” in his election platform, 

and SecDef Weinberger included Reagan’s pledge to strengthen 

SOF in his defense-guidance document.73

While TAC lobbied for the AFSOF mission, MAC actively lobbied for the operational control and amalgamation of AFSOF 

and ARRS assets. In addition to the letter to the CSAF noted 

earlier, CINCMAC, General Huyser, raised this matter directly 

to Secretary Weinberger, clearly outlining MAC’s desires with 

regard to the AFSOF mission:

I recommend the Air Force consolidate all helicopter and certain C-130 

assets under MAC as a single manager. Currently, Air Force helicopter 

management is fragmented among five commands causing redundancy 

in capability and undue competition for scarce resources. By far, we are 

the most experienced and largest operator of those assets—clearly, we 

can save money. My proposal involves consolidation of helicopter and 

mission-related C-130s, plus various range/test support aircraft, including AFSC’s [Air Force Systems Command] H-53s and C-130s. . . . 

In my estimation, we would increase flexibility through alignment of all 

forces under an established MAC/ARRS CONUS and overseas organizational structure which exists in all theaters. This consolidation would 

allow the Air Force to speak with one voice on current and future helicopter and certain C-130 requirements as well as force structure. In 

addition, it would enhance career progression, thereby contributing to 

aircrew retention. I urge you to take the initiative in this area as it appears in the “too hard” category below your level. I will be in retired status by the time you get this report, so my only interest is proper management of assets.74 (emphasis added)

For a year after Huyser’s report to Weinberger, Gen James 

Allen, the next CINCMAC, continued to support the consolidation of AFSOF and ARRS assets, while Gen Wilbur Creech, 

CINCTAC, continued to resist the merger.75 In September 1982, 

however, Generals Allen and Creech abruptly agreed to the 

ARRS/AFSOF merger.76 The reasons for this sudden change go 

to the heart of the argument that organizational culture plays 

a significant role in mergers. 
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114

This research substantiates that the genesis of Twenty-third 

Air Force was more significantly influenced by organizational 

tribal dynamics than the strength of the MAC/ARRS argument. 

Since the USAF service structure was monarchical, the chief of 

staff wielded a tremendous amount of power and, in this case, 

was the only person capable of breaking the deadlock between 

CINCMAC and CINCTAC.77 Although a number of Air Force studies supported MAC’s/ARRS’s argument, organizational culture 

played a more significant role than the strength of their case.78

According to official records, the CSAF commissioned a number of substantive initiatives that sought to determine whether 

organizational changes were required in response to a changing security environment. For example, Air Force 2000, a study 

completed in 1981 and published in 1982, suggested that in 

order “to provide the organizational support necessary to enhance special operations, the Air Force should consider placing 

it under HQ USAF as a Special Operating Agency, or within a 

Major Command as a numbered air force. Such a move would 

provide the needed impetus to update the doctrine and to compete effectively in the Air Force budget process.”79 Another major study conducted between November 1981 and July 1982, the 

Air Force Inspection and Safety Center’s Functional Management Inspection on USAF Special Operations Capability, contends that there were “role conflicts among the Army, Navy, 

and Air Force regarding special operations.”80 Accordingly, the 

team described the AFSOF capabilities as “insufficient to meet 

operational readiness requirements.”81

In order to revitalize AFSOF, the report suggested that “all 

Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Service (ARRS) and special operations forces be combined under a single organization or 

numbered air force equivalent ‘within a MAJCOM.’ ”82 Ultimately, the revised (1982) defense-guidance document signaled 

a renewed executive-level emphasis on the strengthening of 

SOF capabilities. At first glance, it appears that General 

Gabriel’s rationale for realigning the ARRS and AFSOF communities surfaced from the logical conclusion that MAC was the 

most appropriate organization for the revitalization of AFSOF. 

Some have argued, however, that General Gabriel’s cultural 

biases, rather than logic, influenced his decision. After all, he 

was the first of the modern fighter CSAFs.83
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115

Marquis proposes that part of Gabriel’s reasoning for the 

merger “was a result of the U.S. Air Force [and CSAF’s] view of 

the world: combat aircraft were either strategic bombers or tactical fighters; all other aircraft were in supporting roles.”84 She 

observes that the majority of AFSOF missions were in support of 

SOF from other services. In Vietnam, for instance, the primary 

mission of AFSOF Talons and helicopters was the transport of 

special forces, Rangers, and SEALs to and from their missions.85

In addition to their interdiction role, gunships also supported 

ground customers through night, precision CAS. In one view, 

these were not missions that should be assigned to a command 

primarily concerned with “pilot-gods in single-seat fighters.”86

On the contrary, as Marquis reveals, “Air force leadership believed that because much of the AFSOF mission was airlift, 

though under difficult conditions, AFSOF fit under MAC.”87

Marquis’s argument suggests that part of Gabriel’s decision to 

merge ARRS and AFSOF was a consequence of cultural bias.

Although outside influences, such as defense guidance, intraservice struggle, and competition for resources cumulatively affected General Gabriel’s decision to merge the rescue and special 

forces communities, cultural biases also helped shape the new 

organization. Moreover, even if the Air Force’s monarchical character was able to overcome the TAC/MAC impasse, in order to 

keep the peace between the two commands, General Gabriel had 

to dispense “side payments to the subordinate subgroups.”88

Although these “side payments” to Headquarters TAC were 

more symbolic than meaningful, General Gabriel agreed to accommodate the six conditions that General Creech, CINCTAC, 

attached to the transfer of forces agreement, including

1. The theater commanders in chief to retain operational command of 

Forces deployed in their theaters.

2. Rational beddown locations for special operations forces.

3. Rescue and special operations forces to retain their separate identities.

4. A recognition that the reorganization was not an intra–Air Force battle 

for real estate, but it was a resource consolidation for the good of the 

Air Force.

5. Fair treatment for residual TAC assets at Hurlburt Field (Red Horse 

unit, etc.).
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116

6. A realization that the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) 

mission was only a part of the special operations mission.89

Furthermore, Gabriel declared that MAC would assume the 

additional manpower burden associated with the creation of a 

new 2nd AD headquarters. Headquarters TAC would lose only 

nine manpower slots and Headquarters Ninth Air Force would 

lose only two. The other 73 manpower slots required to create 

the Headquarters 2nd AD would come from the Headquarters 

1st SOW. Finally, manning shortages in the intermediate headquarters significantly handicapped the 1st SOW’s efforts to reorganize.90 Ultimately, TAC divested the AFSOF mission with a 

bruised ego but with minimal effect on its operations and manning strength.

Although Headquarters MAC accepted the above arrangements, Headquarters ARRS and its commander, General Mall, 

wanted to make the 1st SOW the fourth wing within the ARRS 

structure.91 The ARRS agenda was clear: it wanted to control 

all AFSOF forces. But to TAC’s credit, it resisted ARRS efforts 

to subsume the AFSOF mission. After lengthy negotiations, 

General Mall and his staff accepted the TAC requirement to 

create “separate and coequal entities (with air division or corresponding status) under a numbered air force headquarters.”92

According to official records, “Some of the participants [in the 

negotiations] wondered whether this was a manageable organizational structure, but everyone was determined to make the 

plan work.”93 Again, based on the preceding evidence, it is clear 

that the impetus for this organizational merger was more heavily 

affected by outside influences and Air Force cultural dynamics—most notably national emphasis on SOF after the Desert 

One debacle and the Air Force monarchical leadership model—

than by intraservice cooperation.

The Rise of Twenty-third Air Force

On 1 March 1983, the USAF activated Twenty-third Air Force 

at Scott AFB, Illinois. As part of the reorganization agreement 

with TAC, MAC established Twenty-third Air Force with separate subordinate commands for AFSOF and ARRS assets.94 According to General Mall, the first Twenty-third Air Force com-
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117

mander, the new organization’s primary objective was to 

“enhance the special operations mission.”95 Mall affirms that 

the merger “capitalized on the synergism that exists between 

SOF and the combat rescue forces because their mission, training and equipment is very similar. . . . It makes sense to manage the training, tactics, maintenance, and supply from one 

headquarters.”96 Mall’s vision of Twenty-third Air Force indicates that he wanted to train and equip the AFSOF/ARRS force 

“under a common, event centered standard . . . [in which] we 

provide the military with the capability to move our forces from 

one mission area to another to best accomplish both tasks.”97

From the start, Twenty-third Air Force was a unique organization. Unlike the Twenty-first and Twenty-second Air 

Forces, also under MAC, Twenty-third Air Force had no geographic boundaries.98 According to the reorganization plan, 

Headquarters ARRS would be the worldwide focal point for 

ARRS operations; similarly, 2nd AD would be the nucleus for 

all USAF special-operations efforts. As Haas reveals, Twentythird Air Force’s foci included “[all] unconventional warfare and 

psychological operations, as well as the ARRS missions of combat rescue, missile-site support, special-operations support, 

aerial sampling and weather reconnaissance. The Twenty-third 

Air Force is responsible for integrating dedicated special operations forces, ARRS forces, and other MAC forces as necessary 

to support national objectives.”99 Haas makes a strong case for 

the synergy between the AFSOF and ARRS missions: 

Mission planners can take advantage of the superb navigational abilities provided by the Pave Low HH-53H helicopters and the additional lift 

capacity of the ARRS HH-53B/C’s by mixing the aircraft in formation. . . . 

Such complementary missions give a synergy to mission capabilities. 

The 2nd AD can be used for search and rescue (SAR) and those SAR 

techniques ARRS aircrews practice for combat can just as easily enhance special operations missions. The synergy does not stop with the 

SOF, but also applies to MAC and the 2nd AD. MC-130, MAC C-141, 

and C-130 special operations low-level crews have proven in many exercises that they can perform better as a team. By working together and 

learning from each other, the entire MAC force, active duty and Reserve, 

will enhance the accomplishment of special operations missions. . . . 

The consolidation of SOF and ARRS brings with it a host of challenges; 

however, the 23rd AF has the potential to be the most effective combat 

force within the Department of Defense.100
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118

Although Mall’s and Haas’s ideas made perfect sense from a 

theoretical point of view, they ignored the influence of organizational culture on the reorganization in practice. Clearly, these 

explanations failed to account for the preexisting institutional 

biases and overt, as well as hidden, organizational agendas. 

Although Mall and others tried to communicate the potential 

synergies and benefits of this merger, they did not adequately 

identify potential conflict areas and cultural realities that might 

negatively affect the reorganization efforts.101 In short, the 

MAC/ARRS leadership chose to highlight the similarities and 

to make light of the differences between the two communities, 

mistakenly assuming that they could “fix cultural problems after the fact.”102

Institutional Priorities: 

AFSOF and ARRS Masks of War

As noted in chapter 2, “it is one step to attribute a personality 

to an institution; it is an even larger step to imbue that personality with motives.”103 In order to understand more clearly the 

effect of organizational culture on the rise of Twenty-third Air 

Force, the rest of this chapter analyzes the AFSOF and ARRS 

masks of war as well as institutional motives and biases that 

influenced leaders charged with the task of integrating these 

two communities. Additionally, the last section assesses the 

tendency to resist change at ARRS and the 2nd AD headquarters level in the early stages of the organizational merger.104

Since 1976 the ARRS position regarding an organizational 

merger of AFSOF and ARRS assets was that the latter should 

have assimilated the AFSOF assets under its existing infrastructure and command arrangements.105 But by 1982, when 

MAC and TAC were putting the finishing touches on the reorganization schema, it appeared that ARRS was not going to 

absorb AFSOF but would have to compete with it for primacy 

inside Twenty-third Air Force. Whereas prior to the reorganization, ARRS could boast that it represented the “combat arm” of 

MAC, it could no longer do so after the merger.106 In short, 

ARRS leadership started to realize, perhaps too late, that the 

reorganization meant that they were going to lose their privi-
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119

leged status within the MAC hierarchy and, at the same time, 

add another layer of competition for limited resources.107

The evidence suggests that MAC leadership recognized the 

importance of maintaining a robust and healthy rescue capability. But in retrospect, it appears that the MAC/ARRS leaders 

underestimated the difficulty of competing with AFSOF in light 

of a national emphasis on the revitalization of SOF capabilities.108 Although competent leaders were able to harmonize the 

complementary capabilities of AFSOF and ARRS during contingencies such as the Son Tay Raid and Project Honey Badger, 

the excessive and uninhibited influence of organizational culture on the ARRS leadership fueled the flames of discontent in 

peacetime. Further complicating things, ARRS’s reaction to early 

Twenty-third Air Force initiatives was much more sanguine 

than the initial AFSOF response to the reorganization efforts.

AFSOF crews in the 2nd AD viewed the creation of Twentythird Air Force as a “hostile takeover” with very few benefits and 

many drawbacks. As Marquis stresses, while AFSOF tried to 

revitalize its feeble capabilities, the creation of the 2nd AD presented a significant opportunity for AFSOF. She adds, “For the 

first time in the history of AFSOF . . . there was a single command for all air force special operations, the first move toward 

protecting this precarious value within the air force.”109 Another 

benefit from having an AFSOF headquarters was a belief that 

the air commandos “may get a special operator general as the 

head of the 2nd Air Division.”110 According to Colonel Beres, up 

until 1983, “most 1 SOW/CCs [commanders] had been nonSOF guys and Headquarters TAC only had one SO [special operations] O-6 position. Folks worked hard to get a Twenty-third 

Air Force or HQ MAC position to either make a difference and 

fix things or get promoted” (emphasis in original).111 The reorganization undeniably presented some leadership and promotion opportunities not available under the previous TAC regime. 

The biggest disadvantage of this arrangement was that the 

MAC/Twenty-third Air Force leadership chose to polarize 

ARRS/AFSOF activities rather than harmonize their organizational initiatives. This shortcoming, however, was a consequence of poor organizational planning complicated by an institutional rift along cultural fault lines. In effect, MAC 

leadership neglected to assess the cultural influence of this ar-
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120

rangement on the two communities prior to the reorganization. 

Had they done so, MAC/Twenty-third Air Force leaders perhaps 

could have minimized any potential cultural friction points. 

For example, as Colonel Thigpen indicates, “[The air commandos] say the consolidation under MAC was a hostile takeover by 

a much larger bureaucracy that had little concern regarding 

SOF revitalization. . . . [They] felt that the true object of the new 

arrangement was to enhance the rescue capabilities, and to 

retain only the subordinate mission of SOF. . . . [They also] resented being commanded by a staff with virtually no SOF background.”112 Thigpen’s example suggests that the MAC/Twentythird Air Force leadership felt that they could address cultural 

issues (such as Twenty-third Air Force’s organizational structure) after the fact. As events showed, this was a poor assumption that contributed to friction between the two communities. 

The evidence presented in this paper suggests that a systemic 

failure to account for tribal dynamics prior to massive reorganization perpetuated strife between the communities. 

Oddly enough, even when AFSOF was nearly obliterated under TAC, special operators resisted transfer to the seemingly 

more accommodating MAC. According to Col (later Maj Gen) 

Hugh L. Cox, former 1st SOW and 2nd AD commander, “SOF 

troops viewed TAC as a command of warriors, and the move to 

MAC was viewed by most SOF personnel as a definite step down 

and [as] an indication that the Air Force leadership considered 

them as trash haulers and combat supporters, not leadingedge, point-of-the-spear warriors.”113 Cox believed that “MAC 

intended to assimilate the AFSOF into its existing organization 

and mission.”114 Beres corroborates Cox’s observation:

We quickly realized that [the] 2nd AD was just created to placate the 

Holloway folks and SOF sponsors in Wash DC. Remember, [the] 2nd AD 

was created to focus on SOF so the large number of other 23rd AF missions would not impact SOF. . . . HQ MAC and 23rd AF did not understand the SO [special operations] or CSAR mission. In fact, I would say 

23rd AF did not understand any of their missions, only how to manage 

a force structure through the AF DOD institutional process.115 (emphasis in original)

Moreover, Beres explains, “We at first hoped that Twentythird Air Force would be a big proponent of SOF but the first 

two commanders [General Mall and General Patterson] consis-
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121

tently talked about how there ‘was nothing special about special ops’ ” (emphasis in original).116 Fundamentally, the organizational merger, from the AFSOF point of view, threatened the 

new air-commando culture that had attempted to reinvent itself after the Desert One and Honey Badger experiences.117 Although in hindsight the organizational merger provided many 

advantages to AFSOF, air commandos at the time thought that 

there were more shortcomings than advantages to the reorganization. But, as Beres holds, much of the friction was mostly 

personality driven. For instance, Colonel Cox perpetuated organizational strife rather than alleviated some of the cultural 

pressures associated with the early stages of the Twenty-third 

Air Force merger. 

Colonel Cox was what can best be described as a “born-again 

SOF” aviator.118 Unlike Beres, who was weaned into AFSOF 

early in his career, Cox’s formative experiences with AFSOF 

were as 1st SOW vice-commander, commander, and later, 2nd 

AD commander.119 Although a late convert, Cox set out to defend AFSOF at every opportunity. But some of his arguments 

in defense of his adopted culture proved superficial; ultimately, 

many of Cox’s initiatives lacked strategic forethought. 

Cox started his career as an aeromedical evacuation pilot 

and spent most of his formative years flying with the 7th Airborne Command and Control Squadron.120 A C-130 pilot with 

over 10,000 military and civilian flying hours, he nevertheless 

had no experience in AFSOF until he came to the 1st SOW.121

With the creation of Twenty-third Air Force, Cox had the opportunity to evaluate AFSOF needs objectively and to turn adversity into an opportunity for his constituents by propelling 

the 2nd AD forward along with, not in spite of, the rest of 

Twenty-third Air Force. Instead, bound by a newfound love for 

the AFSOF “religion,” Cox promoted the segregation of the AFSOF 

and ARRS mission rather than highlighting the potential benefits to both communities from an organizational merger. 

In fairness to Colonel Cox, the born-again phenomenon was 

not restricted to AFSOF. General Saunders, for example, ARRS 

commander from 1974 to 1979, became a true believer of the 

rescue mission to the point that he did not want to merge the 

white-hat ARRS with the black-hat AFSOF mission areas regardless of the apparent benefits of the reorganization.122 Cox 
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122

and Saunders are emblematic of leaders who became so enamored with their adopted religion that existing organizational 

ideals heavily—perhaps overly—influenced their decisions. In 

Cox’s case, it appears that he heeded the advice of the most 

radical elements of the AFSOF community, thus marginalizing 

his effectiveness as a subordinate when dealing with taskings 

from higher headquarters and as commander when caring for 

the less radical majority of subordinates. 

An illustration of how Cox allowed cultural influences to 

lessen his effectiveness as a leader involved his handling of 

headquarters manning allocations early in the Twenty-third Air 

Force merger. As noted previously, Headquarters USAF had not 

allocated any additional headquarters manning slots to accommodate the TAC/MAC arrangements. This meant that Twentythird Air Force was forced to establish separate AFSOF and 

ARRS subordinate headquarters. As such, MAC/ARRS leadership was forced to “dual-hat” many of the Headquarters Twentythird Air Force and Headquarters ARRS staff positions.123 According to Little, “By May 1983 Colonel Hugh L. Cox, Commander 

of the 2nd Air Division, began to feel that special operations 

manning resources were being diverted to fill some shortfalls at 

higher headquarters due to the policy of no additional manning 

in consonance with the activation of additional headquarters.”124

In this case, instead of focusing on significant organizational 

problems, Cox focused on minutiae. For example, with regard 

to manning, Cox was mostly concerned with the transfer of two 

billets for a logistics resources center: a safety officer and an 

intelligence officer from the 2nd AD to Headquarters Twentythird Air Force. Instead, Cox should have recognized and reported “up the chain” the significant difference between the 

acceptable safety margins of an airlift-centric MAC/white-hatfocused ARRS and the more intrinsically hazardous AFSOF. Had 

Colonel Cox considered the influence of organizational culture, 

chances are that he would have supported the transfer of an 

AFSOF safety officer to the Twenty-third Air Force staff in order 

to make sure that General Mall understood the differences between the two missions.125 Although one can understand the 

danger associated with the loss of manning positions, Colonel 

Cox’s attitude did not help Twenty-third Air Force in the early 

stages of its organizational growth. 
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123

Much like Saunders and Cox, the fact that Mall allowed the 

ARRS and AFSOF cultures to blur his command vision hindered his ability to objectively steer Twenty-third Air Force 

through the tribulations of organizational change. This phenomenon supports Schein’s theory that, in the midlife cultural 

stages of organizational growth, “culture becomes more of a 

cause than an effect.” He elaborates that culture operates a 

critical “anxiety-reducing” mechanism that members latch onto 

even if it restricts “environmental opportunities and constraints.”126 The preceding example of safety concerns, however, is symbolic of the ad hoc organizational arrangements at 

the tactical level and the failure to account for the influence of 

organizational culture. Whereas Cox allowed organizational 

culture to restrict his effectiveness as 2nd AD commander, 

General Mall did not pay sufficient attention to the possible effect of tribal dynamics. 

General Mall’s decision to address the cultural aspects of 

restructuring Twenty-third Air Force after the merger was under way added to the uncertainty and confusion ordinarily associated with organizational change. Highlighting Mall’s inattention to cultural issues, the first Twenty-third Air Force 

commander’s conference did not take place until July 1983, 

five months after the reorganization took effect. According to 

the unit history, “This conference gave the ARRS and the 2nd 

Air Division commanders and the Twenty-Third staff an opportunity to learn [and] to know one another better and to talk face 

to face with the people that had been only voices on the telephone, in some cases” (emphasis added).127 Using Schein’s theory, until this conference the MAC/Twenty-third Air Force 

leadership had been “caught up in the political processes that 

prevent the cultural realities from being addressed until after 

the key decisions have been made.”128

Another example of the failure of the leadership of MAC/

Twenty-third Air Force to consider the “cultural realities” involved the 26 September 1983 decision to reorganize Twentythird Air Force only seven months after the initial merger. By 

mid-August, Gen Thomas M. Ryan, Jr., CINCMAC, and General Mall realized that Headquarters USAF would not add any 

additional manpower spaces to the Twenty-third Air Force.129

MAC staff presented four options for reorganizing Twenty-third 
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124

Air Force and three options for relocating its headquarters and 

that of ARRS in order to maximize the limited number of staff 

billets.130 General Mall preferred to consolidate the two headquarters (option 3), and General Ryan agreed. But in order to 

preserve the “long history and traditions of the ARRS,” General 

Ryan decided to “retain a reduced Headquarters ARRS and to 

retain the HQ 2nd Air Division without change.”131 Since the 

MAC/TAC merger agreement dictated that Twenty-third Air 

Force had to preserve the AFSOF separate identity, MAC/

Twenty-third Air Force elected not to renege on the arrangement by tampering with Headquarters 2nd AD’s organizational 

structure. As a result, on 29 September General Mall “convened an all-ranks briefing of the Twenty-Third and ARRS personnel at Scott AFB . . . to explain a series of actions which 

would take place effective 1 October 1983.” In an organizational move as abrupt as the earlier transfer of the Pave Low 

IIIs from MAC to TAC in 1980, General Mall notified his troops 

that all Twenty-third Air Force wings, except the 1st SOW, were 

to report to Headquarters Twenty-third Air Force by 1 October.132

Although the 1 October realignment did not challenge the 

Headquarters 2nd AD arrangement, AFSOF leadership remained 

skeptical as several ARRS manning slots for colonels and one 

ARRS brigadier general position migrated from the ARRS to 

Headquarters Twenty-third Air Force.133 Even though AFSOF 

leaders were correct in the sense that ARRS dominated Headquarters Twenty-third Air Force manning, they failed to appreciate the effect of the 1 October reorganization on ARRS. 

As noted earlier, prior to the creation of Twenty-third Air Force, 

ARRS’s goal was to assimilate most of AFSOF’s assets within the 

existing ARRS organizational structure. After the AFSOF/ARRS 

merger, with former ARRS commander General Mall in charge 

of Twenty-third Air Force, rescue leadership felt that they would 

have the upper hand in ARRS/AFSOF matters.134 According to 

official records, following the October 1983 reorganization, “the 

mission and staff of Headquarters ARRS were to be diminished. . . . ARRS would remain active, but the revised mission 

would be the coordination of rescue activity in the contiguous 

United States and the supervision of the United States responsibilities of the worldwide Search and Rescue Satellite (SARSAT) 

system.”135 Little reports that this was a very difficult time for the 
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125

ARRS leadership. Brig Gen Philip S. Prince, former ARRS commander, new Twenty-third Air Force vice-commander, and the 

“first career helicopter pilot to become a USAF general officer,” 

was so disappointed in the MAC/Twenty-third Air Force series of 

organizational changes that he submitted a request for retirement shortly after the October realignment.136

General Mall admits organizational shortcomings in his 1985 

letter to CINCMAC and acknowledges that 

the first year was particularly turbulent due to the original MAC staff 

organizational plan of two headquarters in one building, Aerospace 

Rescue and Recovery Service and 23d Air Force. This was unacceptable 

and soon corrected by CINCMAC. ARRS was retained as a subordinate 

organization, but without operational assets. Its primary mission is now 

management of the USAF Rescue Coordination Center. One problem 

remained in that to abolish the Rescue Command would require deactivation of the ARRS. The history and heritage of ARRS, including the 

famous and coveted “Rescue Patch,” were at stake. These factors influenced the CINCMAC decision to retain the ARRS headquarters element. 

Thus, the present structure continues with a “Rescue Commander” with 

no operational assets. This organizational compromise should be revisited 

in the future along with a continuing review of the 2d Air Division.137

General Mall’s letter hints at some of the difficulties associated 

with an organizational merger that neglected to address the 

ARRS community’s cultural concerns and institutional agenda. 

Furthermore, evidence presented in this paper intimates that 

MAC’s and ARRS’s leadership, assuming that they could adjust 

for cultural inconveniences after the merger, disregarded the 

importance of organizational culture prior to the reorganization. 

Unfortunately, they did not take adequate steps to prevent 

cross-cultural—AFSOF and ARRS—friction points beforehand. 

In this chapter we examined the setting of and impetus for 

the creation of the Twenty-third Air Force. We also evaluated 

the influence of cultural biases on its organizational growth 

and the ways these biases affected early integration efforts of 

the nascent Twenty-third Air Force. Finally, we considered the 

cultural reactions that resisted change at the intercommand 

(MAC/TAC) and intracommand (AFSOF/ARRS) levels. In the 

next chapter, we apprise the effect of tribal dynamics on three 

of the most significant organizational proposals in the six-year 

life span of Twenty-third Air Force. 
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126

Notes

1. Operation Rice Bowl was the code name for the planning phase of the 

failed attempt to rescue the American hostages held in Iran. Operation Eagle 

Claw was the operational phase of the mission. Desert One is an unofficial 

term often associated with the rescue attempt. Although, technically, Desert 

One was the code name for the first landing zone in Iran, in order to prevent 

confusion, this chapter uses it to refer to the entire rescue mission. Even if 

not totally accurate, it is sufficient for this chapter. A separate appendix examines the Desert One experience in greater detail. Also note that MAC and 

TAC were the parent commands for ARRS and AFSOF, respectively.

2. Putting this conflict in the context of the 1970s, SAC still ruled supreme as the dominant tribe within the Air Force, leaving MAC and TAC 

competing for scarce resources and power within the USAF pecking order. As 

discussed in chap. 2, the rise of the fighter generals did not fully take effect 

until the mid-1980s, but the 1970s are indicative of the rise of ambitious, 

combat-tested (in Vietnam) aviators who tried to establish TAC’s dominance 

within the Air Force cultural pecking order.

3. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1976, p. 34. For an explanation of the white-hat/

black-hat syndrome, see the section on ARS/ARRS culture in chap 4. 

4. Ibid. For chronology of the ARS/ARRS commanders, see chap. 4, table 2.

5. Ibid.

6. History, TAC, vol. 1, 1979, p. 573.

7. Ibid., p. 572.

8. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1976, pp. 35–36.

9. Ibid., 1979, pp. 36–38. The term range support refers to helicopter support 

for TAC ranges used for bombing, strafing, electronic-warfare activities, etc.

10. Ibid., 1976, pp. 35–36. ARRS history provides enough evidence to convince the reader that TAC was creating a second-rate AFSOF capability from 

the aging MAC fleet, and that MAC was replacing the aircraft lost to TAC with 

obsolete, sometimes “mothballed” aircraft. For example, in Feb. 1976, all of 

the 20th SOS (TAC) authorized aircraft (three UH-1Ns and four CH-3s) came 

from MAC. These assets included some “late model,” although still old, CH-3Es 

from the 41st ARRS and 71st ARRS in July and Feb. 1976, respectively (note 

that at least two of these were not air refuelable). MAC complained that it 

could not afford to give CH/HH-3 airframes away when it had previously 

identified a worldwide shortage of ARRS assets (ibid.).

11. Ibid., 1978, p. 23. In addition to the initiatives described above, ARRS 

also provided SAR and range support for TAC’s Air Force Tactical Fighter 

Weapons Center, tactical air control systems, and drone recovery.

12. Beres to author, e-mail. Beres implies that after the end of the Vietnam War, Headquarters USAF had assigned the AFSOF mission to TAC, but 

due to budget cuts, AFSOF was considered more of a nuisance than a force 

enabler. The first glimpse of hope, according to Beres, was the Israeli commando raid on Entebbe. The Israeli exploits “made us get air refueling on the 

Talons and suddenly we could go anywhere, anytime.” For more on the Entebbe operation, see Stevenson, 90 Minutes at Entebbe.
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13. Kyle and Eidson, Guts to Try, p. 27.

14. Ettenson to author, e-mail, 4 Mar. 2004.

15. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1978, p. 23. The document referenced makes it 

quite clear that by 1978 TAC’s 46 authorized helicopters, located at a total of 

10 bases, were most often utilized in a role reminiscent of the ARRS local 

base support (discussed in detail in chap. 4). As noted earlier, TAC interest in 

the consolidation was primarily focused on range support for its fighters.

16. Ibid. Also found in History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 1.

17. MAC DCS/Plans to USAF DCS/Ops Plans, letter, 22 June 1978; and 

TAC DCS/Ops and DCS/Plans to USAF/DCS/Plans and Ops, letter, 2 June 

1978; both referenced in History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1978, p. 24. Also listed in vol. 

2 as supt. docs. I-73 and I-74. MAC responded favorably to the idea of “a single 

managed, multi-missioned helicopter force concept” with ARRS as the single 

manager. Initially, it did not want to blend black-hat and white-hat assets. 

Also, according to Maj Gen Billy J. Ellis, DCS/Operations, Headquarters TAC, 

this consolidation was “not a viable solution.” General Creech, CINCTAC, offered a much more emotional response to the single-manager concept, but 

the author was not able to declassify the appropriate document in time for 

the publication of this paper (ibid.).

18. History, TAC, vol. 1, 1979, appendix B (“TAC History”), “Aircraft Inventory.” Demonstrating the lack of intellectual emphasis or mere acknowledgement of the AFSOF mission, this history does not mention AFSOF in the 

narrative. Rather, it only mentions AFSOF helicopter assets in appendix B. In 

Dec. 1979, the TAC active duty helicopter fleet was limited to eight CH-3s, no 

CH-53s, 16 UH-1Ns, and nine UH-1Ps (ibid.).

19. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1979, pp. 101–102.

20. Ibid., 1980, p. 15. General Saunders had indicated that he supported 

the merger earlier in his tenure as ARRS commander. With less than a month 

away from his change of command, some have speculated that Saunders’s 

change of heart was due to his desire to leave the ARRS community with an 

impression that he was one of their staunchest advocates.

21. Ibid.

22. This is the first of many examples, in this and subsequent chapters, 

which suggest that the commander should shape organizational culture rather 

than culture shaping the commander’s vision or organizational direction.

23. Saunders, biography.

24. Schein, Organizational Culture, pp. 377–78. In this case, the founding 

period reflects the Vietnam experience—what some call “the golden age of 

CSAR.” 

25. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, pp. 16–17.

26. Ibid. Upon a careful review of both TAC and MAC/ARRS historical documents, one concludes that ARRS seems to have the stronger case. With the 

preponderance of helicopter assets, it made sense to have MAC/ARRS manage 

all the assets. Regardless of which command had the better case, both agreed 

that a single USAF agency that managed all helicopters would eliminate the 

“problems caused by in-house competition for limited resources” (ibid.).
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27. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 1. TAC would not accept the notion of MAC’s controlling all the assets, and MAC did not want to 

merge the black-hat and white-hat communities. Additionally, MAC did not 

think that it made any sense for TAC to take over the single-manager duties 

when MAC controlled the majority of the airframes (ibid.).

28. Kyle and Eidson, Guts to Try, pp. 32, 93. Later, the Iranian students 

who stormed the American compound released a small number of hostages. 

See also Beckwith and Knox, Delta Force, p. 217; and Ryan, Iranian Rescue 

Mission, p. 155n1. Ryan demonstrates that of the remaining 53 hostages, 

one was released due to illness (Richard Queen), but the other 52 were not 

released until 444 days later. Col Charlie A. Beckwith, USAF, retired, the assault force commander, lists the number of hostages at 53, while Colonel 

Kyle lists only 50. For more information from the “hostage” perspective, see 

Wells, 444 Days, pp. 31–96.

29. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 69. For insight on the ineptitude 

of US foreign policy towards Iran, see Sullivan, Mission to Iran, especially pp. 

272–80. Sullivan was the US ambassador to Iran.

30. For a more detailed explanation of the Desert One mission, see appendix A.

31. Kyle and Eidson, Guts to Try, pp. 293, 336–38. During the exfiltration, 

one of the helicopters flew into one of the C-130s, killing eight JTF Airmen—

in effect delivering the ultimate psychological blow to the JTF and nation. 

Kyle points out that in the rush to get away from the burning wreckage and 

abandon remaining helicopters, Marine pilots had left classified materials 

aboard their helicopters that contained detailed information about the rescue 

plan (pp. 294–300).

32. This statement is based on the author’s personal experience (12 years 

in AFSOF), an informal poll of his peers, and a unanimous response from all 

those interviewed for this research project.

33. The officers interviewed requested that these comments not be specifically attributed to them. Their comments represent personal opinion and 

are based mostly on rumor rather than personal knowledge of the events. For 

more, see the appendix.

34. Nonetheless, right or wrong, justified or simply vicious rumor, the perception among many Twenty-third Air Force special operators was that the 

ARRS had refused the nation’s calling. This research project has demonstrated that in any discussion of organizational culture, perceptions matter. 

Therefore, equally as important as setting the record straight on this issue, 

one must consider the perceptions and widely accepted stereotypes of the two 

communities. (See unit histories of ARRS and TAC in the bibliography.)

35. Comer, Peterson AFB, CO, telephonic interview with author, Maxwell 

AFB, AL, 9 Feb. 2004. Comer claims that MAC and ARRS were involved in the 

planning only as far as the rescue portion of the Desert One mission. According to Comer, General Huyser was briefed on the rescue attempt shortly before execution (most likely due to security concerns). Once briefed, Huyser 

“had three Paves boxed up on C-5s at Kirtland. . . . They took off a day before 

Desert One, heading toward Turkey [in order] to sit [CSAR] alert. . . . Some-
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where between Kirtland and Turkey, [the C-5 crews] were told to turn back to 

Albuquerque.”

36. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, p. 94.

37. Ibid., pp. 94–95.

38. This situation resembled the AFSOF circumstances during the interwar period between the Korean and Vietnam conflicts. For more on the subject, see chap. 3 of this study.

39. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, p. 114.

40. Beres to author, e-mail; see also Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 231–32.

41. Beres to author, e-mail. Beres’s ideas are echoed in Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 69; Kyle and Eidson, Guts to Try, p. 34; and the appendix of this paper.

42. Beres to author, e-mail.

43. US DOD, Rescue Mission Report, pp. vi, 61–62; Ryan, Iranian Rescue 

Mission, p. 123; and Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 72–73. Only weeks 

after the failed rescue attempt, the JCS chartered the Special Operations 

Review Group—also known as the Holloway Commission after its chairman, 

Adm James Holloway—to “independently appraise the rescue attempt [and] 

recommend improvements. . . . The group’s focus was on the Department of 

Defense and military issues.” US DOD, Rescue Mission Report, p. 61.

44. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1976, p. 89. See also ibid., 1977, pp. 14–15; and 

Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 231–32. The HH-53H was programmed for beddown 

in RAF Woodbridge (67th ARRS). Whereas the JCS had allocated only eight 

RH-53Ds to Desert One, the planners of Project Honey Badger had 95 helicopters at their disposal, including the first HH-53H Pave Low IIIs, UH-60 

Blackhawks (the Army’s first operational company of UH-60s), CH-47C Chinooks from the 101st Airborne Division, and OH-6 Loach helicopters that 

could carry some of the assaulters on specially modified outside platforms. 

History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 1.

45. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 71. This history recounts that five airframes plus the prototype “had been modified, had completed acceptance testing, and were assigned to the 1550th ATTW [Air Training and Test Wing]. Three 

others were undergoing further modification at the NARF [Naval Air Rework 

Facility, Pensacola Naval Air Station, FL].” According to MAC Programming 

Plan 78-18, qualification testing started in Apr. 1979, the prototype was scheduled to return to Pensacola on Jan. 1980 for further modification, and the first 

two HH-53Hs were supposed to deploy to their permanent beddown location, 

RAF Woodbridge, United Kingdom, during Mar. 1980 (ibid.).

46. Ibid., 1976, p. 89; see also ibid., 1977, pp. 14–15; and Chinnery, Any 

Time, pp. 231–32. Please note that although conceived during the Vietnam 

War, the HH-53H Pave Low III helicopter was designed for the high-threat 

environments of central and northern Europe. The Pave Low III was supposed to utilize its night and adverse weather combat-rescue capability along 

with a one-of-a-kind sensor and countermeasures suite designed to mitigate 

the high threats associated with the European theater.

47. Message, 142310Z, Vice CSAF to CINCMAC et al., 14 May 1980. See 

also History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, pp. 77–78. According to official records, 
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“The order was linked to the pressing national need for the organization of 

new DOD SOF resources associated with missions of rapid deployment for 

crisis situations and responses to worldwide acts of terrorism [read Project 

Honey Badger].” Please note, however, that at this point (14 May) only 11 pilots and seven flight engineers were qualified in the Pave Low III. Four pilots 

and four engineers were in training and were supposed to graduate in June. 

Headquarters USAF estimated that MAC stood to lose approximately 30 officers and 176 enlisted personnel (ibid., p. 78).

48. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, pp. 77–78; and Comer, Peterson AFB, CO, 

telephonic interview with author, Maxwell AFB, AL, 9 Feb. 2004. This history 

documents that on 23 May 1980, “General Mathis [VSAF] reassured General 

Huyser [CINCMAC] that all Pave Low III personnel at Hurlburt Field were currently in a TDY status. . . . By 23 July a total of 329 MAC/ARRS people had 

been placed on extended TDY” (p. 77). The number of personnel deployed 

reflected six additional non–Pave Low III HH-53B/C airframes that “were 

placed underneath operational control of TAC for extended TDY at Hurlburt 

Field.” Ibid, p. 78. Comer reports that the “flash message” showed up at five 

a.m. “They were told to fly out all the aircraft to Hurlburt Field. . . . The Paves 

flew 1,100 miles and landed FMC [Fully Mission Capable].” Comer, interview.

49. Connelly to author, e-mail, 21 Mar. 2004.

50. Ibid.; and Comer, telephonic interview with author, 9 Feb. 2004. Connelly puts this argument in the context of the times by pointing out that, after 

the migration of ARRS crews to Hurlburt, CSAR crews outnumbered their 

AFSOF squadron mates by a wide margin. Connelly to author, e-mail, 21 

Mar. 2004. For more on Connelly’s ideas on the ARRS/AFSOF helicopter rivalry, see chaps. 3 and 4. Comer reiterated Connelly’s story and added that 

when the original Pave Low crews moved to Hurlburt, their wives had to deal 

with the permanent change of station (PCS) after the fact. Comer, interview.

51. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 78. According to ARRS records, the 

original transfer reflected only the first eight Pave Low III airframes. The 

ninth HH-53 was transferred once it completed the required modifications 

at NARF. In return, although not a fair trade, TAC agreed to transfer four 

CH-3s to MAC (pp. 71, 78). With regard to the 20th SOS assertion, both 

Colonel Connelly and General Folkerts argue that, with the influx of HH-53H 

crews, the 20th SOS was “full of rescue folks.” Connelly to author, e-mail, 

21 Mar. 2004; and General Folkerts, interview with author, Fort Walton 

Beach, FL, 29 Jan. 2004. Folkerts adds that although the 20th was full of 

former ARRS crews, AFSOF “Huey drivers” commanded the squadron and 

were responsible for the transformation of ARRS crew members to AFSOF 

air commandos (Folkerts, interview).

52. Comer, telephonic interview with author, 9 Feb. 2004. Comer points 

out that although this “first batch” of ARRS crew members was accepted into 

the AFSOF community rather painlessly, the 20th SOS leadership made it 

very difficult for the second and third generation of former ARRS crew members to transition from HH-53Bs/Cs to Pave Low III. For example, Comer notes 

that on average it took “two years to turn a former H-53 instructor pilot [in]to 

a Pave Low co-pilot.” The result was that for years, the 20th SOS had only 
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seven Pave Low III crews. According to Comer, “Someone retired and another 

got qualified.” This would not change until General Patterson took over 

Twenty-third Air Force (addressed in the next chapter).

53. Folkerts, interview with author, 29 Jan. 2004. Folkerts was referring 

to the Honey Badger “shared experiences.” General Folkerts suggested that 

“the 20th SOS had a license to steal [during Project Honey Badger]. . . . The 

crews had a 1-800 number to DC. . . . If we needed something we got it!” He 

provided an example of how the crews were able to get a washing machine 

overnight simply by making a phone call to Washington, DC.

54. All those interviewed suggest that the Holloway Commission highlighted the national mood towards the national counterterrorist mission.

55. Message, 121230Z JUN 80, AFSSO USAF Commander to SSO MAC 

Commander, 12 June 1980.

56. CINCMAC to CSAF, letter, 23 July 1980; see also Comer, telephonic 

interview with author, 9 Feb. 2004. Official records suggest that once the 

initial shock of the Pave Low transfer faded, Huyser was bombarded with 

ARRS messages eager to demonstrate the negative effect of this transfer on 

overall ARRS capability. When asked whether MAC considered rebuilding its 

Pave Low III capability beyond the nine airframes transferred to TAC, General 

Comer answered: “The Paves were expensive. . . . [The MAC attitude was] if 

we build any more Pave Lows they’ll take them from us.” As the next chapter 

demonstrates, MAC/ARRS did not give up on the Pave Low transfer so easily. 

Between 1983 and 1985, MAC/ARRS leaders would try to return these highvalue assets back to the ARRS.

57. Little, Aerospace Rescue, p. 59. See also History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, 

p. 81. The number of personnel deployed is discussed in CINCMAC to CSAF, 

letter, 23 July 1980. Connelly attests that “during Honey Badger one of the 

O-6s at Hurby [Hurlburt] told us we were gonna be doing classified vouchers. . . . [We were going to] be flying around and we were gonna remove the 

. . . hoists. . . . It didn’t exactly make sense tactically but it was consistent 

[with the] anti ARRS attitude that existed in the SOF community.” Connelly 

to author, e-mail, 21 Mar. 2004.

58. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, pp. 258–62. Kelly gives an account of the unusual demands of helicopter low-level formation flying at night (aided by 

NVG). He also provides a unique insight into Project Credible Sport, a plan 

that called for a C-130 to land in the soccer stadium adjacent to the US Embassy in Tehran (pp. 258–62). In “AF Rescue and AFSOF” Tyner describes the 

modifications and training of the HC-130s (pp. 14–15). In order to fly low level 

at night, HC-130s were heavily modified with a new inertial navigation system 

(INS), radar warning receivers (RWR), and chaff and flare countermeasure 

dispensers. Moreover, as Tyner explains, “The HC-130 crews developed NVG 

low level navigation procedures later called Rescue Special Operations Low 

Level (RSOLL). . . . [After Honey Badger] the specially modified HC-130s returned to their units where they continued to practice the RSOLL mission with 

select crews. Special operations had no HC-130 tankers of their own so these 

RSOLL crews provided the only special operations refueling capability” (ibid.).
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59. Message, 121645Z NOV 1980, personal, eyes only, CINCMAC to CSAF 

and VCSAF, 12 Nov. 1980.

60. Kelly, From a Dark Sky, p. 252. Kelly discloses that “the ignominious 

failure at Desert One got the attention of top Air Force officers. Within a short 

time, major efforts were underway to equip the Air Force to go back in again 

and succeed in the rescue of the hostages.” Ibid. As far as the Pave Low III 

transfer, Headquarters USAF transferred the helicopters to TAC in order to 

give AFSOF the capability it lacked prior to the Desert One debacle. In the 

near term, this helicopter gave AFSOF the capability to penetrate Iranian 

airspace and act as a “pathfinder” for the CTJTF helicopter formation. Essentially, although Headquarters USAF intended this to be a permanent 

transfer, the initial transfer was expedited in order to accommodate Project 

Honey Badger (ibid.).

61. Previously discussed in this chapter, this issue goes back to the post–

Vietnam War initiative of a single USAF helicopter manager.

62. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p. 105; Wells, 444 Days, pp. 405–56; 

and History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 20. Ryan divulges that “on 20 January 

1981, only two minutes after President Ronald Reagan had taken the oath of 

office,” Ayatollah Khomeini released the American hostages (p. 105).

63. Beres to author, e-mail.

64. Ibid.

65. Ibid.

66. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 266.

67. Ibid.

68. Ettenson to author, e-mail, 4 Mar. 2004; and Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, pp. 94–96. This is consistent with Kingdon’s “focusing event” concept. Desert One and the subsequent preparations for a second hostage rescue attempt provided a powerful symbol of the type of mission that America’s 

SOF would have to be prepared for in the future.

69. Tyner, “AF Rescue and AFSOF,” p. 15.

70. History, TAC, vol. 1, 1980, p. 15. See also Marquis, Unconventional 

Warfare, p. 76.

71. Beres to author, e-mail; and Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 75.

72. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 76. Information comes from a 

Marquis interview with Col Scott Stevens, Mar. 1993.

73. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 77, 79.

74. CINCMAC to SECDEF, letter, 25 June 1981.

75. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1981, p. 2; and ARRS Cmdr to CINCMAC, letter, 

25 Aug. 1981. For TAC’s position, see History, TAC, vol. 1, 1982, pp. 390–91. 

In 1981 MAC/ARRS submitted a draft revision of its mission statement that 

included special operations as a core task/mission of the ARRS. TAC vehemently opposed this mission transfer.

76. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 3. According to official 

records, “Sometime between 7 and 14 September General Wilbur Creech, 

Commander of TAC, and General James Allen, CINCMAC, personally discussed the proposed consolidation and agreed that it would take place within 

MAC. . . . On 20 September 1982 a small group of officers from TAC, headed 
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by Colonel Ronald Fogleman, visited MAC for the purpose of discussing the 

joint proposal with the MAC group, headed by Colonel Gary Lunt. The MAC 

and TAC officers found mutual agreement on nearly all of the pertinent issues” 

(ibid.). Please note that Colonel Fogleman was a career fighter pilot. Although 

no one doubts the abilities of someone who later would become the CSAF, it is 

intriguing that TAC entrusted the fate of AFSOF to a fighter pilot. The important observation, however, is not that Colonel (later General) Fogleman was 

assigned to these duties but that no AFSOF leader was given the task. This 

could have been due to a thorough understanding of the need to have someone 

impartial to the cultural dynamics represent TAC’s position. Based on TAC’s 

culturally insensitive handling of the transfer, however, this was more likely 

due to the fact that that there were not many AFSOF O-6s on the TAC staff.

77. Ehrhard, “Armed Services and Innovation,” pp. 11–12. Ehrhard’s 

ideas are explored in chap. 2 of this paper. He convincingly advocates that “a 

monarchic service can be identified by the concentration of power in the service chief due to his membership in the single dominant subgroup” (p. 11). At 

the same time, Ehrhard dismisses “the popular conception that all military 

organizations have rigid hierarchies in which the top general or admiral 

makes decisions like a Mafia don. Although services vary in the degree of 

power wielded by the service chief, none resemble autocracies in practice” (p. 

12). Please note that this aspect of the USAF culture remains unchanged 

even today.

78. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, pp. 1–3.

79. Ibid.

80. Ibid.

81. Ibid.

82. Ibid.

83. Worden, Rise of the Fighter Generals, p. x. See also Vandenberg, biography. As noted in chap. 2, n. 71, General Vandenberg, the second CSAF, 

was the first true fighter general since he spent the majority of his flying career as an attack/pursuit pilot. But in the context of this chapter, General 

Gabriel was the first fighter general after three decades of bomber barons.

84. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 77.

85. See chap. 3 of this paper and Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 

77.

86. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 77.

87. Ibid.

88. Ehrhard, “Armed Services and Innovation,” p. 11.

89. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 3.

90. Cox, “1980s: Decade of Evolution,” p. 24. Also found in Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 78–79; and Chinnery, Any Time, pp. 232–35. Additionally, Cox emphasizes that “only a handful of SOF experienced personnel 

were placed on the 23rd Air Force and Headquarters MAC staff!” Cox, p. 24.

91. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, pp. 4–5. Information 

gleaned from General Mall’s briefing to the MAC staff on 28 Sept. 1982.

92. Ibid., p. 4.

93. Ibid., p. 5.
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94. Ibid., p. 9.

95. “Major General William J. Mall, Jr.,” pp. 1–3.

96. Ibid.

97. Ibid., p. 3. According to Mall, this emphasis gave Twenty-third Air 

Force “more assets and greater flexibility” if a contingency arose. Interestingly enough, as later evidence demonstrates, Mall’s commitment to the revitalization of SOF existed only in theory. In practice, he maintained that the 

HH-60 was Twenty-third Air Force’s number-one equipment priority (ibid.).

98. Haas, “23rd Air Force,” p. 8. Haas points out that Twenty-third Air 

Force was the third numbered air force in MAC and contends that Twentythird Air Force was totally responsible for the entire spectrum of USAF special operations activities.

99. Ibid.

100. Ibid.

101. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 385. Arguably, TAC conditions to 

the organizational merger, noted earlier, represented TAC’s attempt to ensure 

survival of the AFSOF identity. But these six conditions hardly qualify as a 

thorough cultural analysis of the two organizations.

102. Ibid., p. 384.

103. Builder, Masks of War, p. 10. Chap. 2 of my study established a link 

between culture and leadership. Chaps. 3 and 4 established a cultural baseline for AFSOF and ARRS post-Vietnam institutional identities. This chapter 

examines the relationship between leadership, culture, and the Twenty-third 

Air Force organizational merger.

104. Ibid. In chap. 2, I introduced Builder’s concept of the masks of war. 

Builder is able to see past the facade that services use “to screen some of 

their motives or self-interests: the masks of war” (ibid.).

105. See earlier discussions in this chapter concerning the single-manager 

for helicopter assets. With the exception of General Saunders’s resistance to 

change, ARRS leadership had wholeheartedly supported the transfer of AFSOF 

helicopter assets to the ARRS.

106. Haas, “23rd Air Force,” p. 9.

107. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 79; and History, ARRS, vol. 1, 

1979, pp. 41, 44–45. (Reference Staff Summary Sheet, MAC DCS/Plans to 

MAC Command Section, 11 May 1979.)

108. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1979, p. 41. For instance (as noted in chap. 4), 

in 1979 the H-X and the conversion of the HC-130H to the HC-130P/N programs were not funded in the FY 1981 budget. The H-X project, in particular, 

ended up as the number-two unfunded MAC program (ibid.).

109. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 78.

110. Beres to author, e-mail. Colonel Beres observes that if AFSOF could 

get someone promoted to general, then AFSOF would finally have more than 

two colonels (O-6s) in the Air Force.

111. Ibid. For more on AFSOF’s lack of senior leadership opportunities 

and poor promotion rates, see Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air Force’s Newest Command,” pp. 37–41.

112. Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air Force’s Newest Command,” pp. 39–40.
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113. Cox, “1980s: Decade of Evolution,” pp. 11, 21–27.

114. Ibid., p. 27. As demonstrated earlier, only after TAC insisted on “separate and distinct” identities did MAC acquiesce to an organizational structure 

that included a discrete AFSOF headquarters (ibid.).

115. Beres to author, e-mail.

116. Ibid.

117. Ibid. Beres also maintains that, in the 1970s, AFSOF was “fishing for 

a mission.”

118. Cox, biography. The term born again reflects the author’s opinion 

and is intended to demonstrate that Colonel Cox was not a “special operator” 

early in his career but became a devout believer in the SOF ideals later in his 

professional life. As explained in the text, Colonel (later Major General) Cox 

had neither the background nor an appreciation of the cultural intricacies 

between AFSOF and ARRS; thus, he did not grasp the biases and cultural 

minefields that the merger had created.

119. Ibid. Cox retired as the director of operations, USSOCOM. In this 

capacity, he championed USSOCOM efforts to “purify” Twenty-third Air Force 

and AFSOC from any non-SOF “impurities” such as the ARRS forces. This 

concept is discussed in detail later in this chapter.

120. As noted earlier, like Cox, most of the past 1st SOW commanders 

had no assignments with SOF prior to assuming their position at the top of 

the AFSOF leadership pyramid. Similarly, all the ARRS commanders (excluding a few interim officers who had only a couple of months in command) had 

no experience in the rescue mission (see chap. 4, table 2).

121. Cox, biography. Note that Cox logged 1,000 combat hours during the 

Vietnam War in the EC-130 (command and control platform) and that he had 

no AFSOF experience prior to assuming the duties of vice-commander of 1st 

SOW in 1981.

122. History, ARRS, vol. 1, 1980, p. 15; and Saunders, biography. Earlier 

in the chapter, I mentioned that General Saunders had 11,000 (primarily 

airlift) flying hours but no connection to the rescue community prior to his 

assignment as ARRS commander. One can then assume that many of his 

ideas were heavily influenced by the strong post–Vietnam War ARRS institutional identity and by the ARRS echelon affected by its combat exposure to 

SEA operations. Similarly, Cox’s ideas were most likely heavily influenced by 

some of the most vocal AFSOF proponents.

123. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 18. According to official records, of the 123 manpower slots authorized for Twenty-third Air 

Force, seven were unfunded. Of 123 authorized for ARRS, 17 remained unfunded. The 2nd AD “contained 70 authorized spaces” (p. 17). 1st SOW was 

authorized 602 spaces, but 119 remained unfunded. As a result, “the TwentyThird Air Force and ARRS had been forced to share logistics and safety staffs, 

and there were not enough manpower spaces for separate secretaries and 

other administrative personnel to fill all needs” (p. 24).

124. Ibid., pp. 18–19.

125. Beres to author, e-mail. Beres remarks that the AFSOF and ARRS 

missions were complementary but different. He adds that in the 1980s, “the two 
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136

missions drove different tactics but MAC and 23rd AF wanted standardization for safety factors. . . . We were certain MAC’s risk intolerance was going 

to prevent mission success and was going to kill folks. During this time we 

had to cease some tactics, stop developing some capabilities, and expand our 

safety margins to meet MAC standards” (emphasis in original). Beres further 

reports that MAC did not understand the importance of short-field landings, 

NVG proficiency, and “blind” drop criteria.

126. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 378. In short, this can best be described as a cultural midlife crisis.

127. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 20.

128. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 385.

129. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, p. 21.

130. Ibid., pp. 22–23. These options were (1) eliminate the Headquarters 

ARRS and 2nd AD and assign all wings to Twenty-third Air Force; (2) limit the 

Headquarters ARRS and 2nd AD staffs to the size of SAC-type divisions; (3) 

amalgamate Headquarters Twenty-third Air Force and Headquarters ARRS, 

while leaving the 2nd AD intact; (4) leave all headquarters intact but “fine 

tune” the staff duty descriptions (make the staff assigned match the stafffunded numbers); (5) move Headquarters Twenty-third Air Force; (6) move 

Headquarters ARRS; and (7) relocate both Headquarters ARRS and Headquarters Twenty-third Air Force (pp. 22–23).

131. Ibid., p. 23. See also Staff Summary Sheet, MAC DCS/Plans to Cmd 

Sec, “Briefing After Action Report–Twenty-Third Air Force Organization,” 8 

Sept. 1983; and Staff Summary Sheet, MAC DCS/Plans to Cmd Sct, “23 AF 

Reorganization,” 19 Sept. 1983. Supporting documentation is found in History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 2, 1983, supt. doc. I-51. According to the 

1983 Twenty-third Air Force history, “There weren’t enough manpower spaces 

or enough room in Building P-4 for two large headquarters” (p. 23).

132. Ibid., vol. 1, p. 24.

133. Ibid.; and Beres to author, e-mail.

134. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1983, pp. 24–25. For example, General Prince, former ARRS commander, became the Twenty-third Air 

Force commander on 3 Oct. 1983. In a day, the rescue stature associated 

with a two-star command billet was instantly eroded with Col Owen Heeter 

assuming command of the ARRS (ibid.).

135. Ibid., p. 25.

136. Ibid., pp. 24–25.

137. 23rd AF/CC to CINCMAC, letter, 13 Sept. 1985.
137

Chapter 6

Organizational Change

The Fall of the Twenty-third Air Force

The transfer of Pave Low helicopters to the Army would 

be like giving the Space Shuttle to Chad. 

—“Pipeline Willie” (code name for AFSOF contributor)

When you lobby for something, what you have to do is put 

together your coalition, you have to gear up, you have to 

get your political forces in line, and then you sit there and 

wait for the fortuitous event. . . . People who are trying to 

advocate change are like surfers waiting for the big wave. 

You get out there, you have to be ready to go, you have to 

be ready to paddle. If you’re not ready to paddle when 

the big wave comes along, you’re not going to ride it in.

—Anonymous analyst

This chapter analyzes the reactions of AFSOF and ARRS to 

three initiatives that proved critical in the evolution of the nascent organization and contributed to the fall of the Twenty-third 

Air Force. Like the previous chapter, it filters these responses 

through the lens of organizational culture. The first half explores the effect of organizational culture on initiative 16 (the 

joint proposal on the future of CSAR) and initiative 17 (the 

Army and Air Force’s plan to transfer the AFSOF rotary-wing 

mission to the Army). The second half examines the CSAR and 

AFSOF institutional agendas associated with the Forward Look

concept. This section also explores the influence of the newly 

created USSOCOM on the Twenty-third Air Force’s attempts to 

integrate the AFSOF and CSAR communities. Ultimately, this 

chapter evaluates the effect of organizational culture. 

The Saga of Initiatives 16 and 17

As noted in chapter 2, after the Vietnam War, the Army and 

Air Force became increasingly concerned with the possibility of 
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a Warsaw Pact invasion of Western Europe.1 The two services 

began their close cooperation out of necessity brought about by 

the post-Vietnam defense budget cuts and the Army’s recognition that it could not counter Soviet superiority in central Europe without Air Force assistance.2 With this common purpose, 

Army and Air Force post-Vietnam theater-war strategies culminated in the development of AirLand Battle doctrine.3 Richard 

Davis argues that this interservice dialogue “not only stimulated Air Force–Army cross fertilization of ideas, it [also] provided a high level forum for open and frank discussion.”4 Contributing to this close cooperation between the services was the 

friendship between General Gabriel (CSAF) and Gen John A. 

Wickham, Jr., chief of staff, United States Army (CSA), as well 

as the relationship between Lt Gen John T. Chain, Jr. (USAF), 

and Lt Gen Fred K. Mahaffey, United States Army (USA).5

On 22 May 1984 Generals Gabriel and Wickham signed a 

memorandum of agreement (MOA) intended to transform the 

Army and Air Force service cultures.6 According to Davis, the 

1984 MOA between the Army and the Air Force, most commonly 

referred to as the 31 initiatives, represented the culmination of 

“a decade of increasing interest in coordinating battlefield actions.”7 Davis remarks that “[the 31 initiatives] inaugurated a 

period of joint consideration of, and cooperation on, war fighting issues affecting both services.”8 Of special interest to this 

research project, initiatives 16 and 17 sought to define the roles 

and missions of joint CSAR and SOF aviation, respectively.9

According to a message from General Mahaffey and General 

Chain to subordinate headquarters, initiative 16 prescribed that 

the Air Staff would determine its CSAR objectives “in relation to 

depths on the battlefield defined by [USAF] capabilities. . . . 

[MAC would] develop tactics, techniques, and procedures for 

SAR within AF zones . . . [and the Army’s Training and Doctrine 

Command would] develop tactics, techniques, and procedures 

for Special Operations Forces (SOF) to conduct SAR outside the 

AF SAR zones.”10 Specific to Twenty-third Air Force, initiative 

16 proposed that the ARRS would be responsible for CSAR in 

specific battlefield areas, with AFSOF acting as “back-up.”11

Although initiative 16 hoped to avoid duplication of effort in the 

DOD’s CSAR efforts, Davis convincingly argues that “the morale 

and customized training advantages of each service taking care of 
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its own outweighed the advantages of a rationalized single service 

C3 [command, control, and communications] for SAR.”12 Therefore, although the services could agree to take a joint approach to 

CSAR, neither the Army nor the Air Force would consent to place 

the CSAR responsibility squarely on the shoulders of a single service. In a compromise that amounted to a reaffirmation of the 

status quo, the Army and Air Force elected to coordinate, rather 

than combine, each service’s rescue responsibilities.13

According to Rep. Earl Hutto (D-FL), initiative 16 was a plan 

marred with inefficiency and bound to create difficulties in war. 

Without a joint approach to CSAR, Hutto conveyed that initiative 16 exacerbated the likelihood of confusion during recovery 

attempts of “downed men or POWs [prisoners of war] from different services.”14 Deborah Meyer suggests that Hutto was not 

pleased with the decision by the Air Force’s and Army’s chiefs 

of staff to maintain “separate directions with CSAR and SOF 

strategy.”15 She indicates that Hutto’s displeasure resulted from 

the issue of true versus perceived capability. Reportedly, Hutto 

was convinced that although the Air Force had organic assets 

to support the CSAR rotary-wing mission, “the Army . . . [had] 

no dedicated CSAR capability whatsoever.”16

As head of the House Special Operations Panel, a subelement of the Armed Services Readiness Subcommittee, Hutto 

wanted to standardize all service CSAR techniques and procedures. Additionally, he wanted to keep SOF and CSAR “under 

the same umbrella, just as is now done in the Air Force.”17 Although Hutto’s panel was successful in convincing the Navy to 

follow the Air Force lead of combining its special forces and 

search-and-recovery assets under one organizational structure, 

it was not able to convince the Defense Department to create a 

joint CSAR capability.18 Ultimately, service priorities within the 

construct of the AirLand Battle doctrine precluded significant 

reform in this area. Nonetheless, debates over initiative 16 were 

benign compared to the partisan policies and institutional 

agendas associated with initiative 17. 

Again, initiative 17 referred to the Air Force and Army headquarters’ plan to transfer responsibility for rotary-wing support from AFSOF to the Army.19 At first glance, initiative 17 

appeared to be a sensible move for reducing the seeming duplication of Army and AFSOF rotary-wing aviation. According 
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to a Joint Assessment and Initiatives Office briefing to General Gabriel, “the services have developed a long-term plan to 

complete the transfer from the Air Force to the Army of the 

responsibility for rotary wing support for SOF. This plan consolidates SOF helicopters in the Army, where these assets can 

best conduct and sustain this aspect of special operations. 

The Air Force is increasingly concentrating its efforts on support of SOF fixed wing requirements as its rotary wing capabilities are replaced by Army aviation forces.”20 Marquis makes 

a persuasive case, however, that despite its apparent value, 

initiative 17 was not as benign as it appeared. According to 

Noel Koch, principal deputy assistant secretary of defense for 

international security affairs and supporter of SOF revitalization efforts, “The memorandum of understanding basically 

says [that] the Army is going to take over the mission. . . . [Although not apparent at the time,] if the Air Force divested itself of the [SOF rotary-wing] mission, the Army had no ability 

to pick up the mission.”21

Barry Posen conveys that “attempts by rivals to take over an 

organization’s primary task . . . sometimes elicit violent reactions from threaten[ed] organizations.”22 This was precisely 

what happened after the AFSOF community and its supporters 

learned of the plans of Headquarters USAF and USA to transfer 

this mission area in 1984, when initiative 17 was officially unveiled. In effect, this proposal illustrates the effect of institutional biases on proposed organizational change. This initiative 

hints of the systemic neglect by both services’ headquarters to 

consider the cultural realities associated with significant reorganization efforts—and the elimination of a mission area with 

a long and distinguished history—until after the key decisions 

had been made. 

According to Marquis, initiative 17 supporters wondered, 

“Why the fuss about the nine helicopters?”23 Although the Pave 

Low was the most capable helicopter in the DOD inventory, 

Marquis correctly observes that initiative 17 involved much 

more than just the Pave Low transfer.24 In 1983, Congress suggested that the Air Force purchase additional Pave Low III helicopters and Combat Talon aircraft in an attempt to “resolve the 

narrow problem of SOF aviation . . . [and] raise the priority of 

the SOF in the resource decisions of the services and the 
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141

Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD).”25 At worst, many aircommando supporters felt that initiative 17 was evidence of 

Army and Air Force “malicious intentions” toward special forces.26

At best, it signaled the services’ “inability and unwillingness” to 

revitalize the SOF’s capabilities, as mandated by congressional 

and OSD guidance.27

Regardless of the intent, in reality, however, Army special 

operations forces (ARSOF) did not have the necessary resources to assume sole responsibility for the SOF rotary-wing 

mission.28 Marquis conveys that “the army did not realize the 

expenses associated with this proposal and lengthy delay in 

building the long-range rotary-wing aviation capability.” He remarks that “pilots, crews, and support personnel would have 

to be trained and doctrine developed for the use of special operations helicopters within the Army. . . . The Army helicopter 

pilots and crews were talented and well-trained but had neither the training nor the mindset for long-range infiltration 

and exfiltration special operations missions.”29 At the same 

time, the Air Force did not allocate adequate resources toward 

the revitalization of the AFSOF. For example, when Congress 

asked the Air Force to reduce its FY 1985 budget by 5 percent, 

the USAF offered up a 40 percent cut of its AFSOF budget.30 In 

short, by 1984 it had become clear to the OSD and Congress 

that this was a case of the Air Force refusing to “meet congressional requirements and . . . [to use] its funds to pay for special 

operations helicopters . . . [and of the] Army pursuing a new 

mission and not realizing its implications.”31

In response to what SOF supporters perceived as “an atrociously dumb idea,” a loosely aligned group of SOF reform proponents, known as the “SOF Liberation Front,” mobilized opposition in order to counter what they considered an ill-conceived 

proposal.32 Some of the more prominent figures in this group 

included those who led the debate against initiative 17 from 

within the OSD (Koch and his assistant, Lynn Rylander) and 

those who attacked initiative 17 from Capitol Hill (Hutto, Dan 

Daniel (D-VA), and Daniel’s staff member, Richard “Ted” 

Lunger).33 Along with air commandos such as Colonel Weikel, 

Will Elledge, and others, the OSD and Capitol Hill SOF Liberation Front waged battle for over two years.34
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According to the initial joint proposal, the Air Force “agreed 

to transfer [all] responsibility for rotary wing support to the 

Army.”35 By September 1984, however, Generals Gabriel and 

Wickham had made it clear that they intended to transfer the 

rotary-wing mission as well as the AFSOF HH-53H helicopters.36

According to MAC staff documents, General Gabriel wanted to 

complete the transfer of the rotary-wing mission to the Army by 

July 1986.37 In a message to Air Force MAJCOMs, Headquarters 

USAF issued the following directive:

The Army and Air Force are continuing to complete plans to implement 

the intent of Initiative 17 of reference MOA; however, concerns regarding 

our jointly preferred option of transferring Pave Low assets to the Army 

have necessitated deferral of that portion of our efforts. Accordingly, addressees should take appropriate action to rescind Army/AF personnel, 

programming, and logistical actions undertaken to initiate Army Pave 

Low training in proposed Pave Low transfer. MAC will ensure that the 

20th SOS is manned to meet operational requirements. Additional details concerning Initiative 17 will be forwarded as they are developed.38

Perceiving this as a mistake, advocates for the SOF—such as 

Koch, Rylander, Lunger, and Representatives Daniel and Hutto—

chose to involve themselves “in the smallest details of Defense 

Department special-operations-related policy, organization, and 

resources allocation.”39 Based on information provided by Hutto 

and others, in October of 1984 Daniel sent a scathing letter to 

the SecDef blasting initiative 17 on a number of points. In his 

letter Daniel characterized the Air Force and Army’s proposal 

to transfer the AFSOF rotary-wing mission to the Army as a 

“hasty and illogical patchwork of proposed fixes, in an attempt 

to retroactively justify initiative number 17, [that] is beginning 

to resemble a crazy quilt.”40 Furthermore, Daniel listed several 

shortcomings of the planned transfer:

1. The Army has a fixation on aviation support for a single-purpose, 

special-purpose, peace-time portion of the SOF mission (i.e., lift support for hostage-rescue type SOF missions only).

2. This fixation sacrifices the sustained day-in, day-out combat support of SOF that is an important requirement in general war plans.

3. Another “disruptive” roles and mission battle may result [in further 

conflict] when (and if) the JFX tilt-rotor comes into the inventory, 

because the Army and Air Force have yet to decide whether it’s a 

fixed or rotary wing aircraft [the Air Force contended that the V-22 

was a fixed-wing platform while the Army designated it a rotary-wing 

asset]. 
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4. It will cost the Army somewhere between $460-million and $1-billion 

to replicate existing and near-term Air Force SOF capabilities, not 

$200-million, as the Army Chief of Staff General John A. Wickham 

had been told when the transfer was first proposed last spring. Gen. 

Secord [an ex-AFSOF operator] testified that it will cost “well over 

$1-billion” for the Army to match the Air Force’s current long-range 

capability—which, he added, is “ridiculously inadequate.”

5. A recent internal Air Force memo to the Army [a copy of which was 

attached to Daniel’s letter] suggests . . . that the “tenure of the Chiefs, 

rather than the logical validity of initiative 17, is driving the haste in 

this decision.”41

At first, it appeared that congressional interference was not going to alter the initiative 17 momentum within the DOD, but in the 

end, Daniel’s stature as the chairman of the House Armed Services 

Readiness Subcommittee proved more influential than service 

agendas.42 On 15 October 1984, William H. Taft IV, deputy secretary of defense, approved the Air Force’s/Army’s plan to begin Pave 

Low training of Army crews at Hurlburt Field. In light of Representative Daniel’s call for congressional hearings on the matter, Taft 

sent the following reply to Daniel: “I have suggested to General[s] 

Wickham and Gabriel that they meet with you personally to explain their rationale and discuss your concerns. We will of course 

reconsider the transfer proposal if further deliberations produce a 

convincing set of arguments for doing so. As you know, the Secretary of Defense has assigned the highest priority to the restoration 

of our Special Operations Forces. Your support and assistance in 

this vital endeavor is greatly appreciated.”43 At the bottom of this 

letter, Secretary Taft concluded with this handwritten postscript: 

“Mr. Chairman: If you are not satisfied after meeting with Generals 

Wickham and Gabriel, please let me know. I think they have made 

a good case. If you disagree after having heard them, however, we 

will not pursue this over your objection—Will Taft.”44

Eventually the 3 December 1984 meeting between Congressmen Daniel and Hutto and Generals Wickham and Gabriel signaled the beginning of the end for initiative 17, at least for the 

time being.45 Not satisfied with Wickham’s and Gabriel’s arguments, Daniel and Hutto continued to oppose the plan to transfer the HH-53s to the Army. True to his word, Taft forced the 

CSA and CSAF to suspend initiative 17 in mid-December. MAC 

indefinitely postponed all MAC-DA (Department of the Army) 

Proposition 84-23 actions on 3 January 1985.46 The CSAF and 
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144

CSA met with Mr. Taft on 16 May 1985 and agreed that the Air 

Force would continue to perform the SOF long-range rotarywing mission and that the Army would pursue the SOF shortrange rotary-wing mission.47

In September 1985 the Defense Resource Board proposed 

that “SOF long-range support by the Army . . . [and] MH-60 

development and acquisition should continue, but the funding 

of the MH-47 program would stretch out into the 1990s.”48 This 

near-term compromise would have significant long-range implications. It meant that the DOD would channel additional 

funding to AFSOF in order to modify additional HH-53s to the 

Pave Low configuration.49 But under this agreement, the Army 

would continue to develop its long-range rotary-wing capabilities, thus suggesting that the initiative 17 concept might surface again in the future, presumably when ARSOF aviation developed the resources necessary to assume the long-range 

infiltration mission.50

After two years of deliberations, Congressmen Daniel and 

Hutto reached their limit. Based on their perception of an Air 

Force lack of commitment toward SOF revitalization efforts, 

Daniel and Hutto put the “fighter mafia . . . on notice.”51 In effect, 

they signaled to the Air Force their intention to increase the 

AFSOF share of the USAF budget, whether the CSAF wanted to 

or not. In a letter to General Gabriel, Hutto warned, “The Air 

Force’s inability to support an extremely small part of its overall tactical warfare responsibility calls into question the validity 

of a requirement to support authorization of 44 tactical fighter 

wings.”52 When Hutto threatened what the fighter community 

(the dominant tribe in the Air Force) valued the most, Gabriel 

and the rest of the fighter generals finally got the message.53

While the service chiefs debated initiative 17 with Congress, 

MAC and the Twenty-third Air Force also tried to influence the 

process. According to Twenty-third Air Force historian Little, 

“This impasse left the CINCMAC, General Thomas M. Ryan, Jr., 

and the Twenty-Third Air Force Commander, Maj Gen William 

J. Mall (and later General Duane Cassidy and Major General 

Robert Patterson), somewhere in no man’s land, supporting the 

Chief of Staff but trying not to antagonize Congress.”54 Concurrently, internal to the Twenty-third Air Force, General Mall had 
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145

to contend with ARRS/AFSOF institutional agendas that were 

divided along cultural fault lines. 

Additionally, it appears that the Twenty-third Air Force leadership had formulated its own interpretation of an initiative 17. 

The evidence suggests that General Mall’s version of initiative 

17 favored the ARRS. In an apparent reversal of the post–Desert 

One reorganization that delivered the airframes to AFSOF in the 

first place, Mall intended to transfer the HH-53Hs from AFSOF 

to the ARRS.55 General Mall suggests that there was “no consideration being given to the transfer of assets. . . . Everything 

that we now have devoted to rotary-wing SOF will stay with the 

Air Force.”56 In a MAC staff package coordinated via General 

Mall and approved by General Ryan, CINCMAC, the MAC/

Twenty-third Air Force position was clear: “[MAC desired] the 

phasein [sic] of Pave Lows, UH-1Ns, and CH-3s [from AFSOF] 

to combat rescue.”57 On the one hand, Headquarters Air Force 

was promoting the transfer of the AFSOF rotary-wing mission 

and corresponding airframes to the Army. On the other hand, 

MAC/Twenty-third Air Force wanted to transfer the mission to 

the Army and the Pave Low IIIs (and corresponding capability) 

back to the rescue community.

Regardless of the differences between the agenda of Headquarters USAF and that of Headquarters MAC/Twenty-third 

Air Force, OSD and congressional reaction to initiative 17 was 

swift and compelling. In a telling statement of civilian frustration with the “slow wheels” of military bureaucracy, Koch indicates, “I have discovered in critical areas of the Pentagon, on 

the subject of special operations force revitalization, that when 

they [Pentagon officials] say no, they mean no; when they say 

maybe, they mean no; and when they say yes, they mean no; 

and if they say anything but no, they wouldn’t be here.”58 In 

large part, Koch’s frustration centered on the DOD’s slow reaction to the Desert One–like failures associated with the American invasion of the small island of Grenada.59

In October 1983, weeks after the Twenty-third Air Force reorganization, the 2nd Air Division played a key role in Operation Urgent Fury, the invasion of Grenada.60 According to Colonel 

Thigpen, “Many of the same problems (command and control, 

joint operations, participation by all services in the operation, 

etc.) that had been identified during Desert One surfaced 
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146

again.”61 Thigpen indicates that “after three years, it appeared 

that the US had made little progress.”62 Congressional inquiries 

would later determine that “SOF airlift did not have the legs, 

the firepower, or the night-time operating capability to support 

American special operations in Grenada. . . . Communications 

failures throughout the American force only amplified the command and control chaos that resulted from a lack of joint planning and training including special operations and conventional forces.”63 Marquis proposes that Operation Urgent Fury 

“demonstrated that the declarations of support for SOF revitalization by Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger and the military services had not been backed up by effective reform.”64

Specific to the Twenty-third Air Force, congressional frustration centered on the issue of “rubber on the ramp.”65 Since 

congressional contact with the DOD is mostly in the form of 

appropriations initiatives, congressional oversight of the AFSOF 

revitalization efforts focused on the numbers of AFSOF aircraft. 

In light of initiative 17, it was clear that the Air Force’s priority 

was to divest some of its unique AFSOF capabilities rather than 

invest in the renaissance of this habitually neglected mission 

area. In 1984, for example, there were fewer SOF-specific airframes in the USAF inventory than in summer of 1980; if implemented, initiative 17 meant to transfer the seven remaining 

Pave Lows to ARSOF.66 Complicating matters, General Mall attached his desire to modernize the AFSOF fleet of aircraft to “the 

real need for combat rescue forces and Pave-Low helicopters in 

any future operation of this kind.”67 Clearly, the Air Force hierarchy, down to the Twenty-third Air Force echelon, did not display a sense of urgency in aggressively pursuing initiatives that 

sought to correct AFSOF discrepancies identified during Desert 

One and Urgent Fury.68

In the end, although Congressmen Daniel and Hutto had by 

far the most significant influence on the Defense Department’s 

decision to abandon initiative 17, many air commandos provided the documentation and the key data that influenced congressional intervention.69 These covert actions may never be 

officially attributed to certain individuals, but these officers 

were nonetheless influential, and their actions were representative of the AFSOF community’s visceral reaction to what they 

perceived as a threat to their institutional relevance.70
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147

The preceding analysis and observations illuminate the influence of organizational culture both in the services’ efforts 

to realize initiative 17 as well as in the efforts of the SOF community to oppose it. The reactions to initiatives 16 and 17 offer examples of how small subcultures can resist proposals 

that originate and have the support of the most senior-service 

leaders.71 The Forward Look concept, although not nearly as 

controversial as the 31 initiatives, provides another case for 

evaluating organizational conflict. Initiatives 16 and 17 highlighted intraservice and interagency cultural strife over policy. 

The remainder of this chapter will focus on General Patterson’s 

Forward Look and his efforts to transform the Twenty-third 

Air Force from a mission- and platform-based command to a 

capabilities-based force. 

Forward Look and the Fall of the 

Twenty-third Air Force

On 20 September 1985 General Patterson assumed command of the Twenty-third Air Force. No stranger to the AFSOF 

and ARRS missions, Patterson started his career as a rescue 

pilot with the 31st Air Rescue Squadron at Clark Air Base, the 

Philippines, and a decade later flew gunships with the 16th 

SOS in SEA.72 Although his career took him in and out of AFSOF 

a number of times, perhaps his most influential duty, prior to 

assuming command of the Twenty-third Air Force, was as the 

senior Air Force officer during Operation Urgent Fury.73 Clearly, 

General Patterson was uniquely qualified to command the 

Twenty-third Air Force. On 24 October 1985, only a month after his change of command, Patterson outlined his Forward 

Look concept to the MAC staff.74

In his end-of-tour report, General Patterson states that his 

primary objective was to “correct deficiencies in Air Force Special 

Operations, and simultaneously strengthen all of [the] 23 AF.”75

He conveys that “the first step in this process was to correct a 

terrible organizational structure; this proposal was called Forward Look (emphasis added).”76 Patterson was forced to act 

promptly due to increasing congressional concerns over the 

lack of progress in the revitalization of the AFSOF and Head-
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148

quarters USAF’s frugal fiscal policy towards Twenty-third Air 

Force’s priority programs. In October of 1985, the House Appropriations Committee declared that the “Air Force [Special 

Operations] Program to date is unacceptable and . . . as a matter 

of congressional policy, the Air Force [must] comply with the 

deadline to implement fully the SOF revitalization not later 

than the end of FY 1990 as directed by the highest levels in the 

Department of Defense and the White House.”77

In order to change congressional and Defense Department 

perceptions of a lack of Air Force commitment to the revival of 

its special forces, Patterson had two primary goals for his Forward Look plan.78 He wanted to improve Twenty-third Air Force’s 

effectiveness and, at the same time, demonstrate “visible emphasis of [Air Force] commitment” to the SOF’s revitalization 

efforts.79 Forward Look streamlined the Twenty-third Air Force’s 

infrastructure so that it optimized the complementary features 

of the AFSOF and CSAR communities.80

The central theme of the Forward Look concept was the focus 

on “airpower capability, rather than mission” (emphasis in original).81 Contrary to USAF conventional thinking that wanted to 

keep the mission areas separate and early ARRS thinking that 

wanted to assimilate AFSOF within its existing organizational 

structure, General Patterson suggests that CSAR and AFSOF 

were complementary elements within the Air Force’s specialized 

air warfare (SAW) capabilities. According to General Patterson, 

SAW was “an umbrella term for special operations, combat rescue, counter-terror, and certain reconnaissance missions.”82

Patterson envisioned these mission areas and cultures evolving into a capabilities-based SAW force. Cognizant of AFSOF/

CSAR capabilities and limitations, he sought to reorganize the 

Twenty-third Air Force in a way that maximized its combat effectiveness. As part of his plan for the organizational and cultural transformation of the Twenty-third Air Force structure, 

Patterson proposed “the establishment of four multi-mission 

wings: one in the West Pacific area; two in the contiguous 

United States; and one in the European area.”83 In Patterson’s 

words, “We designed, planned, and sold this concept to improve both Air Force special operations and rescue capabilities.” In fact, the use of the SAW “umbrella term” suggests that 

Patterson’s plan addressed the cultural sensitivities within the 
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AFSOF and rescue communities; the term SAW did not hint of 

a priority of one mission over the other, but focused on integrating complementary capabilities. 

Unfortunately, the MAC bureaucracy, those responsible for 

the initial staffing process up the MAC chain of command, exacerbated certain cultural biases that would later cause an irreparable rift between the AFSOF and CSAR communities. The 

initial Forward Look briefing to Lt Gen Spence M. Armstrong 

suggested that the SAW wing structure would include AFSOF 

and CR units, with one commander responsible for providing 

SOF and CR forces to the theater CINCs.84 Based on General 

Armstrong’s guidance, however, the Forward Look briefing 

team that delivered the concept-of-operations briefing to General Cassidy, CINCMAC, substituted the term special operations wings in lieu of the original SAW wing concept.85

At best, this key alteration suggested, at least to the CR community, that the AFSOF mission was more important than the 

rescue mission. At worst, it signaled the beginning of the end for 

the combat-rescue mission altogether. After all, earlier reorganization efforts had relegated the Headquarters ARRS’s mission to 

a minor administrative function, and now it appeared that General Patterson wanted to organize CR’s assets under the operational control of special operations wings. While Patterson’s 

initial plan was culturally astute and designed to harmonize the 

AFSOF and CR capabilities, the revised Forward Look plan inflamed cultural insecurities within the rescue community.86

Although General Patterson was sensitive to rescue concerns 

associated with Forward Look, he had to contend with certain 

harsh realities.87 Special operations “was a growth industry,” 

while “rescue was on the decline and though the equipment 

was disappearing, the mission was still there.”88 Initiative 17 

had highlighted AFSOF deficiencies, and, as noted earlier, the 

Air Force had to show its congressional critics that it was committed to the SOF mission. At the same time, because of budgetary constraints, the Air Force elected not to fund the HH-60 

program.89 Verne Orr, secretary of the Air Force, explained the 

downfall of the HH-60:

We’ve been more worried about the SOF [rotary-wing] program which, 

as you know, General Gabriel and General Wickham thought should be 

transferred to the Army. We still maintain our SAR capability. We don’t 
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intend to give it to the Army. I think there’s a strong feeling in the Air 

Force that we ought to take care of our own . . . [but] we may have to do 

it with fewer full-up helicopters than we wanted. We may have to buy, 

not the kind of improved avionics, improved engine, and refuelable 

types; we may have to go with the more bare Nighthawk, which costs 

half as much, and far fewer of them. I went to the Chief the first year 

and we decided we wanted 243 helicopters at $20-million a piece [sic]. 

The Hill said, “Forget it.” So we came back the next year and said we 

wanted 155 helicopters, of which a portion would be full-up and a portion would be vanilla. And the Hill said, “Forget it.” So we went back the 

third year with 90 at $10-million. We’d cut the thing down from a $5-

billion program to $1-billion. So it had been reduced in its scope, and 

finally we just came to the point where we offered it as a possibility for 

elimination.90

Although General Ryan and later General Cassidy (Ryan’s 

successor) were avid supporters of the CSAR mission, they 

were either unable to influence Headquarters USAF’s program 

objective memorandum (POM) requirements in a way that positively affected the CSAR mission area, or did not make CSAR a 

sufficiently high priority.91 Cognizant of these realities, Patterson 

hoped to couple the declining CSAR function to the budding 

AFSOF mission area in order to salvage both. In other words, 

faced with a congressional mandate to strengthen AFSOF and 

an Air Force decision to “gap the [CSAR] capability,” Patterson 

felt that the best way to keep the AFSOF and CSAR communities healthy was by binding their priorities along the “political 

stream” of SOF revitalization.92

In this context, Patterson wanted to bind the Twenty-third Air 

Force agenda to an issue with national attention—the congressionally mandated strengthening of SOF capabilities. In this 

way, the Twenty-third Air Force could gain an advantage when 

competing with conventional Air Force priority projects, such as 

the introduction of the next generation of fighters.93 Patterson 

explained in retrospect, “My vision was to have a Wing at Hurlburt (SOF), one at McClellan AFB (CSAR) and composite Wings 

in Europe and the Pacific. Kirtland would be the training Wing 

for both SOF and CSAR, except [for] gunships.”94

 Regrettably, the CSAR community regarded Patterson’s efforts as a threat to its institutional agenda and considered the 

Forward Look concept a mechanism of transforming the 

Twenty-third Air Force into an “A-Team” (AFSOF) and the “Farm 

Team” (CSAR).95 In hindsight, although Patterson was able to 
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convince the leadership of both MAC and Air Force headquarters of the benefits of Forward Look, he was not capable of assuring the CSAR community of the plan’s advantages. The 

CSAR community’s concerns with the Forward Look concept, 

coupled with the slow rate of change and innovation associated 

with large bureaucracies like the US military, prevented General Patterson’s attempt to quickly transform Twenty-third Air 

Force’s structure.96

By 1987 the implementation of the Forward Look concept 

and the opportunity to transform the Twenty-third Air Force 

from a mission-oriented to a capabilities-based force faded out 

of reach.97 Like any other innovator, Patterson had only a limited 

window of opportunity to affect the Twenty-third Air Force structure. Although Air Force bureaucratic practices proved to be a 

stumbling block to Forward Look, what ultimately derailed this 

initiative had very little to do with the Air Force. In the midst of 

Twenty-third Air Force’s internal reorganization, Patterson had 

to contend with a massive DOD-wide transformation effort, including the creation of US Special Operations Command. Although Patterson was able to convince the Air Force hierarchy 

of the institutional benefits of his concept, he was unable to 

persuade USSOCOM.98

Serving Two Bosses 

Inter- and Intraservice Institutional Agendas

On 14 November 1986, Congress passed the Nunn and Cohen 

Amendment to the 1987 National Defense Authorization Act 

(often associated with the “Goldwater-Nichols” Department of 

Defense Reorganization Act of 1986) into law.99 This legislation 

had three main elements. First, it established the USSOCOM 

and the Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Special 

Operations and Low Intensity Conflict (ASD/SOLIC).100 Second, 

it formalized responsibilities and SOF core mission areas, including “direct action, strategic reconnaissance, unconventional warfare, foreign internal defense, civil affairs, psychological operations, counterterrorism, humanitarian assistance, 

theater search and rescue, [and] such other activities as may 

be specified by the President or the Secretary of Defense.”101
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Finally, the Nunn-Cohen amendment created a major force 

program (MFP-11) that provided SOF direct fiscal guidance 

from the SecDef, allowing USSOCOM to make resource decisions “within total obligation authority.”102

At the same time as the USSOCOM started to take shape, 

General Patterson transferred Headquarters Twenty-third Air 

Force from Scott AFB, Illinois, to Hurlburt Field, Florida. Patterson offered this explanation for the move: 

As soon as I took command on the same podium and the same day that 

Duane Cassidy assumed command of MAC, I began pushing for the 

move of 23AF to Hurlburt. It was obvious to me that AFSOF would 

never be an integral part of MAC, Congress would never believe that the 

AF was serious about fixing SOF, and I could never get a handle on 

changing attitudes until I had a daily presence in the area. . . . As a side 

note, when I received the first example of the 23AF command briefing at 

Scott, I heard the word “elite” eighteen times. At that session, I changed 

“elite” to “Quiet Professionals.” It has stuck pretty well.103

As General Patterson later described, this was a sensitive command arrangement: “General Jim Lindsay [USSOCOM commander] was a great leader and boss. Duane Cassidy was a 

great leader and boss. However, my command briefing [Twentythird Air Force later designated AFSOC] opened with a big red 

fire hydrant and two bull dogs. One in a camouflage uniform 

and the other in a blue AF uniform.”104 According to General 

Patterson, the biggest problem in dealing with two bosses was 

that the USSOCOM and MAC commanders had different priorities and institutional agendas. Patterson elaborates that 

“General Lindsay’s focus was on fixing Army SOF, getting the 

Navy on board, and deciding if Civil Affairs and PSYOP [psychological operations] were his mission. Duane Cassidy was focused on making the C-17 weapon system [operational] and 

[figuring out] what being CINCTRANS [CINC Transportation] 

really meant.”105

Eventually, the dual command arrangement of the Twentythird Air Force proved to be inconsistent with the congressional 

intent of the Nunn-Cohen and subsequent legislation.106 In response, Generals Patterson and Lindsay informally designated 

the Twenty-third Air Force as the AFSOC on 1 August 1987. 

On 16 April 1987, the USAF formalized its commitment to the 

joint command by designating the Twenty-third Air Force as 

the air component to USSOCOM.107
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Many in the rescue community saw the move to Hurlburt and 

the creation of AFSOC as indicators of Patterson’s exclusive commitment to AFSOF and indifference toward the rescue mission. 

Patterson refutes the allegations and provides this explanation: 

The needs of CSAR were far from the MAC/XP attention. I was a lone 

voice on CSAR and PJ requirements. When I took [command of the] 

23rd, MAC/XP had previously done a manpower study and I faced 

about a 20% reduction at the same time we were adding missions, aircraft, and telling Congress we were serious about fixing SOF. For example, we earned PJ slots based on tail numbers. For every Huey that 

went to the bone yard, I lost two PJs. This eventually led to forming 

Special Tactics squadrons and a group to fix both career fields—PJs 

and CCT [combat control team]. The MAC staff never had a PJ on it 

until I sent a CMS [chief master sergeant] over there.108

Regardless of General Patterson’s intentions, the CSAR community’s reaction was precisely in line with Posen’s argument that 

threats to organizational relevance often educe “violent reactions.”109 As such, rescue began to actively lobby for CINCMAC’s 

support for a separate air rescue service. The CSAR subelement 

of the Twenty-third Air Force had convinced CINCMAC to at 

least entertain the notion of a separate air rescue service. It appears that the CSAR community had never come to grips with 

the relegation of Headquarters ARRS to a minor, if not inconsequential, role in 1983.

At the same time, General Patterson had to contend with 

USSOCOM’s aversion to the CSAR mission, even though, by law, 

theater search and rescue was part of the original USSOCOM 

charter.110 While Headquarters USAF and MAC had a hard time 

relating to the AFSOF community, USSOCOM did not want 

anything to do with the CSAR mission and wished to divest itself of any CSAR tasking for “its” SOF forces.111 The CINC made 

his position clear in a November 1988 statement:

1. Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) is not a mission for which Special Operations Forces (SOF) are trained, organized, and equipped. 

SOF force structure and resourcing are based on special operations 

requirements. Significant resource shortfalls, particularly in air assets, currently exist, and any use of SOF for CSAR in general war in 

support of other than their own SAR/CSAR requirements would be 

at the further expense of special operations requirements.

2. Theater SAR/CSAR requirements dictate the establishment of a 

standing rescue force, separate from SOF.
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3. On the other hand, the recovery of personnel from hostile, denied or 

politically sensitive territory is a special operation, specifically a subset of the special strike mission. 

4. Examples of appropriate taskings include the raiding of a POW camp 

[i.e., Son Tay] or the recovery of personnel collected by a SOF operated escape and evasion network.

5. Accordingly, it is the view of this headquarters that . . . it is inappropriate to assign overall theater CSAR responsibilities to the theater 

SOC, assign SOF units the dual mission of both SO and CSAR, or to 

place SOF air assets on standing alert to meet short notice SAR/

CSAR requirements.112

Although USSOCOM did not appreciate its congressionally 

mandated CSAR mission, Headquarters USAF became concerned 

about the declining capability of the CSAR force. Since it abandoned initiative 17 and the plan for transferring the AFSOF 

rotary-wing capability to ARSOF, in 1985 the USAF was converting its fleet of HH-53Bs/Cs to Pave Low IIIs to demonstrate 

its commitment to the SOF revitalization efforts.113 Unfortunately, the USAF was not replacing the lost CR capability. 

Even if some have made the assertion that the increase in 

AFSOF capabilities was at the expense of the rescue community’s 

capabilities, the evidence presented in this chapter suggests 

that this assertion is only partially true. At the strategic level, 

the Air Force Council’s (AFC) choice not to fund the HH-60 purchase in 1985 insinuated that Headquarters USAF did not allocate adequate funds to support even the dwindling CSAR capability regardless of its AFSOF commitment.114 By 1989, 

however, Air Force leaders had begun to realize that although 

AFSOF could fill the gap in wartime capability, the decline in 

rescue capabilities was affecting the Twenty-third Air Force’s 

ability to provide adequate “base support” to fighter units. In a 

trend reminiscent of the ARS prior to the Vietnam era, the USAF 

wanted to retain the capability to recover its peacetime crews 

but did not want to spend the necessary funds to maintain a 

combat-capable force.115

Similarly, the MAC leadership supported the CSAR mission 

in principle but did not make CSAR a sufficiently high priority 

in terms of POM requirements. In essence, CSAR programs did 

not fare well when competing against C-17 funding and other 

“Big MAC” initiatives.116 Only at the tactical level could one claim 

that the revitalization of the AFSOF had adversely affected the 
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CSAR community. For example, although the assertion that 

Headquarters USAF transferred HH-53 helicopters from CSAR 

to AFSOF squadrons is valid, these helicopters were almost 20 

years old and were supposed to be replaced by the HH-60. 

Granted, had the helicopters not been transferred to AFSOF, 

CSAR would have retained a more substantial pool of resources. 

But resources do not directly translate into robust capabilities. Based on historical trends, the HH-53s underwent the 

service life extension program (SLEP) and upgraded to Pave 

Low III status only because Congress insisted on these capabilities, not because the USAF saw a particular need for them. 

Admittedly, one could make the argument that in “tail numbers” alone, the rise of AFSOF affected the CSAR community 

adversely. But in terms of capabilities to respond to AFSOF and 

CSAR-related contingencies, congressional insistence on SOF 

revitalization helped the Twenty-third Air Force to modernize 

and improve its cumulative capabilities.

The Twenty-third Air Force historian remarks that Lt Gen Merrill McPeak, commander of PACAF, “led an effort to provide better 

air rescue capabilities for fighter pilots, particularly in the PACAF 

area.”117 He adds that General Cassidy, in response to General 

McPeak’s efforts, “had his staff work up a briefing prior to [the] 

Corona meeting in February 1989.”118 In a 20 January briefing to 

CINCMAC, the MAC staff presented a number of options, including a revised version of General Patterson’s Forward Look concept. Patterson’s proposal, however, was one of the options not 

selected; instead, CINCMAC favored the separation of the CSAR 

and AFSOF subelements.119 In effect, CINCMAC decided to withdraw his earlier support for the Forward Look idea, and more 

importantly, to take apart the Twenty-third Air Force.120

At the February 1989 Corona, Generals Welch, Cassidy, 

McPeak, and Russ (CSAF, CINCMAC, PACAF/CC, and TAC/CC, 

respectively) agreed upon the reorganization of the CSAR forces 

out of the Twenty-third Air Force and the reactivation of the 

ARS.121 Additionally, based on Cassidy’s guidance, all rescue 

squadrons were reassigned under the 41st ARW, effective 1 

April 1989, with the 41st ARW reporting to Headquarters ARS. 

Officially, MAC reactivated the ARS on 1 August 1989.122

The activation of the ARS, under Headquarters MAC’s operational control, forced the AFSOF and rescue communities down 
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divergent paths until the 1 October 2003 CSAR/AFSOF merger 

under AFSOC. Although this study has not explored all of the 

intricacies associated with the AFSOF/ARS split or its aftermath, 

the evidence presented in this chapter suggests that organizational culture contributed to the separation of the two mission 

areas and the apparent failure of the Forward Look concept. 

On 7 September 1989, a month after the reactivation of the 

ARS, General Patterson relinquished command of the Twentythird Air Force/AFSOC to Maj Gen Thomas E. Eggers.123

Patterson had successfully accomplished the original goal behind the creation of the Twenty-third Air Force, as outlined by 

General Mall in 1983. The Twenty-third Air Force/AFSOC had 

successfully strengthened the USAF’s SOF capabilities. With 

the benefit of hindsight, some have argued that had the USAF/

MAC leadership adopted the Forward Look concept, the 

Twenty-third Air Force also could have salvaged the USAF’s 

declining CSAR capabilities.

In the end, the Forward Look concept did not fail entirely. As 

Patterson noted in his end-of-tour report, “[Forward Look] was 

substantially completed with the activation of the 353rd Special 

Operations Wing (SOW) at Clark AB, Philippines in April 1989 

and the relocation of [the] 39 SOW to Rhein-Main AB, Germany 

in May 1989.”124 But the concept did not achieve its original intent 

of transforming the AFSOF and CSAR cultures from missionoriented communities to a capabilities-based force. Partly to 

blame for this failure were inter- and intraservice influences 

such as USSOCOM’s aversion toward the rescue mission, 

Headquarters USAF’s general indifference toward the AFSOF 

and CSAR communities, and General McPeak’s distaste for the 

Forward Look concept altogether.125

Conclusion

Initiative 16 demonstrated that cultural priorities, as reflected 

in the commitment to a robust CSAR force, vary between services. As discussed in chapter 4, the Korean and Vietnam 

wars provided valuable lessons regarding the need for a sound 

CSAR capability within the DOD. But those lessons learned became victims of organizational priorities after the conflicts ended. 

In theory, all of the services place great emphasis on the recov-
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ery of American soldiers, sailors, Airmen, and marines stranded 

behind enemy lines. In practice, however, far worse than the 

failure to determine joint CSAR procedures was the Army’s and 

Air Force’s lack of commitment to maintaining a healthy CSAR 

capability. As noted earlier, however, the initiative 16 debates 

proved to be benign in comparison to those over initiative 17.

Initiative 17 proved to be both shortsighted and unrealistic. 

The evidence presented in this chapter indicates that the architects of this initiative failed to account for the influence of organizational culture and institutional agendas. In essence, initiative 17 proponents underestimated the SOF Liberation Front’s 

ability to counter the Army and Air Force headquarters’ agenda. 

Ultimately, initiative 17 failed mostly due to pressure from 

influential members of Congress and high-level DOD civilians. 

In terms of organizational culture, the SOF Liberation Front 

proved more culturally astute than Generals Wickham and 

Gabriel. For example, Representatives Daniel and Hutto recognized the influence of organizational culture in policy development and threatened the very centers of gravity of the Air Force’s 

dominant tribe in order to convince the CSAF to place more emphasis on the revitalization of AFSOF. Daniel and Hutto used the 

“power of the purse” to ensure AFSOF’s organizational growth by 

threatening to withhold funds from programs high on the USAF’s 

list of institutional priorities. Although initiative 17 did not materialize in the 1980s, it remains an example of the influence of 

institutional agendas on innovation efforts within and between 

services, as well as among outside agencies.

Unlike initiatives 16 and 17, General Patterson’s Forward 

Look concept focused on capabilities rather than mission-area 

or platform-specific proposals. Although his ideas were 

grounded on a sound understanding of political sensitivities 

and inter-/intraservice cultural dynamics, Forward Look proved 

to be a concept well ahead of its time. First, as the supporting 

element of the Army’s AirLand Battle doctrine, the Air Force in 

the 1980s was a mission-oriented rather than a capabilitiesbased force.126 Although reasonable in theory, Patterson’s scheme 

ran headlong into the culturally accepted norms established in 

conventional Air Force thinking. 

The second obstacle to the Forward Look concept was the 

“lack of agreement on major issues between the Air Force [spe-
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cifically MAC] and the United States Special Operations Command.”127 As a result, General Patterson had to serve two 

bosses, CINCMAC and CINCSOC. MAC and USSOCOM wanted 

the Twenty-third Air Force organizational structure to support 

their operational needs in terms of mission-area support. Although the creation of USSOCOM provided a great boost to the 

AFSOF community’s struggle toward organizational relevance, 

at least in its primitive stages, USSOCOM initiatives clashed 

with traditional service prerogatives.128 Additionally, in its haste 

to streamline its components by divesting non-SOF related 

mission areas, such as the Twenty-third Air Force’s CSAR element, USSOCOM inadvertently deprived itself of a range of capabilities that could have proved useful in contingency operations. The command’s fervor and alacrity in the sanitization of 

what it perceived as superfluous missions further deepened 

the cultural rifts between the AFSOF and CSAR communities. 

The AFSOF perceived USSOCOM’s efforts to divest itself of 

the Twenty-third Air Force’s/AFSOC’s non-SOF elements as a 

sign of commitment toward the special forces mission. Considering Headquarters USAF’s actions in the initiative 17 fiasco, 

AFSOF crews began to see themselves as “special operators” 

first and “Airmen” second. To the contrary, CSAR forces viewed 

USSOCOM actions and perceived Twenty-third Air Force/AFSOC 

inactions as signals of an active campaign to further erode its 

combat capabilities. In hindsight, then, the USSOCOM position toward the CSAR mission damaged General Patterson’s 

Forward Look initiative. 

Collectively, initiative 16, initiative 17, and Forward Look 

provide ample evidence of the utility of the hypothesis that organizational culture matters. Based on the evidence presented 

to this point, it should be clear by now that cultural dynamics 

and institutional agendas can resist change if left unchecked. 

Additionally, the Twenty-third Air Force experience reveals certain truths about organizational mergers. For instance, leaders 

must understand the cultures of the subelements so that they 

can sense “potential incompatibilities” between cultural entities.129 In short, conducting cultural analysis before organizational mergers is as important as analyzing the potential benefits of the new organization. Concurrently, leaders should tend 

to potential interagency or inter- and intraservice friction due 
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to competing agendas. Finally, leaders must communicate their 

vision, potential synergies, conflict areas, and other cultural 

realities to those involved in the decision process.130 Based on 

the Twenty-third Air Force’s experience, the next chapter offers 

alternatives for contemporary integration initiatives.

Notes

1. Herbert, Deciding What Has to Be Done, pp. 30, 33; and Winton, “Ambivalent Partnership,” p. 406. Gen William E. DePuy, commander of TRADOC, 

applied the lessons learned during the 1973 Arab-Israeli War to “the fashioning of an American Army tactically capable of repelling a Warsaw Pact invasion in Europe” (Winton, p. 406). Winton also holds that during the 1973 

Arab-Israeli War, the Israelis and Egyptians lost more tanks and artillery 

pieces than the United States had in its entire inventory (p. 405).

2. Davis, 31 Initiatives, p. 24.

3. Ibid., pp. 24–33. In this section, Davis provides a background of Army 

and Air Force steps toward post–Vietnam War battlefield integration and efforts to enhance joint capabilities. According to Davis, the term AirLand Battle

“was meant to convey the interaction between all aspects of air and ground 

power in a firepower and maneuver context” (p. 32).

4. Ibid.

5. Ibid., pp. 35–36. Wickham and Gabriel were 1950 West Point graduates 

and personal friends. In addition to the special bond between Wickham and 

Gabriel, two equally prominent figures in this venture, Generals Chain (USAF) 

and Mahaffey (USA) had been seminar-mates at the National War College and 

played together on the same softball team. General Chain became the deputy 

chief of staff for plans and operations in June 1982. General Mahaffey was 

the Army’s deputy chief of staff for plans and operations. On 11 July 1983 

Wickham and Gabriel signed another memorandum of understanding (MOU) 

specifying that they would “submit a single joint package for AirLand programs needed for the attack of follow-on forces” (ibid., p. 36).

6. Ibid., pp. 1, 45. According to Davis, the 31 initiatives had their roots in 

a 22 May 1983 MOU between Gen E. C. Meyer, CSA, and General Gabriel, 

CSAF. After congressional and DOD pressure to avoid wasteful duplication, 

Meyer and Gabriel signed the MOU on “Joint USA/USAF Efforts for Enhancement of Joint Employment of AirLand Battle Doctrine.” In support of the 

MOU, the services created a Joint Force Development Group charged with 

the task of developing “a long-term, dynamic process whose objective will 

continue to be the fielding of the most affordable and effective airland combat 

forces” (p. 1).

7. Ibid., p. 1. Davis argues that “the expense of new weapons provided 

additional incentive for the services to avoid duplication, as did congressional and OSD [Office of the Secretary of Defense] pressure for improved 

efficiency” (ibid.).
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8. Ibid.

9. Ibid., p. 2. Davis suggests that the 31 initiatives fell into three categories: those that “eliminated duplication of effort or combined complementary 

programs; initiatives that defined roles and missions; and initiatives that 

called for joint action and cooperation on specific aspects of combat, doctrine, and funding” (ibid.).

10. Message, 111916Z JUN 84, HQ USAF/XOOIR-JFDG to MAC/CC, 11 

June 1984.

11. Davis, 31 Initiatives, p. 56.

12. Ibid., pp. 55–56.

13. Ibid.

14. Meyer, “House Panel Urges DOD,” p. 30. Hutto argued that the services would be better off if they coordinated joint CSAR procedures, rather 

than maintaining separate CSAR capabilities within each service (ibid.).

15. Ibid.

16. Ibid. Based on congressional testimony by senior Army leaders and 

Maj Gen Richard V. Secord, USAF, retired. The highest-ranking Air Force officer with an extensive AFSOF background, General Secord spent nearly his 

entire career in AFSOF. For more on his career, see biography, Secord.

17. Meyer, “House Panel Urges DOD,” p. 30.

18. Ibid.

19. Davis, 31 Initiatives, p. 57.

20. Joint Assessment and Initiatives Office to CSAF, memorandum, 29 

Aug. 1985.

21. Koch, interview by Marquis, in Unconventional Warfare, p. 88.

22. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine, p. 46.

23. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 88. Most AFSOF operators and 

supporters saw initiative 17 as a move to transfer the Pave Lows from AFSOF 

to the Army. It is worth mentioning, however, that the initiative 17 verbiage 

only mentions the “rotary-wing mission” and not the assets (ibid.). This point 

of contention is addressed more completely later in this chapter. Additionally, 

according to official records, there were only seven Pave Lows in the AFSOF 

inventory in the 1984–85 time frame (due to attrition/accidents) (ibid.).

24. Ibid., p. 88; and Davis, 31 Initiatives, pp. 56–57. 

25. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 87.

26. Ibid., p. 88.

27. Ibid.

28. Ibid. Qualifying this statement, Marquis et al., indicate that Army helicopters were not air refuelable in the early and mid-1980s and did not have the 

avionics necessary to fly low-level at night and in all-weather conditions (ibid.).

29. Ibid., pp. 88–89.

30. Meyer, “House Panel Urges DOD,” p. 30. Lt Gen David L. Nichols, 

USAF’s deputy chief of plans and operations, in a letter to his Army counterpart, Lt Gen Mahaffey, argued that “[the Army] should not be tied to meeting 

an AFSOF Master Plan that would not have been programmatically realized.” 

Nichols added that [the congressional] working group appears to be making 

the transfer too hard” (ibid.).
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31. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 88–89, 113. According to Marquis, “The army did not realize the expenses associated with this proposal 

and lengthy delay in building the long-range rotary-wing aviation capability.” 

She stresses that “pilots, crews, and support personnel would have to be 

trained and doctrine developed for the use of special operations helicopters 

within the Army. . . . The Army helicopter pilots and crews were talented and 

well-trained but had neither the training nor the mindset for long-range infiltration and exfiltration special operations missions” (ibid.).

32. Ibid., pp. 87–88; and Weikel to author, e-mail, 31 Mar. 2004.

33. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 80–81, 86, 88–89; and Weikel to 

author, e-mail, 31 Mar. 2004. As noted earlier, Koch was the principal deputy 

assistant secretary of defense for international security affairs. He had served 

as a covert operator in Vietnam, served as special assistant to Presidents 

Nixon and Ford, worked on the Dole and later Reagan campaign staffs, and 

was offered the position in the OSD as a reward for his support. Lynn Rylander 

was an analyst in the Office of International Security Affairs and served as 

Koch’s assistant for special operations issues. Koch and Rylander put together the Special Operations Policy Advisory Group, a committee made up 

of retired flag and general officers with extensive background in SOF. Representative Daniel was a senior member of the House Armed Services Committee, chairman of the Readiness Subcommittee, and a “fervent supporter” of 

the SOF revitalization (Marquis, pp. 80–81). Ted Lunger was a member of 

Daniel’s staff. Weikel explains that “[Lunger] was a two-tour SF A-team 

leader/officer, went to MACSOG and the CIA where he headed up Operation 

Phoenix. . . . From there he went back to “The Farm” as trainer, then to Beirut 

as Chief of Counterterrorist Ops. . . . Brilliant, fearless, and audacious, he 

made all the good things happen—our Nation will be forever indebted to him 

as his fingerprints (from both hands) are all over our SOF and CSAR force 

structure[s] that underpin our prospects in the GWOT [Global War on Terrorism]” (p. 86). According to Marquis, Daniel and Lunger became the “relentless 

force behind the congressional concern for SOF through the mid-1980s” (pp. 

88–89).

34. Most of those interviewed for this research project have indicated that 

the most influential figure within the AFSOF community was Col Gary Weikel.

35. Davis, 31 Initiatives, p. 57.

36. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1985, p. 30.

37. Ibid., pp. 29, 31; and MAC Plans, “SOF Rotary-Wing Responsibility 

Transfer,” point paper, 2 Nov. 1984.

38. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 9, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, 

supt. doc. IX-209.

39. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 107.

40. Meyer, “House Panel Urges DOD,” p. 28. According to congressional 

sources, Meyer reveals that “pressure from top brass in both services to complete the transfer has been so intense . . . that if Daniel’s letter had not been 

sent on October 4th to Weinberger, the transfer of Pave Low and other helicopters from the Air Force to the Army would have been a ‘fait accompli’ soon 
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after USAF brass returned from its top-level Corona meeting in Colorado on 

October 5th and 6th” (ibid.).

41. Rep. Dan Daniel (D-VA) to SecDef Weinberger and Deputy SecDef William 

H. Taft IV, letter, 4 Oct. 1984. Although Meyer’s article implies that this letter 

was addressed strictly to Secretary Weinberger, according to Twenty-third Air 

Force history, Representative Daniel’s letter was addressed to Deputy SecDef 

Taft rather than the Honorable Caspar Weinberger. In the end, it appears, 

however, that the letter was most likely addressed to both and answered by 

Mr. Taft on 17 Oct. 1984.

42. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, pp. 36–38. According to Kingdon, 

Congress is instrumental in setting agendas because “a) it has legal authority 

(legislative body has the authority to revise current statute and to fund or cut 

appropriations); b) it has [the] capacity to produce formidable publicity (legislators hold hearings, introduce bills, and make speeches, most of which 

receive coverage in the news); c) third resource is blended information (does 

not need to be completely accurate—a blend of substantive and the political, 

the academic and the pressure group information); [and] d) final resource is 

longevity (legislators outlast the administration)” (pp. 37–38). In short, Daniel 

had what the effects-based-operations generation refers to today as “escalation dominance” (author’s comment).

43. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 9, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, 

supt. doc. II-25.

44. Ibid., vol. 1, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, p. 32.

45. This chapter addresses initiative 17 in the context of the recent 

AFSOF/CSAR integration and USSOCOM efforts to retire the MH-53J; in effect, these actions transferred the AFSOF rotary-wing mission to ARSOF à la 

initiative 17.

46. Message, 031725Z JAN 85, HQ MAC, Scott AFB, IL, and DA, Washington, DC, to HQ USAF, Washington, DC, 3 Jan. 1985; and message, 

201705Z DEC 84, HQ USAF/XO to HQ MAC, 20 Dec. 1984. According to 

message 031725Z, MAC-DA Prop 84-23 was suspended indefinitely, stating 

that “all related programming actions supporting [this objective] will be cancelled. These include, but are not limited to AF personnel assignment actions, initial Army aircrew and maintenance training classes, and the transfer of the integrated logistics support system” (ibid.).

47. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, pp. 

41–42; and Meyer, “House Panel Urges DOD,” p. 30. A congressional source 

quoted in Meyer emphasizes, “For direct action missions where you kick a 

guy’s door down, throw in a grenade, and run like hell, that’s Army SOF 

aviation. But if you’re going to go in deep for classical unconventional warfare 

and you don’t want Ivan to know you’re there or what you’re doing . . . that’s 

got to be the Air Force” (p. 30).

48. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, p. 42.

49. Ibid.

50. In light of the Army’s institutional priorities (numbers of troops rather 

than sophisticated and very expensive aircraft), it should be no surprise that 

it has taken over two decades for ARSOF aviation to reach this point. Today, 
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163

the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) has the capability to perform the long-range infiltration mission. This issue will be discussed further in the next chapter.

51. Meyer, “Taft Overrules Chiefs,” p. 17.

52. Ibid.

53. Hutto threatened to use Congress’s constitutional prerogative—the 

“power of the purse.” For more information on fiscal threats to affect policy 

streams, see Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, pp. 36–38.

54. Little, memorandum for record, 8 Nov. 1985, History, Twenty-third Air 

Force, vol. 1, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, pp. 30–31.

55. “Major General William J. Mall, Jr.,” pp. 1–3; and ARRS Cmdr [Mall] to 

CINCMAC, letter, 25 Aug. 1981. Although General Mall had initially stated 

that the Twenty-third Air Force was created “primarily to enhance the SOF 

mission,” at the end of his tenure he reiterated that the Twenty-third Air 

Force’s number-one equipment-acquisition priority was the HH-60 (ibid.). 

Mall proposes that the HH-60 was “the future of combat rescue and the USAF 

helo force (690 pilots)” (ibid.). Other evidence of Mall’s unbalanced support 

for the ARRS was his attempts to influence the initiative 17 debates; he had 

actively pursued the return of the Pave Low III to the ARRS (ibid.).

56. “Special Ops Transfer,” p. 74.

57. Zahrt, Staff Summary Sheet, 29 June 1984.

58. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 107. Marquis is quoting a Koch 

speech, Mar. 1984. See also Koch, “Terrorism! Undeclared War,” pp. 7–13.

59. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 91–106; and Chinnery, Any 

Time, pp. 237–42.

60. Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air Force’s Newest Command,” pp. 40–42.

61. Ibid., p. 41.

62. Ibid.

63. Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, pp. 105–6.

64. Ibid., p. 107.

65. Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air Force’s Newest Command,” p. 41.

66. Ibid., pp. 41–42. Thigpen attributes the lesser numbers to attrition. 

Between 1981 and 1984, AFSOF had lost one MC-130E and two Pave Low III 

helicopters in accident-related crashes (ibid.).

67. MAC News Service, “General Mall,” pp. 11–13.

68. “Major General William J. Mall, Jr.,” pp. 1–3. Mall’s comments further 

complicated matters between AFSOF and the ARRS. To AFSOF crews, Mall’s 

interview in Airlift magazine provided the necessary evidence to support their 

conspiracy theory that the Twenty-third Air Force was actively pursuing the 

return of the Pave Low III to the ARRS (ibid.).

69. Daniel, “US Special Operations,” pp. 70–74; and Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air 

Force’s Newest Command,” pp. 42–43. It should be noted that Daniel went as 

far as advocating the creation of a sixth service dedicated to special operations and low-intensity conflict. Daniel believed that although special forces 

were organizationally part of the Army, Navy, and Air Force, they were never 

institutionally accepted by their parent services (p. 73). Thigpen comments 

that since “SOF did not fit into the conventional military [Daniel] concluded 
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164

that the current system didn’t work because the individual Services held SOF 

to be peripheral to the interests, missions, goals, and traditions that the Services viewed essential” (p. 42). According to Daniel, anything less than a sixth 

service would effectively perpetuate SOF weakness and inability to produce 

decisive results because the SOF institutional health depended on their parent services; in effect, the Army, Navy, and Air Force determined the health 

of SOF by controlling the dollars committed to their respective SOF components (p. 73).

70. Allison and Zelikow, Essence of Decision, pp. 5–6, 23–26, 143–47, 

255–58. Allison and Zelikow would argue that the decisions that influenced 

initiative 17 were either reasonable actions based on rational choice (model 

one), “outputs of large organizations functioning according to standard patterns of behavior” (model two), or a product of the governmental politics that 

involved many actors (model three) (ibid.). The initiative 17 example clearly 

demonstrates that all of Allison’s models had a significant influence on the 

proposal’s evolution.

71. Meyer, “House Panel Urges DOD,” p. 30. Based on a high-level congressional source, Meyer reveals that “if Daniel’s letter had not been sent on 

October 4th to Weinberger, the transfer of Pave Low . . . from the Air Force to 

the Army would have been a fait accompli soon after USAF brass returned 

from its top-level Corona meeting in Colorado [in October]” (ibid.).

72. Biography, Patterson.

73. Patterson, e-mail to author. Patterson reports that “as the senior Air 

Force officer on Grenada during Urgent Fury, I saw little improvement in 

their recognizing the realities of logistics support and cooperation with 

‘mother’ MAC” (ibid.).

74. 23rd AF/CC to CINCMAC/CS, letter, 24 Oct. 1985; and Patterson, 

point paper, 23 AF Forward Look Concept Plan, 24 Oct. 1985.

75. 23rd AF/CC to CINCSOC, letter, 6 Sept. 1989.

76. Ibid.

77. US Congress, “Report of the Committee on Appropriations, House of 

Representatives,” Oct. 1985, quoted in Gantley, “House Appropriations Panel 

Raps,” Dec. 1985, p. 18; also quoted in History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 

1, 1 Jan. 1984–31 Dec. 1985, p. 47.

78. As noted earlier, the primary goal of the Twenty-third Air Force was to 

strengthen the AFSOF capabilities.

79. Patterson, point paper, 24 Oct. 1985; and Little, memorandum for 

record, 8 Nov. 1985. According to official records, Twenty-third Air Force 

needed to act promptly because of congressional pressure to “do something” 

to improve AFSOF capabilities and the need to include the revised Twentythird Air Force initiatives into the MAC POM process by 3 Jan. 1986 (date 

established by MAC staff). Patterson, point paper.

80. Patterson, point paper, 24 Oct. 1985. This reflects a June–Oct. 1985 

internal review of the Twenty-third Air Force.

81. Ibid. In hindsight, Patterson’s Forward Look concept was ahead of its 

time. While much of the Air Force doctrine took its cues from the Army’s 

AirLand Battle doctrine, Patterson’s ideas appear unique in the sense that 
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165

he wanted to take his organization well beyond accepted norms. As the rest 

of the chapter will demonstrate, there were benefits and disadvantages to 

this approach.

82. Ibid.; and Maj Gen Robert B. Patterson, USAF, retired, interview with 

author, Fort Walton Beach, FL, 29 Jan. 2004. The concept was confirmed 

during the interview with the author.

83. 23rd AF/CC to CINCMAC/CS, letter, 24 Oct. 1985.

84. Little, memorandum for record, 8 Nov. 1985; and Patterson, interview 

with author, 29 Jan. 2004. Please note that CR and CSAR are terms used 

interchangeably throughout the rest of the chapter. Although technically not 

entirely correct, the terms are sufficiently similar for the purposes of this 

paper. For an in-depth description of these terms, see JP 3-50.2, Doctrine for 

Joint Combat Search and Rescue, 26 Jan. 1996, glossary, p. GL-4; and AFDD 

2-1.6, Combat Search and Rescue, 15 July 2000, p. 1.

85. ASD/SOLIC, Air Force SOF Aircrew Training Study, 30 Nov. 1988, in 

History, Twenty-third Air Force, 1989, vol. 5, supt. doc. III-150. Also referenced in Patterson to author, e-mail. The aircrew study advocates the use of 

Kirtland AFB as a multisystem SOF training base. Although Patterson’s SAW 

concept did not gain support with regard to the four multimission wings, it 

gained wide support with regard to the transformation of the 1550th CCTW 

at Kirtland AFB to the Special Air Warfare Center; the SAWC called for a capabilities-based wing structure that supported all AFSOF/CSAR airframes, 

with the exception of the AC-130s (supt. doc. II-150). Also substantiated by 

Patterson to author, e-mail.

86. Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air Force’s Newest Command,” p. 71. Forward Look 

appeared to be a fait accompli when the AFC approved the concept on 28 

May 1986.

87. Patterson, interview with author, 29 Jan. 2004.

88. 23rd AF/CC to CINCMAC/CS, letter, 24 Oct. 1985; reiterated in 

Patterson, interview with author, 29 Jan. 2004.

89. Briefing, MAC/XPQA to Air Force Council, n.d. Also reiterated in Maj 

Gen (sel) Donald C. Wurster, interview with author, Maxwell AFB, AL, 26 Jan. 

2004. In the interview, General Wurster describes his briefing to the AFC. Of 

particular interest to the above discussion, General Wurster mentions that 

when the subject of the combat-rescue resources came up, he revealed that 

the funded CSAR resources could not support all of the worldwide rescue 

commitments. In response, Gen John L. Piotrowski, VCSAF, suggested, 

“We’re just going to have to gap the [CSAR] capability.”

90. Meyer and Schemmer, “Exclusive AFJ Interview,” pp. 36–37; and 

Wurster, interview with author, 26 Jan. 2004. Orr makes it apparent throughout the AFJ interview that Congress refused to fund the HH-60 program. In 

reality, the HH-60 program had to compete within the Air Force POM process 

and, therefore, Wurster observes, the decision to “eliminate” the HH-60 program fell squarely on the shoulders of Headquarters USAF.

91. Message, 151820Z AUG 85, General Ryan to General Gabriel, 15 Aug. 

1985. Ryan submits, “In light of the recent AF decision to cancel the Night 

Hawk, we need to take a hard look at CR. We have options to retain some 
THE FALL OF THE TWENTY-THIRD AIR FORCE

166

measure of CR capability, but we must acknowledge up front that we will fall 

far short of the Theater CINC’s CR requirements. . . . The recent joint Congressional Authorization to build 10 Pave Low III–enhanced aircraft clearly 

supports Will Taft’s proposal to improve our long-range, adverse-weather, 

vertical-lift capability in the near term. . . . These aircraft [a total of 28 enhanced 

and 11 slick H-53s), combined with the CV-22, will dramatically increase our 

long-range SOF vertical-lift capability, reducing our current shortfall in longrange exfiltration operations as well as augmenting our core CR force.”

92. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, pp. 162–63. Kingdon notes that a policy 

stream describes what is considered as sound advice. His problem stream describes what has been identified as a significant social problem. His political 

stream describes the mechanism of promoting high-interest agenda items. The 

latter is affected by national mood, ideological distributions in Congress, 

changes of administration, interest-group pressure campaigns, etc. Kingdon 

uses the “stream” analogy to describe the agenda-setting process (ibid.).

93. Patterson, interview with author, 29 Jan. 2004. See also earlier sections of this chapter that discuss TAC and Headquarters USAF priorities 

within the AirLand Battle construct.

94. Patterson, e-mail to author.

95. Dietz, e-mail to author, 6 May 2004.

96. Barger and Schemmer, “Exclusive AFJ Interview,” p. 54. Wickham 

contends that “it takes a long time to move a bureaucracy” (ibid.).

97. Gen John P. Jumper, CSAF (at the time of this writing), has worked 

hard to transform the Air Force from a platformcentric force to a capabilitiesbased service. This notion is discussed in chap. 7.

98. Thigpen, “AFSOC: Air Force’s Newest Command,” p. 71. Forward Look 

appeared to be a fait accompli when the AFC approved the concept on 28 May 

1986.

99. National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) for Fiscal Year 1987, Conference Report 99-1001 to Accompany S. 2638, 99th Cong., 2d sess.; and 

Public Law 99-661, I0 4. S.C. par. B, sec. 1311, subpar. A, 14 Nov. 1986.

100. NDAA for FY 1987, Conference Report 99-1001 to Accompany S. 

2638, 99th Cong., 2nd sess. The Nunn-Cohen amendment authorized a fourstar general/admiral position for the USSOCOM commander and dictated 

the ASD’s/SOLIC’s duties and responsibilities as the DOD’s principal deputy 

for special operations (p. 146).

101. Ibid.

102. Cassidy, Transportation Balance, pp. 15–16; and NDAA for FY 1987. 

Cassidy clarifies the MFP concept as follows: major force programs are broad 

categories of DOD program requests for congressional consideration. MFP-11 

is a SOF-specific program (incidentally, MFP-4 is restricted to airlift and sealift forces—the connection between the two programs is discussed in chap. 7 

of this paper). In this context, USSOCOM gained budgetary authority over 

MFP-11. Although an in-depth analysis of this legislation is not possible due 

to the constraints of this research project, it is important to point out that 

MFP-11 provided an appropriations trail independent, by law, from the other 

military services and defense agencies. In addition to the Nunn-Cohen amend-
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167

ment, there was supplemental legislation passed in 1987 and 1988 that, with 

specificity that is quite unusual for Congress, provided direction for the promotions of SOF officers, and for the grades of the SOF commanders under the 

geographical unified (combatant) commanders (ibid., pp. 10–11).

103. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1988, p. ix. General Patterson 

comments, “I don’t know whether we had more problems placing two wings 

overseas, or moving the headquarters from one state to another” (ibid.). Supported by Patterson, e-mail to author.

104. Patterson, e-mail to author.

105. Ibid.

106. Wasinger, staff judge advocate, memorandum, 6 Mar. 1987, cited in 

Marquis, Unconventional Warfare, p. 164.

107. US Readiness Command, Report on Mission and Deactivation, p. 58; 

CINCSOC to CSAF, letter, 16 Mar. 1990; and CSAF to CINCSOC, letter, 23 

Apr. 1990. Headquarters USAF did not make AFSOC a “major command” 

until 22 May 1990, nine months after General Patterson relinquished command to General Eggers (US Readiness Command report, p. 58).

108. Patterson, interview with author, 29 Jan. 2004; Patterson, e-mail to 

author; 23rd AF/CC to CINCSOC, 6 Sept. 1989; and Comer, telephonic interview with author, 9 Feb. 2004. General Comer corroborates Patterson’s pararescue example.

109. Posen, Sources of Military Doctrine, p. 46.

110. See earlier discussion on the Nunn-Cohen amendment and the legislation authorizing specific USSOCOM activities.

111. History, Twenty-third Air Force, 1988, p. xix. According to the unit 

history, “[The] United States Special Operations Command made it clear that 

Twenty-Third Air Force should gradually divest itself from missions other 

than special operations (air rescue, aeromedical evacuation, weather reconnaissance, etc.).” Ibid.

112. USCINCSOC Position Statement on Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR), 

3 Nov. 1988, in History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 6, 1989, supt. doc. I-12. 

See also message, 291920Z DEC 89, USCINCSOC to HQ USAF et al., 29 Dec. 

1989. The USCINCSOC revised position statement added, “It is not considered doctrinally sound to assign theater CSAR responsibilities to the Theater 

SOC, assign SOF units the dual mission of both SO and CSAR, or to place 

SOF air assets on standing alert to meet short notice CSAR/SAR requirements” (supt. doc. I-12).

113. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1985, pp. 79–80, 89–90. The 

unit history notes that HH-53 airframes, in addition to conversions to the Pave 

Low modification, received the very expensive Service Life Extension Program. 

The SLEP was to extend the service life of the 20-year-old airframes “through 

the year 2001 A.D” (pp. 79–80). Additionally, to replace the lost HH-53s and 

the impending retirement of the H-3, Twenty-third Air Force had bet the 

ARRS/CSAR future on the HH-60 program. Once the HH-60 funding was 

eliminated, the hope of a “smooth” transition from the HH-53s to the HH-60s 

dwindled away (pp. 89–90).
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168

114. Ibid., p. 29. The 1985 Twenty-third Air Force history also indicates 

that “sporadic efforts during 1985, 1986, and 1987 produced some interest 

in ‘save rescue’ efforts, but all of these efforts were somewhat meager and 

there was more verbal support than monetary support for new rescue initiatives. During 1987 [alone], the 40th, 48th, 41st Aerospace Rescue and Recovery 

Squadrons . . . were inactivated, due largely to austerity measures in the Air 

Force for FY 1987” (ibid.).

115. For more on the benign neglect of the ARS, see chap. 4. Evidence of 

post-Vietnam benign neglect was the postponement of the HH-60 project early 

in the 1980s, the lack of funds for the conversion of HC-130s to HC-130P/N, 

and ultimately the 1985 removal of the HH-60 project from the USAF budget. 

All of these blows to ARRS/CSAR were discussed in chap. 5 and earlier in 

this chapter.

116. Patterson, interview with author, 29 Jan. 2004; Patterson, e-mail to 

author; and Zarht, e-mail to author. Captain (now Colonel) Zahrt worked at 

MAC/XP.

117. Notes, Little, 23rd AF/HO, subject: Reconstitution of Rescue Service, 

6 Mar. 1986, p. 1, in History, Twenty-third Air Force, 1989, vol. 6, supt. doc. 

I-14; and ibid., vol. 1, 1988, p. 29. General McPeak began lobbying for a 

separate rescue organization a year earlier as the deputy chief of staff for 

programs and resources. General McPeak “put this program [Forward Look] 

on hold” in Jan. 1987. In Feb. 1987, McPeak “proposed an additional 59 H-60s, 

in the Pave Hawk modification (HH-60Gs) to be programmed in FY 1989 and 

beyond for rescue duties” (ibid., vol. 1, 1988, p. 29).

118. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1988, pp. 30–31. Note that 

“Corona” refers to a meeting of the most senior Air Force general officers.

119. Briefing, MAC/DOOS to CINCMAC, subject: Separate Air Rescue 

Service, 20 Jan. 1989.

120. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1988, p. 30. Little suggests that 

General McPeak was the leading proponent for the new Air Rescue Service.

121. Little, notes, 6 Mar. 1989, p. 1; and briefing, MAC/DOOS (Maj Jim 

Sills) to CINCMAC, 20 Jan. 1989. CINCMAC supported this notion over other 

options Major Sills briefed (History, Twenty-third Air Force, 1989, vol. 6, 

supt. doc. I-13). See also Little, 23rd AF/HO, memorandum for record, 1 Mar. 

1989; Message, 211549Z MAR 89, CINCMAC to CSAF, OSAF et al., 21 Mar. 

1989; and Special Order GA-56, Secretary of the Air Force to CINCMAC et al., 

15 May 1989, in History, Twenty-third Air Force, 1989, vol. 6, supt. docs. I-15 

and I-22. As a result, CINCMAC directed the Twenty-third Air Force to redesignate all air rescue and recovery squadrons (ARRS) to air rescue squadrons 

(ARS) on 25 Feb.; consequently, the 41st ARRW became the 41st ARW (Special Order GA-56).

122. Message, 211549Z MAR 89, CINCMAC to CSAF, OSAF et al., 21 Mar. 

1989. Although General Cassidy wanted the redesignation of the units mentioned above (n. 121) by 1 Apr. 1989, Special Order GA-56 made the redesignation effective 1 June 1989 (Special Order GA-56, cited in n. 121).

123. Patterson, biography; and Eggers, biography.

124. 23rd AF/CC to CINCMAC, letter, 13 Sept. 1985.
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169

125. Patterson to author, e-mail.

126. AFDD 1, Air Force Basic Doctrine, 17 Nov. 2003, p. 1; and AFMAN 1-1, 

Basic Aerospace Doctrine, Mar. 1992, p. 7. Although a detailed discussion on 

doctrine is beyond the scope of this paper, it is important to point out that 

according to AFDD 1, “Air and space doctrine is a statement of officially sanctioned beliefs . . . [and] . . . war-fighting principles that describes and guides 

the proper use of air and space forces in military operations” (p. ix). In essence, as AFDD 1 points out, USAF doctrine represents the Air Force’s “common frame of reference” and helps shape the way Airmen organize, train, and 

fight (p. 3). Roughly speaking then, doctrine is the Air Force’s cultural manifesto. For example, the 1992 AFMAN 1-1 divides platforms according to their 

roles and missions, not according to capabilities. The notion of multimission/

diverse-capability aircraft was a doctrinal development that occurred after 

the 1992 AFMAN 1-1 (p. 7).

127. 23rd AF/CC to CINCMAC, letter, 13 Sept. 1985.

128. Ibid.

129. Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 384.

130. Ibid., p. 385.

171

Chapter 7

From the Past, the Future

To prepare for the future, special operations forces need 

to adapt to the changing nature of warfare by challenging conventional thinking and examining new options 

and operational concepts for the conduct of special operations in traditional and nontraditional environments. 

They need to consider possible changes in doctrine, 

roles, missions, and force structure and to examine new 

options and operational concepts.

—Gen Hugh Shelton

Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff (1997–2001)

Thus the confusion and dilemma is that CSAR is doctrinally each Service’s responsibility, but no one’s primary 

mission. No one’s except the JFC. While it is the role of 

the Services to provide the military capabilities essential 

to fighting and winning wars, the CINCs actually plan 

and conduct the military operations. The CINCs, not the 

Services, require a force with the primary mission of 

CSAR so as not to divert “other forces.”

—CSAR Requirements and Capabilities Study

Veda Incorporated

It should now be obvious that culture played a significant role 

in the organizational growth of the Twenty-third Air Force. Organizational culture establishes the paradigm of basic assumptions that defines the institutional identities of the Air Force’s 

special operations forces and the Air Rescue and Recovery Service (previously Air Rescue Service). Viewed another way, the 

special operations and rescue communities have developed certain patterns that shape what they consider as “right and proper, 

how the world works, and how things are done.”1 Through the 

lens of organizational culture, this paper has exposed the reader 

to the turbulent relationship between the dominant Air Force 

“tribes” and the secondary subcultures of SF and CSAR. Additionally, it has described the way in which institutional motives 

and agendas relate to organizational personalities and has dem-
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

172

onstrated how inter- and intraservice stimuli influenced the 

Twenty-third Air Force’s organizational development.

Richard Neustadt and Ernest May suggest that the “use of 

history can stimulate imagination: seeing the past can help one 

envision alternative futures.” They agree that historical analysis can also help “by way of tests for presumptions.”2 If Neustadt and May are correct, a better understanding of the organizational histories of the Air Force’s special and rescue forces 

may provide contemporary air leaders the necessary points of 

reference from which to draw parallels to a similar issue—the 

2003 merger of SOF and combat search and CSAR under the 

Air Force SOC. By exploring past AFSOF and CSAR experiences, 

this paper offers AFSOC’s senior leadership possible alternatives for the cooperative future of the two communities. Based 

on the evidence presented, it warns of certain hazards; offers a 

course adjustment to current AFSOF/CSAR integration efforts; 

and presents several recommendations aimed at reducing interservice, intraservice, and intracommand friction that may undermine the new merger from the outside or from within. 

In terms of potential hazards, AFSOC’s leaders must be careful not to overestimate the complementary capabilities of the 

two communities or to underestimate the influence of institutional biases and cultural sensitivities associated with organizational mergers.3 In light of the AFSOF/CSAR merger in 2003 

under the stewardship of the AFSOC, this paper suggests that 

its leaders should not assume that they would be able to “fix 

cultural problems after the fact.”4 Although most of those interviewed have little doubt that AFSOC will enhance the Air Force’s 

CSAR capabilities, this study provides many examples of how 

institutional agendas may, at best, blur the AFSOC commander’s 

vision and, at worst, subvert it. 

Based on this research, it is clear that the key to overcoming 

cultural resistance is a sound organizational merger strategy. 

According to the AFSOC commander, General Hester, “Culture 

should not hinder [a commander’s] vision but it can slow down 

change. Leaders must pay attention to culture so they can 

guide it.”5 In order for leaders to guide culture, however, their 

vision must be translated into a coherent strategy that exploits 

cultural strengths and attempts to anticipate cultural resistance. Drawing from the Twenty-third Air Force’s experience, 
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

173

the AFSOC’s leaders should perhaps reconsider General Patterson’s Forward Look concept as a template for integrating diverse organizational identities into a new culture that is greater 

than the sum of its parts.

Although many of General Patterson’s ideas did not come to 

fruition in the 1980s, it appears that the Forward Look plan 

was well ahead of its time. Times have changed, and Forward 

Look now appears in step with General Jumper’s efforts to transform the Air Force from a platform-/mission-oriented force to a 

capabilities-based force. In 2003 General Jumper urged, “We 

must get out of the mode of thinking only in terms of platform 

rather than in terms of capabilities. The time will come when 

we no longer have platforms dedicated to a single role or mission. Platforms must be capable of delivering multiple capabilities. We must also transform how we do business.”6

In line with General Patterson’s Forward Look concept and 

General Jumper’s Sight Picture, AFSOC should treat AFSOF 

and CSAR not as separate mission areas but as complementary special-air-warfare capabilities. Limited resources and a 

need to demonstrate commitment to the AFSOF’s revitalization 

efforts drove General Patterson to explore a paradigm-breaking 

idea. Rooted in the Twenty-third Air Force’s experiences, 

AFSOC’s integration and CSAR’s revitalization plans must go 

beyond existing paradigms; at the same time, AFSOC must remain mindful of inter- and intraservice cultural dynamics and 

institutional agendas. 

Interservice enmity is most often founded on competing organizational priorities and institutional agendas. Since the creation 

of USSOCOM, AFSOC commanders have had to answer to two 

superiors—the chief of staff of the Air Force and the commander 

of USSOCOM. This arrangement is not likely to change in the 

foreseeable future. Therefore, AFSOC commanders must remain attentive to interservice cultural dynamics and potentially 

divergent institutional agendas. For example, Headquarters 

AFSOC must stay cognizant of certain Air Force–levied constraints that exhibit its anxieties with this arrangement. According to the program action directive (PAD), AFSOC must 

preserve separate fiscal and operational control channels for 

the AFSOF and CSAR communities.7 These policies, however, 

should not stop Headquarters AFSOC from treating AFSOF and 
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

174

CSAR assets as complementary elements of the Air Force’s special air warfare capabilities. Simply put, these limitations should 

not keep AFSOC from pursuing the Forward Look concept. 

Some may argue that if the Forward Look concept is the right 

mechanism for transforming AFSOC, and perhaps USSOCOM, 

to a capabilities-based force, why did the Air Force and USSOCOM 

not adopt this approach earlier? Kingdon would submit that 

only a “focusing event” could call attention to a preexisting 

problem.8 In this case, a series of events produced the impetus 

for change. First, General Jumper—at the time the commander 

of United States Air Forces in Europe (USAFE) and later chief 

of staff of the Air Force—“acutely felt the lack of a permanent 

presence of CSAR forces in Europe during Operation Allied 

Force” in 1999.9 Later, in light of the deployment and employment of special operations and rescue forces in support of Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom, he recognized 

the opportunity to reorganize them.10

More than two years after the start of the GWOT, however, 

Headquarters AFSOC has yet to adjust existing paradigms to 

alleviate the pressure on special forces and rescue resources 

spread thin by multiple taskings. Operation Allied Force and 

the early campaigns of the GWOT highlight the outdated paradigms that serve as the guiding principles of the AFSOF and 

CSAR communities. 

For the past 20 years, USSOCOM in general and AFSOF in 

particular have organized, trained, and equipped the force in 

order to accommodate the Desert One model.11 As America continues to engage in the GWOT, the SOF community will have to 

reconsider the single-mission focus of Desert One and transition 

to a campaign-oriented strategy. The Desert One paradigm cannot accommodate the current security environment because it 

depends on habitual relationships among “fenced in” assets that 

surge on occasion but are not continuously deployed. By transforming the AFSOF’s/CSAR’s resources into a capabilities-based 

force, AFSOC will be able to adjust to a GWOT-centric strategy.

Similarly, the GWOT has forced the rescue community to adjust its nearly exclusive emphasis on aircrew recovery and widen 

its focus to offer possible backup support to the special forces 

community. Historically, the Air Force’s CSAR force structure 

and training have focused on recovery of aircrews. Some rescue 
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leaders have opposed the idea of its assets meddling in blackhat mission areas. The truth is that these assets may be conveniently aligned to support and/or complement special-forces 

units in the war on terrorism.12 Ultimately, AFSOC should strive 

to create “buckets” of SAW capabilities.13 By forming the necessary habitual relationships that foster trust between the Air 

Force and USSOCOM, these buckets of capabilities will form 

the core of the new Air Force special-warfare arsenal.14

Concurrent with the efforts to address the Air Force’s insecurities with the Forward Look reorganization, AFSOC must 

collaborate with USSOCOM to convince “the other boss” that 

this initiative is in USSOCOM’s best interest.15 Although 

USSOCOM still retains the congressionally mandated requirement to provide CSAR support for both the theater and SOC, 

USSOCOM does not favor the CSAR mission.16 USSOCOM’s 

interpretation of this mandate continues to be that “Combat 

Search and Rescue . . . is not a mission for which Special Operations Forces . . . are trained, organized, and equipped.”17

With the exception of the notion that SOF would recover any 

stranded USSOCOM personnel (“self-CSAR”), USSOCOM appears to hold an institutional bias toward CSAR. If Forward Look 

is to succeed, however, AFSOC must work toward removing 

USSOCOM’s bias. In short, AFSOC cannot fully integrate the 

AFSOF and CSAR communities while USSOCOM remains ambivalent about its commitment to congressionally mandated 

CSAR obligations. Additionally, AFSOC cannot transform to a 

capabilities-based force while a higher headquarters (USSOCOM) 

remains focused on a platform-based construct.

An Army SOF inclination toward USSOCOM reorganization 

that resembles initiative 17 would further compound USSOCOM’s 

resistance to Forward Look efforts. If the current trend continues, the AFSOC will retire the MH-53 helicopter in the next 

decade, leaving the Army in charge of USSOCOM’s rotary-wing 

capability.18 Briefly, this would make USSOCOM even more 

averse to the CSAR mission because the Army does not consider 

CSAR an institutional priority, as evidenced by a lack of organizational focus on the recovery of downed Army aviators.19

Ultimately, AFSOC can minimize the USSOCOM’s aversion 

toward the CSAR mission by fostering a closer relationship between “non-SOF” CSAR assets and the rest of USSOCOM. 
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

176

AFSOC can improve the relationship between Headquarters 

USAF and Headquarters USSOCOM through a formal MOA. 

Internal to USSOCOM, AFSOC can cement the bond between 

the two communities through joint readiness exercises in which 

AFSOC’s CSAR assets support SOF aviation requirements. As 

AFSOC eventually develops a more robust CSAR capability, 

with support from USSOCOM, it should be able to provide part 

of the CSAR support role for both the theater and SOC that 

USSOCOM currently avoids.20 Undoubtedly, some USSOCOM 

skeptics will argue that ARSOF rotary-wing assets will be able 

to perform the CSAR role. However, absent a new joint approach to CSAR that includes AFSOC’s CSAR assets, this will 

remain an ad hoc arrangement. In short, Forward Look may 

provide the necessary CSAR capabilities for the USAF as well 

as USSOCOM, if only given a chance. 

The Twenty-third Air Force experience demonstrates that 

trust between commanders alleviates some of the apprehension and anxiety associated with change at the interservice 

level. The relationship between Generals Wickham and Gabriel, 

Chain and Mahaffey, Welch and Lindsay, and others reduced 

interservice friction during periods of organizational uncertainty. Similarly, fostering trust between the CSAF, USSOCOM 

commander, and all of the USSOCOM component commanders 

can help alleviate interservice cultural antagonism; as Col Mike 

Findlay argues, “Personal relationships count—develop and 

maintain trust and confidence.”21

In the end, the revitalization of the Forward Look concept is a 

product of necessity rather than desire. While some within the 

USAF and USSOCOM communities still may want to keep the 

GWOT commitments strictly mission-oriented, AFSOC, based on 

the growing demand for AFSOF and CSAR forces around the world, 

will eventually run out of assets.22 Whether it presents forces 

through USSOCOM or Joint Forces Command (JFCOM), AFSOC 

should allocate special forces and rescue assets based on theatercapability requirements rather than platform-focused requests.

The SAW approach to the AFSOC merger calls for a concerted 

effort to pursue analogous capabilities between the two communities.23 In essence, combatant commanders should not be able 

to distinguish between the capabilities of the two communities 

in a few years. With time, the AFSOF and CSAR subelements 
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

177

should start considering themselves indistinguishable parts of 

the Air Force’s SAW community. The commonality of purpose—

SAW capabilities—and a divestment of the current platformcentric focus can be achieved only via common platformprocurement efforts.24 Although this notion may provoke some 

interservice cultural debate, it will more likely encounter 

heavy intraservice resistance due to the “tribal” dynamics 

within the Air Force.

In order for the AFSOC to suppress intraservice resistance to 

the new Forward Look concept, it will have to convince the 

CSAF and Air Combat Command (ACC) that this approach will 

be to their benefit.25 As General Hester explicitly stated, the 

primary reason behind the merger of special forces and rescue 

was to “enhance CSAR capabilities.”26 As in the early 1980s, the 

Air Force’s dominant tribe—the fighter community—is primarily 

concerned with conventional-warfare initiatives. The Air Force’s 

current procurement priorities appear to reflect this reality.

According to General Jumper, the F-22, the Joint Strike 

Fighter (JSF), and the unmanned combat air vehicle (UCAV) 

represent “our vision of an all stealth force.”27 Most Airmen recognize that the testing, production, and fielding of the next 

generation of weapon systems are vital to America’s ability to 

achieve full-spectrum dominance. At the same time, however, 

AFSOC must understand that attempts to enhance CSAR procurement efforts will have to compete with the F-22, JSF, and 

UCAV programs.28 It will be hard for the AFSOC to argue for 

robust CSAR capabilities in light of the conventional Air Force’s 

“all stealth force.”29 In other words, much like the HH-60 procurement efforts of the 1980s, CSAR procurement efforts in the 

twenty-first century are bound to face stiff competition. By 

adopting the capabilities-based approach of the Forward Look 

paradigm, AFSOC will be able to bind CSAR requirements with 

a contemporary high-interest issue.

To ensure that the revitalization of CSAR gains Headquarters 

USAF support, AFSOC must define CSAR requirements in traditional (aircrew recovery) as well as nontraditional (special 

forces–related) terms. To satisfy ACC’s concerns, AFSOC must 

maintain a robust aircrew-recovery capability able to support 

requirements of the joint force air component commander.30

Nevertheless, Headquarters AFSOC does not have to accom-
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178

plish this by segregating the AFSOF and CSAR mission areas. 

In fact, the Twenty-third Air Force’s experience suggests that 

rather than attempting to improve the Air Force’s rescue capabilities in isolation, AFSOC should bind aircrew-recovery initiatives with its AFSOF proposals. This approach is based on the 

assumption that, as in the Twenty-third Air Force’s experience, 

the special operations realm remains “a growth industry,” while 

“rescue [is] on the decline and though the equipment [is] disappearing, the mission [is] still there.”31

Simply put, if AFSOC wants to strengthen CSAR, it must 

bind the rescue cause to the most pressing contemporary 

“growth industry”—the GWOT. Just as General Patterson tried 

to salvage CSAR and AFSOF capabilities by binding their priorities along the “political stream” of SOF revitalization, an issue with national attention, the AFSOC must advance its forcerevitalization agenda within the context of the GWOT.32 In this 

way, CSAR’s and SOF’s initiatives could gain an advantage 

when competing with the Air Force’s conventional priority projects, and hopefully obtain congressional and Defense Department support that earmarks funds for their initiatives.33

Undoubtedly some will view the 2004 version of Forward 

Look as overly ambitious. They will claim, just as some of the 

Twenty-third Air Force’s critics did, that the two communities 

could accommodate their mission-area requirements without 

fusing the AFSOF and CSAR subcultures into a SAW capabilitiesbased force. Others may try to perpetuate the ideological rift 

between the two communities by inflaming USAF and USSOCOM 

insecurities about the AFSOC merger. In order to achieve the 

necessary reforms, Headquarters AFSOC must remain vigilant 

in countering these attempts. 

Even if AFSOC remains mindful of the many ways that inter-/ 

intraservice and institutional culture, biases, and agendas can 

hinder organizational progress, it must also work diligently to 

prevent intracommand strife. Although this chapter has outlined 

the theory behind the Forward Look initiative and the areas of 

potential cultural friction in the transformation process, AFSOC 

must create an implementation instrument. In short, someone 

must direct and monitor the implementation of the plan. 

The evidence of this paper suggests that cultural dynamics 

can have an adverse effect on organizational growth. Therefore, 
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179

the AFSOC commander must remain mindful of the influence 

of organizational culture. Since 1 October 2003, the first day of 

the merger, Headquarters AFSOC dissolved the “CSAR integration” office.34 If AFSOC adopts the Forward Look concept, it 

should establish a SAW transformation office, which would be 

able to guide the process of transforming the command from a 

mission-/platform-oriented organization to a capabilities-based 

force. The new office would also work to anticipate potential 

friction points and contentious cultural issues before they become a problem, as well as keep the AFSOC commander informed on the progress of the initiative. 

This paper has provided ample evidence that cultural dynamics and institutional agendas that ran counter to the commander’s vision ultimately contributed to the fall of the Twenty-third 

Air Force and to the segregation of the AFSOF and CSAR communities. Although the Twenty-third Air Force succeeded in fulfilling its primary objective of strengthening special forces, its 

organizational conflicts of interest stunted its development and 

limited its potential. If AFSOC wants to succeed in its recent 

merger and achieve its goal of revitalizing the CSAR community, its leaders must pay particular attention to organizational 

culture and transform AFSOC from a mission-area/platformoriented force to one based on capabilities. 

Notes

1. Schein, Organizational Culture, pp. 376–77.

2. Neustadt and May, Thinking in Time, pp. xv, 238.

3. For example, Twenty-third Air Force leaders were quick to point out the 

complementary nature of the AFSOF and CSAR communities, demonstrated 

during collaborative efforts such as the raid on the Son Tay prison, the Mayaguez incident, and Project Honey Badger. Although tempting, AFSOC leaders 

should not make the same mistake by hyping up the complementary nature 

of AFSOF and CSAR during Operations Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom 

without at the same time considering some of the “not-so-complementary” aspects of the merger, such as the AFSOF/CSAR institutional agendas.

4. See chap. 6 of this study; and Schein, Organizational Culture, p. 384.

5. Paul V. Hester, interview with author, Fort Walton Beach, FL, 29 Jan. 

2004.

6. Jumper, “Technology-to-Warfighting.”

7. Cassidy, Transportation Balance, pp. 15–16; Headquarters USAF, Program Action Directive (PAD) 2-09, Implementation of the Secretary of the Air 

Force, pp. i–ii. Cassidy describes the major force programs as broad catego-
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

180

ries of DOD program requests for congressional consideration. MFP-11 is a 

SOF-specific program, while MFP-4 is restricted to airlift and sealift forces (p. 

21). As noted in earlier chapters, USSOCOM has budgetary authority over 

MFP-11. PAD 2-09 established the parameters of the merger of AFSOF and 

select CSAR assets. According to PAD 2-09, “MFP-11 and MFP-4 funds will 

not crosswalk” (p. 2). It also stipulates that AFSOC will present CSAR forces 

through the ACC to the Joint Forces Command (JFCOM) and then to the 

prospective combatant commander. Similarly, AFSOC presents AFSOF assets 

to combatant commanders through USSOCOM. While USSOCOM retains operational control of the AFSOF assets, JFCOM holds onto operational control 

of the CSAR assets (pp. i, 1, 3).

8. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, p. 94.

9. Hebert, “CSAR under New Management,” p. 85.

10. Ibid.

11. For more on the Desert One model, see chap. 5 and the appendix of 

this study. In broad terms, this model refers to a scenario that involves the 

employment of a CTJTF in a short-duration, single-mission (most often multiple objectives) reactive operation. 

12. Wurster, interview with author, Maxwell AFB, AL, 26 Jan. 2004. In 

the interview, General Wurster provided an overview of how, as the Joint 

Special Operations Task Force (JSOTF) commander for Operation Enduring 

Freedom–Philippines, he used HH-60G rescue helicopters in support of 

JSOTF operations. General Wurster explicitly stated that these assets 

proved extremely valuable and that he used them only within existing CSAR 

doctrinal parameters.

13. Roach and Jumper, Prepared Comments to House. Today the term 

buckets of capabilities is most commonly used in reference to the air and 

space expeditionary force (AEF) concept. Secretary Roach and General 

Jumper argued that “AEFs are not individual organizations, autonomous 

fighting forces, or units. Instead, our 10 AEFs represent buckets of capabilities the Air Force can draw upon to satisfy the requirements of theater commanders—flexible, responsive, adaptable” (ibid.).

14. Eventually the USAF may create the Air Force Special Air Warfare 

Command. This organization may more closely resemble the Naval Special 

Warfare Command (NSWCOM) (which represents the naval component of 

USSOCOM) than the US Army Special Operations Command (which represents the Army component of USSOCOM). Due to constraints on length, this 

paper does not describe the different USSOCOM components in detail. Therefore, this assertion is not based on thorough research but on the author’s 

12-year association with AFSOC and USSOCOM. For more on NSW, see the 

NSWCOM, https://www.navsoc.navy.mil/navsoc_missions.asp (accessed 18 

May 2004); for more on USASOC, see US Special Operations Command, 

http://www.soc.mil/hqs/hqs_home.htm (accessed 18 May 2004).

15. Initiatives specifically designed to gain HQ USAF support are discussed further in the intraservice section of this chapter.

16. JP 3-05, Doctrine for Joint Special Operations, p. II-1. Under the heading “Designated Special Operations Forces,” JP 3-05 explicitly differentiates 
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

181

between AFSOF and USAF CSAR units. Besides AFSOF flying units, JP 3-05 

includes special tactics, combat weather, and foreign internal defense (FID) 

squadrons in the list of forces designated as SOF. In essence, JP 3-05 hints 

at USSOCOM’s institutional bias toward the CSAR.

17. Message, 291920Z DEC 89, USCINCSOC to HQ USAF et al., 29 Dec. 

1989; and United States Special Operations Command, Posture Statement 

2003–2004, pp. 9–10, 36–37. In a more contemporary example, the USSOCOM 

Posture Statement 2003–2004 omits mentioning CSAR as one of the command’s Title 10 responsibilities and does not list CSAR as one of the nine 

SOF core tasks.

18. Magness to author, e-mail. Major Magness works at AFSOC/XPRX 

(requirements). Although he provided information that suggests that the 

MH-53 will remain in the AFSOC inventory until 2012, Magness also added 

that this figure represents the AFSOC proposal. Additionally, he stresses, “We 

at the program office can’t emphasize this enough [that] the CV-22 is not a 

‘one for one’ direct replacement of the -53, it is a transformational capability 

that [addresses AFSOC’s] . . . vertical and fixed wing needs.”

19. Briefing, Army Warfighting Center, subject: Army Aviation CSAR 

Training, 22–24 Jan. 2001, slides 2, 7. In this briefing, the center explicitly 

states that the Task Force Hawk operations in Albania (1999) “revealed the 

Army’s inability to plan and execute CSAR and Personnel Recovery operations.” Additionally, the briefing explicitly states that the Army does not train, 

organize, or equip its forces specifically for CSAR (ibid.).

20. The goal should not be for the USAF to assume this role unilaterally. 

All of USSOCOM’s components need to collaborate with the Joint Personnel 

Recovery Agency (an element of the Joint Forces Command) in order to create 

a joint CSAR capability that supports national CSAR requirements.

21. Findlay, “Joint Special Operations Insight.”

22. Erwin, “Elite Warriors”; and Tiron, “Demand for Special Ops.” According to Gen Peter J. Schoomaker, then USSOCOM commander, SOF had experienced a 300 percent increase in deployments and “operational tempo” (Erwin). 

Erwin adds that “much like the major military services, SOCOM officials fear 

that higher rates of deployments against a backdrop of declining budgets are 

hampering force readiness and morale.” Tiron reports that “senior officials at 

the U.S. Special Operations Command are grappling with a looming force 

structure crisis. At their current level, special operations forces can meet 

today’s demands, but it will be difficult for SOCOM to sustain the pace, given 

the rapid growth in their worldwide commitments.”

23. Norton A. Schwartz, interview with author, Washington, DC, 5 Nov. 

2003. General Schwartz argued that combatant commanders would ask for 

the most capable platforms and noted that “you must make them [AFSOF 

and CSAR] functionally equivalent. [They] must have a wider use of play in 

both missions.”

24. Understanding that it would be impossible to change the “platformcentric” mind-set overnight, one sees that one of the elements of this alternative is to pursue common platform-procurement efforts that allow the AFSOF 

and CSAR communities to modify their individual airframe to meet specific 
FROM THE PAST, THE FUTURE

182

capability-based needs. In the end, the AFSOF and CSAR capabilities must 

be on a converging path; otherwise, combatant commanders will continue to 

insist on specific platforms to meet specific mission requirements, regardless 

of which community operates them.

25. Hebert, “CSAR under New Management,” p. 86. In an interview with 

Hebert, Gen Hal M. Hornburg, ACC commander, acknowledged that ACC had 

done a “less than adequate job of budgeting for CSAR” (ibid.). General Hornburg’s comments, although courageous in admitting a systemic problem, reflect a historical paradox fully detailed in chap. 4 of this study. In broad 

terms, although the Air Force leadership has unfailingly recognized the relevance of the CSAR mission, it has been inconsistent in its fiscal support of 

the rescue community.

26. Hester, “AFSOC Welcomes CSAR Units,” p. 2.

27. US Senate, Nominee for the Position, p. 20. General Jumper calls the 

F-22, JSF, UCAV, and B-2 the “kick-down-the-door force.” Jumper, “Global 

Strike Task Force,” p. 29.

28. For more on these programs, see Aronstein, Hirschberg, and Piccirillo, 

Advanced Tactical Fighter to F-22; Jenkins, Lockheed Special Projects; Rich 

and Janus, Skunk Works; and Kandebo, “Boeing Premiers UCAV Demonstrator,” 

pp. 30–33.

29. Tilford, Search and Rescue, p. 42. Tilford refers to the years between the 

Korean and Vietnam wars as “the dark age of CSAR” because of the great decline in capability (ibid.). As noted in chap. 4 of this study, although the ARS 

had demonstrated its relevance in recovering Americans in limited war, military leaders considered the Korean War an anomaly. Even if Air Force leaders 

appreciated the benefits of the ARS in the Korean War, its importance depreciated in the context of the Air Force’s focus on massive nuclear retaliation.

30. PAD 2-09, Implementation of the Secretary of the Air Force, pp. I, J-1.

31. Patterson, “End of Tour Report,” p. 1; reiterated in Maj Gen Robert B. 

Patterson, USAF, retired, interview with author, Fort Walton Beach, FL, 29 

Jan. 2004.

32. Kingdon, Agendas, Alternatives, pp. 162–63. Kingdon uses the stream 

analogy to describe the agenda-setting process. According to his analogy, 

policy stream is the process of producing alternatives and selecting proposals 

for organizational behavior based on specified criteria (pp. 200–201). The 

problem stream alludes to the mechanism of identifying significant social 

problems, while political stream encompasses the promotion of high-interest 

agenda items (pp. 145, 163). Factors such as shifts in national opinion, administration changes, interest group campaigns, and congressional makeup 

may affect the political stream (p. 87). 

33. Tiron, “Demand for Special Ops”; and USSOCOM, briefing, subject: Fiscal Year (FY) 2005 Budget Estimates, Feb. 2004, slides 53–54. Tiron’s article 

and the USSOCOM briefing document a significant increase in AFSOF’s capabilities due to an injection of additional GWOT-specific funds in the USSOCOM 

budget. AFSOC was able to procure four new AC-130Us and 10 MC-130Hs.

34. Shafer to author, e-mail.
183

Appendix 

Desert One Analysis

As noted in chapter 5, the Desert One disaster was the impetus for the revitalization of America’s special operations forces. 

Whereas that chapter presents a brief account of the events 

leading to the creation of the Twenty-third Air Force, this appendix explores some of the finer operational and tactical elements of the failed mission. Although it is tempting to analyze 

the Desert One mission from start to finish, limitations of space 

preclude me from doing so. As such, I will restrict my analysis 

of the failed mission attempt strictly to the effects of organizational culture and institutional agendas on this operation. Specifically, I will examine the rationale behind the decision to use 

Navy/Marine pilots to fly the RH-53D helicopters in lieu of Air 

Force special operations forces (AFSOF) and combat search 

and rescue (CSAR) crews.

Soon after the Iranians seized the American Embassy in 

Tehran, Gen Edward Meyer, chief of staff, United States Army, 

nominated Maj Gen James B. Vaught, United States Army 

(USA), as the joint task force (JTF) commander responsible for 

the team selection, planning, and execution of a complicated 

hostage rescue.1 On 12 November 1979 General Vaught was 

officially designated the JTF commander, and, within a day, he 

called for a small team of planners to meet in Washington to 

consider alternatives.2 Col Charlie Beckwith, the assault-force 

commander, asserts that these “brainstorming session[s]” took a 

turn for the better when Col James Kyle, the deputy commander 

for the rescue mission and de facto air component commander, 

received the difficult task of developing a plan that required the 

clandestine infiltration of an American assault force and the 

safe exfiltration of the hostages and the rescue team.3

As mentioned above, Colonel Kyle, the initial air component 

commander, had to contend with significant planning problems; 

this appendix addresses, arguably, two of the most significant 

quandaries. First, Iran’s geography presented a challenging antiaccess problem. Kyle argues that “when you think back over the 

years we have spent billions on foreign aid to these countries 
APPENDIX

184

surrounding Iran and yet not one of them has offered to help us 

get our hostages back. America is sorely ‘lacking for friends’ ” 

(emphasis in original).4 The second problem involved the ad hoc 

JTF command structure and the convoluted planning process 

that hindered a systematic approach to planning. For example, 

Kyle concedes that some within the Joint Staff had already made 

the key decision on which helicopters to use.5 Working within 

the JCS constraints/restraints, Kyle and his team developed a 

plan that involved a long-range infiltration of the assault force 

using a combination of rotary- and fixed-wing airframes over a 

two-day period.6

Beyond the equipment preferences, the JTF staff had to consider the right blend of aviators to fly this extraordinarily challenging mission. The JTF planners, struggling to simplify an 

increasingly complicated plan, selected Navy RH-53D pilots to 

fly the mission. The planners hoped that the Navy crews could 

train up to the unique skill sets required to fly special night vision goggle (NVG) low-level missions faster than crews capable 

of flying at low levels during the night could train up to fly 

RH-53D aircraft. In hindsight this assumption proved faulty. 

Partially to blame for this error in planning assumption was 

the flawed chain of command between Vaught and the helicopter portion of the operation.

As part of the planning considerations, the JTF staff had to 

determine which air platforms met the load and range requirements. The fixed-wing options were few; MC/EC-130s would refuel the helicopter force at a forward landing zone, code-named 

Desert One, on the first night, and a mix of MC-130s and C-141s 

would exfiltrate the assault force, helicopter crews, and hostages 

on the second night.7 Because of his prior AFSOF C-130 experience, Kyle took charge of the fixed-wing portion of the operation. 

Historian Paul Ryan annotates that “early in the planning phase, 

Col Charles H. Pitman, United States Marine Corps (USMC), an 

assistant to General [David C.] Jones, [became] involved in the 

planning and execution of the helicopter phase.”8 Although Pitman was not officially designated “deputy commander for helicopter forces” until just prior to the execution phase, he had a 

tremendous influence on the helicopter portion of Desert One 

from start to finish.9 As it would turn out, the rotary-wing portion proved to be the most complicated aspect of the air plan.
APPENDIX

185

Colonel Beckwith contends that “there were several options: 

CH-47 Chinooks [Army] or CH-46 Sea Knights [Navy], HH-53s 

[Air Force] or RH-53s [Navy/Marine Corps]. It became apparent, when all the specifications were laid out, that the 53 series 

met most of the requirements.”10 Although the original JCS 

planners had decided on the RH-53Ds before Kyle became involved with the plan, he argues that the RH-53D had major 

advantages over the HH-53. 

Days were spent interviewing every rotary-wing expert in the Pentagon, 

and after scrutinizing every type of helicopter in the inventory, we came 

up with the Navy’s RH-53D Sea Stallion. . . . [It] could carry removable 

internal auxiliary fuel tanks in addition to its external tanks. . . . It had 

foldable rotor blades and tail boom so it could be stored below deck on 

a carrier [security was a major concern in this operation]. And it had a 

cargo compartment big enough to carry twenty fully equipped Delta 

Force commandos, as well as extra fuel. . . . At the time, the maximum 

gross weight at which an Air Force HH-53 Pave Low helicopter could 

operate was 42,000 points, 6,000 less than the RH-53D. With the fuel 

load required for this mission, the Pave Low could not carry passengers 

or cargo.11

In essence, Kyle implies that the JTF planners had considered 

using the Air Rescue and Recovery Service’s (ARRS) HH-53Hs 

but decided against them because the Pave Lows could not 

meet performance requirements.12

Ryan suggests that Maj Gen Philip G. Gast, who “was brought 

into [the] operation because of his special knowledge of Tehran . . . also supervised the training program for the helicopter 

crews, a responsibility he presumably shared with Marine 

Colonel Charles Pitman.”13 But neither Gast, a USAF fighter 

pilot, nor Pitman, a conventionally minded USMC pilot, had 

any experience with SOF operations. More importantly, Navy 

pilots were not accustomed to flying overland at low levels during the night, much less with NVGs. Beckwith observes that 

“the normal Navy crews who trained on the 53s had no experience in the type of mission we envisioned. In fact, there were no 

pilots in any of the services who had been trained to fly in the 

conditions this mission required.”14 Beckwith may be correct in 

that the mission was more complex than what any “53 series” 

crews may have practiced in the past, but, unlike Navy pilots, 

the CH-53 and HH-53H crews of AFSOF and ARRS at least had 

experience flying with night-vision devices. 
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186

General Vaught and Colonel Beckwith recognized the pilots’ 

deficiencies the first time that they flew with the Navy crews. 

According to Beckwith, these pilots “were not what [we] were 

looking for” (emphasis added).15 They simply did not have the 

skills required for the mission. Beckwith argues, “We were looking for aces, daredevils, barnstormers, guys who flew by the 

seats of their pants, hot rodders, pilots who could pick it up, 

turn it around on a dime and put it back down with a flair. 

These Navy pilots didn’t believe in taking the risks we knew 

were required of the pilots flying into an enemy-held city.”16

Within a short while the JTF leadership removed all but one 

Navy pilot from the operation. 

Once the Navy pilots were no longer a part of the operation, 

General Vaught asked General Jones, an Air Force bomber pilot 

and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS), for help. By 

Beckwith’s account, General Jones, influenced by his J-3, Lt 

Gen Phillip Shutler, USMC, designated a group of Marine Corps 

helicopter pilots as replacements for the original Navy crews. 

According to Beckwith, “Many of us in Delta questioned the 

wisdom behind this decision. . . . There was some suspicion at 

the time that there were those in the JCS who wanted to make 

sure each of the services had a piece of the action . . . [but soon] 

it was obvious the Marine pilots had a lot of work to do. . . . The 

task they had been given was unusually hard. It was one that 

called for an altered mind-set” (emphasis in original).17 Ryan, 

on the other hand, suggested that after the first night’s rehearsal debacle, “Vaught ordered a widespread search for 

twenty of the best pilots in the armed forces.”18

According to Adm James L. Holloway, chairman of the commission set up to review the failed rescue mission, “More than 

two hundred aviators were screened. . . . The majority of those 

finally selected were Marine officers, with two Navy aviators 

and one Air Force officer.”19 Ryan further argued that Colonel 

Pitman “arranged for more seasoned pilots, evaluated progress 

in training, and was responsible for the transfer of personnel to 

the [training site].”20

Chapters 2 and 3 demonstrated the USAF’s benign neglect of 

the AFSOF and rescue mission areas. The failure of Desert One 

confirmed the Air Staff’s lack of foresight in considering alternatives. For example, when the JTF commander traded his 
APPENDIX

187

Navy crews for Marine Corps aviators (December 1979), even a 

cursory review of ARRS and AFSOF capabilities would have 

indicated to Air Staff planners involved with Desert One preparation that the ARRS had the most capable SOF capability in 

the USAF. It appears, however, that parochial approaches to 

intraservice mission areas and the implicit desire to have every 

service represented in this hugely important national mission 

affected the decision to have Marine Corps instead of USAF 

crews on the helicopter portion of the rescue attempt. 

Ultimately, the Iran hostage-rescue mission was a catalyst 

for the reprioritization of US special operations forces within 

the Department of Defense (DOD). That having been said, the 

information presented so far describes the penalty for the neareradication of the SOF community in the 1970s. Kyle identified 

four major reasons for the mission’s failure:

— Alternate helicopter pilots (USAF Special Operations or Rescue Service 

H-53 pilots) should have been selected to team with [the] Marines.

— Helicopter aborts—pilots lacked certain knowledge vital to reaching 

an informed decision whether to abort or proceed. 

— Enemy radar threat—helicopter pilots based low-level tactics on erroneous intelligence report[ing].

— Helicopter communications—pilots lacked secure modes of communication to receive vital mission information.21

Kyle places much of the blame for the failure of the Iran rescue mission on “a few conservative-minded conventional-force 

thinkers [who] led the helicopter component of the JTF.”22 Although Kyle does not name individuals in his account, Paul 

Ryan identifies two key figures in the JTF staff who were responsible for the conventional/conservative approach to the 

helicopter portion of the operation: General Gast, USAF, and 

Colonel Pitman, USMC. In addition to these individuals, it appears that USAF conventional leadership was partially responsible for the Desert One failure.

The evidence suggests that instead of entertaining the notion 

of utilizing ARRS resources, the JTF and Air Staff planners, at 

least initially, contacted AFSOF only. Once AFSOF declared 

that it did not have the capability to support the assault-force 

requirements, the JTF planners looked to other services for volunteers, implying that if AFSOF did not possess the “special” 
APPENDIX

188

capabilities called for in this mission, no other USAF unit could 

fulfill the requirements either. This was a case of the white-hat/

black-hat ARRS syndrome in reverse. The black-hat AFSOF 

community could not accept that a white-hat ARRS entity was 

a more capable special operations force than the units chartered with the AFSOF mission.23

The research uncovered several key pieces of evidence that 

support the above assertion. First, Lt Col Richard D. Newton, 

USAF, retired, an instructor at the Joint Special Operations 

University and graduate of the Army’s School of Advanced Military Studies, describes his encounter with Marine colonel (later 

lieutenant general) Pitman while attending a luncheon at Fort 

Leavenworth, Kansas: 

I very pointedly asked Gen Pitman why they hadn’t used the ARRS 

Paves and avoided the refueling in the desert . . . [and] I quote, “When 

we called the Air Force Special Operations folks, they answered that the 

Air Force could not do the mission. All they had were some Huey gunships and some old CH-3Es. At that point, we . . . [hung] up the phone 

and looked to the Marines.” In answering my follow-up question, he 

said they did not call ARRS after that because they went to AFSOF as 

the experts for special ops. Once the (corporate) USAF said they couldn’t 

do the mission, the planners looked elsewhere.24

In other words, Pitman’s comments suggest that the black-hat 

AFSOF community did not have the “hardware” required to fly 

the mission. But Pitman also implies that the “corporate” USAF 

failed to present any other alternatives to the JTF planners either. In theory, the USAF failed to advocate for its collective 

helicopter force, even though both ARRS and AFSOF crews 

were more qualified to fly the profile prescribed in the Desert 

One scenario. 

At first glance some may dismiss this as purely circumstantial evidence, but before doing so I must remind the reader that 

this research paper is about organizational culture. When one 

discusses culture, perceptions matter. Right or wrong, justified 

or simply vicious rumor, the perception among many AFSOF 

flyers was that the ARRS had refused the nation’s calling. At 

the same time, some within the ARRS community considered 

such allegations pure nonsense. The key point here is that the 

friction between the two communities—ARRS and AFSOF—is 

based more on myths, legends, and perceptions than on established fact. 
APPENDIX

189

In factual terms, the Holloway Commission concluded that 

“USAF pilots, more experienced in the mission profile envisioned for the rescue operation, would have progressed more 

rapidly than Marine Corps or Navy pilots.”25 Ryan argues that 

AFSOF projects like “Jungle Jim” had “demonstrated that a 

pilot could transition with relative ease to an aircraft of similar 

design and performance . . . [but] would find it much harder to 

learn the novel, even unique, skills required for covert missions.”26 Ryan makes a compelling case that pilots can learn to 

fly a different helicopter type more easily than they can develop 

a new mind-set associated with the conduct of special operations.27 Even though the ARRS, at the time, had a pool of 114 

qualified -53 series pilots, instructors, and evaluators, the Air 

Force did not adequately advocate the possibility of ARRS 

white-hat aviators participating in a black-hat mission.28

Another piece of the puzzle surfaced in a message from Lt 

Gen Charles A. Gabriel, deputy chief of staff for operations, 

plans, and readiness at Headquarters USAF, to Military Airlift 

Command (MAC) and Tactical Air Command (TAC). On 27 

March 1980, a month before the rescue attempt, General 

Gabriel solicited information from affected major commands 

(MAJCOM) about their views on the possibility of an Air Force 

special operations force:29

Recent experience has shown that any proposed US military response to 

various current International crises would include some mix of service 

special operations forces, usually acting jointly with our sister services. 

As a result, OJCS [Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff] has asked us to 

institutionalize the lessons we have learned during our recent joint 

planning and training.

1. In an effort to respond to time-sensitive taskings, we have relied on 

ad hoc coordination between the services and other government 

agencies in the areas of concept development, equipment interface, 

C2 and communications. It appears that if the . . . AFSOF is to work 

effectively with either conventional or other services’ SOF forces, we 

should have an organizational framework to implement detailed 

interservice planning, coordination and mission execution. 

2. The AFSOF structure is widely dispersed in [continental US, Pacific Air Forces, and United States Air Forces in Europe] and includes five active squadrons, ARF squadrons, and USAF Special 

Operations School, plus augmentation support from MAC and 

SAC [Strategic Air Command]. In order to provide an improved framework an AFSOF headquarters or center might be established directly under TAC. An appropriate charter would be for develop-
APPENDIX

190

ment of tactics, doctrine, requirements and innovative operational 

concepts for the worldwide SOF in support of Joint unconventional 

warfare, counterterrorism, SOF elements of the RDF [rapid deployment force] and special activities. It might also prove the nucleus 

for a rapid response crisis planning cell. Further, the organization 

could be established at Air Division equivalent level capable of:

a. Appropriate interface (General Officer commanding) with the 

MAJCOMS, other services and unified commands.

b. Functioning as a counterpart to USA’s JFK Center at Fort 

Bragg.

c. Dedicated staff and support operations separate from Wing 

management functions.

d. Providing experience necessary to insure the most effective 

field operations for a multi-mission and highly trained composite force.

3. Request TAC study feasibility of establishing a [Headquarters] 

AFSOF using 1st SOW [Special Operations Wing] resources to the 

maximum extent possible. The possibility of MAC and SAC (Tinker) 

manpower sources for appropriate liaison positions, as well as 

Army/Navy Liaison, within the organization may warrant addressal [sic].

4. As you are aware, manpower ceilings for FY 81 have been presented 

to Congress—the FY 81 President’s budget. Any requirements for 

a reorganization must come from within existing resources. Therefore, any additive manpower and facility requirements should be 

kept to the minimum. Request inputs be forwarded to AF/XOO/

XOX by 15 Apr 81 so we can address them in our FY 82–86 [program objective memorandum] deliberations.30 

This message was addressed to the TAC vice-commander, 

General Gast. As mentioned earlier, he was intimately familiar 

with the planning and execution of Desert One and, consequently, should have known that despite TAC’s deficiency in 

AFSOF platforms, MAC had a pool of experienced aviators 

trained in low-level and special operations (SO) missions.31

Considering the evidence, it appears that General Gast and 

others were prepared to cede a mission of this magnitude to 

another service rather than acknowledge the fact that the 

white-hat MAC/ARRS was better equipped to handle the SO 

mission than TAC/1st SOW. 

Nonetheless, after the failed rescue attempt, in an effort to 

avoid a formal congressional inquiry, the Carter administration 

established a military-review group appointed by the chairman 

of the JCS, General Jones, to “delve only into the military 
APPENDIX

191

causes of the failure—what went wrong and why—and to identify the military lessons learned and how the services could 

apply them in the future.”32 In the end, Admiral Holloway, who 

headed the review group, concluded, “I think [the mission] had 

a 60 to 70% chance of success and ran into some terribly bad 

luck.”33 Although a thorough review of the Holloway Commission’s findings is beyond the scope of this paper, it is widely 

accepted that the military planners incorporated the commission’s conclusions and recommended changes in the planning 

and rehearsal phases of Project Honey Badger, the preparations for a second hostage-rescue attempt.34

Based on TAC’s/MAC’s disagreements over the helicopter 

single-manager concept (examined in chapter 5), Desert One 

experiences, and information contained in General Gabriel’s 

message, the need for a single manager for helicopter operations and a more robust AFSOF capability were not just TAC/

MAC considerations but national priorities. Desert One was the 

focusing event that provided the impetus for change in behavior and forced all of the services to address the benign neglect 

of SOF and the resultant lack of a national counterterrorism 

capability. For example, the USAF had focused heavily on revitalizing its aging fleet of fighter aircraft in the late 1970s and 

considered AFSOF a diversion of valuable resources.35

Additionally, Desert One and Project Honey Badger established the paradigm for black SOF’s structure, training, and 

operational focus.36 As Amy Zegart suggests, national security 

organizations are deeply affected by the circumstances and 

factors associated with their creation.37 Similarly, the revitalization of the SOF community throughout the 1980s and 1990s 

has been closely related with the Desert One model.38 In essence, the black SOF subelement of the United States Special Operations Command not only has created the force 

structure but also has trained and “stood alert” in order to 

respond to a Desert One–level contingency for the past two 

decades.
APPENDIX

192

Notes

1. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p. 17.

2. Ibid., p. 18. Ryan points out that a week earlier the JCS had “set up a 

small, ad hoc group to develop ideas and organize a team to snatch the hostages in a lightning-quick raid. . . . When General Vaught’s staff was named, 

this ad hoc group ceased functioning” (ibid.).

3. Beckwith, Delta Force, p. 203. Note that Colonel Kyle was not the senior 

Air Force officer involved in this operation. General Gast, chief of the Military 

Assistance Advisory Group, Iran, was the ranking USAF officer. But he was a 

fighter pilot, and the mission called for an air component commander with a 

SOF background. Thus, Kyle was put in charge of the air component and 

was the designated deputy commander for the JTF. Please note that on 1 

Mar. 1980 Gast was promoted to lieutenant general and became the vicecommander of TAC. For more information, see Gast, biography.

4. Kyle, Guts to Try, p. 47.

5. Kyle to author, e-mail.

6. Beckwith, Delta Force, pp. 214–16. Beckwith lists the various options 

discussed during a commanders’ meeting on 2 Dec. 1979. Generals Vaught 

and Gast, as well as Colonels Beckwith and Kyle, agreed that “the helicopters’ 

strengths outweighed their weaknesses and on this testimony the choppers 

began to win the day.” The fixed-wing portion of the air package would support the helicopter infiltration force and ultimately exfiltrate the hostages and 

assault force (ibid.). 

7. Kyle, Guts to Try, pp. 202–9.

8. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p. 23.

9. Ibid., pp. 23–25; and US DOD, Rescue Mission Report, p. 51, cited in 

Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p.158n11.

10. Beckwith, Delta Force, p. 216.

11. Kyle, Guts to Try, p. 56. The RH-53D was a special minesweeping variant of the more common CH-53 Sea Stallion.

12. Kyle’s notion is challenged in this appendix. This section only seeks to 

draw a rough chronology of the events that facilitated support for the creation 

of the Twenty-third Air Force.

13. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p. 24.

14. Beckwith, Delta Force, p. 218.

15. Ibid., p. 224.

16. Ibid. Beckwith had the Delta psychologist, Doc Bender, look “these 

chaps over.” His response was telling. “You know, we got some guys here who 

are really shaky. They’re beginning to understand what kind of mission you 

want them to fly. Sure, one or two might make it, but for the rest.” Doc 

Bender, in the end, was right (ibid.).

17. Ibid., pp. 225, 228.

18. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p. 41.

19. Ibid. Ryan attributes his comments to Admiral Holloway.

20. Ibid., p. 25.
APPENDIX

193

21. Kyle, Guts to Try, p. 365. Please note that Kyle highlights this list of 

four reasons as “the major reasons that the mission failed” because he feels 

that the Holloway Commission failed to recognize them as major contributing 

factors to the failure of Desert One (ibid.).

22. Ibid., p. 36. Kyle argues that the combination of conventional and 

conservative mind-sets “made for a poor combination” (ibid.).

23. General Comer, Peterson AFB, CO, telephonic interview with author, 

Maxwell AFB, AL, 9 Feb. 2004. General Comer’s assertion excludes the 

ARRS’s involvement in the CSAR portion of Desert One because ARRS resources were not considered for the assault and hostage-rescue portions; for 

more see chap. 5.

24. Newton to author, e-mail, 29 Mar. 2004. Please note that several 

1980s-era AFSOF veterans confirmed that Colonel Pitman’s comments are, 

at least partially, in error. In 1979 and 1980, the 20th Special Operations 

Squadron did not have any Huey gunships. Nonetheless, although not totally 

accurate, his comments are not totally inaccurate.

25. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, p. 42; and US DOD, Rescue Mission 

Report, pp. 35–36.

26. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, pp. 42–43.

27. Ibid., p. 43.

28. Ibid., pp. 43, 128. Ryan also suggests that of the 114 qualified H-53 

pilots, 96 were “competent in long-range flight. Moreover, the air force roster 

carried the names of 86 former H-53 pilots, most of whom had had experience in special operations or combat rescue, probably in Vietnam, among 

other places. Most of these pilots would have been psychologically prepared 

for the pressures of secret missions; they would have probably progressed 

faster in training.” Ryan later quotes Colonel Beckwith as saying that “there 

were people around who were further advanced than these individuals [USMC 

pilots] were.” Ryan argues convincingly that Beckwith has AFSOF pilots in 

mind (ibid.).

29. History, Twenty-third Air Force, vol. 1, 1 Jan.–31 Dec. 1983, p. 1.

30. Message, 271800Z MAR 1980, AFSSO DCS/Operations, Plans and 

Readiness, to vice-commander et al., AFSSO TAC.

31. At least three of these veterans are used as sources in this paper: 

Colonels Connelly and Weikel and Major General Comer, all USAF, retired.

32. Ryan, Iranian Rescue Mission, pp. 107–8.

33. Ibid., p. 111.

34. Chinnery, Any Time, Any Place, pp. 231–32. Whereas the JCS had allocated only eight RH-53Ds to Operation Rice Bowl, the planners of Project 

Honey Badger had 95 helicopters at their disposal, including the first HH-53H 

Pave Low IIIs, UH-60 Blackhawks (the Army’s first operational company of 

UH-60s), CH-47C Chinooks from the 101st Airborne Division, and OH-6 

Loach helicopters that could carry some of the assaulters on specially modified outside platforms.

35. For more on this issue, see chaps. 3 and 5 of this paper.

36. Author’s personal experience. As discussed in chap. 5, the US Special 

Operations Command culture is divided into three subelements (white 
APPENDIX

194

SOF, black SOF, and other). Black SOF deals almost exclusively with the 

counterterrorism mission. AFSOF’s support for black SOF has almost exclusively been along the Desert One model.

37. Zegart, Flawed by Design, pp. 1–11.

38. Author’s personal experience. This model refers to a mix of fixed- and 

rotary-winged airframes delivering the assault force to remote landing sites, 

then (via rotary-wing support) assault on the objective, followed by a transload of hostages or cargo at a remote location near the objective, and finally 

a mass extraction of the entire force by fixed-wing assets. I would like to 

thank Colonel Weikel for sharing his thoughts on the subject with me. For 

more on Colonel Weikel’s ideas and a comparison between the Desert One 

and Son Tay models, see Kelly, From a Dark Sky, pp. 251–52.
195

Abbreviations

AAA	 antiaircraft artillery

AAC	 Army Air Corps

AAF	 Army Air Forces

AB	 air base

ACC	 Air Combat Command

ACG	 Air Commando Group

ACS	 Air Commando Squadron

ACSC	 Air Command and Staff College

ACW	 Air Commando Wing

AD	 air division

AEF	 air and space expeditionary force 

AFC	 Air Force Council

AFDD	 Air Force Doctrine Document

AFHRA	 Air Force Historical Research Agency

AFMAN	 Air Force manual

AFR	 Air Force Reserve

AFSOC	 Air Force Special Operations Command

AFSOF	 Air Force special operations forces

AISS	 Air Intelligence Support Squadron 

AMC	 Airborne Mission Command

ANG	 Air National Guard

ARCG	 Air Resupply and Communications Group

ARCS	 Air Resupply and Communications Service

ARCW	 Air Resupply and Communications Wing

ARRS	 Air Rescue and Recovery Service

ARRSR	 Air Rescue and Recovery Service Regulation 

ARS	 Air Rescue Service; Air Rescue Squadron

ARSOF	 Army special operations forces

ASG	 Air Studies Group

ATTW	 Air Training and Test Wing

CAS	 close air support

CBI	 China-Burma-India

CCRAK	 Covert, Clandestine, and Related Activities–Korea

CCTG	 Combat Crew Training Group

CCTS	 Combat Crew Training Squadron

CIA	 Central Intelligence Agency

CINCMAC	 commander in chief, Military Airlift Command

COIN	 counterinsurgency
ABBREVIATIONS

196

COMUSMACV	 commander, United States Military Assistance

Command Vietnam

CONUS	 continental United States

CR	 combat rescue

CSA	 chief of staff, United States Army

CSAF	 chief of staff, United States Air Force

CSAR	 combat search and rescue

CT	 counterterrorist

CTJTF	 counterterrorist joint task force

DA	 Department of the Army

DOD	 Department of Defense

FEAF	 Far East Air Forces

FEC/LG	 Far East Command Liaison Group

FM	 field manual

FY	 fiscal year

GWOT	 global war on terrorism

HLH	 heavy-lift helicopter

HQ	 headquarters

HS	 helicopter squadron

IOC	 initial operational capability

JACK	 Joint Activities Commission—Korea

JCS	 Joint Chiefs of Staff

JFC	 joint force commander

JFCOM	 Joint Forces Command

JP	 joint publication

JSF	 Joint Strike Fighter

JSOTF	 Joint Special Operations Task Force

JTF	 joint task force

LLH	 light-lift helicopter

LRC	 Logistics Resources Center

MAC	 Military Airlift Command

MACSOG	 Military Assistance Command Studies and

Observation Group

MAJCOM	 major command

MATS	 Military Airlift Transport Service

MFP	 major force program

MOA	 memorandum of agreement

MOU	 memorandum of understanding

MPC	 Military Personnel Center

NDAA	 National Defense Authorization Act
ABBREVIATIONS

197

NSWCOM	 Naval Special Warfare Command

NVG	 night vision goggle

OPLAN	 operation plan

OSD	 Office of the Secretary of Defense

OSS	 Office of Strategic Services

PACAF	 Pacific Air Forces

PAD	 program action directive

PJ	 pararescue jumper

POM	 program objective memorandum

POW	 prisoner of war

PR personnel recovery

RAF	 Royal Air Force

ROC	 required operational capability

SAASS	 School of Advanced Air and Space Studies

SAC	 Strategic Air Command

SAOR	 Southeast Asia Operational Requirement

SARTF	 Search and Rescue Task Force

SAW	 special air warfare 

SAWC	 Special Air Warfare Center

SEA	 Southeast Asia

SecDef	 secretary of defense

SF	 special forces

SLEP	 service life extension program

SO	 special operations

SOC	 Special Operations Command

SOE	 special operations executive

SOG	 Studies and Observations Group

SOS	 special operations squadron

SOW	 special operations wing

TAC	 Tactical Air Command

TCW	 tactical composite wing

TDY	 temporary duty

TRADOC	 Training and Doctrine Command

UCAV	 unmanned combat air vehicle

USA	 United States Army

USAF	 United States Air Force

USASOC	 US Army Special Operations Command 

USSOCOM	 United States Special Operations Command

UW	 unconventional warfare

VCSAF	 vice-chief of staff of the Air Force

199

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Black Hats and White Hats

The Effect of Organizational Culture and

Institutional Identity on the Twenty-third Air Force

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