Colonel George Bud Day, a man who had already pushed past Impossible. He was a World War II marine gunner, a jet pilot in Korea, and the only soul to ever survive ejecting upside down at 300 ft when his parachute failed to deploy. He was a certified card carrying paid in full badass.
And yet, he had absolutely no business being in Vietnam. But there he was, commanding a revolutionary new experiment called Operation Commando Sabra. The idea to replace the slow-moving, vulnerable spotter planes with the blistering speed of supersonic fighters. Day’s mission was clear. Find and mark a hidden sand missile site near the demilitarized zone for the bombers.
From the very beginning, he called the entire operation a very bad idea. The military brass, in a rare moment of agreement, actually concurred with him, but they made it his responsibility anyway. On the 26th of August, 1967, the old man’s wisdom was tragically validated. In the middle of his 65th mission, the SAM site day was hunting found him first.
As his F-100F Super Saber banked for cover, a vicious blast of 37mm anti-aircraft fire ripped through the tail. Once again, Day was forced to punch out of a flaming jet. He slammed into the dense jungle canopy, shattering his right arm and wrecking his knee. Then came the ultimate, crushing absurdity. A small child stepped out of the trees, pointed a rusted rifle at one of America’s most decorated pilots, and simply stole his watch.
And believe it or not, that moment would soon feel merciful compared to the dark horror that was waiting for him. The birth of Misti. Let’s rewind for a moment. Before the jungle horror, there was the unbelievable history of George Day. He had absolutely no need to be back in the fight. Day was a Marine gunner in World War II and an F84 Thunderjet pilot in Korea.
His record was already legendary. In 1956, while stationed with the 55th Bomb Squadron, the day pulled off what was universally considered impossible. Flying an F84F Thunder Streak, a notoriously temperamental jet nicknamed the Atom Bum, his engine tore apart on approach. He ejected at under 300 ft while the jet was rolling inverted.
His shoot failed completely. He crashed straight through the treetops and walked away with only a broken ankle. He became the first jet pilot to ever survive a parachuteless’s ejection. By all measures, he was more than eligible for a quiet retirement. But as is often the case with men like Day, the war had simply seeped too deep into his bones. He wasn’t ready to quit.
He promised himself one more year, one last tour before hanging up his helmet for good. With over 5,000 flight hours logged, Day arrived at Tuihoa in April 1967. He flew the F-100D with the 309th Tactical Fighter Squadron. But the senior leadership had a different plan for him.
They offered him command of a risky, untested, new unit, Detachment 1, 416th Tactical Fighter Squadron, stationed at Fukcat. Day would be their first leader. It was an immediate gamble. North of the demilitarized zone, the Ho Chi Min trails were a nightmare, absolutely bristling with Soviet supplied SA two surfaceto-air missiles and deadly anti-aircraft artillery.
The Americans were losing pilots fast. Over 250 slowmoving forward air control or FAC aircraft had been shot down. The sluggish Cessna01 bird dogs were easy prey. Something drastic had to change. The desperate idea emerged to replace the slow FAC aircraft with the robust, fast F-100 Super Saber. This was a fighter jet that was already being phased out of service.
Being asked to do a job it was never designed for. The brass hesitated. It was just talk until May 22nd, 1967. On that day, an SA2 obliterated an 01E killing Lieutenant Colonel Lester Holmes near the DMZ. That loss was the tipping point. The Air Force had no choice. They formed the first Super Saber Fact Squadron and Bud Day was given the reigns. He did not mince words.
He told them plainly, “A very bad idea. He thought the F-100F was fundamentally unsuited for the mission. His professional doubts were ignored, and on June 25th, Day took the job anyway. He was not a man to shrink from action. Jets for the unit were scavenged from the dwindling F100F fleet, often pieced together from whatever spares could be found.
The operation started at Fan Rang, and by June 15th, the unit was fully concentrated at Fukcat. Pilots were pulled from other squadrons, thrown into a sudden 4-month tour flying borrowed jets. The project was officially designated Operation Commando Saber. 16 volunteer pilots converged at Fukcat, which was the closest F-100 base to North Vietnam.
Four of these pilots were former 01 facts, used to the slower, more deliberate pace. Budday had two intense weeks to mold them into a lethal force. He shaped entirely new tactics for the squadron. Commando Saber was turning into something fearsome. The unit needed a call sign. The day remembered a song he’d heard years before in a Las Vegas nightclub.
Johnny Matthysse’s Misty. The name stuck. Soon the call sign Misty became synonymous with terror in the jungle below. Day’s instincts were quickly put to the test. Flying low, just slicing through the treetops, he caught sight of something. a subtle break in the dense jungle camouflage, a hidden truck. He tore in head-on, firing a rocket that obliterated the vehicle on impact.
But he knew there was more. He called in a flight of F-15D Thunder Chiefs and went back for another pass. He fired a second rocket deep into the trees. The jungle erupted. 28 secondary explosions ripped apart the landscape, peeling back the camouflage to reveal a hidden truck park and an entire SAM site.
Targets suddenly multiplied. The phone 105 seconds went to work. Bud Day had taken the sighting of a single camouflaged truck and turned it into a devastating strategic victory. This was the power of Misti. The final mission and recapture. On the 26th of August 1967, Day and Captain Corwin Kippenham, flying as Misti 31, were already strapping themselves into the cockpit of their F100F.
Just as they were tightening their harnesses, a courier plane skidded onto the runway. A jeep raced straight toward their jet. An airman sprinted out, urgently thrusting a freshly developed reconnaissance photograph into Day’s hands. The grainy photo was terrifyingly clear. It showed a radar ban alongside three SA two missiles hidden among fruit trees west of Finger Lake, perilously close to the demoliterized zone.
7th Air Force had one immediate non-negotiable demand. Misty 31 must instantly verify the target and guide an air strike against it. Day in the back seat felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. For Kippenham, a former slowmoving fact pilot, this was his very first misty mission. Having the legendary Bud Day aboard was both a tremendous honor and deeply intimidating.
This was Day’s 65th incursion into enemy territory. Hit and ejecting, it took 30 minutes for Misti 31 to reach North Vietnam. The missile site, clearly marked on paper, was almost impossible to find while speeding low over the jungle canopy. Coming in fast from the east, they were met with crackling gunfire, but the target remained frustratingly hidden.
Now alerted, the North Vietnamese gunners waited, weapons hot. Day and Kippenham broke away, completed a quick strike near Dong Hoy, then urgently refueled over Thailand. They returned to Finger Lake from the south. This was their last best shot. Suddenly, a visibly excited Kippenham spotted the missiles, but the Samite had been waiting and it spotted them, too.
A deafening explosion tore through Misty 31’s tail from a direct burst of 37 mm fire. Hydraulics failed instantly. Control surfaces detached. The stick froze immovably. Ejecting was their only hope for survival. Day crashed violently into the dense treetops. His right arm shattering in multiple places.
His knee and eye screaming in agony. Fleeing salvation. Desperately, he tried to transmit his location on his survival radio, but received only silence. Yet there was hope nearby. A jolly green giant rescue helicopter homeed in on the faint beep of Day’s shootute transmitter. Moments later, Day could actually see the rescue chopper, picking up Kippenham about a/4 mile away.
But salvation was fleeting. Before the chopper could reach him, a young boy emerged from the shadows, aiming a rusted rifle directly at De’s chest. The boy snatched De’s watch, screaming for his companions. Several other skinny teenagers swarmed from the brush, stealing his boots and knives. The helicopter was almost directly above him.
Day glimpsed a figure in the open doorway, rifle ready. It was Kippenham already rescued. Had the chopper turned right, Day’s capttors would have fled. Instead, it veered left, sealing De’s fate. A wild escape. The North Vietnamese militia force marched Day to an underground shelter for interrogation. When he refused to cooperate, they decided to stage a terrifying mock execution.
Day stealed himself, certain this was the end, determined to face it with dignity. Instead, he was viciously beaten by the teenagers, then hung by his feet from a rafter for hours. The only sliver of silver lining was knowing his capttors were not trained soldiers, but undisiplined local militia, villagers who were bound to slip up sooner or later.
They paraded him through the villages as a war trophy. At one village, an inexperienced medic carelessly misaligned his broken arm, wrapping it crudely in a makeshift cast. By September 2nd, Day was held in a village roughly 18 mi north of the DMZ. Escape became his consuming obsession. If he could slip away and cross the Benhai River, the border between North and South Vietnam, he had a chance.
His guards were careless, convinced he was too injured to get far, especially without boots. They cleverly exaggerated his injuries, pretending to lose consciousness frequently and appearing barely able to move. The ruse worked. The guards grew complacent. Journey to the river. That night, as his teenage guard casually chatted with another across the road.
Day quietly untied himself, stole a canteen filled with water, and slipped away, heading south. The darkness became his ally, but the rugged terrain quickly tore his bare feet apart. Despite the searing pain, he pressed forward, hiding during the day and moving stealthily through the night. On the second night, as Day slept hidden in dense underbrush, an American bomb or rocket exploded nearby.
The blast ruptured his eardrum, left him concussed, bleeding from his ears and nose, and peppered with new shrapnel wounds in his leg. Yet, summoning sheer willpower, Day continued southward. Physically shattered, starving, and desperately thirsty, he pushed onwards. lush berries and strange citrus-like fruits found in the wilderness, praying they weren’t poisonous.
Twice, he managed to catch frogs, which he consumed raw. Later, Day recalled, “The palm trees were full of rainwater that I ran into the canteen. I drank a lot of it. Several times he saw Vietnamese soldiers and civilians dangerously close, but they never spotted him. Recaptured.” On the eighth night, Day reached the Benhai River.
He floated silently across using bamboo logs hidden beneath branches. A sentry looked in his direction briefly but dismissed the drifting shape as harmless debris. Unbeknownst to Day, he had just achieved something extraordinary, becoming the only P to escape from North Vietnam entirely on his own during the war. Between the 12th and 15th day, Day had completely lost track of time he heard helicopters.
Marine choppers were evacuating infantry nearby. Stumbling desperately toward the landing zone, he arrived moments too late. He was agonizingly close, just a few miles from American held territory. The next morning, Day desperately tried signaling an American 01 aircraft overhead. Instead, he alerted a Vietkong patrol. Gunfire erupted, and as Day fled, bullets pierced his left thigh and hand less than 2 mi from the U s Marine Corps camp at Kine.
Day’s incredible run ended in capture. Once again, the Hanoi Hilton and the plantation. Being a genuine Vietkong unit, the day’s capttors, this time had a more skilled medic than the previous group. They bandaged his wounds and fed him just enough so he could make his way back to the camp he’d escaped from, initially carrying the wounded airmen on a stretcher.
Waiting across the river were his new masters, regular North Vietnamese soldiers in neat uniforms and AK-47 rifles. When he returned to his old camp, the North Vietnamese immediately punished him for the crime of escaping. His arm was broken again. He was given his shoes back, but without laces. Instead, the shoes were fastened at the ankles with wire, and as he walked, they clung to gravel and debris, scratching his already torn ankles.
Day called it the bloody shoe march. He slowly made his way north to a camp near Hanoi. There, De underwent his first professional interrogation from a rat-faced officer whom the Americans called the rat, a name many prisoners of war would later know. The rat demanded military information, which Day resolutely refused.
One of the guards twisted De’s right arm inside a cast. His wrist broke with a sharp crack. Then the rat threatened to break De’s left arm as well. Day’s left hand, where he had been shot during his recapture, was unusable. Its fingers curled up like claws. Day stalled by fabricating a series of false statements and giving them to the rat.
The torture stopped, at least for a while. Neither then nor afterward did he ever reveal Misty’s mission or any of the actual operational details. More importantly, he never told the enemy that he was also a lawyer, a fact that, if true, would have given any unfavorable testimony a particularly dangerous legal edge. Hanoi prison.
The enemy, whom the prisoners simply called V, brought day to Hanoi by truck, a journey that took about 3 days. Prisoners of war played a vital role in North Vietnam’s war effort. They not only provided ample opportunity to weave propaganda narratives, but were also crucial bargaining chips when the final ceasefire negotiations began.
He arrived at Halo Prison in the heart of Hanoi. Built by the French at the beginning of the century, this fortress was massive and fearsome. Its stone walls 14 ft high, its roof covered with shards of broken glass. The Vietnamese called it the furnace. The American prisoners simply called it the Hanoi Hilton. No one had ever escaped from there.
Inside, the immediate horror was the new recruit village, where new prisoners faced brutal interrogations designed to quickly subdue them. The interrogation methods varied, but the pain never ceased. The main interrogator was the infamous Bug responsible for the lives of at least five Americans. He was assisted by two guard prisoners named Straps and Bars and Jake.
As the guards conducted their brutal interrogations, the steady clicking of typewriters echoed indifferently from across the corridor. When asked to provide the names of other pilots, Day finally listed Doc Savage, Charles Lindberg, and Billy Mitchell. Fictitious names taken from history and fiction. Finally, he was transferred to another area called Little Vegas, where loudspeakers constantly broadcast propaganda from American anti-war politicians and forced confessions from other prisoners.
By this time, Day’s condition had deteriorated significantly. When the cast on his right arm was finally removed, his hand hung limply and was useless. He weighed less than 45 kg and could not even care for himself. Another prisoner, Air Force Major Norris M. Overly, was assigned to care for him. Soon after, Day and Overly were transferred to another camp called Plantation, just a few miles away.
The reason for the rapid transfer became clear. Overly also had to help care for another severely wounded prisoner of war, Navy Lieutenant Commander John S. McCain III, who had been shot down and captured on the 26th of October, 1967. McCain’s father, Admiral John S. McCain Jr.
, was about to become commander of US. Forces in the Pacific and the Vietnamese hoped to exploit this connection. Compared to the Hilton, conditions of plantation were more bearable, as it had once been the residence of a French mayor. High-ranking Vietnamese officials frequently visited McCain, attempting to pressure him into cooperating, but McCain famously refused.
Most prisoners of war strictly adhered to the US. military code of conduct, providing only their names, ranks, numbers, and dates of birth. Day and McCain were considered the most tenacious resistors, enduring harsh conditions before providing any useful information. Healed badly, the bones were misaligned, unjoined, and painfully ulcerated.
McCain improvised a splint using bamboo and rags, carefully resetting Day’s broken bones. Remarkably, within a month, Day’s bones fused back together. Years later, American doctors remarked that McCain’s impromptu medical treatment was astonishingly effective. At the plantation, D and McCain learned the tap code PS for secret communication, knowing full well that being caught meant immediate and severe punishment.
The zoo and the star spangled banner. The 28th of April, 1968. Bud Day was dragged to the zoo, a living nightmare hidden in the southwestern suburbs of Hanoi. This was a punishment camp, a place for the broken, the defiant, those who simply wouldn’t yield. There, Day endured unrelenting agony.
He felt an intense betrayal when he learned American liberals, journalists, and visitors to Hanoi all praised the Vietkong, dismissing reports of mistreatment as fabrication. Dayd when he discovered CBS News had, on nine separate occasions assured the world that prisoners were being treated well. In the end, he gave them what they wanted, a confession.
It was a complete fabrication loaded with nonsense. He told them of a madeup transportation committee, a network of trucks supposedly poised to escape Hanoi. He invented a pass and identification committee turning out false papers. He didn’t know if they believed his story, but if it was enough to stop the pain for a couple of hours, it was good enough.
Then in September, there was a sudden shift. Ho Chi Min, the leader of North Vietnam, had passed away. It quickly became clear that much of the systematic brutality of the P camps was a specific request of Min himself. Without him, the machine slowed, but it did not stop. June 1,970. Blindfolded, day was hauled back to the Hanoi Hilton.
The conditions were marginally better, but comfort was always relative. Then something incredible happened. On the night of the 21st of November 1970, the roar of HH3E helicopters shattered the silence over North Vietnam. Their target was the heavily fortified prison camp of Sante where over 50 American PS were believed to be held.
The lead helicopter crash landed inside the compound and Green Berets stormed out, eliminating stunned guards in seconds. They moved fast, clearing barracks, calling out for Americans. Silence. The cells were empty. The prisoners had been moved just days before. Though the raid was a tactical masterpiece, its failure was bitter.
Yet, it delivered a gut-wrenching blow to the V. In desperation, PS were moved again, herded into the Hilton like cattle. It was overcrowded, yes, but at least they were finally together, and conditions improved, perhaps for fear of an imminent second raid. In room 7, 45 men crammed into a space meant for half. But they were Americans, and they would not break. They organized a church service.
The guards led by the bug stormed in demanding it stop. The men refused. When the guards dragged Lieutenant Colonel Robinson Risner, the man leading the service and others away. Budday took a breath and started singing asterisk asterisk. The Star Spangled Banner asterisk asterisk. The entire camp joined in.
For 2 hours, their voices rang out, defiant, singing patriotic American songs. The Vietkong did not dare interrupt them again. The rumors of peace talks began to reach the Hilton, but it seemed impossible so far away from their reality. To make matters worse, during the preliminary peace talks in Paris in December 1970, the official roster of PS did not include Day.
Because of Major Overly’s reports, the US, you knew he was there and the V was hiding him. De’s wife and the US government demanded the North Vietnamese include Day if the talks were to proceed. Meanwhile, the endless cycle of moving from camp to camp, getting beaten and interrogated, continued. In March 1971, Day was sent to Skid Row, 5 miles outside Hanoi.
It was a solitary confinement camp where he faced isolation inside a coffin-sized cell for weeks on end. Of his 67 months as a prisoner, he would spend 38 in isolation. Later that year, another shift came. He was moved to a camp called Heartbreak Hotel. Then he was shuffled back to Skid Row, then again to the Hilton.
Months passed and the cycle did not end. Day and his fellow men adapted and resisted, fighting to keep their sanity. They entertained themselves with memories. Wednesday and Saturday were movie nights. A prisoner would recall a film as detailed as they could every line of dialogue they could remember and bring it to life for the others.
Among the best storytellers was John McCain. On the 18th of December 1972, the air filled with a distant, terrifying roar of bombers. Linebacker 2 had begun. The Americans were coming. Explosions rained down on Hanoi. And suddenly, high-ranking Vietkong officers appeared at the Hilton. The safest place in the entire city was inside the prison.
Freedom Day and Medal of Honor, the 27th of January, 1973. The announcement came down like a thunderclap. The Paris protocols were signed. The war was over. The prisoners were going home. After years of agony, it was finally real. The releases began on February 12th. Budday’s freedom day came on March 14th. The wait was agonizing, but then finally, the Air Force cone, 141 seconds, touched down at Gam Airfield.
One by on the men boarded the planes, stepping onto the aircraft that would take them out of hell. The moment the wheels lifted, the cabin erupted in cheers, tears, unbridled joy. Hanoi was behind them. Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines seemed a world apart from the filth and suffering of captivity. Medical team surrounded them.
They enjoyed their first real meal in years. Day received a call from his wife. He hadn’t heard from her in 5 years. Her voice was strong and steady, crashing against him like a wave. A few days later, at March Air Force Base, California, he was once again in his wife’s arms. Their four children clung to him. Home. Finally, home.
During his captivity, time had not stopped. He had been promoted twice. Now he was Colonel George E. Bud Day, but his body was ravaged. It would take a year of rigorous rehabilitation, 13 dispensations, and unwavering willpower to return to pilot status. He trained on 4 seconds and served as deputy commander of the 33rd Tactical Fighter Squadron at Eglund Air Force Base, Florida.
In 1974, he and his comrades, including McCain, returned to South Vietnam. This time they were honored, recognized for their extraordinary endurance. Then on the 6th of March 1976, President Gerald Ford awarded Bud Day the Medal of Honor for his spectacular escape after being shot down and his unwavering refusal to cooperate with the North Vietnamese Army.
No one in the US Air Force had ever worn as many medals as Bud Day. In total, nearly 70 medals, more than 50 earned in combat. The Air Force Cross, the Distinguished Service Medal, the Silver Star Medal, 12 campaign stars, a legacy forged in blood, indomitable spirit, and unwavering will. In 1976, he left the military, but did not abandon the fight.
He pursued law, passing the Florida Bar Exam in 1977. From his law office in Fort Walton Beach, he stood up for his fellow veterans, taking cases all the way to Washington and never backing down. One of his most intense battles was against his former employer, the US government. It all began in 1995 when day, accustomed to receiving medical care at Eglund Air Force Base, was denied Medicare. The rules had changed.
Retirees now had to enroll in Medicare. A lifelong promise, a promise for every serviceman, was being discarded like an old contract. The day was furious. He refused to accept it. In 1996, Day filed a class action lawsuit on behalf of retired military personnel who were denied their promised lifelong healthcare.
Despite the court battle, Day never wavered in his belief in military service. His message to the next generation of veterans was, “Young men have the highest duty to serve your country. That is the highest mission for a young man.” Even after the aerial battles, the prison camps, and the trials, Budday never stopped fighting and he never stopped believing.
John McCain continued, “I don’t know how many American prisoners of war were heroes, but I know Bud Day was one of them. I have never known anyone who embodied the noblest American virtues better. Compassion, courage, determination, resourcefulness, and intelligence. Bud Day was one of the greatest men I ever had the honor of knowing.
