Boyd (11 page)

There were other concerns, too. Mary was again pregnant. She began a series of gamma globulin shots that doctors said might
prevent her from contracting polio. But if polio were hereditary and if their first child had the disease, the same thing
could happen to the next child. Mary repeatedly told Boyd of her fear that his family was the source of the polio. He said
they would have to wait and see.

To increase Stephen’s mobility and to help him have as normal a childhood as possible, Boyd nailed several boards together,
attached skate wheels to the bottom, and showed Stephen how to lie on the
board and push with his hands. As Stephen grew older, he took to the streets and played with neighborhood children. When Boyd
came home from flying jets at 30,000 feet and at more than 400 mph, the first thing he saw when he drove into the neighborhood
was his son on a homemade surfboardlike device, gamely pushing himself along the street behind a group of laughing and running
children.

The summer of 1954, when Stephen contracted polio, was the last summer America experienced a polio epidemic. Dr. Jonas Salk
invented the polio vaccine that year. In 1955 the U.S. government approved polio vaccinations, and for all practical purposes
polio disappeared from America. It was good news for America and for the world, but what was even more important news to Boyd
was that Dr. Salk said polio was a virus—the disease was not hereditary. Boyd was not responsible. But Stephen would never
walk.

That summer, Boyd graduated from Advanced Flying School and was assigned to the 3597th Flying Training Squadron as an instructor.
He went through the training aids, the mission plans, the course outlines, and the class structure and announced he was going
to “tweak up the tactics section.”

Tweak? There was nothing to tweak. SAC generals thought advanced training for fighter pilots, unless it was training in how
to put iron on the ground, was useless. The air-to-air portion of the curriculum had dwindled to almost nothing. There was
not even a manual of tactics. Everything was a grab bag of tricks passed down from World War I to World War II to Korea.

To understand how this came about, one must go back to the early days of aviation. German pilots in World War I developed
the technique of diving with the sun at their backs and firing at blinded American pilots. This maneuver led to the expression,
“Beware of the Hun in the sun.” American pilots copied the maneuver.

Eric Hartman, the famous German pilot of World War II, simply pounced on slow bombers, unsuspecting fighters, or any crippled
aircraft from behind. He was a back-shooter who shot down 352 airplanes and became the leading ace of all time.

Because the P-38 was so unmaneuverable, Richard Bong, the leading American ace of World War II, had to rely on one trick:
from a high perch he pushed over and used the blazing speed of his P-38 to
dive onto an enemy formation. He pulled in so close he could not miss, blasted the enemy out of the air, then blew through
the formation. Bong then used his superior diving speed to zoom back up to altitude and do the same thing again. There was
nothing remotely sophisticated about this trick, but he used it to shoot down forty Japanese aircraft.

Combat veterans of Korea were teaching what they learned in MiG Alley and, not surprisingly, it was not that much different
from what Hartman or Bong did. That was because new pilots in Korea were told never to get in a turning fight with a MiG and
to use their speed to blow through enemy formations. American pilots believed that both they and the enemy had such an infinite
number of maneuvers at their disposal that aerial combat could never be codified. Air combat was an art, not a science. After
simulated aerial combat, a young pilot would be defeated and never know why. Nor could his instructors tell him. They said
something like, “Don’t worry, kid. Eventually you’ll be as good as we are.” Either a fighter pilot survived combat and became
a member of the fraternity or he died. In short, aerial tactics—with one or two exceptions—had made no significant advance
since World War I. Maneuvers performed in a Sopwith Camel in the First World War or in a P-38 in the Second World War still
were performed by F-86s in Korea and taught at Nellis after Korea. The only difference was that the speed and power of jets
enabled them to fight in vertical maneuvers that were nearly impossible in aircraft powered by gasoline engines. Even so,
F-86 pilots in Korea had only begun to explore vertical maneuvers and most combat was still fought in the horizontal plane.

So when Boyd said he was going to “tweak up the tactics,” what he meant was that he was going to develop, and codify for the
first time in history, a formal regimen for fighter aircraft. He went about the job with a passion. He worked far into the
night devising a series of briefings on fighter versus fighter and began to develop his skills as a lecturer.

No one else in the Air Force was seeking to advance the art of airto-air combat. Everyone in government, up to and including
the president, believed the next war would be a nuclear war. Thus Boyd soon knew more about what he was teaching than did
any other person in the Air Force.

Like most people who find a cause, he had little patience for those who did not understand or who disagreed with what he was
doing. Boyd never suffered lightly the careerists or bureaucrats or others who did not understand his ideas. Most of the time
he showed the proper military courtesy. But he had the aggressive personality of a fighter pilot, and if someone asked a question,
they got a straight answer.

Throughout his career Boyd polarized his superiors. There were those who did not like him and thought he was unprofessional
and those who had tremendous admiration for him and respect for the contribution he was making to the Air Force. His first
ER at Nellis reveals his precarious position. The front page of the ER requires the rating officer to check one of a series
of boxes and grade the younger officer in various categories such as “job knowledge” or “leadership” or “growth potential.”
The idea is to have the front page “fire walled,” that is, every check mark in the sixth box on the far right of the page.
Boyd’s check marks were all in the third or fourth box. It is a mediocre and career-ending rating.

On the more important second page, the rating officer says of Boyd, “He is nervous, talkative, and presents an engaging personality.…
He becomes very excited and loud during the heat of an argument.… [Boyd is] well read and precise on any subject he is familiar
with and will discuss it in detail.” In the all-important final paragraph, the one that deals with potential for promotion,
the officer dismisses Boyd by describing him as “… an excellent young pilot commensurate with his grade and experience and
would be an asset to any day fighter organization.”

Fighter pilots have always been their own worst enemies when it comes to rating each other. One study showed that the toughest
evaluators of their peers in the Air Force were fighter pilots, followed closely by nurses. By openly arguing with his superiors,
by criticizing them, Boyd only increased this tendency toward harsh judgment. Less than a year after arriving at Nellis, he
was in serious trouble.

After a difficult pregnancy and a painful and protracted delivery, Mary Boyd gave birth to her second child on February 8,
1955. She named the girl Kathryn after Kathryn Grayson, a movie star of the 1950s. Mary was filled with apprehension about
the possibility of
polio and examined Kathy (as the girl became known) daily, feeling her legs and arms and watching for any of the symptoms
that preceded Stephen’s illness, but Kathy was a healthy baby who would remain free of polio. Her problems would come later
and would be of a far more confusing nature.

In the March 1955 issue of the
Fighter Weapons Newsletter,
Major Frederick “Boots” Blesse, a double ace from the Korean War, published an article about fighter techniques used in Korea
titled “No Guts, No Glory.” The newsletter was the official publication of the Fighter Weapons School at Nellis and usually
contained no articles of consequence—but Blesse’s article was important for three reasons. First, it was written by a certified
MiG-killer, and aces always receive a lot of attention. Second, virtually nothing had been published about aerial tactics—not
in World War I, World War II, or Korea. In a foreword, the editor of the newsletter took note of this when he said, “It is
a poor testimonial that so little is documented about this vital phase of aerial warfare.” He added that “… much of this article
is an application of known principles.” Even though there was nothing original in Blesse’s piece, to see an article about
fighter tactics written by a fighter ace made Air Force officials nervous, and the issue of the newsletter containing the
article was classified “confidential.” Finally, the article was important because Blesse’s observations would end up overshadowing
much of Boyd’s original and creative work on aerial tactics.

Boyd pressed on with his research and development of aerial tactics, continuing to test his ideas in the air. The F-86 was
temporarily grounded because of structural problems. When it resumed flying, the normal inclination of most pilots was to
baby it for a while. But Boyd manhandled the F-86. One of his favorite maneuvers was a snap roll, a violent maneuver that
put enormous side loads on the vertical stabilizer. He wanted to teach the maneuver to students, but his superiors considered
it too dangerous. If the maneuver was not properly and precisely performed, it could cause a structural failure and a crash.
One day Boyd and another instructor were rat-racing when Boyd performed a snap roll. The other instructor looked over and
radioed Boyd, “You have some wires flying formation on your tail.” Boyd returned to Nellis, made a gentle landing, and parked
in a distant corner of the flight line. He was more than a little alarmed to see
broken wires protruding from the twisted tail surface. He asked his crew chief to check the damage. Boyd was in the Officers
Club when he was called to the front door. The crew chief informed him the main structural mount in the tail of the F-86 had
broken and that it was a miracle the tail had not failed. Out of loyalty to Boyd, the crew chief covered up the incident and
Boyd was never charged with any offense.

In March 1955, Boyd received another ER from the same major who evaluated him earlier. The report is even more damning than
the first. The first page has low ratings. On the second page, the important first sentence reads, “Lt. Boyd is a loud, talkative
person who thrives on debates and discussions.” The middle paragraphs speak glowingly of Boyd’s work: he is a “very successful
instructor.” His ability as a pilot is “well above average.” He is “a diligent worker in motivating his students for combat.”
And “He is one of the most enthusiastic persons about flying I have ever known.” But in the final paragraph, the major says
Boyd would be an asset to a fighter squadron as a flight leader or assistant operations officer and that he is “… a dependable
and typically effective officer.” Since Boyd had already served as a flight leader in Korea, the rating officer is saying
Boyd would be good at a job he held several years earlier. And to say he is a “typically effective officer” is to say there
is nothing special about him; he is not worthy to be considered for promotion—he is one of the herd.

It is a poor evaluation, delivered in a day of inflated ratings, when it was standard practice for most ERs to be fire walled.
In fact, most young first lieutenants who received such a rating would seriously reconsider any plans to make a career in
the Air Force.

But at the lowest point in his young career, Boyd was accepted as a student at the Fighter Weapons School (FWS) for the class
beginning in April. There, he would learn to train instructors in advanced techniques of aerial combat.

The FWS was formed at Nellis in 1949. It had various names and permutations over the years, especially in the mid- and late
50s, but it remained true to its founding belief that air-to-air combat is the noblest and purest use for a fighter aircraft.
The idea was to graduate the best fighter pilots in the world and to send those pilots back to their home squadrons to train
their fellow pilots in the finer points of
aerial combat. But the emphasis on nuclear-bomb delivery and the small number of students attending each three-month class—about
a dozen—diluted the potential of the school. (For years Navy and Marine pilots attended the FWS to learn how to become gunslingers.
Twenty years after the FWS was formed, the Navy copied the school and called it Top Gun. Because of the movie
Top Gun,
most of the public knows only of the Navy school.)

The FWS has always been the most difficult and demanding school a fighter pilot can attend. Technically, young pilots can
apply; in reality they are invited. They come out of basic flying school, are assigned to a squadron, and are watched for
four or five years by their superiors and by former FWS graduates. If they are the best fighter pilots in their squadrons,
if they are bold and aggressive, if they preach the gospel of fighter aviation, then they might be invited to the FWS.

The FWS is more than a post–graduate school for fighter pilots. And it is more than the top finishing school in the Air Force.
The FWS is the temple of fighter aviation. It is for those who believe that fighter aviation is a sacred calling. As is true
in most temples of learning, not all who enter complete the course. Those who graduate and march out the front door are awarded
respect and honor. Those who “bust out” find that a promising career has ended. The danger of “busting out” adds a certain
frisson of trepidation when the highly prized invitation comes to join the FWS.

If the FWS is a temple and if its graduates are priests, then FWS instructors are high priests. They are grand masters of
a three-dimensional, high-speed death dance, the most rapidly changing form of combat ever devised.

An FWS instructor has all the outward appearances of a mortal. But he wears the patch.