by Robert Holland
It's been 51 years. What follows is from memory only and some of you will probably say, "That's not the way it was at all!" But this is how I remember it.
They'd been fairly careful with us in cadets. There'd been a few accidents, some of them fatal, but not too many. And from time to time, we'd hear stories about Nellis and Luke and how it was a much different game there. Someone said, "If you can survive Neliis, Korea should be no problem."
The day finally came. We graduated from cadets - 52F - and were on our way to the big time, Nellis AFB. The first thing I saw approaching the base was an ominous looking burned out hulk of an '86. Certainly a wreck used for fire fighting exercises but I didn't know it at the time. In the BOQI noticed that someone was gathering the personal effects of the occupant in the room next door. Four guys had been killed the week before, target fixation, midairs, etc.
Of course, living next to Las Vegas wasn't the most healthy situation. If you were a `jock', you felt a certain pressure to be able to party all night on the strip and be unaffected the following morning at Nellis. Who needs sleep when you're 20?
During the initial briefing, Colonel Clay Tice, the Nellis commander, gave us a welcoming speech in the auditorium. As I recall, it went like this - "Welcome to Nellis AFB men. The finest fighter weapons school in the world. We're going to do one of three things to you here - wash you out, kill you, or make you one of the best fighter pilots in the world. The choice is yours. Now I want you all to go out, drink a pint of `panther piss', eat a pound of raw meat, find yourselves a strange woman, and we'll see you bright and early Monday morning."
I was assigned to the 3596th Cadillac Squadron, commanded by Major. Bill Whisner and ace in both World War 2 and Korea. The checkout in me Sabre was fairiy casual - take a look at the manual, listen to a short briefing by another Korean ace, Ivan Kinchloe, who always had a huge cigar in his mouth while he stuck his head in my cockpit. "You'll like it kid!" Then the first take-off, wings waggling all over the place with Kinchloe following in another '86 to keep me out of trouble. It was a great thrill. The '86 was the hottest fighter in the world and I was going to be an F-86 pilot.
It was a very impressive collection of pilots and Kinchloe was certainly one of the most colorful. One evening at the 0-Club, he was having a particularily good time when a bird colonel ordered him to `tone it down'. I don't remember the exact words but Ivan told that colonel where he could go and what he could do. Now captains don't talk to colonels like that anywhere. But Kinchloe was a double ace, and the colonel was a ground pounder, and this was Nellis. The colonel made several red-faced apoplectic threats but nothing ever came of it. Later we were shown some of Kinchloe's gun camera film showing a huge tail pipe taking up the whole screen, then a shower of MiG-15 parts plying by. Someone later said, semi-seriously, "If he ever bothered to learn how to use the gun sight, he'd have had twice as many kills!" As it was he had 10. Later on he was to have been the first pilot to fly the X-15 rocket plane, but as everyone knows, he was killed in an F-104 accident at Edwards in 1958.
My first supersonic ride was exciting, particularily after recently seeing the English movie "Breaking The Sound Barrier", and remembering that scene of the black smoking hole after the test pilot had hit the `sound barrier'. It was all exciting to a green kid just out of cadet school.
Another day we were off at 0500. Our instructor, an-other Korea veteran, wanted to read below sea level on his altimeter, so off we went to Death Valley, a few feet above the dirt, on our way to the practice bombing range. We barely cleared the roof of Scotty's Castle (the guests must have loved that) as we proceded on our Way. I was number 4 and burning up more fuel than anyone else trying to stay in position.
Approaching Indian Springs on our way back, I was down to the `Texaco!' low fuel point. I called "Texaco!". No response. I called again and my flight leader simply said, "I heard you. Stay in position and shut up!" I remember passing over Las vegas and seeing ZERO on my fuel gauge. I was petrified, expecting to flame out at any moment. But I didn't.
I flew that same airplane on the next mission. As I approached the cockpit, the crew chief calmly said, "Lieutenant, do you know how much fuel we put in your air-plane yesterday? 435 gallons!" It was an F-86A and that was the maximum internal fuel capacity, unless I have the numbers wrong. I'd pulled into the chocks on fumes! I told this to my flight leader and his only comment was - "Nice fuel utilization!" Later at K-13 at the end of a mission, I heard the tower tell someone that he "was number 3 in the `flame out pattern!"
Another day we were on me high angle bombing range as I heard the ground controller call, "Swordfish Lead, what's that column of black smoke?" Lead - "Oh that was my no. 4 man. Lost him on the last pass." The controller came back, "Unscoreable at twelve!" These things happen. This was Nellis.
Then there was the daily flag lowering ceremony. Every-one would gather at the flag pole at the end of the day. The idea was that exactly at 1700, one of the instructors would appear in an '86 as low and as fast as he could manage, and attempt to dazzle us with whatever he thought was appropriate. A vertical series of rolls to a few knots above stall, a double Immelmann, or maybe even try for a triple. All to the cheers and cat calls of everyone as we headed for the club.
Anyway, when we left for Korea, we thought we were all very hot stuff. Real jet pilots, not old retreads who'd been flying ancient P-51s, P-47s, or P-38s. Actually, those `old men' were highly experienced fighter pilots from `the War', only five years or so back. They were in their late 20s or early 30s and at the top of their game. Of course, being young and full of it, very few of us really under-stood that, but they really knew what they were doing.
There were many in this class in the instructor group at Nellis. The Best Of The Best! But the point was that like all of the other young men being sent off to war since the beginning of history, we were untested and apprehensive, but also with the naive confidence of youth and excited by the prospect of the adventure.
What did we have - 350 hours at most. Now, looking back after 23,000 hours (I know, I know, multi-engine time doesn't count!), that doesn't seem like much of anything.
No portion of this article may be used or reprinted without permission from the President of the F-86 Sabre Pilots Association or the editor of Sabre Jet Classics magazine.