Many pilots took the fight to MiG Alley and triumphed. But in contrast to the top aces, most of the others who scored victories have gotten lost in the endless sands of history. Three credits separate the top five American aces, those who scored thirteen or more victories, from the next highest group, six men who scored ten victories.
Frederick “Boots” Blesse, Leonard Lilley, and Dolph Overton were the only West Pointers who were aces in the Korean War. Blesse was born in the Panama Canal Zone in September 1921; his father was an Army doctor who later rose to flag grade. He entered West Point in July 1942 and graduated with his second lieutenant bars and AAF wings in June 1945 from the wartime compressed three-year course of instruction and nearby flight instruction. Blesse went into fighter training, flying the obsolete P-40, but was too late to fight in the war. He then flew P-47s in Okinawa and survived an over-water bailout. When the Korean War erupted, Blesse was flying F-86s with the famous 56th Fighter Group, which had scored the highest number of aerial victories of any AAF group in the war. There he flew with a number of aces, including three of the top AAF aces of the European war, Francis Gabreski, William Whisner, and David Schilling.
When he volunteered for Korea, Blesse had logged 2,300 flying hours, over 1,300 of them in jet fighters. After surviving a landing accident on his first mission in November 1950 when he hit a truck that turned his Mustang on its back and sent fuel dripping on him, he flew ground support missions, sixty-seven in F-51s and another thirty-five in F-80s. Returning from Korea, he was assigned to an F-86 outfit, Eddie Rickenbacker’s famous “Hat-in-the-Ring” 94th Fighter Squadron. When Walker Mahurin, the new group commander, arrived, Blesse was assigned by the luck of the draw to check him out in the Sabre. Mahurin was less than three years older than Blesse, but while the former had demonstrated his combat skills in the European war, claiming 20.8 enemy aircraft and rising to the rank of lieutenant colonel, Blesse had been at West Point. Blesse learned much from the experienced combat veteran. He later wrote that in comparison to his air-to-air tussles with Mahurin, “combat flying was never as challenging.”1
Blesse returned to Korea for a second combat tour in March 1952, to fly F-86s with the 4th Group. He was assigned to the 334th Fighter Squadron, initially as the engineering officer. Mahurin took over as group commander on 18 March; as many new leaders have done, he shook things up. The 334th had been in a slump since its commander and the leading U.S. ace, George Davis, was killed in action on 10 February. In the three months prior to Davis’s death, the unit had claimed twenty-two aircraft destroyed—twelve of them by Davis—27 percent of the totals for the two Sabre groups; in the three months following that event, the squadron claimed only four victories, or 4 percent. Blesse recalled that the goal for many 334th pilots was to log one hundred missions and go home. Another pilot recalled that the unit would only fly to the Chong-chong River, about seventy-five to eighty miles south of the Yalu River, and thus became known as the “Chong-chong Kids.” Mahurin fired the squadron commander and replaced the operations officer with Blesse.2
Mahurin made clear that if the new team did not produce results, defined in terms of MiGs downed, they too would be history. Blesse, who moved into Davis’s quarters and took his bunk, convinced the squadron commander that the unit needed additional training that would require it to stand down from operations for a week. This was a difficult request to approve for a unit heavily engaged in combat; however, Blesse got his week. He flew with each flight commander and instituted new standardized tactics that called for tighter formations and a more aggressive attitude. The flight commanders were to train their flights in the new arrangement. Blesse replaced two flight commanders, telling one, “I’m sorry as hell, but you’ve [flown] sixty-five missions without a fight. You either don’t want to fight or are the unluckiest guy I’ve ever known. Either way, I can’t afford you.” In Blesse’s words, “It is difficult to tell the difference sometimes between bad luck and no guts.”3 Later, undoubtedly reflecting on that incident, Blesse wrote that, “unfortunately, [there] are frequently highly experienced personnel [who] have the capacity to poison your young pilots just beginning their tour of combat. These ‘pseudo leaders’ are people you must weed out. To ‘tide’ [them] along is the greatest mistake a Commander can make. . . . Warn them, remove them, and get a man who wants to do the job. You owe that much to your people who are willing to fight.”4 Blesse also instituted a policy that mandated that a pilot had to fly simulated dogfights if he had not engaged in three dogfights in a week. This kept the unit’s edge keen, and morale climbed. In the next three months, the 334th claimed thirteen aircraft destroyed or 16 percent of the Sabre victories.5
Blesse demonstrated that opportunities to engage the MiGs varied. He spotted a MiG on his second mission but did not see another until his forty-eighth. In that engagement on 25 May 1952, the opposing fighters made a head-on pass, and then a MiG tried to out-turn the American and failed, allowing Blesse to get behind him. Blesse fired and scored hits; but the MiG moved away, trailing smoke, and headed for China. Just after a frustrated Blesse turned for home, his wingman radioed that the Red pilot had ejected: victory number one.
Less than a month later, he was involved in a different kind of dogfight. On 20 June he heard over the radio that sixteen Sabres led by Royal Baker were battling two World War II piston-powered La-9s without success. The jets would swoop down very fast and take a few shots; then, after the Russian fighters outmaneuvered them, they would then chandelle back to five thousand feet and repeat the process. Blesse ordered his wingman and his second element to provide top cover as he pealed off from eighteen thousand feet and dove to the deck. Unlike the other American attackers, as he approached the enemy fighter he deployed his speed brakes and throttled back to the idle. The Lavochkin pilot maneuvered as he had successfully done before, but this time the F-86 rolled and leveled out about four hundred feet behind him. Blesse had to fire accurately or he would quickly overtake and overshoot the Red fighter and be vulnerable before he could accelerate out of harm’s way. The prop fighter blew up about two hundred feet ahead of the F-86, spraying its windshield with oil and blinding Blesse for the moment. The American pilots got three La-9s that day. Blesse knew the risks involved, especially of slowing down in combat, but had simulated such actions in stateside “attacks” on F-51s. He later wrote, “In my book, it was a calculated risk which I reasoned was worth taking. At best it was a fine line between something dumb and an act that characterized you as an outstanding pilot.”6 Success determined where that line was drawn, after the fact.
Blesse did take risks, and some might question the wisdom of some of these actions. Before his third victory, in his words, he got “too aggressive.” On this occasion, after seeing MiGs, Blesse attempted to drop his tanks, but one did not depart the aircraft. The policy in this situation was to abort, as hung tanks “slowed the airplane down quite a bit and [asymmetric drag] made it stall in some pretty funny attitudes.”7 However, the lure was too much for “a hungry fighter pilot,” in Blesse’s words, and would only require one pass. The hungry fighter pilot started his “one pass,” when he was jumped by two other MiGs. Then Blesse made a second bad decision: he ordered his wingman, whose F-86 was in a clean condition, to head home. Blesse dove for the deck and then led his pursuers on a chase that took them through the middle of Antung, a large city north of the Yalu. Blesse got over water, where the MiGs gave up the chase.8
Blesse, with four victories, put in for a twenty-five-mission extension as he approached one hundred missions and rotation. Four days later he got a double. On 17 September, Blesse scored his ninth victory but almost lost his wingman, Norman Smith. Blesse’s .50s tore up the MiG and knocked pieces off of the fighter, some of which were sucked up by his wingman’s intake. The engine was ruined, but the Sabre pilot made it over water, ejected, and was rescued by a chopper.9 This was a precursor for Blesse’s final mission, two weeks later.
Blesse was flying his 123rd mission on 3 October 1952. After cruising about for a time without seeing any enemy fighters, the number four man developed fuel problem, so he and his element leader returned home. Blesse and his wingman continued patrolling over China until they reached the minimum fuel when they turned south to return to base. As they approached the water, Blesse spotted four MiGs a mile or two behind them. Because of their fuel state, Blesse nosed down to pick up speed and continued flying toward the sea. The lead MiG opened fire, sending 37 mm shells past the two Sabres. The wingman, a new man with less than ten missions, turned and gave the Red fighter an opportunity to close the range. Blesse radioed him to put the F-86 in a spiral and hold four “g”s while he flew to the rescue. Two MiGs pursued the wingman, with Blesse behind them and another pair of Communist fighters trailing him. Blesse fired at the second Red fighter and got hits, causing pieces to fall off the MiG. Both that MiG and his leader broke off their attack, as Blesse radioed his wingman, “Keep that thing at [Mach] .9, get it over the water, and head for home. Don’t worry about me.”10 The wingman made it home safely.
The third MiG fired on Blesse, who outmaneuvered him. At this point, the American ace found himself alone in the sky with a low but sufficient amount of fuel remaining. He had climbed for altitude to save fuel when he spotted a MiG coming down on him from his left front. Calculating that he might not make it back anyway, he later recalled thinking, “Hell, it’s a toss-up anyway. Why not?”11 The MiG did not see the American, allowing Blesse to slide in behind and underneath him. He closed to six hundred feet, fired, and saw the MiG explode and the pilot eject. This gave Blesse victory number ten. He had one potential problem, however; unless he got home with useable gun camera film, there would be no way to confirm the credit.
Blesse contacted Cho-do and requested that rescue aircraft orbit Paengnyong-do, where he considered landing if he could not make it back to base. But by this time the F-86 was too low on altitude, fuel, and luck. There was no tailwind; worse, there was a quartering headwind. Realizing the situation, Blesse headed for Cho-do and radioed his intentions to the rescue people. He was still over land when he drew enemy flak as he headed seaward. He crossed the coast at three thousand feet; about a half-mile further he radioed the rescue aircraft, which he had in sight, that he was about to bail out. Blesse disconnected his seatbelt to ensure that he quickly cleared the seat and then successfully ejected at twelve hundred feet, hitting the water almost immediately after his chute opened. He got into his one-man dinghy as the SA-16 landed and taxied toward him. The rescue crew pulled Blesse aboard; although he wanted to recover the raft with his helmet and other equipment in it, the rescue pilot vetoed that idea in no uncertain terms: “They’re shooting at me and we’re getting the hell out of here!”12 One story has it that when the SA-16 neared Blesse, he was swimming around the sinking Sabre trying to get the gun camera film; this was undoubtedly hyperbole. In the end, Robinson Risner, another pilot who was in the air that day, confirmed Blesse’s victory.13
The USAF did not want a repeat of the Davis case and ordered Blesse, who had ten credits on 123 missions and was the top living American jet ace, to return home immediately. After an extended speaking tour, Blesse served in the gunnery school at Nellis. There he produced a tactical manual he entitled “No Guts, No Glory,” which standardized the way tactics were taught at Nellis and found its way throughout the USAF fighter community. Blesse retained a hand on the stick as well as on the pen. In a 1955 gunnery competition, Blesse flew with the winning team and also won all six individual events, a truly outstanding feat. He went on to fly two tours in Vietnam and retired as a major general in 1975. He had logged 6,500 flying hours, 3,400 hours in the F-86, and more than 650 in combat.14
In many ways Blesse fit the mold of a successful fighter pilot. He was an excellent athlete, a “ferocious competitor” who excelled in golf from his high school days and at ping-pong against fellow Sabre pilots during the Korean War. One of his wingmen later noted that Blesse was the best pilot in the 334th and probably the best in the Wing. He flew the Sabre to its limits and clearly was daring and had a desire for combat. Blesse maintains that, “the key ingredient, I think, to a successful air to air pilot is some previous experience in tactics, and the aggressiveness and the desire to want to mix it up.”15 At the same time he acknowledges that there was “a lot of luck” involved. In other ways he was atypical. Blesse neither smoked, as did many fighter pilots, nor got drunk every night, as did some. He was articulate and a decent writer. He not only wrote a contemporary tactics manual, but he is one of the few aces to write his memoirs.16
The oldest of the aces was Vermont Garrison, born in Kentucky in October 1915. He went to college for two and one-half years and taught school before entering the Army flight-training program. In 1941 he washed out of advanced training. This did not thwart his desire to fly; he joined the Royal Air Force, trained in California, and earned his wings. He arrived in Great Britain and, because of his gunnery skills, was assigned as a gunnery instructor. When the Eighth Air Force absorbed the famous Eagle Squadrons and their American personnel, Garrison joined the new American unit that was designated 4th Fighter Group. In the next months, he claimed seven German fighters and partial credit for a bomber. One of his fellow 4th Group pilots, James Goodson, writes that Garrison was one of the best shots in the unit. But this did not help the Kentuckian on 3 March 1944 when he was brought down by flak. He was confined as a prisoner of war until liberated by the Russians in May 1945. After the war, he again served with the 4th, flying F-80s and leading the USAF aerobatic team. During this time period, Garrison was on the 4th’s gunnery team that took top honors at a USAF-wide gunnery competition where, according to one source, he took top individual honors. In 1950, he was stationed at Nellis AFB as a gunnery instructor and an instructor of pilots deploying to Korea. Garrison got his orders for Korea when Col. James Johnson, commander of the 4th Fighter Interceptor Wing, requested him by name.17
“The Grey Eagle,” as he was called, started out as operations officer of the 335th Fighter Squadron until he took command of that unit in January 1953. He claimed his first credit on 21 February 1953 and by the end of May had increased his victory count to four. On 5 June, he was leading a flight that saw no activity south of the Yalu, so, after turning off their IFFs, the pilots crossed into China. They flew toward Feng Cheng airfield at forty-five thousand feet and saw thirty to forty MiGs taking off. Garrison led the F-86s as they swooped down on the Red fighters at what he described as slightly over Mach 1, barreling through a formation of fifteen to twenty MiGs orbiting at twenty thousand feet, attempting to provide top cover for the airfield. Garrison pulled behind two MiGs and fired on the closest fighter. After it exploded, Garrison quickly took a second MiG under fire and he observed as it “rolled over, crashed and exploded about five hundred feet below me.” Fearing he was almost out of ammunition, he had his wingman, Harry Jones, take over the lead. The lieutenant took advantage of this opportunity to fire and down a third MiG. The other two members of the flight also scored, making this an unusual mission, for seldom did all members of a flight fire, much less claim victories. Garrison’s flight claimed five of the nine F-86 victories that day.
At this point, the orbiting MiGs joined the fight as Garrison radioed his troops to “break for home.” With a full head of steam, the F-86s were able to shake off the MiGs before they crossed the Yalu again. The Sabres were untouched except for some MiG debris from Garrison’s first kill that hit his aircraft. Garrison’s two victories made him an ace—at thirty-seven, the oldest in the Korean War. He was also one of only seven Americans to down five or more aircraft in both World War II and Korea. He went on to score four more victories running his final total up to ten.18
In October 1953, Garrison led a 4th Group team in the Far East Air Forces gunnery meet. The team, including another double ace, Ralph Parr, lost the team event by a narrow margin, but Garrison took the top individual honors. After a number of other assignments, the USAF posted Garrison to the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing as Vice Commander in late 1966. He flew an F-4 on his fifty-second Vietnam mission on his fifty-second birthday. In all, Garrison completed ninety-seven missions in Vietnam, his third war. Garrison retired as a colonel in March 1973 and died of natural causes in February 1994.19
There are a number of ironies and unique elements in Garrison’s career: failing AAF flight school, flying with the British, and fighting against the Soviets who liberated him from a POW camp. But he is best remembered for being a fine shot and an excellent flyer who proved his ability in fighter combat in three wars and in jets.
James Johnson was nearly the same age as Garrison. Born in Phoenix in May 1916, he joined the Aviation Cadet program in December 1939 after graduating from the University of Arizona. He earned his wings and commission in August 1940 and was posted to the Panama Canal Zone where he was serving when the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor. He arrived in Britain in April 1944, rose to full colonel in February 1945, and shot down one German fighter on ninety-two missions.20
In November 1952, he took over command of the 4th Fighter Interceptor Wing, a position he held through August 1953. Johnson had combat experience and seniority that allowed him to pick the missions that were more promising for action, and to fly in the lead position where he could do the shooting. Johnson scored his first half-victory on 13 January 1953 and notched his fifth credit on 28 February. On that day, Johnson spotted two MiGs below him and, after dropping his tanks, chased after them. He closed on one and opened fire at two hundred feet, scoring hits on the wing, canopy, and tailpipe. Pieces flew off the Red fighter as it began to burn, and then the pilot ejected. Having fired out, Johnson took the number two position while his wingman began firing on another MiG. But Johnson was in trouble, radioing that he had suffered cockpit depressurization and the effects of hypoxia. This was evident as his Sabre went through a series of wild gyrations. His wingman, Robert Carter, screamed over the radio at him to pull out as the F-86 dove from thirty-eight thousand feet. Johnson recovered consciousness and leveled the aircraft off at five thousand feet, but the lack of oxygen had affected his eyesight; he could not read the flight instruments. Carter thought that his leader should eject over Cho-do, but after Johnson insisted on flying back to home base, Carter talked him down to a safe landing. Johnson went on to get his tenth and last MiG credit on 30 June. After the war, Johnson served in Strategic Air Command where he first commanded an RB-47 unit and then a B-58 unit between 1957 and 1961. Johnson retired from the Air Force as a colonel in November 1963.21
Of all of the double aces, the least has been written about Lonnie Moore. Born in Texas in 1920, he joined the Army after graduating from high school. He entered the Aviation Cadets in 1942 and pinned on his silver wings and gold bars in September 1942. Moore piloted B-26s on fifty-four missions in the war, was shot down twice, and evaded capture on both occasions. In December 1952, he reported to the 335th Fighter Squadron. On 13 March, he got his first half-credit and then a full credit on 12 April. On 30 April, engine failure from non-operational causes forced Moore to eject. He was rescued by helicopter.
Moore hit his stride as the war closed down, downing 4.5 MiGs in June and 4 in July. On 18 July, Moore was leading a flight of four, screening a fighter-bomber strike, when radar controllers warned the Americans of approaching MiGs. Moore attacked and lost contact with his flight during his dive, but he nevertheless continued. He eluded three Red fighters that attacked him and Moore hit one, who abandoned his aircraft. This was his tenth and last victory. There are rumors that Moore was caught crossing the Yalu, threatened with a court martial, and sent home. He died in an F-101 accident at Eglin AFB in January 1956.22
Of the eleven F-86 pilots who scored ten or more victories, four were forced to abandon their machines. As we have seen, three of these pilots were rescued. Harold Fischer was the fourth to bail out; he survived but had to endure captivity that lasted beyond the end of the Korean War. He was an Iowa farm boy, born in May 1925, who built model airplanes, read about the World War I aces, overcame polio, and took his first flight at age eight. Shortly after graduating from high school in 1944, Fischer joined the Navy flying program. He soloed and logged fifty-six flying hours; however, as the war was ending, he accepted the Navy’s offer to return home in July 1945.
Fischer spent two years in college and then applied for Air Force flight training and a direct commission in the Army. He received the latter and had completed infantry training at Fort Benning when his acceptance into the USAF flight school came through. Fischer used fancy footwork, paper shuffling, and initiative to transfer into the USAF. He earned his wings in December 1950. The USAF sent him to Japan to join the 8th Fighter Bomber Wing, with which he flew 105 missions, mostly in F-80s. Shipped to Japan, he manipulated a transfer to the 51st Fighter Wing in September 1952 with the encouragement of World War II and Korean War ace William Whisner. The unit was stationed on one side of the airfield at Suwon, Korea, while on the other side was Fischer’s former outfit, the 8th Fighter Bomber Wing.23
The unit assigned Fischer to a flight that in short order was commanded by Squadron Leader Douglas Lindsay, an RCAF exchange pilot. The soon-to-be ace remembers him with great respect as “one of those extremely rare individuals, truly dedicated to getting the job done” and as the man who taught him to fly combat.24 Lindsay was a World War II ace who pushed to maximum, leading Fischer on one mission across the Yalu, downing a MiG, and almost running out of fuel. Fischer’s Sabre flamed out shortly after landing. Fischer recalled that mission: “As frightening as the consequences could have been, it was the finest indoctrination experience that a pilot could have had so early in his career. After this experience, I was no longer afraid of low fuel.”25
On 26 November 1952, Fischer was flying the number two position on Lindsay’s wing when he spotted MiGs. As Lindsay engaged two others, the Iowan dove on one in a chase that took him into Chinese territory. At approximately a two-thousand-foot altitude and one-thousand-foot range, Fischer opened fire. He got hits and overtook the slowing fighter. As he rolled around his prey, he noted that the canopy and pilot were missing and then saw the fighter crash into the barren Chinese hills. As he climbed to altitude, at about twenty thousand feet, he saw a man and parachute floating earthward. Aiming his guns to one side, he fired in order to get a photograph. Although the gun camera film revealed hits on the MiG’s tail, the film ran out before the fighter crashed or the chute was seen; nevertheless the USAF awarded Fischer a destroyed credit.26 He had scored his first victory.
Fischer added two more credits in December and another two in January to become an ace. The mission on 24 January 1953 was Fischer’s forty-seventh mission. The flight was scrambled on search mission and received very precise directions from a radar controller, prompting Fischer to later write, “It was a perfect vector and the only one I received while active in the Korean air war.”27 The four F-86s lined up behind a MiG flight of four, but just as the Sabres were about to fire, the Communist aircraft bolted. Three climbed for altitude, a favorite tactic because the MiG could outclimb the F-86, but one Red fighter broke formation and dove. As one Sabre element chased the three, Fischer pursued the diving MiG. His wingman Biffle Pittman covered him from a distance and at altitude. Fischer started about four thousand feet behind the MiG, opened fire, and scored a few hits as he slowly narrowed the distance in a chase that took him once more over China. As the F-86 drew closer, a light appeared on the MiG’s tail that grew into a flame that enveloped the entire tail. By the time Fischer was within ideal range there was no need to continue firing: the MiG was fatally damaged. Fischer’s rate of closure took him alongside the Communist fighter, something that he was to regret, for the American saw the MiG “pilot beating on the canopy, trying to escape. The heat must have been intolerable for the canopy was changing color and the smoke was intense.”
The incident changed Fischer, for “up to that moment the enemy had been impersonal, each aircraft a target that had little meaning and not associated with flesh and blood. But the sight of another man trapped in the cockpit of a burning aircraft with no power and with no place to land was impossible for me to forget.”28 But the dogfight was not over. The trapped Communist saw Fischer and attempted to ram him. The American easily evaded the dying MiG pilot and slid back to put him out of his misery. After firing a few shots, the sound of the guns changed, three guns stopped firing, the left rudder pedal went to the firewall, and Fischer lost pressurization. The new ace had an uncomfortable flight back to base but landed safely despite concerns about the fighter’s brakes. The F-86 had not been hit by hostile fire; a bullet had exploded in one of the Sabre’s guns.29 Fischer was now an ace.
On 16 February, Fischer was seating on alert when the buzzer went off, prompting a scramble. Fisher took off with Dick Knowland, who was just out of flight school and flying his first mission on his wing. Fischer’s flight joined the melee and pounced on three flights of MiGs flying beneath them. Fischer went one-on-one with the number four man in the last flight. He momentarily popped his speed brakes, maneuvering the F-86 to slip six hundred feet behind the MiG. His radar gunsight worked “marvelously,” allowing the .50s to pepper the Red fighter, lighting it up from wing tip to wing tip. The Communist pilot ejected. Knowland also was firing at another MiG, but the Americans had to break because a single MiG was lining up on them fifteen hundred feet to their rear. Fischer maneuvered rapidly, losing his wingman in his tight maneuvers. Both headed for home. Fischer saw what turned out to be Knowland heading south with a lone MiG about three thousand feet behind him. The Iowa ace in turn trailed the Communist fighter by about a thousand feet. Fischer radioed Knowland of the MiG’s presence and told him to level off, build up speed, and run for home. Fischer also noted that another MiG was following him at a distance. The MiG trailing Knowland began to fire and then turned, but Fischer closed the space to three hundred feet and fired. The American bullets hit behind the cockpit and lit up the Red fighter. The MiG then snapped into a spin that continued all the way into the ground. Fischer then turned into the MiG following him, but the Communist fighter was going too fast and rapidly pulled away, about four thousand feet ahead of the American ace. Fischer fired out the rest of his ammunition as the MiG scampered back into China. The Sabres claimed three destroyed that day: one by McConnell and two by Fischer. Fischer now had eight credits.30 He added one on 25 February and another on 21 March to become one of the rare double aces.
On 7 April, he was flying his seventieth mission, with Knowland again flying on his wing. In accordance with the briefing, the flight broke into elements in the patrol area, and Fischer spotted a flight of MiGs crossing the Yalu about two thousand feet below. He engaged them, closed to one thousand feet, and fired; however, the Sabre’s guns were off target since its previous mission and had not been bore sighted, and the F-86’s bullets went two hundred feet to the right. At this point, four MiGs jumped Fischer, forcing him to break off his attack. Since Knowland was having fuel problems, Fischer ordered him to return home. The double ace, now alone, attacked three MiGs that crossed his paths. With his guns not operating as designed, he got behind the formation and fired a long burst at the number two fighter, stopping its engine. Fischer then fired at the leader from about twelve hundred feet and tore the MiG to pieces. As he flew through the debris, the Sabre’s engine stopped. Fischer turned toward the ocean and hoped to make it over water, although it would be a reach. When he smelled smoke in the cockpit, he ejected from the Sabre at two thousand feet.31
The cause of Fischer’s shoot down is in dispute. Fischer assumed he had been downed by debris from the disintegrating MiG. As might be expected, the Communists claimed one of their pilots got the American double ace. Maj. Dimitiri Yermakov, a Soviet World War II ace with twenty-six victories, claims he downed Fischer. Another Soviet account credits Grigoriy Berelidze with shooting down Fischer. The Chinese also claimed the victory, recognizing Han Dechai as responsible, a pilot who at that time had less than three hundred hours in the MiG.32
Fischer was quickly captured. Because he landed in China, he was not released in the prisoner of war exchange that marked the truce that ended the war; instead, he was confined along with some other UN aircrew until May 1955. It goes without saying that his confinement was harsh. The USAF did not give Fischer credit for any victories on 7 April and the Communists assert that Fischer damaged, but did not down, the two MiGs.33 He stayed in the USAF after repatriation, earned a master’s degree, served in an ROTC and intelligence position, and then flew helicopters, prop fighters, and jet fighters in Vietnam. He retired from the service as a colonel in May 1978.34
Fischer was regarded as a very aggressive pilot. There was a rumor that he was so aggressive, such a “tiger,” that some did not want to fly as his wingman. Like McConnell, he believed you had to coax the MiGs down to the Sabre’s altitude, which meant putting yourself at risk. He was also seen as a pilot who tended to get in too close to his victims.35
Ralph Parr blazed a remarkable record in his short F-86 combat career. In less than fifty missions over two months, he downed ten enemy aircraft, the last of which was the most controversial kill of the war.36
Parr was born in July 1924 and joined the Aviation Cadet program in November 1942 after graduating from high school in Bethesda, Maryland. In February 1944, the AAF commissioned him a second lieutenant with pilot wings. The service then assigned Parr as an instructor in multi-engine aircraft before sending him to transition into P-38s. In 1945, he deployed to the Pacific Theater where he flew with the 49th Fighter Group but claimed no victories. Parr left the AAF in 1946, joined the National Guard, and later in the decade went back on active duty. He flew 165 missions in F-80s in Korea with his old outfit, the 49th Fighter Group. Returning stateside, he was assigned to the 1st Fighter Group at George AFB where he served with “Boots” Blesse and Joe McConnell, honing his flying and fighting skills. Parr wanted to get back to Korea, and his former wing commander and former commander of the 4th Wing, Harrison Thyng, told Parr that if he could get assigned to Japan, Thyng would get him into the 4th. Parr landed in Korea in mid-May 1953. He had almost 2,300 first-pilot hours.37
Parr took over as operations officer in the 334th and engaged his first MiGs on 3 June 1953. He was flying as a wingman, as all new pilots did, but got an unusual chance to shoot when an attacking Red fighter overshot and pulled up about 6,500 to 7,000 feet ahead of the F-86. Parr fired, and remarkably at that range, got some hits although he was pulling so much lead that the MiG did not appear on his gun camera film. Parr resolved in the future not to fire until he was within range and was good to his word, not missing any of the subsequent aircraft he fired at. His gun camera film confirmed all of his credits, an unusual occurrence.
On his sixteenth mission on 7 June 1953, he got his first victories, a double. Patrolling along the Yalu, Parr was flying in the number four position when MiGs attacked Parr’s flight, breaking it into two elements. As the two F-86s continued their patrol at forty-one thousand feet, Parr spotted some movement below. He radioed his element leader 2nd Lt. Al Cox, who did not see anything. As he had briefed on the ground, Cox told Parr to engage and he would take up a covering position. In his vertical power dive to the deck, Parr lost Cox and leveled off at about five hundred feet above the ground behind what Parr had believed from altitude were two MiGs. They turned out to be two flights of eight MiGs each, flying side by side.
Parr later wrote that he thought “this may be my last chance with the war winding down . . . I’m going to do it. I [might] as well ‘take the leader and turn the peasants loose.’”38 Parr had throttled back and closed to within two thousand feet when the Communists pilots spotted him and scattered. Parr admits he then made a mistake by deploying his speed brakes, but he throttled back to the idle and began firing at their leader. He pulled 9.5 “g”s and in a 70-degree deflection shot, got hits but couldn’t stay with the MiG. The gun vibration blew the gunsight fuse; Parr also knew the guns would jam if he continued to fire while pulling over 7.5 “g”s. Tight maneuvering near the stall so close to the ground with so many bullets flying about made the flying extremely dangerous. Every time Parr fired, the recoil slowed the Sabre, and the F-86 flirted with a stall. The two fighters maneuvered at the low level, sometimes canopy to canopy, but Parr got slightly behind the MiG, he says ten to fifty feet, where he certainly did not need an operative gunsight. He hit the Red fighter several times, and on the fourth or fifth burst it began to lose fuel. After the next burst, the MiG erupted into flames, leaving soot on the Sabre, and then crashed.
Meanwhile, five MiGs were pursuing and firing at the lone F-86. Parr outmaneuvered the MiGs, and as each one overshot him, he got some hits on his attackers; one MiG crashed, either from the Sabre’s bullets or by stalling out. The remaining Red fighters then broke off the action. Cox called Parr several times to try to join him during the fight and claims that Parr replied, “Don’t bother me. I’m busy.” Cox’s observations and gun camera film allowed the USAF to credit Parr with two MiGs destroyed and one damaged.39
Parr quickly followed with a credit on 10 June and a double on 18 June that made him an ace. On the latter mission, he spotted a number of aircraft heading northward toward the Yalu at low altitude. Parr made a high-speed dive through scattered clouds and got some hits on a MiG, which hit the ground and “splashed like a raw egg.” He then lined up on a second MiG, held down the trigger for two to three seconds, and got hits that sawed off the enemy’s wing. He attempted to nail a third MiG, but it eluded him in the clouds.40 On 30 June, Parr engaged more than a dozen MiGs and again downed two. As he lined up on a third, his wing commander called for help: his engine had stalled after ingesting MiG debris, and other MiGs were going in for the kill. So Parr broke off his attack to chase off these fighters. The commander was able to restart his engine, and Parr escorted him home.41
His last credit was probably the most controversial shoot down of the war on a mission that almost did not happen. On 27 July, Parr was scheduled to lead three flights of Sabres to escort a photoreconnaissance flight, but his aircraft was out of commission. He took the squadron commander’s F-86 but was unable to retract the landing gear after takeoff. Parr made several attempts but only managed to have the gear handle come off in his hand. He then played around with the wires, upon which the gear retracted. Parr caught up with the formation; as it approached the Yalu, he spotted a twin-engine transport flying north of the river at about ten thousand feet and watched it cross the Yalu into North Korea. When the recce aircraft aborted his mission because of cloud cover, Parr got permission from the mission leader to investigate the transport. He throttled back and dove down on the unidentified aircraft. He got five hundred feet above it and observed markings such as those that appeared on the MiGs. He made two identification passes, each of which he recorded on film. Parr then checked his map to ensure he was south of the Yalu. He attacked, aiming and hitting the transport’s left engine, which burst into flame, and he then shifted his fire to the craft’s right engine, which also started burning. The right wing folded and the aircraft exploded.
The Soviets protested that this was a civilian aircraft carrying a truce team and was sixty miles north of the Yalu. Secondary sources claim the transport was carrying seventeen flag rank officers from Port Arthur to a Soviet intelligence conference at Vladivostok. Two days later, the Soviets shot down an RB-50 over international waters, apparently in retaliation. But the story didn’t end there. The Soviets sued the U.S. government and Parr in the World Court. The charges were refuted and then withdrawn. The Il-12 was the last aircraft downed in the Korean War, only hours before the truce went into effect at midnight, 27 July 1953.42
Parr flew F-4s on two tours in Vietnam, logging 226 missions on the first tour and 201 on the second when he was the commander of the 12th Tactical Fighter Wing. He ended his career with six thousand flying hours in fighters and a total of 641 combat missions in three wars. Parr retired from the USAF in 1976.43