Only a single victory credit separated the double aces from the next high-scoring American aces in the Korean War. The USAF credited two Sabre pilots with nine victories.
Cecil Foster was born on a Michigan farm in August 1925. He survived a tough childhood, losing his mother at age five and living in poverty. He joined the Army Air Forces (AAF) in 1943, went into navigation training, and served as an instructor; he thus saw no overseas service. He reported for pilot training in early 1947 and graduated in February 1948; after a brief assignment in Alaska, he was released from the USAF in a cutback. He had a struggle in civilian life and was not unhappy to be recalled to active duty as a navigator after the Korean War exploded. Foster worked his way back into an Air Force fighter cockpit, and when he arrived in the Far East, he had a total of 770 flying hours, 126 in jets, 35 of which were in F-86s.1
Foster arrived in Korea in late May 1952 and flew his first mission with the 51st Fighter Group the next month. He completed twenty-nine missions by the end of August, and in September checked out as an element leader. He got his chance to score in short order. He just happened to be near the operations area on 7 September, wearing his service blues and carrying his camera, just as the flight on alert was looking for a fourth pilot who was a qualified element leader. The unit had just launched the alert flight and was forming another for that duty. Foster volunteered even though he had not yet flown as an element leader. The flight leader attempted to find someone else since it was Foster’s day off. Before another pilot could be found, the operations officer told Foster to suit up, and the flight was scrambled.
Foster grabbed his gear and while one pilot did a quick preflight and another started the engine, the crew chief helped strap Foster into the Sabre. Shortly after takeoff, the flight leader aborted because his landing gear would not retract, leaving Foster on an unplanned mission with two new pilots he did not know on his wing. As per procedure, one pilot was sent to orbit Cho-do as a spare while Foster and his wingman flew north. Foster spotted MiGs as he approached the Yalu and attempted to engage eight of them when more Communist fighters entered the fray. The two F-86s covered each other as they dueled with the two dozen MiGs in a giant Lufbery circle at about thirty-eight thousand feet. This went on for some time, with the Americans scoring some hits. When the F-86s reached the minimum fuel for a safe return to base (bingo fuel), Foster broke off the engagement with a steep dive at maximum power. Each of the Sabre pilots claimed one damaged MiG, but the claims board upgraded Foster’s claim to a “destroyed,” his first victory. Two weeks later, the unit appointed him a flight commander.2
On 26 September, Foster was flying as an element leader at thirty-five thousand feet along the south side of the Yalu when the flight commander spotted and pursued two MiGs. As Foster began to climb to provide cover, he encountered six Red fighters. After some maneuvers, Foster got behind the MiG leader and fired a one-second burst. The tracers just missed the target’s tail but “stitched a row of hits along the fuselage of his wingman.”3 Almost immediately, the leading MiG exploded in a large black and orange fireball, while at the same time the second MiG started to burn, emitting brown and black smoke. Foster trailed the burning Red fighter as it inverted and began falling like a leaf. He continued to fire at the MiG and almost rammed the falling fighter. Then he saw a man with no helmet suspended from a parachute at thirty-five thousand, who could not possibly survive the cold or lack of oxygen at that altitude. Foster noted that this action only took seconds, perhaps six in all, compared with his earlier marathon dogfight. The explanation for the strange results was that Foster’s F-86 had just been accepted by the 51st and had not been bore sighted, and one gun was shooting considerably to the left of the other five. Clearly it was a freak occurrence to hit two aircraft with one burst, and highly unusual to have one gun destroy the rugged MiG.4
On 22 November, Foster flew as the mission leader for four flights of Sabres escorting an RF-80 that was to photograph the famous Sui-ho Reservoir dam. After the F-86s consumed their external fuel, Foster ordered the formation to drop their tanks. Neither of his left the aircraft. Therefore, Foster and his wingman headed south as he made repeated efforts to jettison the reluctant tanks. Finally he pulled out and reset the circuit breakers, and when he toggled the tank release, the tanks fell away. Foster flew back to rejoin the escorting formation but spotted four MiGs head on that fired and missed the Americans. During the ensuing air battle, both the F-86s and MiGs fired. Foster later wrote that, “we could tell by the movements of the MiG aircraft that they were not amateurs; they were experienced pilots and they were ready and willing to fight.”5
With fuel running low, Foster broke off the action and headed home. But the Communist pilots were not done. Two Red fighters followed the Americans and were gaining on them, closing to two thousand to three thousand feet behind Ed Hepner, Foster’s wingman. He took some hits just before Foster drove off the MiG. Foster’s third burst struck the Red fighter, which appeared to stop in midair, forcing the American to deploy his speed brakes, pull back his throttle, and turn in both directions to avoid overrunning the wounded MiG. The Communist pilot ejected. Meanwhile, Hepner was in deep trouble, his instrument panel shot out and canopy gone. He ejected near Cho-do and was picked up by a rescue helicopter. He was lucky to be alive because the MiG’s shells had smashed his instrument panel and a piece of shrapnel had passed through his helmet, only striking him a glancing blow. Foster was relieved that his wingman had survived but disappointed that his wingman could not verify his kill. Four days later, however, the unit’s intelligence officer confirmed the kill, probably from radio intercepts. Foster was now an ace.6
On 7 December, he added one more. First, he allowed Hepner to fly as flight leader and bag a MiG as payback for being shot down. Then Foster scored an unusual victory. Foster observed a friendly-fire incident, “red on red,” as one MiG shot and hit another MiG about fifteen hundred feet ahead of him. The new ace got behind the first Red fighter as it began to spiral down. He fired, got hits, and then flew close enough to the damaged fighter to see that the pilot was wearing a cloth helmet. Foster continued to pursue the falling aircraft until his wingman, Wilton “Bing” Crosby, yelled for him to pull out. Foster had been so intent on downing the MiG that he misjudged his altitude, forcing him to pull about eight “g”s to make his recovery at about one thousand feet above the terrain.7
Foster did not score another victory for five weeks, and it was a difficult one. On the mission of 22 January 1953, the Americans encountered a massive number of MiGs crossing the Yalu. While the mission leader attacked the MiGs at the end of the formation, Foster swung into the middle of the MiG stream. He fired on one MiG, but the maneuver put him in front of another, who opened fire on the F-86. Foster got out of trouble and claimed a damaged MiG. Despite a lack of proof from either his gun camera film or wingman, the USAF granted a victory credit based on confirmation from other pilots in the formation. This was victory number seven.8
Two days later, things went better. In the morning, he flew as an element leader and engaged the MiGs. After some inconclusive maneuvering, Foster slid behind a MiG, fired a long burst from two thousand feet, and got some hits. Although he thought he had only damaged the Red fighter that got back across the Yalu, other pilots saw its flaming descent and crash. On the afternoon mission, Foster was flying in the number four slot, checking out another pilot as an element leader. Again the Sabres engaged MiGs near the Yalu. In the midst of the action, the would-be element leader did not react as Foster thought he should, so in frustration he took over the lead. Foster lined up behind a MiG at two thousand feet, got a lock on with his radar ranging sight, fired, and scored some hits before he was forced to break off the action. Again Foster claimed a damaged MiG, and again other pilots confirmed that it had flamed and crashed. Thus, Foster downed two aircraft on one day, albeit on two different missions. This ran his score up to nine MiGs destroyed.9
Remarkably, Foster got all his MiGs south of the Yalu, unlike many, if not most, of the other aces. So he was shocked when the acting group commander called him and five other pilots into his office and accused them of crossing the Yalu. The colonel reasoned that the six must have crossed the river because they were getting kills while others flying over North Korea were not. As this was a violation of policy, the commander asserted he was going to send them all to fly T-6s as forward air controllers with the Army. The only alternative was a court-martial. No one said a word until Foster looked the colonel squarely in the eyes and forcefully explained that he had not gone across the river; members of the headquarters staff who had flown with him knew this, and therefore he would take the court-martial. The colonel was stunned, and after a brief exchange and a long silence with the two men staring at each other, the colonel dismissed the six. There were no transfers or courts-martial. That night the squadron (16FS) was grounded. Foster was disgusted and no longer wanted to fly under that colonel. He had officially flown 98 missions, although the true number was closer to 110.10
Foster flew fighters throughout the rest of his career. He commanded an F-4 squadron in Vietnam during 1968–69, flying 168 missions and surviving one bailout. He retired in 1975 having flown over five thousand hours.11
James Low made a name for himself both for his tactics and also for the fact that he was the only second lieutenant to become an ace in the Korean War. He was born in California in September 1925 and served in the Navy during World War II. He joined the USAF and did well in training, out-shooting his instructor in gunnery and graduating from flying school in December 1951, the oldest in his class. In April 1952 he joined the 4th’s 335th Fighter Squadron.12
The 335th was doing very well at this time, the highest scoring F-86 squadron between 1 March and 1 August 1952, downing twice as many MiGs as the next highest scoring squadron. Low joined a flight that included Philip Colman, a World War II ace who added four victories in Korea; James Kasler, who got his fifth kill in mid-May 1952; and Robert Love, who became an ace in late April. Low had excellent vision (20/10) and was considered a good pilot, eager, and aggressive. While he writes that the leader would allow him to lead the attack when he saw the MiGs first, others state that he would just break away from his leader in lone wolf style. The flight he joined had a unique policy that allowed anyone to shoot, rather than limiting the wingman to protecting the leader as a matter of standard policy. At one point, his commander was about to ground him for breaking away from the formation. However, as double ace “Boots” Blesse notes, it is “difficult to discipline a guy that comes back with a kill, even though he’s broken the rules.”13 And that was the case with Low.
On 8 May 1952, Low was flying one of his first missions, when four MiGs jumped the F-86s. The American leader, James Kasler, made a number of sharp breaks with Low maintaining his wingman’s position through several of these. But Low still had his tanks attached and lost Kasler on the fourth break as three MiGs attacked him. The second lieutenant dropped his tanks, jammed his throttle to full power, and maneuvered behind a Red fighter and downed him. Kasler was understandably very steamed because, fighting without a wingman, he was almost shot down. Harrison Thyng, the 4th’s Wing commander, questioned the new pilot about losing his leader, but wanting results—MiGs destroyed—he went to bat for him. Low responded, “I got lost and I got screwed up. I knocked an airplane down; I guess that vindicated me, but it wasn’t my choice.”14
Low earned the reputation of a pilot who left his leader, a reputation he never shook. James Horowitz, another pilot in his flight, wrote, under a pen name, a novel of the MiG Alley story entitled The Hunters.15 Hollywood made it into a movie. The book’s bad boy was turned into a more appealing, “pretty swell guy,” and Robert Wagner, who in his youth never played a bad guy, was cast in the Low role. Low thought Horowitz was a good writer but had a low opinion of him as a fighter pilot, describing him as a “Hudson High [West Point, class of 1945] boy” who didn’t want to fight. Low also observed that Horowitz “didn’t particularly like me, obviously.”16
Low quickly racked up more scores. On 11 June, he was sitting alert when radar detected MiGs taking off. The Sabres scrambled, but at forty-five thousand feet, the American pilots could not spot the MiGs, which were flying at fifty-five thousand feet, until they let down a bit and pulled some contrails. One MiG dove down and attacked Low’s element, but Low outmaneuvered him, and got a few hits. The MiG then flipped over and spun out, encouraging the pilot to bail out. Another Red fighter came by and Low shot out his engine, giving Low a double. Four days later, he got his fifth victory. He had only been out of flight school six months.17 After he claimed his sixth credit in July, the USAF sent him back to the States to lecture on the F-86, especially the much maligned and mistrusted radar gunsight. He had flown forty-four missions.
The young ace returned to the action in October as a first lieutenant. He did not receive a very positive reception; in his words, “the new regime kind of sat on my ass, and I was a wingman for forty more missions before I got a chance to lead again.”18 But his superior vision again allowed him to see MiGs the others could not. He got three more victories in December. One of these was his most difficult engagement. Low sighted two MiGs about five miles away and gave chase with his wingman. The two Communist fighters split up. As Low’s wingman was in a better position, Low allowed him to take the lead. In any case, the MiG pilot was very good, for while Low’s wingman got within five hundred feet, he could not pull enough lead to hit the MiG. Instead, his bullets were falling harmlessly behind the Red fighter. Low radioed him to stop firing until he had more lead, but the wingman had target fixation and instead fired out. Low then slid into the lead position and had the same problem: not enough lead against the maneuvering MiG. The dogfight ended up one hundred feet off the deck and on the Mach, maneuvering around the hills and mountains until Low scored some hits in the tail. A second burst hit the engine and wing root. The canopy flew off, but the pilot didn’t eject. He continued to battle Low, at one point pulling straight up with a dead engine and firing at his attacker. But the Sabre’s .50s caught him dead center, and he didn’t pull out of the dive and crashed. On his last victory on 18 December, Low used the radar gunsight to good use and hit the MiG with his first shot at almost maximum range, forty-eight hundred feet. He finished his tour with nine victories.19
There are some who assert Low was sent home after losing his wingman. One pilot claims that the 335th Squadron commander, Carrol McElroy, said that, if he could prove what he knew, he would court-martial Low for using his wingman as bait. No 4th Group pilot was lost during any of the three days on which Low scored victories in December, although Donald Reitsma of the 335th was listed as missing in action on 22 December 1952.
Low did show more eagerness for destroying MiGs than for the wellbeing of his wingman. On one mission, Low led his element across the Yalu and chased a MiG that was flying between Mukden and Port Arthur. The F-86s closed on the Communist fighter; however, the wingman declared “bingo” fuel, indicating he had fifteen hundred pounds remaining, the amount calculated to get a Sabre home from MiG Alley. The wingman also knew that the Sabre pair was at least fifty miles north of the Yalu and flying farther away from their base in the chase. Low responded that they were gaining on the MiG and would get him shortly. When his fuel dropped to twelve hundred pounds, the wingman again radioed his fuel state and got the same reply. The chase was now down at fifteen thousand feet where fuel consumption increased and where the Sabre left a black smoke trail that would attract MiGs. In due course, the wingman announced nine hundred pounds remaining and Low responded as before. When his fuel gauge read eight hundred pounds, the wingman declared he was heading for home. He climbed to altitude, where fuel consumption was less and tail winds possible, and crossed the Yalu with four hundred pounds of fuel.
Low joined up with his wingman in a loose formation. One hundred miles from home base the wingman had one hundred pounds of fuel; he therefore shut down his engine and set up an optimum glide speed. When he reached one thousand feet, he restarted the engine and landed. His engine ran out of fuel as he taxied in from the runway. What saved the wingman was his coolness, skill, and a two hundred mile per hour tail wind. After filling out the required paperwork on his F-86E, the wingman went over to Low’s aircraft (F-86F) and saw that his fuel gauge read six hundred pounds. This revealed much about Low.20
Low returned to the States and flew for a while with the Sabre Knights aerobatic team. The Korean War ace went on to fly fighters in Vietnam and was shot down and captured in December 1967. The North Vietnamese released Low in August 1968 although they held almost all the other prisoners until 1973. He retired as major in January 1973.21
Twenty of the AAF’s 683 World War II aces added additional victory credits in Korea. Six World War II AAF aces (two of whom—George Davis and Vermont Garrison—have already been discussed) shot down five or more enemy aircraft in Korea. In addition, one Marine shares the distinction of being an ace in two wars.
Of the remaining World War II aces, James Hagerstrom had the highest score in Korea. Born in Cedar Falls, Iowa in January 1921, at age five Hagerstrom got to sit in a Jenny biplane and had his first flight eight years later in a Ford tri-motor. Hagerstrom attended college for two years, during which time he participated in both an infantry ROTC program and a flying-training program, logging thirty-five flying hours. In January 1942 he entered the AAF and, because of his previous training, was able to earn his wings and commission in just six months. He flew 170 missions in P-40s in the southwest Pacific and downed six Japanese aircraft, four in one morning.
After separating from the AAF, the ace returned to college and earned a degree in economics. He joined the Texas Air National Guard and flew P-51s. Hagerstrom advanced in rank to major and took command of the 11th Fighter Squadron, which was federalized shortly after the start of the Korean War. Assigned to Tactical Air Command headquarters, he checked out in jets and convinced the commander that some staff officers should fly a combat tour in F-86s. The USAF sent Hagerstrom to gunnery school at Nellis, where his instructor was William Whisner. Hagerstrom was then posted to the 4th Fighter Group as the operations officer. He arrived in September 1952 with about twenty-five hundred flying hours, mostly in fighters.22
On 21 November Hagerstrom was returning to base from a patrol, having reached bingo fuel, when he spotted two MiGs about fifty miles south of the Yalu. The Communist fighters split, as did Hagerstrom’s element. The World War II ace got behind a MiG and fired. The MiG pilot ejected just before his fighter exploded. After Hagerstrom returned to base and shut down the engine, the group commander, Col. Royal Baker, drove up in a staff car. After getting out and observing the blackened Sabre nose (from the guns’ discharge), Baker asked Hagerstrom if he had gotten a MiG. The major answered “yes,” but when asked who would confirm the kill, Hagerstrom had to admit he did not know, unless the gun camera film captured the shoot down. At this point, the crew chief came over and asked the Colonel to look at a chunk of MiG-15 debris lodged in the leading edge of the left wing. With that, Baker said he would confirm the kill. In any event, the gun camera film did show the MiG pilot departing the stricken fighter.23
His next credit was on Christmas day, when radar controllers directed an F-86 flight toward six MiGs. Hagerstrom was leading the second element and got one thousand feet behind a MiG at nearly fifty thousand feet. He was about to fire when the Red pilot overcontrolled and snapped into an inverted spin. Because stability is reduced at high altitudes, a gentle touch is required; moreover, the MiG was noted for its tendency to snap into a spin. Hagerstrom popped his speed brakes, cut the power, and rolled over to follow the MiG downward. He was about to open fire at the spinning MiG when the pilot ejected. His parachute opened at about forty-four thousand feet, a jump altitude not conducive to long life. Number two.24
After he had completed fifty to sixty missions with the 4th, the USAF sent Hagerstrom to the Eighteenth Fighter Bomber Wing in early 1953 to help it transition into the fighter-bomber version of the F-86. The Air Force concept was that the F-86, fitted with four stores stations for tanks, bombs, or both, could serve as a fighter-bomber as well as function as an air-superiority fighter. One problem, however, was that some fighter pilots focused more on getting MiGs than on dropping bombs. As Hagerstrom later admitted, “I was interested in shooting down MiG-15s. That was the name of the game.”25
On 25 February he attacked a MiG that was after another Sabre and pursued him at low level, literally over the smoke stacks of Mukden, 120 miles north of the Yalu. The Communist pilot bailed out and Hagerstrom returned with minimum fuel; his wingman flamed out on the runway.26
Hagerstrom downed two MiGs on 27 March and another on 13 April, and then in May was ordered to return home. As he was waiting in the flight operations office in his blue uniform for transportation from Korea to Japan, he learned that the unit was looking for pilots to immediately scramble four F-86s. Hagerstrom quickly found three pilots, strapped a parachute over his blues, and made for the flight line. A radar controller guided the Sabres northward into a formation of two dozen MiGs which Hagerstrom attacked as it headed back across the Yalu. He engaged a MiG that began to smoke and then went into a dive. Hagerstrom’s wingman confirmed the kill, increasing his credits to 8.5 MiGs. During his debriefing he was told to get on an awaiting transport to fly to Japan and then on home. He had flown about twenty-five air-to-ground missions and seventy-five air-to-air missions.27
Hagerstrom later commanded a fighter squadron, and then a group. The ace held various staff positions and in his off time earned a law degree. In 1965 the USAF sent him to Vietnam, where he flew thirty combat missions. In late 1966 he passed the California bar examination; less than two years later he retired from the Air Force. He went on to practice law before retiring from that profession in 1980. He died in June 1994.28
Hagerstrom was a successful fighter pilot and leader. He focused on getting MiGs and did that very well. He was unusual in a number of ways. He did not drink, as did most fighter pilots, because he did not want to square off against the MiGs at less than 100 percent capability. Instead, he spent his spare time building HO gauge model railroads. One of his fellow pilots noted that he was a good leader with strong religious beliefs and was a fanatic at killing the enemy. He remembers Hagerstrom as an intense fighter pilot who was very aggressive; he was fighting a crusade, not a war.29 Hagerstrom went to great lengths to ensure his success and safety. Some pilots used binoculars or monoculars to spot the MiGs. Hagerstrom went one step further: before he went overseas he had an optometrist make him a pair of glasses to enhance his distance vision. In addition, he had them mirrored on the top so that he could detect an aircraft flying in front of the sun. He claimed that he could look at a 500-watt light bulb with these glasses and read the writing on the bulb.30
Most likely the best known of the aces of the two wars was Francis “Gabby” Gabreski. Born in Oil City, Pennsylvania, in January 1919, he showed little interest in aviation until he had attended Notre Dame for two years. He took some flying lessons and logged six hours of flying time while in college but did not solo. Gabreski entered the Army Air Corps in July 1940. In training, he proved to be only a marginal pilot, a slow learner who was almost eliminated from the program, passing an “elimination” check ride before graduating with a commission and wings in March 1941. The Army assigned him to a fighter squadron in Hawaii where he flew P-36s and P-40s. He got airborne on the day of the Pearl Harbor attack but did not engage any Japanese aircraft. Because he could speak Polish, he was assigned as a liaison officer to a Polish squadron based in Britain and flew approximately twenty-five missions in Spitfires.
In February 1943, the AAF assigned him to the 56th Fighter Group where he downed twenty-eight German fighters in P-47s to become the highest scoring American fighter pilot in the European theater. Having flown 166 missions, he was ordered home but had the chance to fly one more mission and took it. Unlike Hagerstrom’s experience in Korea, this did not turn out well. Gabreski did not encounter any German aircraft but did strafe a German airfield. On a second pass, not a good decision either, his prop clipped the ground, forcing the Thunderbolt down. The Polish-speaking ace was able to evade the Germans for five days before being taken prisoner.
After the war, he briefly served as a test pilot before separating from the service in April 1947. He flew with the California Air National Guard and worked for Douglas Aircraft for a year before the Air Force recalled him as a lieutenant colonel, one grade below his highest wartime rank. For a short period, he commanded the 55th Fighter Squadron, and then the service sent him to Columbia University where he earned an undergraduate degree in Political Science. In August 1949 the USAF assigned him to his old unit, the 56th, then flying F-80s. As commander of the unit, he oversaw its transition to F-86s. In June 1951, the Air Force posted him to Korea to join the 4th Fighter Wing in Korea, the 56th’s World War II rival.31
On 8 July 1951 he flew his fifth mission, leading a flight of four F-86s escorting fighter-bombers striking railroad targets. Alerted by radar that MiGs were heading across the Yalu, Gabreski’s flight spotted a number of MiGs but was unable to engage them. Then, as the Americans were about to break off the escort and return home, they spotted a Red fighter below them at ten thousand feet. Gabreski dove at full power to get behind the lone MiG, closed to nine hundred feet, and fired a long burst. He got hits over the entire aircraft and lit up the trailing edge of the right wing, as pieces shredded off into the slipstream. The MiG rapidly slowed and pulled up as Gabreski overshot before reversing for a second pass. At this point, the damaged fighter was going down in a smoking, flaming, vertical dive. Gabreski fired again and hit again, and then the Communist fighter entered an inverted spin. Gabreski and his wingman saw the fighter crash. This was his first Korean War credit.32
In November, Gabreski took over the 51st Fighter Wing. The first order of business was to transition the unit from F-80s into F-86s, a feat the Wing did in just ten days without the loss of a man or machine.33 Gabreski led the 51st on its first mission on 1 December 1951 but did not get his fourth victory until 11 January. On 20 February the 51st Wing commander fired six short bursts at a MiG he was chasing toward the Yalu and had gotten hits on its fuselage and wings when a piece fell off the Red fighter and cracked his windshield. He therefore broke off the action. Bill Whisner, who was leading another flight that day, observed the dogfight from a distance and watched as it spiraled down toward his altitude. He saw a half dozen MiGs being hunted by a flight of Sabres, which he overtook and identified as Gabreski’s. When Gabreski broke off the action, Whisner continued to trail the damaged MiG and confirmed the kill for his commander, a most noble sentiment in view of the race between the two pilots to be the first jet ace in the 51st.
Fifty miles inside China, and with his fighter at bingo fuel, Whisner realized he had no more time. He then fired three bursts at the damaged MiG and watched as the fighter dove into the ground. Returning to base, Whisner found that Gabreski had claimed a “probable destroyed” for that MiG. Whisner filed a report confirming the incident as a “destroyed” claim for Gabreski and submitted no claims for himself. That evening Gabreski called Whisner and told him not to lie about the incident and asked if Wisner had fired and hit the MiG. They argued rather heatedly about how the incident should be reported, with the conversation ending with Gabreski slamming down the phone. Ten minutes later, the Wing Commander told the Squadron Commander that they would share the honors, bringing both of their totals to 4.5 MiGs.34 Three days later, Whisner won the distinction of being the first ace in the 51st. Gabreski went on to fly 123 official missions in Korea—he did not count all of his missions—and add two more victories before he was grounded in mid-May and ordered home early the next month.35 He did not fly that “extra” mission as he had in World War II.
Gabreski went on to the Air War College, staff assignments, and command of various fighter wings. He retired in November 1967 as a full colonel with over five thousand total flying hours, four thousand in jets. He worked for Grumman aviation and then the Long Island railroad before he died in January 2002.36 He is best known as America’s leading ace in Europe during World War II and for the five decades until his death as the leading living U.S. ace.
There were two views of Gabreski. To the public, and to some, if not many, of his pilots, he was more than just a good fighter pilot; he was flamboyant, heroic, a “fighter pilot’s fighter pilot.” Certainly in terms of destroying enemy aircraft, he was extraordinarily successful. There is, however, another side of Gabreski that is not as complementary, not as well known, and seldom—if ever—talked or written about. He had a poor reputation with wingmen. He flew the fastest aircraft available and, in action, did not recognize that his wingmen could not keep up in their slower aircraft, a factor that put them in peril. As a result, some pilots were afraid to fly with him. To several pilots, Gabreski seemed more interested in personal glory than in his wingmen or in running an F-86 wing. There is a thin line between leading from the front and being a hot dog, or perhaps better put, a “MiG mad” pilot.
In addition, Gabreski may have originated, or certainly participated in and tolerated, the Sabre penetrations of Chinese territory. The tactic of remaining in the combat area as long as possible despite minimal fuel was a two-edged sword: risky and costly but aggressive and successful in downing MiGs. He also pushed his troops to top its rival, the 4th Fighter Wing, in destroying MiGs; in so doing, he directly encouraged exaggerated, if not false, claims. He also tolerated, although he did not directly engage in, the rowdy, drunken behavior of his flying officers. One pilot believed that Gabreski, in his efforts to be a popular leader, was afraid to confront and discipline his troops. Another explanation is that Gabreski fostered this conduct as conducive to achieving the mission: kill MiGs.37
William Whisner was the youngest of the seven who were aces in two wars. Born in Shreveport, Louisiana, in October 1923, Whisner was active in scouting and was a member of the Junior ROTC in high school. He enlisted in the AAF after graduating from high school, joined the AAF cadet program in April 1942, and won his wings and commission in February 1943. He went to Britain with the 352nd Fighter Group, which flew its first combat mission in September 1943. The Air Force credited Whisner with destroying 15.5 German fighters, six on one day and four on another. Discharged in August 1945, he was recalled one year later. He joined the 4th Group in Korea in 1951.38
He got his first two credits on two successive days in November 1951 before he transferred to the 51st as it converted to F-86s. He took command of the 25th Fighter Squadron and added two victories in January, tying him with Gabby Gabreski as the highest scorer in the group. He posted a half credit on 20 February, splitting that victory with Gabreski. Three days later, Whisner joined a dogfight in which a number of MiGs were attacking Don Adams, who soon would be an ace. Whisner forced the Red fighters to break off their attack and pursued one. He closed to nine hundred feet and fired, further decreased the range and fired again. The Communist pilot bailed out just before his fighter exploded. Thus Whisner became the first ace in the 51st Fighter Group. This was his last Korean War victory credit.39
Whisner returned to the States, took up an assignment at Nellis Air Force Base, and won the Bendix Trophy in 1953. Whisner commanded a number of squadrons, served in staff positions, and ended his Air Force career as the Chief of Staff of the Seventeenth Air Force. He retired as a full colonel in August 1972. In July 1989, a pilot who had flown and fought in two wars and claimed twenty-one enemy aircraft destroyed, died from a yellow jacket sting.40
Harrison Thyng has the distinction of flying in three wars, downing fighters of at least three nations, and being the only ace of two wars to achieve flag rank. He was born in Laconia, New Hampshire, in April 1918 and attended a one-room school before he went on to graduate from the University of New Hampshire in 1939. He participated in Army ROTC and received an officer’s commission but quickly applied for flight training. Thyng was awarded his wings in March 1940.
Shortly after America entered the war, he was commanding a fighter squadron in the 31st Fighter Group, the first AAF fighter unit to move to Britain where it transitioned to Spitfires. Thyng led the first American fighter mission over Europe and then was part of the covering force for the invasion of North Africa. During the first day’s operations on 8 November 1942, Vichy French fighters attacked and downed one of the 31st’s fighters, upon which Thyng’s flight destroyed three of the Dewoitine 520s, one credited to him. The war continued across North Africa, where Thyng was downed behind enemy lines and walked out and then was hit by British antiaircraft artillery and forced to bail out. Before leaving the Mediterranean theater, he flew 162 missions, rose to command the 31st, and destroyed four German fighters. The ace went on to command the 413th Fighter Group that flew P-47N long-range fighters operating out of Iwo Jima against Japan. There he flew twenty-two missions and logged one Japanese aircraft as a probable kill. After the war, the USAF assigned him to the Air National Guard in New England for three years, during which time he checked out in the F-80. In 1951 he commanded the 33rd Fighter Wing, flying F-86s for a half year before he was ordered to Korea as the commander of the 4th.41
On 24 October, while leading a flight of Sabres, he attacked eleven MiGs, hit the leader, and forced him to eject from his fighter. The Wing commander slowly built up his tally with three victories over the next five months. On 20 May, Thyng and his wingman were pursuing two MiGs at a lower altitude when they in turn were bounced. Thyng turned into the attacking Communist fighters, who responded with a tight maneuver. One of the fighters fell into a tight spiral and dive from which it did not recover. Thyng was now an ace. In all, he flew 114 missions in Korea.42
Thyng left the 4th in October 1952 for a number of assignments in Air Defense Command. He later served in the Pentagon and Federal Aviation Agency; then, in May 1963, the USAF promoted him to brigadier general. He spent a brief time in Vietnam in 1966, testing air-to-air missiles, during which time he flew several combat missions. He finished his Air Force career in Air Defense Command before retiring in March 1966, having flown 650 combat hours. He ran a close but unsuccessful campaign for the U.S. Senate that same year and then served as the president of a junior college until 1973. Thyng died in September 1983.43
Thyng certainly achieved a number of distinctions as an ace and leader. A few additional points are in order. His score in Korea may not reflect his abilities because some sources claim that after he got his fifth victory there, he did not claim any further credits—which is certainly true—but instead gave these victories to his wingmen. More clearly, Thyng exhibited not only physical skill and courage, but also moral strength and integrity as well. In December 1951, he sent a personal message to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, forcefully explaining the dire situation in Korea, specifically that the supply situation was inadequate and that his Sabres were greatly outnumbered. He emphatically warned that air superiority might be lost with the words, “I can no longer be responsible for air superiority in north-west Korea.”44 Bosses normally do not like to hear bad news, so Thyng was putting his career on the line with this message as well as by going over the heads of his immediate superiors at Fifth Air Force and Far East Air Forces. His chief clerk, Staff Sergeant Gordon Beem, realized the possible consequences of sending the message and asked Thyng if he really wanted to send it. Thyng replied, “Yes, there are too many lives at stake not to.”45 The message was sent. Gen. Hoyt Vandenberg took quick action to alleviate the situation.
John Bolt was the only non-USAF pilot to become an ace in the F-86.46 He was born in Lauren, South Carolina, in May 1921, and attended the University of Florida for two years before entering the Marine Corps in July 1941 to pay for further college. Bolt earned his wings and commission in July 1942. After a stint as an instructor, he joined and flew three tours with Pappy Boyington’s famous Black Sheep Squadron, flying the F4U on ninety-two missions and downing six Japanese fighters. He returned for a brief stint aboard a carrier in 1945.47 In 1951, he flew an exchange tour in USAF F-94 night fighters before transferring to another Air Force unit and logging one hundred hours in the F-86. He then was sent to Korea to fly F9Fs in the ground attack role. On a recreational leave from the unit, he visited George Ruddell, whom he had met a few years earlier and who was the squadron commander of the 39th Fighter Squadron in the 51st Fighter Group, the only unit in Korea flying the F-86F. Bolt explained that he not only had combat experience, but he had also flown the F-86F. Bolt was able to fly the F-86 in Korea after a USAF general requested that the Marines detach Bolt to fly with the Air Force. Ruddell detailed Joe McConnell, who had been taken out of combat, apparently for crossing the Yalu, to fly two or three flights to show Bolt combat tactics being used at the time. Bolt later said McConnell “really taught me lots of things.” Bolt had received an assignment he had been told was impossible for him to get, as he already had a “gravy tour.”48
In March 1953, he began a ninety-day exchange tour with the USAF in the 51st Fighter Group. Ruddell assigned the Marine to the flight under McConnell’s command, “D” flight, known as the “hot dog” flight, where he flew the USAF ace’s wing on a number of missions. After McConnell rotated home, Bolt took over the flight. He downed four MiGs on thirty-four missions and then got a ninety-day extension, obviously to enable him to achieve acedom.49
Bolt was flying his thirty-seventh Sabre mission on 11 July 1953, a mission escorting reconnaissance aircraft. The war was coming to a close, and the 51st pilots had not seen a MiG in ten days. The Marine led his element across the Yalu, and from twenty thousand feet Bolt saw four MiGs that had just taken off. He bounced the Red fighters that were at about five hundred feet and going full speed. Bolt overtook them, but blacked out in a high “g” pull out and ended up about fifteen hundred feet behind the MiGs. He opened fire and was almost hit by his wingman, who also opened fire but should not have. Bolt closed to six hundred feet and fired four bursts at the trailing MiG, which began to smoke and then rolled over and crashed. He closed to within five hundred feet of the other Communist fighter, scored hits, and watched as the MiG began to burn—so close that the dense smoke almost blinded him. The pilot ejected. These were his fifth and sixth—and last—credits.50
Bolt consistently crossed the Yalu. He writes of attempting to provoke the Red aviators by hitting their airfields with sonic booms and making low-level, high-speed passes across their airfield. The Americans joked that they were setting their watches from the control tower on Antung airfield.51 Bolt stayed in the Marine Corps after the war and went on to earn an undergraduate degree from the University of Maryland in 1956. He also commanded his old outfit, the “Black Sheep Squadron,” and served in a number of instructor assignments.
Bolt retired from the service as a lieutenant colonel in April 1962 and worked for private industry. When he was passed over to be the company’s CEO, he entered the University of Florida law school and earned a law degree in 1969. The Marine ace taught there for two years, and then went into private practice in Florida until he retired on his seventieth birthday in 1991.52