Fighter Pilot: The Memoirs of Legendary Ace Robin Olds

Robin Olds; Christina Olds; Ed Rasimus

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9781441736970: Fighter Pilot: The Memoirs of Legendary Ace Robin Olds

ISBN 10: 1441736972 ISBN 13: 9781441736970

Publisher: Blackstone Audiobooks, 2010

This is the personal memoir of the legendary ''triple ace'' American fighter pilot and general officer in the U.S. Air Force, Robin Olds. A larger-than-life hero with a towering personality, Robin Olds was a graduate of West Point and an inductee in the National College Football Hall of Fame for his All-American performance for Army. In World War II, Olds quickly became a top fighter pilot and squadron commander by the age of twenty-two and an ace with twelve aerial victories. But it was in Vietnam where the man became a legend. He motivated a dejected group of pilots by placing himself under junior officers and challenging them to train him properly. He led the wing with aggressiveness, scoring another four confirmed kills, becoming a rare triple ace. With his marriage to Hollywood actress and pin-up girl, Ella Raines, his non-regulation mustache and penchant for drink, Olds was a unique individual whose story is one of the most eagerly anticipated military books of the year.

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About the Author:

Co-author CHRISTINA OLDS, the daughter of Robin Olds, holds a Vassar College B.A. degree in English and creative writing, is a member of the Air Force Association, and is the first honorary lifetime member of the Red River Valley Association.

ED RASIMUS is a retired USAF fighter pilot who holds a B.S. degree in political science and M.S. degrees in both political science and international relations. He has previously written two books on the Vietnam air war, When Thunder Rolledand Palace Cobra.

From Chapter 7: Victories—at Last!

     By August we had all changed. Combat does that. It digs deep into your soul, searching to find the grit. For most, it isn’t something you think about. It just happens. The world shrinks around you. Home, Mom, and apple pie become remote memories, and the mental image of your girlfriend back in the States is sexier than the rear view of Betty Grable. We learned to live one day at a time and to concentrate on survival. But to varying degrees we all developed a deep sense of frustration at our lack of real action. I needed something positive to make the empty beds of lost friends meaningful. There had to be more than just strafing trains, dropping bombs, losing people, fighting to come back home, then feeling like we hadn’t really accomplished anything. It was part of the war effort, but the milk runs didn’t fulfill the vision we held of a fighter pilot. Ground attack was part of the mission, but our focus always returned to aerial battles.
     The group had made progress since our arrival in early May, but the price had been high. We’d lost three of our four flight commanders, both of my roommates had been shot down over Holland, and many pilots were KIA or POW. Nearly half of the original 434th Squadron was gone. The other two squadrons in the group had suffered similar attrition. Our original group CO, Kyle Riddle, was lost to flak on May 10. No one was immune. We who survived had gotten smarter about combat.
     Our salvation appeared with the arrival of Colonel Hubert “Hub” Zemke, who replaced Colonel Riddle as CO two days later. Hub was about to give us all some much-needed savvy in the art of aerial warfare, and we were ready. Zemke had loads of experience. He’d been an Air Corps pilot prior to the war and even flown a tour with the Soviet air force. As CO of the 56th Group at RAF Boxted, he had developed tactics in which his pilots rendezvoused at an easily found landmark in their bomber escort zone, then broke up into individual flights and fanned out in 180-degree arcs to respond to attacks on the bomber stream. The spread let his units cover a lot of airspace.
     In May, both of Zemke’s wingmen were shot down by Luftwaffe ace G�nther Rall, who in turn was shot down by 56th Group ace Joe Powers in the same dogfight. After that, Zemke upgraded his “fan-out” tactic to the three full squadrons of the group instead of just flights. He jumped at the chance to command the 479th because he wanted to fly the new Mustangs. His 56th Group had P-47s, which were increasingly focusing on ground attack. He knew we were converting to P-51s when we heard only rumors. Hub was our kind of guy, aggressive, smart, relentless, and determined to hit the Luftwaffe where it hurt. He was already a triple ace and had created legends in the 56th, like Gabreski, Mahurin, and Johnson. We in the 479th knew about their exploits and were in awe of their skill and good fortune.
     I’ll admit we were a raggedy-assed bunch when he arrived. We had lots of desire but not much air-to-air experience. We never blamed Colonel Riddle for that. God knows he flew and led as many missions as anyone, but results count. For us Hub’s fame as leader of his Wolfpack was nothing short of awesome. The new boss took over and rattled us right away. He taught, led, laid down the law, and put us on the right track. Things were going to be different. Although he put up a stern front, we quickly learned he cared about each of us. To tell the truth, we felt as though he had a hard time keeping a straight face at our bumbling eagerness. He had a great sense of humor, but we learned when it wasn’t at the forefront.
     On his first day at Wattisham, Hub put up a sign on the door of his office: KNOCK BEFORE YOU ENTER. I’M A BASTARD, TOO. LET’S SEE YOU SALUTE.
     The young pilots got a huge charge out of that. Hell, we were in the habit of saluting everything anyhow, and wouldn’t go near a colonel’s sanctum unless under extreme duress. To be called before the boss meant trouble. Failing to knock would only have compounded whatever felony had brought us there in the first place, so we knew the sign wasn’t about us. We watched and smirked as our immediate bosses and members of the group staff were seen outside that door, self-consciously tucking in shirttails, running hands over hair, buffing up the shoe shine on the back of each trouser leg, adjusting the tie, then knocking timidly, and nervously waiting for permission to enter. We knew and they learned.
     When Hub arrived, a few of the pilots in the group had shot down an enemy aircraft or two, but I had yet to even see one. I was frustrated. Fighter pilots dream of victory in aerial combat; it’s the be-all and end-all of the fighter profession. It was the price of admission, and I wanted to belong. Mission after mission since May, I had flown with my head on a swivel searching for enemy planes. Nothing. Nothing in that vast sky except bombers and flak, explosions and smoke trails spiraling down, anguished calls on the emergency frequency, parachutes and pieces, and the otherwise empty wild blue. No prey, no snarling little Messerschmitt 109s or Focke-Wulf 190s, just nightly mission reports telling us someone else had found them. Usually it was someone from Zemke’s 56th Group. Gabreski had twenty-eight kills and I hadn’t seen one enemy aircraft in flight.
     The morning of August 14 finally offered something different: a predawn takeoff, a bridge over the river at Chalon-sur-Sa�ne as the target. The German armies were in retreat, fighting for every mile, resisting fiercely as the Allies pushed through France toward Belgium and Holland. General Patton’s 3rd Army was sweeping the southern flank. The bridges behind the Wehrmacht were important targets. Knocking them out would hinder movement and support Patton’s intention of destroying everything in front of him.
     Only 8th Air Force headquarters knew why the 479th FG was picked to hit this particular bridge. We certainly couldn’t figure it out. Maybe they had greater faith with Zemke as our CO. I would ponder it for years yet never figure out the reasoning. We were in England, a couple of hours away from the target, and 9th Air Force was in France now, close to the ground action. They were veterans in providing the air support that had made Patton’s dash possible. Perhaps all of the 9th squadrons were engaged in that truly close support in front of the troops, which none of us in the 8th were yet qualified to do. In any event, bombing bridges was something we’d been doing all summer, and I guess it didn’t matter whose bombs did the job.
     During the briefing there was a lot of stirring and nervous coughing. It wasn’t the target or the opposition expected, nor even the anticipated flak, that made us nervous. The weather was good, in fact excellent for Europe. Group Lead Highway exuded confidence, the S-2 intel officer made the mission seem really important, our own airfield conditions were normal, and flight assignments stacked up well, so why the niggling feeling?
     Christ almighty it was still black outside. It was obviously going to be black for takeoff, black for rendezvous, and black all the way into France. What kind of deal was this? We weren’t bloody night fighters! We never had been, and you don’t go fooling around when a man can’t SEE. Somebody was going to realize the whole thing was starting about two hours too early and we’d all get another cup of coffee while ops replotted the timing. But, no, briefing ended with hearty encouragement from the podium and one small admonition not to forget our navigation lights.
     No one wanted to ask the burning question, so it wasn’t asked. There were a few sidelong glances, some shuffling about, furtive peeks at our hack watches, audible sighs, a few grumbles, but that was all. I guess we thought if we could do what we did every day, a little predawn action thrown in wouldn’t hurt too much.
     After the group briefing, I got D Flight together and tried to do some anticipating. I leaned forward at the table. “Look, guys, we all know it’s tricky getting forty-eight P-38s in proper order out to the runway in broad daylight, let alone before dawn. I’ll tell you what Newcross Blue is going to do. 435th and 436th are going first, 434th is last off, and our Blue will be the last flight in the parade, so I’m going to hold in the parking revetment until everyone passes on the perimeter track heading for runway 27. Then I’ll flash my landing lights and fall in behind the gaggle. You stay wherever you’re parked till you see my lights, and then follow me in order Two, Three, Four. Got it? Just stay clear of the rest of the mess. When we get airborne I won’t do the standard join-up like the rest of the group. Instead of a left orbit, I’m going to climb straight ahead on a heading of 270. I’ll throttle back and hold 150 at 800 feet. Two, you move over to my left wing as soon as its comfortable; Three, keep Four on your right wing and join on my right. If you don’t see me, click your mike button three times and back off to 150. I’ll start a slow left turn and click back three times. You start your turn and hold 500 feet. When we get around to the briefed departure heading I’ll advance throttles to the normal climb power setting. You do the same. Watch for my lights. If you see me, click three times. I’ll rock my wings. Then you’ll know it’s me. That should do it. We’ll catch the rest of the gang over the Channel somewhere.”
     Yeah. Sure. Nice idea, Robin.
     Everything went fine until half of Lakeside Squadron was airborne. Then some idiot got a wheel off the side of the taxiway and bogged down. With no way to taxi around him, the rest of us were ordered to do a 180 on the perimeter track then taxi all the way around the dark airfield for runway 09. Great! That put the remainder of the shooting match in inverse order for takeoff. The only good thing about it was that Newcross Blue Flight was now first in line for departure. That was great, except we were in reverse order on a narrow taxiway. I told Blue Four to pull into the first empty parking stub, Blue Three into the next, and Two wherever he could, then when I taxied past them, to come out in proper order behind me. This worked and we reached runway 09 in proper sequence. I lined up with Two on my right, made the usual pretakeoff checks, blinked my lights, and gave it the throttle. Two hung tight on my wing and we accelerated rapidly to liftoff speed. I hauled back on the yoke smoothly, accelerated, and waited for the bird to fl y off the runway, thinking smugly how Two must be appreciating my technique.
     Suddenly, my God! Right in front of me was a dim shape half on and half off the runway—the bare outline of a P-38, its wing right in my path. No room to swerve, no way to stop! I yelled and yanked back on the yoke. The airplane leaped straight up and off the runway. I snatched the gear handle up, then waited to settle back toward the runway, milking back pressure to keep the airplane from stalling and hoping to accelerate. There was only a slight bump, and then I was flying. I looked right for Two. He was nowhere to be seen. No time to call him.
     I got on the horn and screamed at the gang that runway 09 was partially blocked. “Everyone rolling: STOP, STOP! Do single-ship takeoffs, right side of the runway, and look out for a stuck bird. For God’s sake get a light on that thing before someone gets killed!”
     There was pure bedlam on the radio. Everyone talked at once. Someone tried to organize things but only added to the confusion. I inwardly cringed at the thought of our new group CO’s reaction to all this. Great way to impress Zemke. He’d have us all for lunch and bury the bones!
     I set course for France at the briefed time. What the hell, at least I knew where I was, and maybe would soon catch up with whoever had managed to cling to Highway Lead after takeoff. I called Newcross Blue Two and was relieved to hear his bewildered voice announcing he hadn’t a clue where I was. At least he had survived. Blue Three and Four were somewhere in that mess back on the ground, so I mentally wrote them off for the rest of the day. Blue would be a two-ship.
     South across the dark Thames and southern England I looked for the flashing lights of the lead squadron as well as for Blue Two. Nothing doing. I could tell parts of Bison Squadron were somewhere airborne by an occasional radio transmission, but that was all. I just kept on the briefed course for our target area and headed out over the blackness of the Channel, my head on a swivel.
     Dim white lines marching across the blackness below had to be waves breaking on the beaches below the cliffs at F�camp on the Normandy coast. The minute hand on my watch confirmed my position. I was on course and on time as I crossed the coastline into France. The predawn black lightened as I flew steadily on toward Chartres, holding the briefed headings and speeds. The dim reflection of the Loire River flowing through Chartres was my first positive checkpoint, and I turned left 10 degrees to set course for Nevers on the banks of the Loire in Burgundy, about 85 miles and twenty minutes ahead.
     Suddenly, a stream of tracers passed off my left wing. I jerked mechanically, and surprisingly enjoyed my first sight of flak in the dark. Someone else was on the predawn shift. I fantasized that the gunner, whoever and wherever he was, must have been in the last stages of his night watch. His effort seemed listless at best. Maybe he knew he’d catch hell from his section sergeant if his unit had heard me pass and he didn’t react. No matter, I had expected to be fired at long before this. It was good to get the waiting over.
     Soon, objects on the ground took shape and I could pick up the more prominent landmarks. There was the Loire, with the canal paralleling it, then Nevers, right where it should be. I turned to the east, about 105 degrees, and in three minutes there was our initial point, three little lakes shining in contrast to dark earth near a place called Le Creusot.
     The sun wasn’t yet over the horizon but there was enough light to see that the pale sky was empty. Where was everyone? Chatter soon broke out, a rather prolonged discussion about the location of the target in relation to Bison Flight’s position. I knew damned well they weren’t where they were supposed to be, because I was there. It was clear from their chatter that they didn’t really know where they were in relation to anything except that they were over a river and the river was in France.
     Bison Lead decided they would turn south to find the target. South? That seemed dead wrong. I had just corrected to the northeast a little to be on course. If Bison was north of the rendezvous point,...