photo frames from the incident appeared in the next issue of Life magazine, one of the premier news magazines of that time.
About a month later, I was flying a mission with three other pilots attached to the 16th “Blue Tail” Squadron, and following four other, newer Sabre jets from the 39th “Yellow Tail” Squadron. Just as we were taking off, my wingman aborted his flight, so I radioed my commander for permission to join up with the Yellow Tails. That was okay at first, but the newer F-86 Sabres were much faster than my older F-86 model, and I was having a tough time staying with them. When they dove toward a valley near the Yalu, blasting away at an enemy airfield, I couldn’t keep up with them, even with my airspeed indicator pegged.
I spotted some enemy MiGs racing down the runway, hoping to get into the air, both to save their planes and to engage the Sabres. Just then, an enemy fighter jet streaked across my sight from left to right. Because I had been unable to keep up with my buddies, I was behind them, and if I could stay calm, I had a shot at the MiG. If I missed him, he’d be right on the tail of my buddies.
I tried to slow my aircraft before he saw me, but the MiG pilot spotted me and banked hard in my direction. The good news was that I had pulled him off my friends. The bad news? He was coming after me! Worse yet, I realized that as fast as I was flying, I was bound to sweep right into his line of fire. My only hope was a desperate, dangerous maneuver that pilots referred to as a “scissors” move, cutting across the enemy’s path, with both aircraft crisscrossing back and forth, each trying to seize an advantage. We ripped through one set of scissors moves and then I banked so steeply that my wingtips pointed straight down to the ground as I raced above the enemy runway, flying sideways. I could hear enemy antiaircraft fire all around me, but I hadn’t been hit. The MiG rolled off to avoid a mountainous ridge below us, and I knew this was my chance—probably my only shot.
I tried to fire, but the aiming dot on my gun sight jammed! Still flying with my left wing pointing toward the earth, I used my plane’s nose as a sight and pressed hard on the trigger of my .50-caliber machine gun.
I saw something spark on the MiG, so I quickly rolled back parallel to the ground, pulled hard on the throttle, and gassed it for all the F-86 was worth. The MiG was still in front of me, and he was going into a steep right-hand turn to come back after me. I fired again and saw tracers sparking across his wing, but he was still going! We were too close to the ground for this fight to last much longer; I knew one of us was going down. The enemy rolled out of the turn and dove, so I fired two more rapid bursts from the machine guns, just as he turned up toward me.
It was like a slow-motion movie as I watched the enemy plane’s nose come up and seem to hang in the air, the engine stalling. The canopy of the jet opened, and I saw the flash of the pilot’s ejection flare. Whether he had time to open a parachute, I don’t know, but the MiG definitely beat him to the ground.
There was no time to celebrate. I had been going so fast that I had little idea where I was, but I figured I was about 20 miles north of the Yalu, and there were more Russian and now Chinese planes as well, rising off the runway below. I turned south and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could, fortunately picking up the Manchurian Express, a jet stream that helped me fly even faster with less resistance, which was another stroke of luck, because I was running low on fuel. I had no idea where my buddies were, and as I was climbing out, I suddenly realized that I still had my speed brakes engaged. I felt like an idiot, but fortunately I was able to correct the mistake and make it back to our base.
The Air Force awarded me an Oak Leaf Cluster as well as the Distinguished Flying Cross for dropping the first