We always thought we'd get back to Edwards again and be involved in some other hairy test programs. But it wasn't to be. We lost Jack in 1957. He was riding as a passenger on a C-47 that hit the side of Mt. Fuji. Whatever happened wouldn't have happened if only Jack had been in the pilot's seat. But he wasn't.
Nell renamed young Ronnie, Jackie L. Ridley, Jr. Jackie was Jack's legal name, but once he began to shave, he preferred Jack. Jack's son is now a fine-looking young man who resembles his dad. I saw him and Nell in 1980 at dedication ceremonies for the Jackie L. Ridley Mission Control Center at Edwards. That's the building that the flight engineers use, and among those guys Jack was a legend. Any Air Force night engineer at Edwards knows all about Jack. He was the best there was. "Well, son " he had said, the day I left Edwards, "we had ourselves some fun, didn't we?" Jack, we sure as hell did.
A NEW OLD MAN
The Air Force had been racially integrated only seven or eight years by the time I became a fighter pilot. I came up through the ranks as an enlisted man, the same as Chuck Yeager, but it wasn't easy for me as a black man. There were many racial incidents along the way with no shortage of rednecks eager to shoot me down. Only a handful of black pilots were scattered around the world in those days, and I knew I couldn't afford to make any serious mistakes, but I was young, full of piss and vinegar, and when Chuck Yeager became my squadron commander in Germany, he stood between me and guys ready to jump me. Chuck just wouldn't tolerate that kind of crap. It's true he grew up in West Virginia, where there are some definite racial attitudes, but there is also a camaraderie between those who know what it is to be down and out. Without a doubt, he saved my neck on a couple of occasions. Serving with him became a highlight of my life.
Our squadron of Sabre jets was part of a three squadron fighter-bomber wing stationed at Hahn, which, in 1955, was a brand new fighter base up on the "Houndsback," two thousand feet above the Mosel River, about thirty miles from Wiesbaden. Europe has the worst flying weather in the world, and Hahn had the worst weather in all of Europe. Heavy fog and rain were continuous, and only God knew why the Air Force decided to build a base up there. We lost a few pilots in the fog, while learning to be extremely proficient bad-weather pilots.
We couldn't believe that the famous Chuck Yeager was heading our way. We knew, of course, that he had broken the sound barrier and was a great test pilot. In fact, just before he came to us, he had been back in Washington to receive the Harmon Trophy at the White House for his flight in the X-1A. But fighter pilots aren't impressed by anything but dogfighting, which was about all we did. Anytime we took off, we knew guys were sitting upstairs waiting to jump our ass. So, there was a helluva line of eager young pilots anxious to jump our new squadron commander and see what he was made of. Testing Yeager turned out to be a massacre. He waxed everybody, and with such ease that it was shameful. The word got around that he was somebody very special.
In those days we flew the F model of the Sabre which was slow. The Canadian fighter jocks in Europe loved to dogfight us in their own lighter, more maneuverable Mark V Sabres. They were merciless, and there wasn't much we could do about it. But Yeager took those guys on every chance he got. He flew the F like the rest of us, but he waxed those Canadians every time. We flew at maybe 90 percent of capability. Yeager flew at 101 percent. It was incredible to fly behind him in a traffic pattern because he flew with such precision. And he trained us by having us take turns flying his wing, which is really like flying his airplane because we emulated all his turns and maneuvers to keep up. For example if he went into a tight diving turn, we went right with him even though we may not have done that before. I flew his wing when a couple of Canadian jocks bounced us. Chuck radioed to me, "Hold on" and did a tight pull up, simultaneously hitting his speed brakes. The Canadians zipped past us and we ended up waxing their tails. I was impressed.
Another time I flew his wing and socked in as tight as I could, thinking that was what a good wingman should do. Chuck told me to move my control stick from side to side. I saw that my airplane barely reacted. At the speed we were moving, the controls were very sluggish, and if anything happened I wouldn't have the quickness to avoid colliding with him. That's how he delivered the message that I was flying too close.
Flying with him we flew at our maximum ability because that's how he flew. We would get up in clouds and instead of flying around them, we'd maneuver in and out. You really do some complicated flying when you start playing with clouds. They have holes and unusual shapes that create tricky maneuvers-good training for aerial combat. Instead of taking a straight thirty minute flight somewhere we'd go down on the deck below 1,000 feet. We could get there either way, a relaxed cruise or skimming over trees and barns. The hard way we learned something. Yeager wouldn't let us get there the easy way.
We used to make bets on how close to the end of the runway his wheels would touch down on landing. Actually go out with a measuring tape. He was always a foot or two right at the end of the runway-a perfect landing every time, even in near-zero visibility.
My nickname in the squadron was "Jock" because I had played college basketball. We were flying air-to-ground gunnery in France, and after I made my pass at the target, Chuck radioed, "Well, Jock, how did you do?" I told him I thought I scored about forty percent. He said, "I beat you." I said, "I'll bet you on that." So when we landed I called the range officer to get our scores. I got forty percent. That SOB got eighty percent. I put down the phone and crawled off the base. Later, he told me, "God, Jock, that was really great. I could actually see the bullets hitting the target." I said, "What!" He replied, "The vortex from the shells. I saw them."
We were coming back from gunnery in North Africa when he came on the radio. "Hey, you guys, look at that tanker burning down there." We said "What are you talking about?" We flew for another ten minutes and looked down. Sure enough, there was a ship on fire. We couldn't imagine how he could see so much better than the rest of us, and wondered if he had binoculars stashed away in his cockpit.
Chuck came to us as a major and rather quickly was promoted to lieutenant colonel. We were a good squadron and he fit right in. He operated with a twinkle in his eye, as easygoing and friendly as any squadron leader we had ever encountered; his rank was there because he wore it on his collar, but he lived to fly like the rest of us and probably flew more than the other squadron commanders in the wing. He was right in the middle of our beer busts, parties, and poker games. Being a squadron commander is all young fighter pilots ever hoped to become in this world, and we just hero-worshiped the guy. We busted our asses to please him and earn his respect. If he sent for one of us and asked a lot of questions, we knew damned well we had done something wrong and were in trouble. He would listen to an explanation and say, "You're full. of shit." And, God, to get that from him was worse than a slap in the face and having your epaulets ripped off. I don't recall him ever chewing anyone out. He didn't have to. Everyone, including all the enlisted men in the ground crews, took real pride being in Yeager's squadron.
We were living with a legend and we knew it even then. We read everything we could find about him and learned he was a World War II combat ace. We'd sit with him in the officers' club, prime him with beers, and get him to talk about airplanes and flying, soaking up every damned word. Try as we might, we couldn't get him to talk about his exploits, but there was nothing about aviation that he didn't know. Whatever he really thought about our individual flying skills he kept to himself. Nobody ever heard him say, "I don't think you can hack this." His attitude was, "Here's what we're gonna do, and you'll do it just fine." He made us think we could all fly with his capabilities, which was absolutely crazy. For example, he made his personal mark in the squadron by ordering us to wear red scarves and deciding that we would fly in a diamond formation. Air Force regulations demanded that all squadrons fly in a stacked formation, but Chuck just shrugged. He said, "The acrobatic teams fly a diamond and we're as good as they are." We became "The Red Diamonds."