But in spite of the bad conditions, I commanded the best performing squadron in the wing. I had come to Germany as a green and untried major and left France as a light colonel with good marks as a TAC squadron commander. There were plenty of ambitious colonels who always wanted more than what they had. I was never ambitious in terms of career moves. I just wanted to keep doing what was fun, and when I was offered command back in the States of a squadron of F-100 Super Sabres, an airplane I had helped to test fly at Edwards, I grabbed the offer before I even asked where my new squadron was located. Being a gypsy was part of the military life, so, I really didn't care that this new assignment took me back practically to where I started from three years before-out on the California desert at George Ai. Force Base. Glennis wasn't thrilled going back to the wind and sand again. "Make it short and let's get back to Germany," she said. I agreed. But neither of us would bet on our chances.
It was sheer coincidence that Chuck and I served together in Europe, he as squadron commander of his first tactical unit, and myself as group commander. Chuck was just outstanding in every way. For exam pie, I had my own way of measuring a squadron's morale. His squadron held parties once a month, and I couldn't help noticing that the wives ran the show and were much more active than the men in making the evening a success. That, to me, was a good indication of high morale because the men couldn't force their wives to go all-out that way and do extra things that made their squadron parties special. That came from enthusiasm and group togetherness. If the husbands were working closely among themselves and enjoying their tour, the wives mirrored that fact in how they worked together. Those evenings among Chuck's men were warm and happy, and that's really how I remember his squadron.
He didn't have to flex any muscles to be a leader. Being Chuck Yeager was impressive enough. My God, I wasn't exactly a stranger to his skills, but when he led our wing at gunnery meets, the guy claimed he could actually see the flight pattern of his shells, and I don't doubt it. His scores were phenomenal, and with those eyes of his he could set up and position himself before the rest of us even saw the target. Great eyes, but also instant depth perception that was just uncanny. I could be looking directly at a target from a great distance (and often I actually was), but I couldn't see it until Chuck pointed it out to me. By Air Force rules, the wing commander had to participate in these meets, and I flew as number three man, but frankly, I wasn't in Chuck's league. Not many of us were. And we were all veteran pilots. The kids in his squadron just worshiped the ground he walked on because he really was that exceptional with a control stick in his hands.
When we received the H model of the Sabre, Chuck and I decided to test it against the older model which he tlew. We agreed to go wingtip to wingtip and then go balls-out. We staved even for a while and I thought, "Well, this new model is no more powerful than the older one." Suddenly, that bastard began creeping ahead and I couldn't catch up. I thought, "My God, the Air Force has given us a lemon." It couldn't be, though, because I knew from others who had flown the H model that it was faster than the old F. When we landed I did some nosing around and discovered that Yeager had told his crew chief to crank in the tabs on the tailpipe, giving him increased exhaust gas temperature and that much more thrust. That's how he managed to stay in front.
I had to laugh because that ploy was so typical of Chuck. He knew that by cranking in the tabs he was exceeding the red line temperature for the exhaust gas escaping from the airplane's nozzle. But with his world of experience, he also knew that when the engineers designed that engine they calculated into it a margin of safety, so that flying above the red line was not particularly dangerous, provided you did it only in brief spurts, which is exactly what he did to beat me. The guy was really sophisticated and insightful about airplane engineering. And that's why he was always a helluva competitor. It was obvious that test or not, he'd cheat to make sure that nobody flew faster than Chuck Yeager, and it really was unfair because nine out of ten pilots wouldn't dare to exceed that red line.
At Hahn we lived down the street from Chuck and Glennis, and our kids became friends. Our two eldest sons decided to run away together. As I recall they left a note telling us what they had done. They weren't in trouble, but just having an adventure. We found them out in the German woods about a mile away. They stayed away two days and nights, when Chuck and I decided to go check on them. We crept up close without giving ourselves away, and I whispered, "Goddamn it, that's not good for them to be out here, Chuck." Yeager put a grin on that face of his and replied, "Aw, hell, Colonel, they can't get lost. They just think they're real he-men. Let's leave them alone." The boys returned home the next day.
Damn, I was sorry when Chuck left the wing, and he and Glennis were disappointed, too. They loved being in Europe. We had a real farewell bash for them, and, really, everyone was sorry to see him leave, even some on the staff who complained that he was gone too much of the time on personal appearances, or that he was underhanded in some of his wheelings and dealings to get things done for his squadron. There was a constant shortage of spare parts because his maintenance people hogged them. And that was because Chuck went out and got them everything they needed and more. But, hell, that was Chuck. What a character. There was just no one else like him.
WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN
A fighter pilot doesn't care where in the world he is stationed as long as the flying is good. Outside of actual combat, which is the ultimate flying experience, most of us old-timers stayed in the military because we loved to fly fast airplanes and the Air Force owned them. Once my test piloting was over, it was the luck of timing that made being a squadron commander as interesting as test piloting. In Germany, we had flown with nuclear weapons and learned how to deliver them. Back on the Mojave at George Air Force Base, my new squadron was the first in the Tactical Air Command to be armed with air-to-air Sidewinder missiles. In the early 1950s I had helped test the airplanes that created the modern air force; in the late 1950s, I was in on the ground floor of the operational deployment of these new airplanes and their sophisticated weapons systems that would receive their first combat testing a decade later in Vietnam.
My squadron at George was made up of supersonic F-100 Super Sabres, whose powerful engines gulped tremendous amounts of fuel, but which could be flown nonstop anywhere in the world, refueling from airborne tankers. Between learning to dogfight with missiles and traveling five thousand miles nonstop on training exercises, all of us felt we were flying right into the future. Air warfare would never be the same.
George was only fifty miles from Edwards. Glennis wasn't too thrilled living again in a sandbox, but like most Air Force wives, she was more interested in the quality of the local schools, and whether the base had a well-stocked commissary and a decent hospital. Her equivalent of having a good airplane to fly was decent on-base housing; on that score, the Air Force was still in the damned dark ages, so she dipped into our savings and made a downpayment on a three-bedroom place in Victorville, a couple of miles from the base. Our street had shade trees and was only a block or two from the local school. There was still sand in our coffee mugs after a hard night's blow on the desert, but at least the family was comfortable. I had warned her, "Hoe, we better settle in fast because I have a feeling I'm gonna be off and running. "