What an utter disgrace that war was, costing more than 58,000 American lives, let alone 230,000 from the Republic of Vietnam, more than 1 million North Vietnamese and Vietcong, and between 2 million and 4 million Vietnamese civilians! A bloody, pointless war from the start, made even worse by the way it was conducted. South Vietnam fell under Communist control, just as if we’d never been there. What a fucking waste.
It was the right time for this warrior to get out of Dodge, but no way I’d go quietly. I voiced my opinions in a speech to the Touchdown Club in New York soon after the end of the war. My remarks challenged the administration and Congress to “play to win,” like in a football game, the next time armed forces were committed to combat. “Win the goddamn thing!” I thundered. “It will save lives and be over with quickly!” All hell broke loose. The reaction and furor rolling off Capitol Hill were spectacular. Chappie James was, by then, director of public affairs in D.C. He and legislative liaison John Giraudo nearly had heart attacks fielding the complaints. Chappie phoned me at Norton and said, “Boss, why in heaven’s name did you say that? It damned near made me turn white!” God bless him.
Thirty days before leaving office, I was required to file an official report with the IG, General Hardin, before sending it on to Ryan at the Pentagon. They requested my opinion on how to cut expenses in AF operations. It was like sending a starving man into a supermarket! Needless to say, my response started fires in several trash cans. I suggested they cut staff and functions across the board throughout the top echelons of the air force and the Department of Defense, break down the surgeon general’s Pentagon empire, cut headquarters USAF manpower by 50 percent, realign functions on a priority basis, let subordinate headquarters follow suit, eliminate the Air University and AFDAS—go contract, eliminate SAC and TAC divisions and ANG groups, reduce the number of authorized AF general officers by one-third, reduce colonels by one-quarter, return disciplinary power and personnel records to commanders, eliminate MET, RIF one-fourth of System Command GS-12s and above, RIF one-half of Logistic Command GS-12s and above, eliminate VIMS, BLIMPS, BEAMS, etc., stop the B-1 buy (since SAC claimed to have won the war in eleven days by carpet bombing, just equip C-5s with MERs and TERs for future wars—save a packet!), give ICBMs to Army Coast Artillery Corps, and return the air force to a mission-oriented service, rather than the factory it had become. They’d get a hell of a lot more out of proud military people than from mill hands.
Finally, the last line of my report read, “Retire one tired Brigadier General, ranked seventh on the April ’73 one-star list. He’s of no use to you anymore.” In case my intent wasn’t perfectly clear, I started growing my mustache back that same day.
My last days in the IG office were a bittersweet end to my military service. Had I made any difference at all? Did any of it count for the air force and for the country I loved so much? The people I served with through good times and bad were undeniably what counted the most, but I couldn’t help thinking I hadn’t done enough, hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t given it my all. I was undeniably done. There was nothing more anybody would let me do. In the last two days at Norton, I managed to get in some good golf with friends and have a few laughs, but I was mentally exhausted. Final packing at the house was rushed and argumentative. Ella had lobbied hard for us to return to Washington, D.C., but I was worried about both of us back in that sewer. It was the last place we needed to be; the high life for her would have been the ultimate low life for me. There was no way to reach a happy compromise, so we decided the only short-term fix was to buy a house back in Colorado, live there for a while, see how it worked, and find out if we could make it when I was no longer a fighter pilot. We were both willing to try a clean new start in retirement.
On June 1, 1973, I retired from the United States Air Force exactly thirty years after graduating from West Point. The ceremony was simple and subdued. The next day we took off in a caravan of cars driving back across the country to the little ski town of Steamboat Springs. When the Rocky Mountains came into view once into Colorado, I knew I was finally home.
It was the home I would never leave.
23
Final Landing
My years of retirement didn’t last very long. I didn’t have much time to mope around. After the POWs came home the River Rats threw a whale of a party in Las Vegas. Over two thousand people attended. It was our first “official” reunion and showed me clearly I would never retire from being a fighter pilot. My talents were needed to lead the guys in song. The RRVA grew into a national organization, holding reunions in every corner of the country, usually not in the same place twice. For some reason hotels seemed not to welcome the River Rats back. Fighter pilots grow older but never grow up.
Regrettably, Ella and I didn’t make it more than two years after we moved to the mountains. We divorced in 1976. She moved back to Los Angeles, and died from throat cancer on Memorial Day 1988. Our two girls were by her side. It was a sad end to our beautiful, passionate beginning. We had simply been too much for each other. Luckily I found love again and married Morgan Sellers Barnett in 1978. Morgan and I spent many happy years living in the quirkiest damned house on the top of a hill south of Steamboat Springs. I rebuilt the roof and foundation of that house with my West Point engineering manual, Morgan bringing materials up ladders, then hauling trash down. We skied, golfed, and traveled endlessly to 8th TFW, 434th, and RAF squadron reunions, and even hosted a few of our own in Steamboat. Those were happy times. My old friend Benjamin Cassiday corralled us into his fighter-pilot ski group, Aspenosium, yet another annual get-together leaving devastation in its wake. This hale and hearty bunch still meets yearly and is now anchored safely here in Steamboat. God love ’em all. Save some powder for me, guys! Chappie James’s heart gave out in 1978. I visited him in the hospital a week before he died. We held hands and reminisced about the good old days. When I left his room I said, “Good-bye my friend.” Chappie replied “Good-bye, boss.”
After years of my making speeches to captive USAF audiences at bases across the U.S, Europe, and Asia, Morgan convinced me to make an honest living by signing on with the Aviation Speakers Bureau. To my surprise, speaking engagements piled up around the world and I took off on a second career. It was a fun way to meet new people and rehash old ideas. I was amazed at how well I was tolerated. Speaking also drew me fully back into reliving the life I had loved. Sadly, as a result, my marriage to Morgan ended after fifteen years. Bless her for hanging on so long with this disreputable, incorrigible old fighter pilot.
My younger brother Stevan died in 1988, way too young. I miss him. And damn that Phil Combies for leaving us too early. Pardo picked me up in a Lear for Phil’s funeral in San Antonio. J.B. was copilot. I think I slept. I don’t remember. What’s vaguely clear is that we stayed at Dick Swope’s house. I called some cops “cocksuckers,” and the fight was on! For some reason, only J.B. and Pardo got thrown in jail. They were always good wingmen.
Distinct honors came my way as time went on. I was inducted into the Collegiate Football Hall of Fame and later the National Aviation Hall of Fame. Lithographs were done of my aerial battles. My old Mustang, SCAT VII, was refurbished by Jim Shuttleworth. I got to fly her again in 1993. What a thrill! It was hell forcing myself through the bullshit of getting a civilian pilot’s license though. I often wonder if that nice instructor ever got his pants clean. One of the saddest days of my life came when Jim went down in that P-51 ten years later. I was one of his pallbearers. What a terrible loss.
Several pilot buddies bootlegged flights for me in the latest “teen” fighters until we could no longer get away with it. I shall remain mum to protect their identities. How kids today can fly with computers is beyond me. No doubt about it, I was one lucky old seat-of-the-pants guy. My F-4, SCAT XXVII, was rescued out of Phantom oblivion and put on display at the Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson. The dedication was a helluva party. At a Fighter Aces convention I came face-to-face with Luftwaffe ace Günther Rall,
and in true fighter pilot fashion we became good friends.
Through the last thirty-four years I’ve made hundreds of speeches, told too many bad jokes, given innumerable interviews to relentless journalists, attended countless dining-ins, written dozens of articles, opened a few museums, been in a couple of remarkable television shows, sung endless fighter pilot songs, played much bad golf, carved a lot of wood, bashed my way through deep powder snow, and caught my share of trout and women. I have a beautiful granddaughter, Jennifer. My daughters are well. Flying is over but good friends fill my life. It’s been one hell of a ride.
Now in the spring of 2007, I look out at my beloved Steamboat Mountain and watch the season’s first thunderstorm form over its flanks. For years it was enough to ski, fish, camp, and golf in this paradise, but these days I long to fly up the face of that cloud. This tired old body of mine can barely get down the hall to the living room and it frustrates the hell out of me. It would be easier if I didn’t have to drag this goddamned oxygen tank around. What the hell kind of deal is this? I sit at this moody computer every day willing my fingers to write but distracted by a game of solitaire. There are so many e-mails to answer and letters to write, I can’t keep up with them anymore. I’ve got to organize my file cabinet. I keep trying to type, but the day gets away from me. My daughter tells me dinner is ready, reruns of M*A*S*H are on, it’s time for more pills, and time for bed again.
Doctors tell me I am out of time, that I have congestive heart failure. What the hell do they know? I’m just getting old! There’s too much left to do—trips to be made, people to see, crossword puzzles to finish, songs to be sung, stories to tell, memories to write. It’s just not fair. I’m not through. Chris is living with me despite how many times I’ve told her not to: stubborn like her old man, that girl. She nags me to take my medicine, keep my oxygen on, eat her cooking; what’s so wrong with frozen macaroni and cheese? There’s some in the freezer … been there for years. People call with invitations to reunions, air shows, parties, golf tournaments, gatherings of Mustangs and fighter aces, Warbird meetings, more parties. I confess, I tell all of them I’ll be there. Let me just get organized, finish what I’m doing, take a nap. I’ll shower, shave, and pack tomorrow. I need to book a ticket, drive down to Denver. Where are my glasses? Oh shit, sitting on them again.
During naps and at night now, I dream about flying; it’s always the same dream. I keep myself in it when I wake up … keep my eyes closed to keep the feeling of it going … each time it gets better, goes farther. I know where I want it to end. It always starts out in total darkness, total quiet. A point of light appears in the center of the black and ripples outward, spreading light and sound as it comes toward me. The light becomes bright white, then blue, and the noise a deep roar. I’m in my F-4, screaming up the side of that thundercloud in full afterburner. Sunlight fills my cockpit. I invert over the top, then dive back down into white. There is white all around, like fog. Altimeter and horizon spin. Am I up? Am I down? I know my Phantom will tell me. I let go of the stick. We glide gently through the white, still no sense of gravity, but I can feel the descent. I can hear the engine whine. We are floating … we must be close to base. Have I called ahead? No time. No time. My jet breaks out of the fog just over some trees. There’s a gray runway ahead. Where am I? OK, line up, throttle back, on speed, we settle down beautifully, haven’t lost my style. I taxi in to a deserted ramp. Where is everyone? I open my canopy, hear my engine spooling down. I take off my helmet, pop the lap belt, throw the shoulder harness back, undue the Koch fittings, stand up, and climb out. There’s a ladder but where the hell is my crew? I put my hand gently on my aircraft as the engine ticks. She’s cool to the touch. Then I step away.
Wait! There’s a sound, singing! It’s coming from an old hangar on the edge of the ramp. I walk toward it. I open a door and walk down the hall. I hear voices, laughter, breaking glass. I rub my face. Can it be? My mustache is back. I push quickly through another door and there they all are. Dear God in heaven, there they are. There’s Phil behind the bar. There’s Chappie. There’s Tex. There’s Hub. There’s Leon, Tooey, Pappy, Jim, Stevan, so many familiar faces. I know I’m dreaming, but this is the dream I’ve wanted.
I yell to the group, “Olds Flight, checking in!”
The singing stops. They turn toward me, a chorus of welcoming voices, “Robin! Robin, you made it! You’re here.” A beer is shoved into my hand. Someone claps me on the back. Faces swarm around. I move down the bar toward an old piano. The piano player stands up and steps toward me. It’s my father.
“Hello, Robbie.” He grins. “Welcome home.”
“Hello, Dad.” I smile shyly. “I was a fighter pilot!”
“Yes, son. You still are. I’m proud of you.” He sits back down at the piano and says, “Now teach me some of those new songs, will you?”
I laugh. “Sure thing, Dad. But first, let me show you something.” I turn toward the group. “Hey guys, how about one more MiG sweep?”
There’s a roar of approval, the sound of tables scraping back, the piano starting up, voices singing, pilots cheering. I gulp down my beer, slam the glass onto the bar, and link arms with my men. We sweep across the room with a great shout, tackling the unwary, leaving nothing standing in our wake. We turn to crowd around the piano.
We sing, we drink, we retell our warrior tales, and we laugh.
I have flown home.
Index
The index that appeared in the print version of this title does not match the pages in your eBook. Please use the search function on your eReading device to search for terms of interest. For your reference, the terms that appear in the print index are listed below.
1st Fighter Group
1 Squadron, RAF
2nd Air Division
2nd Army Air Forces Bomb Wing
3rd Army
4th Air Force
4th Fighter Group
7th Air Force
8th Air Force
8th Tactical Fighter Wing
9th Air Force
12th Air Force
12th Recon Squadron
13th Air Force
14th Air Force
17th Air Force
27th Fighter Squadron
33rd Tactical Fighter Wing
36th Tactical Fighter Wing
56th Group
71st Fighter Squadron
78th Tactical Fighter Squadron
81st Tactical Fighter Wing
82nd Airborne
86th Fighter Interceptor Wing
86th Interceptor Group
91st Tactical Fighter Squadron
92nd Tactical Fighter Squadron
94th Fighter Squadron
101st Airborne
355th Group
355th Tactical Fighter Wing
364th Fighter Group
366th Tactical Fighter Wing
388th Tactical Fighter Wing
412th Group
431st Fighter Interceptor Squadron “Red Devils”
433rd Fighter Squadron
434th Fighter Squadron
435th Fighter Squadron
436th Fighter Squadron
469th Squadron
479th Fighter Group
555th Fighter Squadron (Triple Nickel)
4453rd Combat Crew Training Wing
7235th Support Squadron
7272nd Air Base Wing
7272nd Air Weapons Group
accidents, flying
aces
Adams, Wade
adverse yaw
aerial combat
episodes of
lust for
tactics
in Vietnam
aerobatics
aerodynamics
AIM-4 Falcon missile
deficiencies of
AIM-7 Sparrow missile
AIM-9 Sidewinder missile
Air Corps Tactical School
air defense, Robin’s disbelief in doctrine of
Air Defense
Command
airflow
Air Force, U.S. (USAF)
budget
bureaucrats in
Directorate of Operations
headquarters (HQ) at Pentagon
how to cut expenses (Robin’s report)
and the navy
organization of
public relations office
Air Force Academy (USAFA), Colorado Springs
academic excellence of
Air Force–Army football game
Air Force Museum
Air Force Office of Information
Air Material Command (AMC)
airplanes
crashes
damaged
love of
Robin’s early acquaintance with
scuttling of
shot down
See also accidents, flying
air power, promotion of, in period between the World Wars
air shows
air-to-air missiles
American
nuclear
training in
see also AIM missles
Air Transport Command
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Allen (pilot in Vietnam)
Aman, Bob
America
civilians’ disinterest in Vietnam conflict
protected by the military
sixties’ society developments
Amsterdam
Anastos, Teddy
Anderson, Van
Andrews, Frank
Andrews, Lieutenant (at Fort Hamilton)
antimissile missiles
antiwar movement
Arabic, speaking
’arf an’ ’arf (half stout and half ale)
armor, Robin’s interest in
Army Air Corps
Army Air Forces
Fighter Pilot Page 49