by Robert Coram
But when Boyd displayed the diagram, one member of the board affected a “gotcha” air and queried Boyd about the bump. The scientist’s attitude was condescending and gave the impression that if such a fundamental flaw was obvious up front, how could anything from this upstart fighter pilot be believed?
Christie was present and says Boyd was taken aback that one of America’s top scientists was ignorant enough of atmospheric physics to ask such a question. Nevertheless, he was respectful and courteous. He knew this was a tremendous opportunity to advance the cause of E-M. But when Boyd later told the story, he said he answered, “Sir, everyone knows the troposphere is here and that it accounts for this discontinuity.” And he said that when he and Christie emerged from the briefing, he turned to Christie and said, “Guess I hosed that dumb son of a bitch.”
On April 4, 1965, forty-eight F-105s attacked the Thanh Hoa Bridge in North Vietnam. They attacked in flights of four. One flight was holding over the initial point ten miles south of the bridge when it was bounced by four MiGs. The F-105s fled. One pilot could not shake a pursuing MiG and in desperation flat-plated his bird and caused his pursuer to overshoot. Later the pilot told debriefers he had never done the maneuver before.
Two other F-105s were shot down by cannon fire.
When four MiGs attack four F-105s and the score is 2–0 in favor of the MiGs, people at the highest levels in the Pentagon want to know what the hell is going on. How can the U.S. Air Force so decisively lose an air-to-air engagement with MiGs? Was the problem with the pilots, the aircraft, or the tactics?
Several months later four F-105s were lost in a single strike against a surface-to-air missile (SAM) site.
Boyd and Christie were summoned to the Pentagon.
One Saturday morning they marched down the long halls to the E-Ring office of Dr. John Foster, the third-ranking official in the Department of Defense and the man responsible for all research and technology as well as for developing and testing new weapons.
Boyd showed Foster how and why the primary Air Force aircraft in Vietnam—the F-105 and the F-4 Phantom—were the wrong aircraft for the jobs they were doing. The F-105 was being used as an air-to-ground aircraft. The F-4C was a big, heavy, twin-engine aircraft whose smoke trail could be seen for miles. It had no guns but was being used for air-to-air combat. Its missiles were virtually useless in a tight turning fight. It was simply no match for a MiG. And at certain altitudes and airspeeds, neither was the F-4.
Boyd and Christie expanded the regular E-M brief to show how woefully inadequate were America’s air-to-air missiles, the Sparrow and the Sidewinder. The Sidewinder missed its target and plowed into the ground so often that pilots called it the “Sandwinder.” And the Sparrow could be defeated by the simplest of avoidance maneuvers.
Foster was shaken by the briefing. It was clear America needed a new fighter aircraft.
These were heady days for Boyd. His name was becoming known throughout the Air Force, and not just as a fighter pilot, but as a thinker, as a theoretician, as the man who developed a radical new theory. Even the Navy was using his E-M Theory. They took his name off it, and they did not call it E-M, but it was Boyd’s work.
Given the success of E-M, Boyd had been invited to be part of the group whose job it was to develop a design for the new fighter the Air Force wanted to build. That group, however, was dominated by people at Wright-Pat who were so embarrassed by Boyd’s E-M work that they made sure he had no influence. That did not matter to Boyd. If the Air Force was indeed serious about building the new fighter, he knew what would happen. He would wait.
In addition to being recognized for his accomplishments, Boyd was becoming widely known in the Air Force as a man who could be difficult to get along with. Sometimes it seemed he went out of his way to be obstreperous. The man just would not bend, even on things that did not matter to most people. One example was when the Air Force launched a Zero Defects Campaign, and the base commander at Eglin wanted every person on base to sign a pledge saying he would make no mistakes during the coming year. Most organizations at Eglin already flew a flag saying the office was 100% FOR ZERO DEFECTS. But Boyd knew, as did almost everyone who signed the pledge, that he and everyone else would make mistakes. He thought Zero Defects was a stupid idea and refused to sign. A group of lieutenants working for Christie not only followed his lead but raised a flag that proudly proclaimed they were 100% AGAINST ZERO DEFECTS. Hints that people would be fired and threats of courts-martial drifted down from above. But then Boyd sent word that if there were any retaliations he would, in his words, “create an epic shit storm.” The base commander decided it was okay to have a few mavericks at Eglin.
Then there was the day Boyd and Christie were in the coffee shop at Eglin, talking and laughing with the easy confidence of two men sure of their future, when in walked the civilian in charge of the computer shop. Boyd’s laughter ended and his face became hard and angry. He stuck his cigar in his mouth, stood up, and stalked toward the civilian. Christie sensed the danger, but it was too late to stop Boyd.
Boyd took the cigar out of his mouth and said, “Guess you heard I briefed Sweeney.”
“Yes, I did,” said the civilian.
“And Schriever, and the secretary of the Air Force, and the president’s Scientific Advisory Board, and Dr. Johnny Foster?” Boyd’s voice rose with each addition to the list. The civilian nodded. Now people in the coffee shop were looking up and listening.
Boyd tapped the civilian in the chest. Hard. “You didn’t think my work was important enough for your goddamn computer and now I got four-stars calling me for briefings.” Tap. “Everybody in the Air Force has heard of energy-maneuverability.” Tap. Tap. “You.” Tap. “Don’t.” Tap. “Know.” Tap. “Shit.” Tap.
The civilian smiled tightly and tried to step around Boyd.
Boyd pushed his cigar against the civilian’s tie. A round hole appeared and smoke blossomed. The crowd in the cafeteria stared in shocked silence. The civilian slapped at his smouldering tie, gave Boyd a venomous look, and flounced out of the coffee shop. Boyd was on his six and firing steadily. “You’re a loser. A fucking loser. Go on, get out of here. Run.” His raucous laughter followed the man. As the civilian strode through the front door, Boyd stopped and shouted in a voice heard throughout the building, “You’re a fucking loser!”
Boyd watched the civilian walking across the parking lot. Twice the civilian looked over his shoulder as if afraid Boyd was still in pursuit. Boyd smiled and puffed on his cigar.
He had hosed another one.
Boyd did not see the dangers inherent in deliberately seeking conflict with others. In his mind he had been wronged by the civilian. The fact he had briefed top people in the Air Force and in government proved he had been right and the civilian wrong. But to be right was not enough. He had to have a redress of grievances and he had to publicly embarrass the person who wronged him. He had to be the last man standing. “People did things to me when we were young,” he once told Mary. “They did it because we were poor. But they’re not going to do it now.”
But when Boyd hosed the civilian, he created another enemy. A powerful enemy. And payback time was rapidly approaching. The Air Force is a collection of coalitions, and by late 1965 there were strong anti-Boyd coalitions at Eglin, at Wright-Pat, and in scattered pockets around the Air Force.
One day word came down that the inspector general (IG) for the Air Force Systems Command was coming to Eglin to investigate Boyd’s illegal use of computers. No one knew the origin of the investigation, but chances are it was initiated by the comptroller or the civilian who controlled the base computers or else someone at Wright-Pat—all of whom realized Boyd could not have developed the E-M Theory without countless hours of computer time. Plus, Boyd, with a wink and an elbow to the ribs, had told dozens of people about stealing computer time. Whatever the source, the IG was well armed. He said he was investigating allegations that Boyd had bilked the government of around $1 million in ille
gal computer usage. The IG investigation did not mention Christie, who was a civilian in another chain of command. Boyd was the sole target.
If the investigation showed Boyd used government computers for an unauthorized project and without proper authority, the military equivalent of felony charges would be filed and a court-martial would follow. If convicted, Boyd could face a prison sentence, be asked to repay the $1 million, and be tossed out of the Air Force with loss of all benefits and allowances.
Boyd was not worried. “I did my homework,” he said to the few people who asked about the investigation. After he was questioned by the IG team, he and Christie left Eglin for an extensive tour of the west coast, where they briefed defense contractors on E-M. When Boyd returned, the investigation was over and the IG team wanted an exit briefing. Considering the high rank and influence of those behind the investigation, the ending was almost anticlimactic. The colonel in charge of the investigation sat down with Boyd and said, in effect, “Major, we know thousands of computer hours went into developing your E-M Theory. But we can’t find any evidence of computer misuse. Everything is accounted for.”
Boyd smiled.
“My report will recommend that no charges be filed.”
Boyd nodded. It was as if the colonel were a not-too-bright child who had slowly worked his way to the only possible conclusion.
“But, Major, we would like to know how you did it.”
“And no charges will be filed?”
“No.”
“Okay, but first I want to show you something.” Boyd pulled from his desk several dozen letters he had written not only to the civilian in charge of computers at Eglin, but to people at Wright-Pat, telling all the benefits his theory would bring to the Air Force and asking for computer time. He showed the letters denying him use of computers. And he told how the civilian had twice tossed him out of his office.
“Colonel, my goal here was not personal. My work was for the best interest of our country. I tried to do it the Air Force way and was refused at every turn.”
The colonel nodded.
“Then I did it my way.”
Boyd told the colonel of his subterfuge in gaining access to the computers. Then he told the colonel about the people he had briefed on E-M and all the changes taking place in the Air Force because of it. When Boyd finished, the colonel was silent. He looked again at the stack of letters Boyd had written. “Thank you, Major.”
Several weeks later the IG issued a report. A copy was sent to Eglin. The report exonerated Boyd of culpability. It said his original and creative work was of overwhelming significance to national defense and that the benefits of E-M had spread throughout the Air Force and would have great influence for years to come. But an IG report must have a villain, even if no charges are filed. The report excoriated the civilian who denied Boyd use of the computers.
Boyd was euphoric. What he did not know was that a few months later would come a day of reckoning. And this time he would not escape.
By 1965 Boyd had been in the Air Force fourteen years. He was not yet up for promotion to lieutenant colonel. But each year the Air Force selects a few promising officers from each rank and promotes them “below the zone”—that is, before they have the time in grade. It is the best way the Air Force has to acknowledge talented young officers and to show that they have a promising future. Boyd looked back at his accomplishments at Nellis, researching and writing the “Aerial Attack Study,” gaining an engineering degree, and the impact his E-M Theory was having throughout the Air Force, and he knew that if ever a man deserved early promotion, he was that man. The Air Force owed him a debt of recognition and the best way to recognize an officer is to promote him. He was confident that he soon would be wearing the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. But Boyd’s name was not on the early-promotion list. That, by itself, disappointed and angered Boyd. But what sent him over the edge was the list of men who were promoted. He read down the list in disbelief. Many of those promoted were “horse holders,” aides to generals. Others were nonentities whose contributions, if any, were unknown to Boyd. There was not one person on the list who had made the contributions to the Air Force and to national defense that he had made.
Boyd was deeply affected. This was a pivotal event in his career, as well as a personal epiphany. Often, when a man is young and idealistic, he believes that if he works hard and does the right thing, success will follow. This was what Boyd’s mother and childhood mentors had told him. But hard work and success do not always go together in the military, where success is defined by rank, and reaching higher rank requires conforming to the military’s value system. Those who do not conform will one day realize that the path of doing the right thing has diverged from the path of success, and then they must decide which path they will follow through life. Almost certainly, he realized that if he was not promoted early to lieutenant colonel after all that he had done, he would never achieve high rank. And in light of a speech he was to give in coming years to young officers, his famous “To Be or to Do” speech, he likely realized that while he might do big things, he would never be at the top of the Air Force hierarchy.
It was clear to Boyd’s friends what had happened. Those whom Boyd had belittled and denigrated had sent out the word, and the word had percolated among various coalitions until it reached the promotion board: sure, Boyd has done some good things for the Air Force, but he is unprofessional, lacks basic military courtesies, and is unfit for rapid promotion. These people had lost battles with Boyd, but they won the war. They affected his career and his life in the most hurtful way possible.
Boyd’s public reaction to what he saw as a personal and grievous slight was entirely out of character. He went to the Officers Club and got rip-roaring, knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk. He sat alone at the bar, not holding court, not talking about fighter tactics or E-M, but just staring at the wall, smoking his cigar, and drinking. And drinking. And drinking. It is the only time he is known to have gotten drunk.
A few months later Boyd was awarded the Air Force Systems Command Scientific Achievement Award, the highest scientific award in the AFSC. Then he was awarded the Air Force Research and Development Award for Aeronautical Engineering, the highest scientific award the Air Force gives to an officer. And in Boyd’s ER—dated September 7, 1965—which covered his work of the previous year, he received the highest possible ratings in almost every category. “This brilliant young officer is an original thinker,” said the ER. “His production comes from about 10% inspiration and 90% a grueling pace that his cohorts find difficult if not impossible to keep up with. He is extremely intolerant of inefficiency and those who attempt to impede his program.” It ends with, “Maj. Boyd should be promoted to Lt. Col. below the zone of primary eligibility at the first opportunity.”
In the spring of 1966, Boyd was granted his heart’s desire: he was ordered to Thailand as an F-4 pilot. At long last he was going into combat and this time he would be in the thick of it. It was about time. He missed World War II and he arrived late for Korea, but now, by God, he would be a Phantom driver in Vietnam. The air war in Vietnam was white-hot. F-105s were going up North to the area around Hanoi—“Route Pack VI” it was called—where they were being shot down by the dozens. The previous year, 171 American aircraft were lost in North Vietnam. That year the number would rise to 318.
The Air Force had said F-105s were fast enough and deadly enough to fly missions alone; they needed no fighter support. But that policy changed and now F-4C Phantoms flew MiG cover for the Thuds. The F-4C was too big and heavy to get into a turning fight with the nimble little MiGs, so a Phantom driver had to take the fight down low and keep his airspeed up if he was going to hose a MiG. The Phantom also had no guns and its missiles were virtually useless in many air-to-air scenarios; the launch envelope was so narrow that a pilot had to be a very hot stick to get a kill. Boyd was not worried. He told everyone he met that the first five enemy aircraft he sighted would be history. Forty-Second Boyd
was going to wax some Communist ass.
Boyd was packing, getting his shots, making arrangements for Mary and the children to go to Iowa, and handling the myriad details a pilot must endure before a combat assignment when he received word his orders for Thailand had been cancelled.
The new fighter, the F-X, was in trouble.
The Bigger-Higher-Faster-Farther syndrome that had plagued the Air Force since its earliest days had resulted in an F-X design that reminded many of the F-111. The proposed new fighter was a swing-wing behemoth of some seventy thousand pounds. While the Air Force publicly praised the F-111, they were finding it more and more difficult to hide the fact that the airplane was as bad as Boyd had said, maybe worse. The Pentagon took a hard look at the design for the F-X and realized it could only lead to embarrassment. The Air Force probably would lose the fighter and be forced by Congress to fly another saltwater airplane.
Boyd was ordered to the Pentagon.
In the summer of 1966, before he transferred to Washington, Boyd spent part of his accrued leave in Erie. These summer trips to Erie had become a practice he would follow for the rest of his life. But this was the first time he had taken Mary and all five children home at the same time. Naturally he expected everyone to stay at the house on Lincoln Avenue. But when he drove up to his mother’s house and children began falling out and running across the yard, the redoubtable Elsie Boyd told her son they couldn’t stay. I don’t want five children underfoot, she said. They make too much noise and the noise will bother me.