The target P-80s would take off and climb on the heading assigned by the project officer to 35,000 feet. At 150 to 200 miles from Eglin they would turn to the inbound heading and activate the radar beacons. In those days there was almost no traffic at that altitude, so we were not required to work with the civilian air traffic control system.
The interceptor P-80 was parked on the taxiway, just off the runway and facing it at an angle of 45 degrees. The pilot was strapped in and ready to go, with his eyes glued to the control tower. The external power unit for starting was plugged into the airplane and idling, with the attending crew chief also watching the tower. When the GCI operator picked up the target on his scope, he signaled the tower operator, who flashed a green light toward the P-80. The crew chief immediately powered up the starting unit, and the pilot engaged the starter switch. As soon as the engine reached 35-percent rpm, the pilot signaled the ground crew to disengage the starting unit. The pilot advanced the throttle as rapidly as possible without exceeding the tail-pipe temperature limit and started the takeoff run from the taxiway, curving onto the runway heading. As soon as he was airborne, about one minute after the green light flashed, he switched to the GCI frequency and was given a climb heading while he accelerated to climbing speed, which without tip tanks was 330 mph at sea level. The P-80 was flown at full throttle (100-percent rpm) until the pilot completed the interception, with a simulated firing pass at the simulated bombers.
The interceptor took about ten minutes to reach 35,000 feet, and during that period the targets covered some seventy-five miles. Quite often, especially when the GCI operator was so new at the job that he turned the fighter too late or at the wrong angle, the mission would terminate in a long stern chase, and the bombers would reach the target before being intercepted. We soon realized that to meet the threat of bombers with higher speed and altitude capability, we needed more powerful ground radar able to pick up the bombers farther from the target, highly trained GCI operators, better climb performance in the interceptors, and longer-range weapons than .50-caliber guns.
During this period the United States had no reason to expect a bombing attack, although it had become painfully obvious that our wartime ally the Soviet Union was an ally no more. The Soviets had taken control of most of eastern Europe by installing Communist governments in all the countries they had liberated from the Nazis. In early 1946 Sir Winston Churchill, in a notable speech at Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri, vividly defined the new situation when he said, "From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic an iron curtain has descended across the Continent."
President Harry Truman decided that the free countries, often referred to as the West, could not permit Russian expansion to go unchecked. In March 1947 he presented to the Congress a policy of resistance to international aggression that became known as the Truman Doctrine. We were engaged in what was called a Cold War, fought politically and economically with propaganda and displays of military strength instead of the usual weapons. Although the tremendous military power of the United States had been severely reduced at the end of the war, it had to be reestablished and maintained at a level high enough to be a credible deterrent to the Soviets. Despite the overwhelming numerical superiority of the Soviets, as long as the West alone had the atom bomb the deterrent was credible indeed.
During Project Highball the squadron had two near fatalities, both due to malfunctions in oxygen systems. In the first, Capt. Blackie Oliver, a Mangus Colorado Apache from Arizona, was flying one of the simulated bombers when he drifted out of formation and went into a spiral, almost vertical dive. The pilot of the other P-80 saw him slumped in the cockpit but could do nothing but try to call him on the radio and follow him down. He couldn't stay with Blackie without exceeding speed and Mach limitations (580 mph and 0.8 Mach) but managed to keep him in sight.
Blackie's plane finally pulled out at about 3,000 feet (the dive began at 35,000 feet), and he regained consciousness. Although he was a bit groggy, Blackie followed the other pilot back to the base and landed safely. Unfortunately, the rapid descent while unconscious had severely damaged both his eardrums, forcing him off flying status and requiring him to use a hearing aid.
Blackie was a popular member of the squadron. He was short and wiry with jet black hair and sparkling, almost black eyes. His locker was next to mine, and frequently as we changed into our flying suits he hung a blue and gray scarf around my neck and performed an Indian dance that he said made me a member of the blue and gray tribe of the Mangus Colorado Apaches.
The second incident was almost identical to the first, except that the pilot, Capt. Ray Evans, took longer to recover and came out of the dive much closer to the ground, after going through several uncontrolled gyrations. When he did recover he heard his wingman, who had followed him down, screaming over the radio for him to bail out. Ray finally heard him, jettisoned the canopy, and tried to pull up, since he was down to about 1,000 feet and descending, but he couldn't pull the stick back. He found that his seat cushion (we flew with backpack parachutes and seat cushions) had slipped forward during his wild descent and was wedged between the seat and the stick. He managed to rip it loose and throw it out, where it wrapped around the right horizontal stabilizer. Luckily it did not affect the controls, and Ray was able to land safely. Both incidents were traced to failures within the oxygen regulators. The pilots could easily have been fatalities, but the Eglin area has few farms, and neither pilot wished to buy one.
A pilot who had been in the fighter squadron but had been transferred to base operations, Maj. W. Wayne Patton, had an accident that I thought for a minute would involve me. I had walked out of the fighter hangar toward the parking lot on the way to meet Glindel for lunch. I heard a P-51 taking off to the south but didn't pay much attention until the sound suddenly stopped. A sudden silence is always cause for alarm at an airfield, and I looked up and saw the Mustang at about 800 feet starting a turn toward the hangar. The standard procedure when an engine fails on takeoff is to glide straight ahead and crash-land the best way possible. The risk of stalling and spinning in is too great in a low-speed, engine-out turn. Pat evidently thought he had enough height and speed to risk a 270-degree turn back to the airport. I didn't share his confidence. He barely cleared the hangar, and when he came over me, the airplane was shuddering on the edge of a stall. I was afraid he would spin and crash on or near me, but he went over at about 30 feet, clipped some pine trees in the parking lot, and hit the ground with a tremendous impact at the other end of the lot. The airplane skidded across the road, narrowly missing two cars, and smashed into a culvert, bringing it to a stop. Part of the engine ripped off and went down the central hall of the base library and out the other end without hitting anyone.
The whole area was flooded with gasoline, and Pat's feet were trapped in the cockpit, but miraculously there was no fire. The engine must have cooled sufficiently in the glide, and Pat had cut all the switches. The base fire trucks arrived within about thirty seconds, before I could reach the plane, and flooded the area with foam. Pat was extricated and rushed to the hospital. His ankle had been crushed, and although he was able to walk again, he was removed from flying status and left the AAF. He stayed in the Eglin area and established a successful insurance and real estate agency. That was real intelligence: instead of buying the farm, he sold it.
Three other pilots were less fortunate during this period. Two were from the fighter squadron. The other was Captain Robbins, a fighter pilot who held an administrative job but was attached to the squadron for flying. I knew him because he was also from Tampa. He was returning from a weekend cross-country in a Mustang and was nearing the field when his engine failed. He tried to glide to the field rather than bailing out, but he hit well short of the runway and was killed.