Chapter 2: Perrin AFB, Texas

At some point during the long, boring flight to Texas, I concluded that jet fighters would necessarily be the future of my chosen profession, and the sooner I got used to that idea, the happier I would probably be. Once I had mentally accepted the inevitable, I relaxed and drifted off to sleep. I awoke when we landed at Scott Field to refuel, and then slept the rest of the way into Perrin, my home for the next few weeks.

As we entered the landing pattern, I looked out one of the small porthole-like windows and saw an area of the ramp containing what appeared to be hundreds, but more than likely were dozens, of F-86Ds and T-33s parked wingtip to wingtip. It looked like a shimmering aluminum carpet. I had to admit to myself that the Sabers really were pretty birds with their swept-back wings and jutting shark-like noses. They were not as graceful as my beloved Mustangs, but were pretty in an aggressive, in your face, way nevertheless...

Once we had landed, we scrambled out the clamshell rear door to find an Air Force blue shuttle bus and a matching blue stake-bed truck waiting to take our baggage and us to our quarters. A second C-119 had pulled in beside our own, loaded with our duffle bags and footlockers. We all pitched in and soon had the baggage loaded on the truck. We then piled onto the bus and departed for our quarters, which proved to be much nicer than I had expected. Compared to my experience when going through the Mustang flight training at Craig AFB, with their drafty, two-story wooden open-bay World War II barracks and double-decked steel folding bunks, these were indeed a welcome surprise. Our commander pointed out our building and told us to select our own rooms, then report to the single story building in the center of the compound for an orientation briefing.

At the briefing, an older Major dressed in spit-shined jump boots, and a trim tailored flight suit with Command Pilot wings on his chest, briefed us on what to expect during our stay at Perrin.

"First", he remarked, "I overheard someone refer to this course as 'Pilot Training'. That is a misnomer; you are already highly qualified fighter pilots. What we hope to accomplish during your brief stay with us is transfer these skills to a different platform. We will not be teaching you how to fly; you all already know how to do that. Our job is to train you to fly and fight these new aircraft safely and effectively. However, this program will not replace intensive weapons training, which you will receive later at other locations with proper weapons ranges, such as Yuma, China Lake, and Nellis.

Once you have completed your orientation course here at Perrin, some of you will be flown to the North American plant at Englewood, California to pick up your new aircraft, while the spare pilots and the crew chiefs will return to your home base to prepare for your arrival."

Pausing for a moment, he then asked if anyone in the room was currently qualified in single-engine jet aircraft. When two of our pilots, both Captains, raised their hands and said they were qualified in both F-80s and T-33s, he said, "You gentlemen are temporarily excused. See my Adjutant, take a short leave and go wherever you would like. Then report back to my office and we'll discuss your training schedule."

When the two pilots had saluted and departed, with superior looking grins on their faces, the Major returned his attention to the rest of us. "The reason those gentlemen were excused is that they're already familiar with what the rest of you will learn over the next three weeks. Now, am I correct in assuming that the rest of you are all fully Mustang-qualified, but are unfamiliar with the techniques and flight characteristics associated with jet aircraft operation and the use of emergency egress systems?"

When no one disagreed with him, he continued, "During the first week you will all spend many hours in the F-86D flight simulator, familiarizing yourselves with cockpit layout, instrument location, and emergency procedures. You will also receive training in the theory and operation of the aircraft's ejection egress system. Starting the second week, you will receive a two-week check out period in T-33 jet trainers with an instructor pilot. If, at the end of this period, your instructor deems your performance satisfactory, your records will reflect that you are qualified in T-33 aircraft. However, if for any reason you should you should fail to become qualified in the T-bird, your chances of qualifying in the Sabre will be marginal at best. Starting the third week, your real training will begin. During those final three weeks of your stay with us, you will learn to fly and fight the F-86D. Anyone have any questions about what I've covered thus far?"

When no one rose to the bait, he continued, "Very well. You will find a base map posted in your barracks. Locate a mess hall or the Officers Club and get some something to eat, then go to a movie or just relax for the evening. If you go to the club, I'd suggest you stay away from the bar because reveille tomorrow will be O-Dark-thirty and I want all of you bright eyed and bushy-tailed. You will have a full schedule tomorrow." After a short pause, he continued, "As there seem to be no other questions ... Dismissed!"

The next three days quickly passed in a blur of activity. The first day we received a tour of the flight line, consisting of walk-around lectures on the various unique features of the F-86Ds, with strong emphasis on safety precautions. Each of us was then assigned an aircraft and its crew chief for a more in-depth explanation of the bird's features.

T/Sgt Williams, a grizzled veteran, who I learned had just returned from an F-86F base in Korea, led me to his aircraft. He explained its external features; basic things like the external power connection point and the single-point fueling location. I was also shown the shark-mouth-looking engine air intake and huge tailpipe, both of which must be must be inspected before each engine-start for misplaced items such as tools that might be sucked into the turbine or propelled at deadly speed across the ramp by the exhaust. He also cautioned that, for obvious reasons, both areas must be given a wide berth whenever the engine was running.

Moving on, he next pointed out the other unique features of the bird. First, the sliding leading-edge wing slats, which provided more lift at low speeds and on takeoff, but automatically pushed back against the wings by the air pressure at high speeds. Secondly the flying tail, or stabilator, a pivoting tail plane, which took the place of the traditional horizontal stabilizer and elevator surfaces. Next, the hydraulically-operated speed brakes, fitted to either side of the rear fuselage to provide greater control when descending or landing, followed by the large black, radome just above the intake that protected the Hughes E-4 fire control system's radar antenna. On the underside of the fuselage, he showed me the retractable rocket pod, now extended down out of the aircraft's belly for my examination, and which could hold twenty-four 2.75-inch folding-fin Mighty Mouse rockets, the only weapons carried by this type aircraft. Its top surface would also serve as a convenient place to stow a garment bag on cross-country flights.

This was not a fighter in the WWII sense. Instead, it was a single-seat all-weather interceptor, specifically designed to locate, intercept and destroy inbound bombers, in any weather, day or night, with its twenty-four rockets ... no more clattering .50 caliber machine guns for us!

Then leading me to the left side of the fuselage, he depressed a button recessed in the skin of the aircraft, allowing a short boarding step to drop down. Pointing out the other kick-step locations, recessed into the side of the fuselage below the high cockpit rail, he said with a grin, "I guess you'd like to take a look at your new office now, wouldn't you sir?"

He directed me up the side of aircraft and I eased myself over the canopy rail and down into the seat. He stood on the side of the bird, his left foot in a kick-step and his right foot on the leading edge of the left wing. The first thing he said was, "Don't touch any switch or control that's painted red, or has a red safety guard over it, unless you want to drop the wing tanks or rocket pod on the ramp. Also, do not touch the ejection handles by the side of the seat unless you want to take a very short but deadly ride! Other than that, feel free to look around."

Following his short, but attention getting, speech, he proceeded to point out the various unique features of the cockpit. Things like the radar scope, the throttle which he informed me was not connected directly to the engine as in the Mustang but rather to an electronic fuel control system, the drag 'chute release handle, and of course, the ejection seat handle, which was currently safety-locked in place by a pin attached to a long red cloth streamer indicating that it should be removed before flight. The instrument panel was even more confusing to me. A few of the instruments were familiar, such as the attitude indicator, altimeter, air speed indicator, and magnetic compass, but others, especially the engine and navigational instruments, were a complete mystery. I knew, however, that I would be fully familiar with all of them before I ever fired up the engine. As I looked out over the side of the cockpit, I noticed that I really had to twist my body around to see the swept-back wingtips. That could be rather disconcerting in flight, I thought. The other aircraft I had flown all had straight wings, which had given me a sense of security.

Climbing down out of the high cockpit, we stood on the ramp and watched a pair of the sleek F-86Ds take off from an adjacent runway, the thunder of their afterburners temporally precluding conversation. Once they had lifted off and climbed out, Sgt. Williams turned to me with a wide smile and said, "That'll be you in a few weeks, sir."

"I fervently hope so," I replied, "You know, I actually think I might learn to like this bird after all ... It is damn loud though."

"Yes sir, it is that," he chuckled.

The rest of the week was pretty much more of the same. At the end of the week, we reassembled in the conference room. The same Major hosted the meeting, telling us that we had now finished most of our indoctrination. Monday morning we would begin the actual pilot transition- training into jet aircraft, starting with two weeks in the two-place T-33 jet trainers. After that, we would move on to another four weeks in the single-seat F-86Ds.

After a restful weekend, I was itching to get started on the first hands-on phase of training. Bright and early Monday morning, we reported to the Squadron equipment room where we were issued helmets and 'chutes, then driven out to the flight line in AF blue 'Bread Trucks', which were actually commercial step-vans fitted out to transport flight crews. Pulling up to an area where a large number of T-33's were lined up on the tarmac, we were each assigned to an aircraft by tail-number and introduced to our instructor/pilots. I drew a veteran pilot, a "Capt. C. Ingram" as indicated by the stenciled patch attached to the upper left side of his flight suit, but who simply introduced himself as Chuck as we shook hands.

As we performed our preflight walk-around inspection, Chuck pointed out the items that we needed to examine to assure the bird was ready for flight. Things like removing the ground safety pins from the tip-tank jettisoning mechanism, gear struts, the ejection seats and also checking the fuel levels in the wings tip-tanks, inspecting the engine intakes and tailpipe for foreign objects and the entire aircraft for evidence of leakage;, fuel, oil, or hydraulic fluid. These items and others were all itemized on a 'check list', which I ticked off as they were completed. Then Chuck said it was time to mount up.

A wide metal ladder was hanging from the left side cockpit rails. Chuck motioned me into the rear cockpit, checked my shoulder and lap belts, pulled the safety pins from my ejection seat, and then climbed into the front cockpit and strapped in. He then handed the safety pins down to the crew chief and indicated that he was ready for external power.

The mobile external power cart belched smoke and roared to life. As the bird's instruments came on-line, Chuck kept up a running commentary concerning what he was doing as I followed along on my checklist. As soon as the gauges came online, Chuck announced we were ready for engine start. Explaining his actions as he performed them, he adjusted the throttle and hit the start switch. The engine whined as its turbine wound up, and then rumbled as it lit off and spooled up to idle speed. Motioning for the crew chief to disconnect the power cart, he let the engine stabilize a moment, and then called the tower for permission to taxi.

Chuck motioned for the crew chief to remove the wheel chocks. The Sergeant ducked under the aircraft and soon appeared on the other side of the nose, chocks dangling from his shoulder by their connecting ropes, and waved us forward with a two-handed 'come along' gesture, thumbs upraised. Chuck released the foot brakes, and as the bird eased slowly forward, he toed the right brake/rudder pedal lightly, swinging the nose around to the right and aligning us with the taxiway. He then advanced the throttle slightly and we trundled to the end of the runway to take our place in a queue of three other T-birds awaiting clearance to take the active runway.

After waiting for an F-86D to land, deploy its drag chute, and clear the runway, the tower cleared the four of us to take off at thirty-second intervals. A minute and a half later, it was our turn. As Chuck advanced the throttle and swung the nose around to line up with the centerline of the runway, I carefully watched the engine instruments, noting the power settings for future reference. Without slowing, he applied full throttle and the thrust pressed me back slightly in my seat as we raced down the runway. Once we gained flying speed, he eased the stick back and suddenly we were airborne. It felt somehow smoother and less frantic than a Mustang take off. For the first time, I thought that flying jets might not be all that bad after all.

After climb out, he swung around to a heading of 350 degrees and we climbed to 6,000 feet, heading towards the empty plains north of the field. Once away from other traffic, Chuck, who had remained silent during our take-off and departure, came on the intercom and suggested I take the stick for awhile to 'get the feel of the aircraft'. As I grasped the stick, I felt it twitch in my hand, the universal signal that I remembered from my earlier two-place trainer days as meaning he was relinquishing control. "Bring us around to a heading of 090," he instructed. I banked slightly as I brought the nose around until it was pointed due east, and then leveled the wings.

"Good," Chuck said, then added, "This morning will just be sort of a shake-down cruise and a chance for you to show me how good a 'stick' you are. That way I'll know what areas we need to concentrate on. We have about a twenty-mile circular area of assigned airspace, from 5,000 to 15,000 feet in altitude, to play around in. Just do a few shallow dives and climbs while changing to the headings I call out. I'll keep track of our position and make sure we don't stray out of our area. This will give you a feel for how the aircraft responds to control inputs. If you have any questions, today would be the time to get them answered."

I did as he instructed, and, before the allotted time was up, I felt quite confident in my ability to fly the bird. I had been flying Mustangs operationally for some time and this part of the exercise was not really all that much different. I followed Chuck's instructions as he called out altitudes and headings, and twenty minutes later was disappointed when he announced it was time to head back to the barn, so I threw in an aileron roll just for grins. He did not comment on it, so perhaps he was not all that impressed.

Thinking he would now take over the controls, I was surprised but pleased when he merely told me to "Take us home". By this time I had learned in the simulator how the electronic navigation systems worked, so I asked Chuck for the frequencies of the local systems, dialed them in on the system's control boxes, and then just followed the course as indicated by their displays.

As we approached the field a few minutes later, I was disappointed when I felt the stick twitch again and heard Chuck's voice over the intercom, saying he would take over now and handle the landing. Although I was confident I could negotiate the landing pattern and get us down without bending anything too seriously, I relinquished the controls without protest and resumed my role as spectator.