Called to Command , livre ebook

PUBLISHER’S MESSAGE
I am both pleased and proud to present Called to Command, an autobiographical account of the life and times of Lt. General Gerald W. Johnson. Called to Command is an outstanding work that spans three wars and a brilliant 33-year military career. From European combat as a WW II Triple Fighter “Ace” to Stalag Luft I as a P.O.W., from piloting and commanding fighters, bombers, and reconnaissance aircraft in Strategic Air Command (SAC) to surviving Vietnam and commanding a total of nine units including the Eighth Air Force (SAC) to finally retiring from the position of Inspector General of the United States Air Force, his manuscript provides a compelling historical record, as well as a unique personal perspective.
I wish to congratulate and thank General Johnson for this outstanding book and for having confidence in Turner Publishing Company. It was an honor and privilege for our staff to work with him on this project. I also wish to thank Mr. Keith Steele, Publishing Consultant, whose uncompromising dedication to preserving and publishing military history helped make this book possible.

Dave Turner, President
TURNER PUBLISHING COMPANY
412 Broadway • P.O. Box 3101
Paducah, KY 42002
(502) 443-0121
 
Copyright © 1996 Gerald W. Johnson
Publishing Rights: Turner Publishing Co. All Rights Reserved.
 
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced without the written consent of the author and of the publisher.
 
Turner Publishing Staff: Keith R. Steele, Publishing Consultant Herbert C. Banks II, Designer
 
Cover art by Billy Garmon
 
Writing assistance provided by John C.
McClure and Charlotte S. McClure
 
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 96-60961
9781618587862
 
Printed in the U.S.A.
Table of Contents
Title Page PUBLISHER’S MESSAGE Copyright Page Dedication FOREWORD CHAPTER 1 - IN THE BEGINNING CHAPTER 2 - COMBAT OVER EUROPE AND GERMANY CHAPTER 3 - SURVIVAL IN STALAG LUFT I CHAPTER 4 - A POSTWAR BEGINNING IN THE USAF CHAPTER 5 - MY CAREER IN SAC: A FIGHTER PILOT CHAPTER 6 - MY CAREER IN SAC: BOMBERS AND MISSILES CHAPTER 7 - OVER VIETNAM: MY THIRD WAR CHAPTER 8 - INSPECTOR GENERAL: CLIMAX OF A 33-YEAR CAREER EPILOGUE INDEX
TO MY GRANDSON,
GERALD W. JOHNSON III
FOREWORD
T his book reflects some of the major events of my life, primarily military, as I remember them. It has been written to provide interesting and informative reading and also to add to the historical record of the development of United States air power. It is my story told from my point of view. In many ways I have lived a rather unusual life. I base this on the events, experiences, responsibilities and assignments I have had compared with most of my contemporaries that I have known. My life has been filled with challenge and excitement which has continued down through the years.
Having matured during the depression years, I developed certain values having to do not only with material things but with life itself and the great gift it is to live it as we choose.
I remember as I was unpacking in the rooming house I was to stay in while attending Bryant and Stratton Business College in Louisville, Kentucky, I found a note my father had put in my bag. It said, “To be what we are and to become what we are capable of becoming is the only end of life.” These words probably did not originate with my father but I have always treasured that note.
I hope the reader enjoys this book and will gain from it a better perspective of those times in which I lived. It covers three wars and the major changes that have evolved down through these fascinating years. It is serious but written with humor as to the personal experiences I remember.
Full credit is given to Charlotte and John McClure for without their help this book would not have been written. And to my dear wife, Mardi, who gave so freely of her time and energy in providing advice, guidance and understanding I owe so much.
CHAPTER 1
IN THE BEGINNING
I ’m airborne. I’m alone. I’m soloing. It’s a great day and a great experience. It’s October 7, 1941, the first time I have had the airplane all to myself.
When reveille sounded that morning, cadets jumped from their bunks, dashed to the latrine for a quick wash and shave, rushed back to dress and make their bunks and then joined in formation to march to the dining hall. There was very little laughing and kidding that morning. Over the past week or so we had become a very somber group. After all, we were nearing eight or nine hours of flying time, many cadets had already washed out of the flying program and not one of us had soloed. This flying business for Army Air Corps students was much more difficult and serious than we had first imagined.
I needed to know how well I was flying the airplane. My instructor John Cope seemed like a fairly decent type, but he never had anything good to say about my performance—only negative comments or a bang on my knees with the control stick when the maneuver I did was not done well enough to please him.
That morning he seemed particularly grim as we walked out to the airplane, climbed in and taxied out. We took off and climbed up to altitude for a few maneuvers. Suddenly he took the control stick, rolled the plane over and dived for the airfield, landed and taxied to the ramp in front of the hangar.
I was petrified. I knew I had had it, pessimistically thinking that I would never become a pilot if my instructor didn’t say those magic words to me, “The plane is all yours.”
Then to my amazement he left the engine turning, climbed out and with a big grin finally said, “It’s all yours.”
So now it was my airplane. Even though I had been looking forward to this moment for such a long time and wondering what soloing was going to feel like, I was almost frozen on the controls. I was thinking about my instructor who was there watching me taxi out to the runway. There wasn’t all that much concrete at this primary training field at Chickasha, Oklahoma. Because of all the recent rain, the ground was soft, and we had to be very cautious to keep the wheels on the concrete because if we didn’t we would be really deep in mud.
Fortunately, I managed to get to the take-off point which was on the opposite end of the field from the hangar. I got on the runway, pushed the throttle forward, heard the wonderful sound of that little engine, and felt the power as the propeller bit into the air. Even though this was a PT-19 (Fairchild Primary Trainer) with an inverted air-cooled in-line engine, it generated, for those days, a respectable 125 horsepower.
Down the runway I went. When those wheels came off the runway and I was airborne, I estimated that I should have gone past the spot where I thought my instructor stood with his eyes glued on me. Suddenly the tenseness left. I had a feeling of exhilaration that differed from any experience that I had ever had before. Finally after more than ten years of dreaming of becoming a pilot, here I was in the air with a powerful bird under my control.
Those first few minutes of flight were pure pleasure and my responses were those of complete joy. As a student in the back seat of the PT-19 there was only one double instrument available to the student - the cylinder head temperature and oil pressure. The airspeed, RPM and altimeter were taped over. This was known as flying by the seat of one’s pants—Estimate your altitude, estimate your air speed. Fly by feel. It was a great way to learn to fly.
However, now that it was my airplane and I was all alone, I wanted to know how fast I was going and exactly how high I was. I didn’t want to just look over the side and think I was high enough. Anyhow I didn’t have these instruments, so I went ahead and flew around. My instructor told me I shouldn’t stay up longer than twenty minutes. I flew around, and being alone I somehow got a much better feel of the airplane. Then it was time to return to the field and land, the critical part of the solo ride. I entered the downwind leg at the prescribed 45-degree angle, made the turn onto the base leg at the proper spot, but due to a gusting crosswind, which gave me a tailwind, I had to immediately turn onto my final in a descending turn. I wondered what my instructor would think of that. The final approach was good, and by my correction for the crosswind, my touchdown although not in the first few feet of the runway was good. I taxied up to the hangar, and I thought, “Now comes the real test. Will John Cope be satisfied?” Sure enough, my instructor had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck, and I knew that he had been watching me. He said some encouraging words, which included his expression of satisfaction of the way I handled the crosswind on the base leg and the final approach. To me, these comments made up for the other times when he had said very little.
This solo flight was a momentous experience for me. It was a dream come true for a young farm boy from the Midwest whose hero was a barnstorming pilot. There weren’t many airplanes in the skies during the late 1920s and early 1930s. The first experiments with carrying the mail by airplane were in progress; Charles Lindbergh had flown nonstop from New York to Paris; and Wrong-way Corrigan had made his infamous adventure. In those days when I heard the sounds of an airplane engine, I immediately started searching the skies to try to see it. It was a lucky day for me when a barnstorming pilot found a satisfactory field near my home and landed. Barnstorming was a fairly common thing in those days. Pilots who had been trained during World War I and who were fortunate enough to have a small two-place airplane would travel around the country, finding small open fields near small towns and earning a few dollars by taking people up for a ride in their airplane.
I remember very well the barnstorming pilot’s arrival at a field near my home in Owenton. It was a summer day. I was nine years old. I managed to g