Magnificent Desolation_ The Long Journey Home From the Moon - Buzz Aldrin [46]
The Soviet-built MiG-15 was a formidable foe, and had a definite advantage over our American-built fighter jets. In a dogfight, the planes were closely matched because of our technical superiority, but the MiG could fly more than 2,000 feet higher than our F-86 Sabres, which had a maximum altitude of 49,000 feet. They could also fly faster, since their planes were stripped down for combat and carried a smaller fuel load than ours. The MiG was a wicked fighting machine, too, fortified with a 37-millimeter cannon that could send an F-86 screaming to the ground with one strike; it also housed two 23-millimeter automatic guns that could make Swiss cheese out of a plane in a single burst of fire. Because of the MiGs deadly firepower, the one thing a U.S. pilot avoided at all costs was letting a MiG get on his tail.
I shot down two MiGs while in Korea, my first kill coming on May 14, 1953. The guys at Edwards loved to hear me tell about it, always wanting me to embellish the story, but I never did, because it was a rather inglorious engagement. I was flying just south of the Yalu when I spotted an enemy fighter jet flying straight and level, probably oblivious to my existence. I trained my guns on him and fired. The MiG spun hard and headed for the ground, the pilot quickly ejecting from the cockpit. The camera on my gun recorded the entire incident, clearly showing the plane being destroyed and the pilot’s desperate ejection. Photo frames from that film sequence appeared in the next issue of Life magazine. When my father found out that I was the one who had brought down the MiG, he could not have been more proud.
My second battle with a MiG nearly took me out of this world— literally. On June 7, 1953, I was scheduled for a mission with three other pilots attached to the 16th “Blue Tail” Squadron (the tails on our planes had a checkerboard design with a blue stripe), but as we taxied to the runway, my number four wingman aborted, leaving three of us in the formation. Just ahead of us, taking off from the runway, were four Sabre Jets from the 39th “Yellow Tail” Squadron in a Tiger flight formation commanded by Marine Captain Jack Bolt. But their number four pilot also aborted, so I radioed my Wing Commander to take leave and join up with the Yellow Tails. I took to the air in formation with the Tigers, but they were flying the new F-model Sabres with a 20-knot airspeed advantage, with more power and a bigger wing than my F-86 E-model. Try as I might, I was having a hard time keeping up with them.
When Bolt’s team dove toward a broad valley farther to the north, I followed them all the way, trailing at a distance. I soon found myself flying north of the Yalu, alone. With my airspeed indicator pegged, and the F-86 approaching Mach 1, the speed of sound—a prohibited speed for my Sabre—I streaked below 15,000 feet. My aircraft began to roll and became more difficult to control as I pushed it to the limit, following the Tigers into heavier air. I grasped the control stick as hard as I could, holding on for dear life, trying to maintain my airplane’s stability. Finally, the heavier air slowed me down enough that I could regain control of the aircraft, but I was still flying mighty fast.
Ahead of me, Bolt and Company leveled out at about 5,000 feet, as they streaked right across an enemy airfield, blasting away. Some MiGs immediately rose to do battle, while others were racing along the runway taxi ramps, preparing to take off.
“Tiger Three,” I called, “I’m behind you.”
Just then, from seemingly out of nowhere, a fighter jet angled across my sight from right to left, climbing toward the Tigers. The plane was not one of ours. I tried to remain calm, knowing that if he kept going, he’d fly right into my gunsight. But if I didn’t get him, he’d be on the Tigers’ tail. Not good.
I pulled