 Proudly, we hail. From New York City, where the American stage begins, here is another program with a cast of outstanding players. Public service time has been made available by this station for your Army and your Air Force to bring you this story as Proudly, we hail Major Dana Stacey, U.S. Air Force. Our story is entitled, The Old Probe. The story of a daring jet fighter pilot as Proudly, we hail Major Dana Stacey of the U.S. Air Force and all the officers and men of the 25th Fighter Interceptor Squadron and the 51st Fighter Interceptor Group. Our first act curtain will rise in just a moment, but first, young man take your place in the new jet age as an Air Force aviation cadet. You'll get 18 months of intensive training, learn all about jet operation, and you'll be surprised how easy jets are to fly and how safe, too. Our aviation cadets graduate as Air Force lieutenants with earnings of over $5,000 a year. To qualify, you must be between the ages of 19 and 26 and a half, single and have at least two years of college. Visit your nearest United States Army and United States Air Force Recruiting Station for details. And now, your Army and your Air Force present the Proudly, we hail production, The Old Probe. You're a jet fighter interceptor pilot. Your name is Major Dana Stacey. Welcome back to your squadron in South Korea after rest and recuperation leave in Tokyo. A leave that was cut in half because your squadron wanted you back fast, something big in the wind. So you look out the window of the C-47 down at the dark blue flatness of the Sea of Japan below, and you talk to the war correspondent Kogan on the bucket seat next to you. And then you doze off, dreaming of the lead you didn't finish, until you feel a hand shake you. Major, Major Stacey, wake up. What's the matter? We're almost at the field, thought you'd want to know. Oh, yeah, yeah, so we are. It's supposed to fasten safety belts. Yeah, right. Hey, you were really pounding your ear. Dreaming beautiful dreams, Kogan. About a leave in Tokyo, I didn't get the finish. Tough. Say, what do you suppose your squadron's got scheduled? They need you back in such a rush. How long have you been a war correspondent, Kogan? About a year? Why? Well, then you ought to know I couldn't tell you even if I knew. I'm sorry. How long you been in the service, Major? Since 42. Not counting a few years as a civilian after the big war. And you ought to be used to these things happening. Yeah, you're right, Kogan. I'm sorry I blew my top. Ah, you didn't exactly flip it. It's just that after you've been at it for a while, getting back to your squadron isn't the kick it used to be. How old are you, Major? 29. A real old timer. The kind they call the old pros, huh? Yeah, that's what these buck lieutenants call us. Flowing the last war? Yeah, yeah. Italy, 15th Air Force, P-51s. I used to think they were hot ships. I'll say we're about to land. Any minute. We're the landing pattern now. Well, what made you come back in, Major? Didn't like civilian life? Oh, I guess you've heard all the standard answers to that one. But for me, once you've flown a combat ship, nothing else is quite enough. I wanted to climb into a jet and see what made it tick. Something like that. All I needed was a reason. And this career business? That was the reason I needed. What's this all about, Colonel Payton? You'll get brief, but I can tell you this much now. Tomorrow we're going to clobber a new red airfield, this side of the Yalu. A maximum effort by the group, huh? Yep. Hey, what's that? Looks like someone's in trouble. Spotting states? Yeah. There he is, Jeff. That F-86 on the approach to runway 1-7. What's the matter with him? He's coming in dead stick. Well, isn't he coming in too steep? He's got to. He needs a speed. Yeah, he's leveling off now. He's got the runway made. All right, easy. Boy, level those wings. That's it. That's it. Now, just pull her back a little. That's it. I'll put her down. Okay. Thought for a minute he was going to undershoot it. We need that boy in his plane for tomorrow. Man, that is one devil of a sight. You were sweating. Think about that boy. They come in dead stick like that very often? Whenever it happens, it's too often. Must be some trick to make a landing like that. Without any power, you only get one shot at the runway. And, uh, if they foul up? They usually don't. They can't. Ever make a dead stick landing in a jet, Major? Not yet, Colgan. And I just assumed put it off for a while. How's that for a meal, Dana? Better than that sukiyaki? Yeah, yeah, except the sukiyakis in Tokyo. Now, there's six weeks and we'll hit Japan together, eh, boy? Oh, good deal. Say, meanwhile, clue me in on tomorrow's mission, will you? Yeah. Well, it's strictly Max's effort. And with everything we've got against everything they've got. Hey, uh, Lieutenant Simmons. Yes, Colonel? Tell Major Stacy here what happened to your flight yesterday. Man, that was some hairy old dog fight. What happened? Well, there were these eight migs in a ragged formation, like when the new boys, you know, first trip out. Uh-huh. So we tore into them. Turned out they were anything but new. They brought us down to the deck and back up again, using every trick in the book. Man, it was rough, toxin rough. Yeah, but I mean stays. Oh, excuse me. The old man's waving. Yes, sir. But, uh, next time I see one of those jokers, I won't be caught with my flaps down. I'll clobber him for sure. Lieutenant, you're sure one, uh, fire-eating fly boy. World War II, Vett, to know I can bounce a jet around the sky as well as anyone. And I mean anyone. Uh-huh. A real hot pilot, huh? No one ever got on my tail, including combat instructors, except one mick. And he didn't stay there long. Well, kid, you got a lot to learn. Don't you know there's always someone somewhere who can outfly you? No one in this man's squadron, including the fellas with World War II air medals and DFCs. Old pros. Old schmoes. Well, we may be old schmoes, buddy, but we learn how to fly wing first. Meaning what? Meaning when you left your leader's wing last month to go after a mick. O'Hara told you, huh? Yeah, and more. How he had to jeopardize his entire flight to save your neck when another flight of micks bounced you. I'm not the only one who's done that. Look, Summers, the minute you left O'Hara's wing, you jeopardized the life of a guy who was depending on you. And the quicker you learn that a wingman is supposed to fly wing to protect his leader and himself, the better off we'll all be. And I'll tell you this, buddy, you ever leave my wing, I'll see you court-martialed. I'm not planning to fly your wing, Major. Well, I hope you don't. You'd really get a workout. Are you kidding? Flying wing on a cautious old pro is the safest work there is. That's good duty. The old man wanted to know how many airplanes we'll have in commission. Uh-huh. Why don't you get Major Stacey here, the word, Lieutenant? The ungarbled word, Colonel. The straight cadet school poop. The Lieutenant doesn't know it, Jeff, but someone's gonna fix his wagon one of these days in the air or on the deck. Hey, anything wrong here? No, no, no. Well, are you leaving, Lieutenant? Yes, sir, right away, sir. Good night, sir. Major, sir? Colonel? What's that all about, Stacey? You smart buck, Lieutenant. What makes these kids so almighty cocky? Stacey, 10 years ago we were the same way. And you were worse than any of us. Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, I'll see you in the morning. Good night. In the ready room at briefing. Jeff! Right. Look at that flight board. What's up, Stacey? Well, I'm still eating a flight, but look who's on my wing. Oh, that kid's a summer, isn't he? Not my doing, Stacey. But this summer's Jeff. I have no use for him, nor he for me. Sorry, buddy. Really, I am, but he's your wingman today. As Colonel Vargas just pointed out, moving into this new field at Kawong Poe, this side of the Yalu's, part of the Reds' tribe for air supremacy. Our fighter bomber detects new operations, cutting them back. Come in a little bit. 100 miles closer than they're nest across the river. Almost. But he's sharp. And once they set up shop, it'll be rough, rooting them out of there. So today we've got to stop them. All that's going to stop the 800 or so mages that they throw against us is our 150 sabers fly on top cover for the fighter bomber. Now, Major Stacey? Yeah, back here. Call sign for your flight. It'll be doctor. Right. The station will be 40,000 feet, right about here. See what I'm putting on the map? In the bend of the river just west of Kawong Poe. Grid coordinates are Uncle Roger 2170. Got it? Yeah, Angel's 40, Uncle Roger 2170. Got it. Takeoff time for Doctor Flight 0900. You all see you're in and out courses here on the map. Don't forget to check operational control center. Punch drunk before you cross the bomb line and control ship Blackjack after you're across. Now, Captain Romain, your flight will follow the Colonel's flight. You're strapped in the cockpit of your F-86 Saberjet now. Home. Your earphones are plugged into the radio and your oxygen mask fits tightly over your face. Your jet engine is idling impatiently behind you and you're ready to leave. You glance at the others in your flight, then you call the tower. Tower, this is Doctor Flight with four patients. Taxi and takeoff instructions, please. Doctor, this is Tower. Clear to runway 17. Altimeter 29.92. Wind south, southeast at 1-5. Roger, Tower, and out. So you swing out to the taxiway. Your flight strung out behind you in single file. Up ahead you see a leader and his wingman rushing down the runway in the twin and a snorting tail-up charge lifting eagerly into the air then climbing sharply away in beautifully paired precision. Suddenly there are silhouettes and you are ready for takeoff. You glance at Summers and he's right at your wing tip. Tower, this is Doctor. Now we clear to roll. Cleared for takeoff, Doctor. You slowly open the throttle holding the brakes as hard as you can. Then release the brakes and feel a slam of power as you're banged back into your seat and now you're rolling, gradually picking up speed seeing Summers out of the corner of your eye almost oppressing you off your wing tip. Then your controls take hold of the airspeed indicator rises and you pull back on the stick and you're airborne. You trim for a long straight climb and wait for your other two boys taking off 30 seconds behind you to join up. 40,000 feet now heading north the four of you in a tight, shiny V with you at the head. You're approaching the bomb line, a red jagged line on your map and two end forces from the commies. So you contact the operational control center. Punch drunk, this is Doctor. How do you read me? Over. Doctor, they read you loud and clear. Over. Punch drunk, this is Doctor with four patients heading north. Over. Roger, Doctor. Hand out. Now you've punched in for work and when you put in your time as long as your fuel lasts you'll punch out on the way home. You look off your right wing tip at Summers he's still in there close. Ahead, big alley, no man's land. This is back in the middle of it. 40,000 feet, MiG altitude. Below the broad mouth of the Yalu River empties into the Yellow Sea. Far off on the horizon across the river is Antung the MiG's biggest nest. Time to call into the control ship. Blackjack, this is Doctor. How do you read me? Over. Doctor, this is... Blackjack, I'm on station at Angels 40. Standing by, over. Roger, Doctor. Hand out. Standing by, waiting for MiG's. Blackjack, to tell you radar has picked up MiG bandits heading your way. Staring into the sky, waiting for one tell-tale gleam of silver. Knowing their radar has picked you up by now and the fighter bombers who are now winging into Plaster Kiwanpo field, waiting here. Doctor, this is Blackjack, over. Go ahead, Blackjack. Enemy aircraft departing station. Roger, Blackjack, hand out. So you call your boys. Doctor, flight, they're on their way. Keep your eyes peeled, they'll be above us. Roger, Doctor. Roger, Doctor. Five minutes later, or is it five seconds later? Doctor, this is Blackjack. Bandits, three o'clock high. Three o'clock high, Roger, Blackjack. Radar tells Blackjack which way you're pointed and that the MiGs are above you to your right. But radar can't get in the cockpit and spot them for you, so you have to eyeball it yourself. Eight pairs of eyes are riveted on three o'clock high when... Telly, oh, bandits, three o'clock, very high. Eight of them, Doctor. Blackjack, we have bandits inside, out. They're starting to run. Turn into them, Doctor, flight. Here we go, fly boys. Turning now, stick close. Doctor, this is Blackjack. More enemy aircraft departing station. You are listening to the proudly-behaved production The Old Pro. We'll return in just a moment for the second act. College men, you can learn to fly the latest and fastest jets easily and safely as an Air Force aviation cadet. Aviation cadets get 18 months of tough concentrated jet training leading to a lieutenant's commission in the Air Force and earnings of more than $5,000 a year. Your future is unlimited. To qualify, you must be between the ages of 19 and 26 and a half, single and have at least two years of college. Visit your local United States Army and United States Air Force Recruiting Station now. You are listening to Proudly We Hail and now we present the second act of The Old Pro. This is it. A dogfight. Not a one-pass brush with the reds running for cover but a big old hairy dogfight. Your formation meshes with theirs closing at 1,000 miles per hour and you answer the red-winking cannons from their noses with your fifties. Then suddenly you're through their formation turning sharply to avoid a collision twisting to get another bandit in your sights for a split second and then rocking your ship around in a seat-heavy stomach-pulling turn ready for the next pass. Still with you doctor, let's go get them. Where are you? Bandit, nine o'clock, busy over here. Doctor, can't rejoin you. Doctor, this is Blackjack enemy aircraft departing today. A novice guy is full of twisting, turning, rolling, screaming, hammering planes, yours and theirs. Could be every man for himself but Summers hangs on to you. Lone wolf below, doctor, shall we? Negative. Bandit's coming in at six. Diving with you. Let these new boys make their pass then we'll go help tiner. Read me? Roger doctor, here we go. And this new flight of migs barrels with great sleek cannon platforms pouring hot embers at you as you turn sharply into them and then you break loose. Tiner, where are you? Have him in sight doctor, three o'clock, low, alone. Doctor three, get on up here fast. Looking for four, he's gone. Doctor, he's got trouble on his tail, two of them. Breaking down fast to help him. Stick Summers? With you. All right, over on you, back and down. They're stayin' the sights, big boy. You've got him, doctor. Thanks, doctor, joining you. Hurry it up. Doctor, have you in sight, joining you? When you've been winged, man's shakin' off a bandit then clippin' him. Stop the chatter, here they come again. There's a mig comin' in on your tail, doctor. Turning into him. Turning with you. Wow! And as the firing mig flashes past, you turn to look at Summers who've been protecting your tail and time to see another mig pulling up in a steep recovery from a run, a firing pass that ripped off half of Summers' wing. Summers, how bad is it? I only got half a right wing. Can you stay with it? Not very long, buddy. You okay? Can you jump? I'm okay. All right, trim her up the best you can and point south while I check my map. Roger, doctor. I've already got as much left rudder as I can hold to compensate for the wing. Keep your head swiveling and your eyes open. You're easy meat to these migs now, buddy. Oh, Roger, Roger, Roger. Far as I can figure, we're not too far from the bomb line. You stay up till we get over our lines? We're losing altitude steadily, and I can make it if a mig doesn't have other ideas. Well, I'll run you interference, boy. You got enough fuel to stick with me? Oh, toxin fuel, fat with it. Don't kid me. My fuel counter said you ought to return to base. I can handle myself. Now, look. You got a wingman now to keep the big bad migs from picking on you. Toxin. Company? Plenty. Three o'clock high. Toxin bandits. You jerk your head up and there they are. Four slim migs jockeying for position to start their runs. This should be cold meat for them. One limping saber with only you to protect him. Summers, can you turn into them when they make their runs? Negative, you'll spin. Well, then hold your course. I'll do the turning. Cardinal Rua for fighter pilots. Always turn into your attacker. Don't let them get on your tail. But Summers can't turn, so it's up to you. You'll have to always be between Summers and the migs and turn into each pass they make. The hair on the back of your neck bristles, but suddenly you know what it is to be the hunted, the target. And then it starts. Here they come, doctor. Dive! When Summers dives, you turn into the first mig meeting him head on. For a breathless instant you face each other, his nose winking brightly as he lobs cannon shells out to your fifties pouring into him. And then he flashes over you big and ugly, but now his lagging wingman flits into your gun sight for only a moment, and you fire a burst turning sharply to lead him. And pieces of metal spray from his plane before he's gone. Get that back! Which have no time for relation as you scream in a tight whistling turn into the next mig and the next, firing when they flash through your gun sight, swiveling your head frantically trying desperately to keep those four migs off Summers and off your tail. And then a mig stands big and fat in your sight thinking he's got a clear shot at Summers, not knowing you're on his tail, so you pour your fifties into him. And it begins smoking and then a brilliant blast scanners him all over the sky to pull up into his wingman and fire again while on your back in a roaring turn. And suddenly it's all over there isn't another plane in the sky except Summers down below. They gone Summers? See any good down? So you join up on Summers again feeling like you've just gone ten rounds against a team of Dempsey's your gloved palms wet pools of hate and fear icy sweats stinging your eyes clamming the flight suit against your heaving sight your mouth tasting of pennies you're completely whipped and you're still hundreds of miles from home. Hey doctor isn't that the bomb line below? Yeah it looks like. We made it. No sweat I told you. Look Summers we're at twelve thousand now. We get to five thousand make a slight bank and bail out but fast. You know maybe I could take this baby in. With half a wing gone you'd clobber yourself. Could be done. You bail out boy. Roger doctor you're the doctor. Once you're down safely I'll call a helicopter for you. Good deal. Five thousand. You ready? Okay out you go. Aim for that clearing. Roger. See you around campus buddy. Punch drunk this is doctor leader. Four entered one returning. Two already returned. Is that right doctor? Repeat two already returned. Is that correct? Affirmative Punch drunk. Have a man down south of bomb line. Can you get a helicopter to him? Roger doctor. Have a chopper in vicinity. What are your coordinates? Wait a minute let me see. Uh. Oboe Baker fifty nine eighteen got it? Oboe Baker fifty nine eighteen. Roger doctor. Returning to pigeon now Punch drunk. Roger doctor. Hand out. Returning out of base if you're lucky. Your fuel counter shows you couldn't fly more than five minutes and you've got several hundred miles to go. So what do you do? You make a decision. It'll be tricky. But maybe first climb up to where you don't eat fuel up so fast. Climb forty thousand feet. Now a little faster. Rate of fuel consumption distance to travel amount of fuel left altitude. And the answer always comes out the same. Not enough fuel. If you want to have power to land with you've got to do without power now. More arithmetic. And here's an answer you like. Without power you can glide maybe a hundred miles. Then start your engine and land with power. Simple. Well it might be done. So you cut your switch. The quiet is eerie. You pop your stick forward slightly pushing the nose down. Now you're committed to the arithmetic that your life is dependent upon. Somewhere off on the horizon is your field. You're high now but your altimeter hand is turning counterclockwise relentlessly as you steadily lose altitude in your desperate glide. And then suddenly too suddenly you're at eight thousand feet. Time for an air start now or never. You flip your air start switch and the engine sings. You check your instruments then cut in your fuel. The spark is there with a fire. Now now now before you lose any more altitude. And it does catch slamming you back in your seat with its sudden power. You climb again to conserve fuel. The head you can see the field. But in your cockpit the fuel counter says you only have ten gallons. Barely enough for a landing. Tower this is Doctor. Emergency. Flow on fuel. Request straight in approach. Over. Cleared for straight in. Landing runway one seven over. Ten miles from touchdown now it's going to be close. Roger Doctor. We're standing by. You better clear the... Mayday. Tower Mayday. I'm dry. Engine just cut out. Roger Tower. Oh Jeff I was sure I under shot it. Skillful execution as the old man would say. I still say one dead stick landing is one too many. Big day for you buddy. Successful air start and dead stick landing. Two MiGs and a probable. Looks like I'm not the only one to nail a MiG. I never saw a mess hall so happy. Have a big day for everyone. The squadron, the group, the wing. The fighter bomber boys plastered that field. And we took care of the MiGs. An unqualified success as the old man. Seen summer stays. Last time I saw him we were sitting on a rock. This side of the bomb line. Someone says he's back. There he is bouncing into the mess hold on. Thought I told you to stay on my wing. You'll beat up major you. How'd you get back? Trust the F-86 and its beautiful glide ratio. You know that helicopter you got just delivered me. Those choppers aren't bad considering they got no wing. Last time I saw you boy you were missing half a wing. Hey boys boys let me clue you about the major. Wasn't for him I wouldn't be here. Shot down too big mix he did. And chased the others away that were picking on poor little defenseless me. As he did and he knew all the time he didn't have the fuel to afford to stay with me. What a boy. When I tell a wingman to stick with me I see that he sticks. Oh that's the ungarbled word. Sure. Couple are really lucky boys. You know with our luck summers we gotta find ourselves a poker game. I'm with you buddy all the way. Hey what is this I thought you didn't like the major. Yeah you and Stace you had no use for each other. Are you kidding Stace is my buddy. That's a straight poop. Why he's an old pro. Young man if you had two years of college are single and otherwise qualified. There's a future for you as an aviation cadet in the U.S. Air Force. You'll receive 18 months of the world's finest flight training. Fly the latest jets easily and safely. And graduate as an Air Force Lieutenant with earnings of more than $5,000 a year. The aviation cadets of today will be the leaders of the jet age. Be one of them. Visit your nearest United States Army and United States Air Force Recruiting Station today. This has been another program on proudly we hail presented transcribed in cooperation with the station. Proudly we hail is produced by the Recruiting Publicity Center for the United States Army and United States Air Force Recruiting Service. This is Kenneth Banghart speaking and inviting you to tune in the same station next week for another interesting story on proudly we hail.