Fighter Pilot John Boyd

"John Boyd: The Fighter Pilot Who Changed the World." To be published by Little,
Brown & Company, Fall 2001.
c Robert Coram. All Rights Reserved.
Source: http://www.belisarius.com/ PROLOGUE
On the first day of spring, 1997, a somber crowd gathered in the Old Post Chapel at
Arlington National Cemetery across the Potomac River from Washington, DC. They
came to attend the memorial service for John R. Boyd, Colonel, United States Air Force,
retired. Winter often lingers in the hills of northern Virginia. And on that Thursday
morning a cold rain and overcast skies caused many in the crowd to wrap their winter
coats tighter and to hurry for the doors of the chapel. Full military honors were provided
for Boyd; an honor guard in blue raincoats and polished boots, a band, and a flag-draped
caisson drawn by six white horses. Boyd was a fighter pilot. He wore the Air Force
uniform for 24 years. And during that time he made more contributions to fighter tactics,
aircraft design, and the theory of air combat than any man in Air Force history. But on
that soft and dreary day when his ashes were laid to rest, the U.S. Air Force all but
ignored his passing. Only two Air Force officers were in the congregation. One, a three-
star general, represented the Air Force Chief of Staff. He sat alone on the front row and
was plainly uncomfortable. The other was a major who knew Boyd's work and simply
wanted to pay his respects. Neither man had ever met John Boyd.

A chaplain opened the Protestant service. Then one by one, three of Boyd's oldest
friends, walked to the front of the chapel. Tom Christie, a tall, white-haired man,
solemnly read the 23rd. Psalm. Ron Catton, one of Boyd's former students and a fellow
fighter pilot, delivered the first eulogy. He quoted the poet: "One must wait until the
evening, to see how splendid the day has been." He told what it was like to fly with Boyd
back in the old days, and his lips trembled and his speech became rushed and he had
difficulty controlling his emotions. Some of those present turned their eyes away, stared
at Boyd's linen-draped urn, and remembered. There was much to remember. For few
men have had such a splendid day as John Boyd. Boyd's friends smiled broadly, a few
even chuckled, as they recalled Boyd at his irrepressible best. The chuckles must have
puzzled the chaplain. After all, a military funeral with full honors is marked by
solemnity and dignity. The slow measured cadences and the history-dictated procedures
evoke respectful silence. This is a sacred rite, this final remembrance of a man whose
life was spent in the service of his country. Here, levity is out of place.

But Boyd's friends came to celebrate his life, not to mourn. And when Pierre Sprey, a
small-boned man with swept-back white hair, began a second eulogy by saying, "Not
many people are defined by the courts martial and investigations they faced," raucous
laughter echoed off the white walls of the chapel. Sprey told how Boyd once snapped the
tail off an F-86, spun in an F-100, and not only stole more than $1 million worth of
computer time from the Air Force to develop a radical new theory but survived every

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resulting investigation. Chuck Spinney, a boyish Pentagon analyst who was like a son to
Boyd, laughed so loud he could be heard all across the chapel. Even those in the
congregation who barely knew Boyd wore broad grins when they heard how he was
investigated a dozen times for leaking information to the press and how his guerilla
tactics for successful leaking are still being used today. Boyd's young granddaughter,
Rebah, was as puzzled by the laughter as was the chaplain. "Why is everybody laughing
at granddaddy?" she asked her mother.
Boyd's life was marked with a series of enormous accomplishments and lasting
achievements. But the thing that meant the most to him over the longest period of time
was the simple title he began with almost half a century earlier: fighter pilot. He was
first, last, and always a fighter pilot; a loud-talking, cigar-smoking, arm-waving,
boisterous, bigger-than-life fighter pilot. There is no such thing as an ex-fighter pilot.
Once a young man straps on a jet aircraft and climbs into the heavens to do battle, it sears
his psyche forever. At some point he will hang up his flight suit - eventually they all do -
and in the autumn of his years his eyes may dim and he may be stooped with age. But
ask him about his life and his eyes flash and his back straightens and his hands
demonstrate aerial maneuvers and every conversation begins with "There I was at ... "
and he is young again as he remembers his glory days.

Those at the memorial service remembered the time back in the middle and late 1950s
when John Boyd was the best fighter pilot in America. He returned from a combat tour
in Korea to become an instructor at the Fighter Weapons School, the Air Force's premier
dog-fighting academy at Nellis Air Force Base out in the desert 10 miles north of Las
Vegas. There he was known as "40-Second Boyd," the pilot who could defeat any
opponent in simulated air-to-air combat in less than 40 seconds. Like any gunslinger
with a nickname and a reputation, Boyd was challenged. Some of the best pilots
in the Air Force called him out at one time or another. So did the best pilots in the Navy
and the Marines. So did exchange pilots from a half-dozen countries. He took on the
best pilots in the free world. But no man could be found who was better in the air than
John Boyd. Boyd was more than a great stick and rudder man; he was that rarest of
creatures - a thinking fighter pilot. Anyone familiar with the Air Force can tell you two
things with confidence: One, fighter pilots are known for testosterone, not gray matter;
and, two, military doctrine is dictated by generals. But in 1960 when he was a young
captain, John Boyd developed and wrote "The Aerial Attack Study" which became
official Air Force doctrine, the bible of air combat; first in America, and then, when it
was declassified, for air forces around the world. Put another way, John Boyd, while still
a junior officer, changed the way every air force in the world flies and fights. Pierre
Sprey told how in 1961 the Air Force sent Boyd back to college for another degree. Boyd
chose the Georgia Institute of Technology, one of the tougher state engineering schools
in America. Late one night he was studying for an exam in thermodynamics. He and
another student were in a classroom on the second floor of the Mechanical Engineering
building when Boyd went off on a riff about being a fighter pilot in Korea and what it
was like to fly an F-86 on triumphant sweeps down MiG Alley. Suddenly the Second
Law of Thermodynamics meshed with all that he had learned as a fighter pilot and
Boyd had the epiphany that became his Energy-Maneuverability Theory.

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Tom Christie smiled and nodded as he remembered. He was the man who steadied the
soapbox for the rambunctious and confrontational Boyd in those tumultuous years of
presenting the E-M theory to the Air Force, the years when Boyd became known
throughout the Air Force as "the Mad Major." Boyd's bold theory did four things for
aviation: it provided a quantitative basis for teaching aerial tactics, it forever changed the
way aircraft are flown in combat, it provided a scientific means by which the
maneuverability of an aircraft could be evaluated and tactics devised to overcome both
the design flaws of one's own aircraft and to minimize or negate the superiority of the
opponent's aircraft, and, finally, it became a fundamental tool in designing fighter
aircraft. Knowledge gained from E-M made the F-15 and F-16 the finest aircraft of their
type in the world. Boyd was the father of those two aircraft. Either the Aerial Attack
Study or the E-M Theory would have given Boyd a lasting place in aviation history. But
his greatest and most enduring accomplishments still lay ahead. After he retired from the
Air Force in 1976, Boyd became the founder, leader, and spiritual center of the
Military Reform Movement; a guerilla movement that affected the monolithic and
seemingly omnipotent Pentagon as few things in history have done. For a few years he
was one of the most powerful men in Washington. Then he went into a self-imposed
exile and for almost five years immersed himself in a daunting study of philosophy, the
theory of science, military history, psychology, and a dozen other seemingly unrelated
disciplines. He had evolved from being a warrior to a warrior-scientist and now he
was about to move into the rarefied atmosphere of the pure intellectual. He synthesized
all that he studied into all that he knew about aerial combat, expanded it to include all
forms of conflict, and in the mid-1980s gave birth to a dazzling and intellectually
overpowering briefing entitled "A Discourse on Winning and Losing." When Sprey
reached this part of his eulogy he paused and his eyes roamed the chapel and found
Christie and Spinney and another man who wore civilian clothes but had the bearing of a
career military officer: James Burton. These were Boyd's acolytes. Their years with
Boyd were the pivotal, white-hot years of their lives. They followed Boyd into dozens of
earth-shaking bureaucratic battles and their lives were forever changed, some say ruined,
by the experience. These men believe that Boyd's final work made him the most
influential military thinker since Sun Tzu wrote "The Art of War” 2400 years ago. They
believe his work changed forever the way strategists think about war, whether it is war in
the air, war on the ground, or war at sea. Their belief is founded in fact, not hero worship.
For like an Old Testament prophet who was purified by wandering in the desert, Boyd's
exile ended with a vision so amazing and so profound that it convinced both the U.S.
Army and the U.S. Marine Corps to change their basic doctrines on war fighting. As
bizarre as it sounds, an old fighter pilot taught mud soldiers how to fight a war. The
results of what he taught were manifested in the crucible of he Gulf War. Almost
everything about the startling speed and decisive victory of that conflict can be attributed
not to the media heroes, but to John Boyd, who by then lived in south Florida and feared
he had been forgotten. Boyd was one of the most important unknown men of his time.
He did what so few men are privileged to do: he changed the world. But much of what
he did, or the impact of what he did, either was highly classified or was of primary
concern to the military. The only things he ever published were a few articles in
specialized Air Force magazines and a 12-page study. His most important work was a

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15-hour briefing. Thus, there is almost nothing for academics to pour over and expound
upon. That is why today that both Boyd and his work remain largely unknown outside
the military. The acolytes work to change that. They work to keep Boyd's memory alive
and to move his ideas into the mainstream of American thought. Each Wednesday
evening, as they have done for more than 25 years, they meet in the officers club at Fort
Myer. The basement room where they meet is, fittingly enough, called The Old Guard
Room. They talk of Boyd and the conversation lingers on his integrity and character.
Not that he was an exemplar of all things good and noble. Far from it. Like many fighter
pilots he took a certain pride in his coarseness and crude sense of humor. He cared little
for his personal appearance and could be demanding, abrasive, and unreasonable. And
while in his professional life Boyd accomplished things that can never be duplicated, in
his personal life he did things few would want to duplicate. Boyd's acolytes minimize his
faults. They say it is more important that his core beliefs were steel-wrapped and his
moral compass was locked on true north, that he never misspent his gifts. His central
motivation in life was simple: to get as close as possible to the truth. He would have
been the first to admit there is no absolute truth. But he continued chasing something
that was always receding from his grasp. And in the pursuit he came far closer to the
unattainable than do most men. All his life Boyd was pursued by enemy’s real and
imagined. He reacted the only way he knew how: by attacking. The rank or position of
his enemy, the size or significance of the institution, none of it mattered. He
attacked. And when Boyd attacked he gave no quarter. He had to be the last man
standing. Time after time he outmaneuvered his foes and sent them down to
ignominious defeat.

But Boyd was driven more by failure than by victory. And the one thing he wanted more
than anything else, he never achieved. He died thinking he would be remembered, if at
all, as a crackpot and a failure, as a man who never made general, and a man whose ideas
were not understood and whose accomplishments were not important. The men around
Boyd, those who knew him longest and best, say he stood fast against the blandishments
of big money. He was a profane puritan who held himself and others to the highest
standards. He could see ambiguities but he lived in a world of black and white, of right
and wrong, of good and evil. He never broke the faith and he would not tolerate those
who did. He was an incorruptible man in a place where so many where corrupt. He was
a pure man at a time when pure men were needed but so few answered the call. All this
and more the friends of John Boyd remembered that dreary day in the chapel at Arlington
National Cemetery. Then it was over and they slowly walked out of the chapel and
huddled in small groups against the rain and mist. They were angry at the Air Force.
More should have been done to honor the man who had given so much. If the U.S. Air
Force was conspicuous by its absence, U.S. Marines were conspicuous by their presence.
In fact, had anyone passed by who knew military culture but did not know John Boyd,
they would have been bewildered to see so many Marines at the funeral of an Air Force
pilot. Particularly noticeable was a group of young lieutenants; rigid, close-cropped, and
hard young men from the Basic School at Quantico. These were warriors-in-training.
From their ranks would come the future leadership of the Marine Corps. Then there was
a senior Marine Colonel who wore the ribbons and decorations of a man who had seen

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combat in many places. His presence awed the young lieutenants and they kept their
eyes on him. The colonel's command presence made him stand out; that and the fact he
marched alone as the crowd walked down a rain-glistening road between endless rows of
tombstones. The soft day muffled the rhythmic clacking of the horses' guard. Then, on a
green and wind-swept hill at Section 60, gravesite number 3660, the cortege halted. The
colonel took from his pocket a Marine Corps insignia, the eagle globe and anchor. He
stepped out of the crowd and placed the insignia near the urn containing Boyd's ashes.
Someone took a picture. In that frozen moment the light of the flash sparkled on the
eagle globe and anchor causing it to stand out sharply against the bronze urn and green
grass. The black insignia drew every eye. The young lieutenants, without a command to
do so, snapped to attention. Placing the symbol of the United States Marine Corps on a
grave is the highest honor a Marine can bestow. It is rarely seen, even at the funeral of
decorated combat Marines, and it may have been the first time in history an Air Force
pilot received the honor. This simple act is an expression of love; love of the deceased,
love of the Truth, love of country, and love of the Corps, all wrapped up together. It
signified that a warrior spirit had departed the flight pattern. After a seven-man rifle
squad fired a 21-gun salute and a lone bugler played the ever-melancholy Taps, the
service ended. Boyd's friends lingered in the mist and talked. Around them, in one of
America's most majestic and solemn places, were the graves of thousands who fought
and died for their beliefs. It was the proper resting-place for the mortal remains of John
Boyd. But some how, some way, his ashes should have been set apart from the other
graves. For while America likes to believe that it often produces men like John Boyd, the
truth is that men who embody a warrior spirit combined with sweeping and lasting
intellectual achievement are rare not only in America, but in any country. They seldom
pass among us. And they do so only when there is a great need.

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