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Vito Tomasino / Sabre: The Journey

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SSAABBRREE

TTHHEE JJOOUURRNNEEYY

VVIITTOO TTOOMMAASSIINNOO


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To Ezdy


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CONTENTS

Dedication………………………………………….7

Author Foreword………………………………..9

Preface………………………………………………11

Prologue…………………………………………...18

Sabre The Journey…………………………….25

Epilogue………………………………………….. 73

The Pictures………………………………………77

Acknowledgements…………………………..109


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AUTHOR FOREWORD

Awed by a sea of white crested giants that stretched out before me

I realized, the first time I flew over the European Alps, that flying was

truly a poetry few would ever know…a gift that had to be shared. Sabre

the Journey is the literary child of this pilot’s life-long pursuit of that goal.

Its unique marriage of prose, poetry, and photography enables the reader

to experience the world of flight as though he or she were in the cockpit

of an F-100 with its pilot.

Filming the magnificent scenes I was privileged to witness on my

journey was the first step. Expressing my feelings in words would be the

second. Written years later they, not surprisingly, took shape in the form

of a narrative poem. While serving a one year non-flying assignment to

South Korea in 1971, I wrote the first draft. It was completed in two nights,

and although it has gone through many edits since then, very little of the

original wording was changed. Five years later, when I searched my files

for the ideal images to complement my words, I was surprised by the ease

I was able to find them; leaving me to wonder if the words had not already

been written in my mind before the pictures were taken and sub-

consciously directed my camera to the scenes they were describing.


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Many books have been written about flying, but few that capture the

essence of the experience; fewer still, that awaken the human quest within

us to pursue our individual voyages of discovery, as Sabre The Journey.


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PREFACE

Why would a fighter pilot , trained to destroy the world, turn

to poetry to describe his journey through it? The answer, very

simply, is that Sabre The Journey celebrates the beauty of flight,

not the ugliness sometimes associated with it. Indeed, I had

little choice in the matter of what form it should take, for when

its moment finally arrived the words li terally flowed from my

pen, taking the only shape that could properly contain them.

More than a few photos used in the book are of the U.S.

Air Force Thunderbirds, some of the Skyblazers . I was never

a member of either group. Nevertheless, I did have the good

fortune of f lying with two former aerobatic team pilots, Sam

Johnson and Kermit Haderly. Sam flew the slot position for the

world famous Thunderbirds, Kermit, the left wing of the

Skyblazers, their former European counterpart—a little known

fact of Air Force history.

Flying their wing these talented flyers put me through

almost every stunt they had performed in shows around the

world. They taught me things about precision formation flying

that, short of being an aerobatic team member, I could not have

learned anywhere else.


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It was hard work, which often found me gripping the control

stick so tightly under the tremendous maneuvering forces I

thought I would leave new impressions in the plastic handgrip.

Nonetheless, neither the physical effort, nor the intense

concentration it demanded could dampen my enthusiasm, or

discourage the need within me to discover the limits of my

piloting skil l. Despite muscles that were being taxed to their

limit , and the sweat that ran down my furrowed brow, I was

smiling under my oxygen mask, loving every minute of it. I

wanted more, and more I got.

USAFE Skyblazers over Whellus Air Base, Tripoli. 1958


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Our movements were executed with power and precision;

yet, viewed from the earth below, they appeared graceful and

flowing—a beautifully synchronized aerial ba llet performed

in a huge three dimensional theater. The only constraint to a

seemingly unlimited freedom to express our unique artistry

came from our old nemesis, gravity—nonetheless, it too un-

wittingly lent itself to the incomparable pirouettes boldly

spun against a backdrop of infinite blue.

No earthbound choreographer could have displayed his

creative genius with such sweeping perspective on so grand

a stage. That unique privilege was our s to share, as was the

humbling realization that we were creating something truly

extraordinary.

Thanks, Sam, Kermit, for teaching me how to dance.

There were others who contributed to the making of this

fighter pilot, men who unselfishly shared the knowledge that

made them stand out from the rest: Karvonen, Neubeck, Bode,

Johnson, Whisner, McConnel l , Detering, Cheney, Loftus, and

others whose names remain etched in my memory. Each of

them contributed to my growing repertoire of piloting skills.

All were exceptional aviators who helped me fulfill my potential

to join their dist inguished ranks.

Indebted as I am to the pilots whose lives touched and

influenced mine, I feel an even greater obligation to the aircr aft

I was privileged to fly, my “old friends.” I t was they who gave

me the power to break free of earth’s comforting bonds, and


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the wings to let the eagle within me soar. Through them I was

able to explore the world from the vantage point of powered

flight, and experience its beauty in ways unimagined by earth-

bound mortals. Their friendship was a unique gift, one for which

I will always be grateful.

F-100D returning to Cannon AFB, NM from Adana, Turkey. 1962

Flying Lead in 932 was my good friend, Captain Eddie Level.

If the F-100 seems to dominate the pages of this book it has

earned the right. Nearly three thousand hours, amassed over

more than a decade of my flying career, were logged at the

controls of this preeminent air machine. There was nothing in

the diverse and challenging realm of tactical air operations we

had not accomplished together, few crises we had not rushed

to defend against. Yet , despite the dangers, we always returned

to fly again


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A fighter pilot’s airplane, it demanded much from all who

would master its awesome power, and gave as much in return.

Each time I climbed into it was l ike the first, an uncompromising

test of my flying ski lls , one that never failed to exact my best

effort. Like all great thoroughbreds it responded with spirit to

firm, deftly applied control input. Pushed beyond that , it

rebelled with equal fervor . No fighter pilot worthy of the name

would want it any other way.

More than just a machine, more even than a trusted

companion, the F-100 became an extension of myself, enabling

me to embrace the heavens in body as well as spirit. Never, in

the many times each of us entrusted our life to the other, were

we ever forced to “part company” before our mission was

completed. If we took off together, we landed together, always.

An old flyer once said: “Any landing you can walk away from is

a good one.” Sabre and I always “walked away.”

To honor this great airplane by giving its name to my book

should come as no surprise. For it was the F-100, more than any

other, that opened the world to me in all its panoramic splendor.

Earth and sky became my artist’s canvas, one that stretched from

horizon to horizon—the tabula rasa upon which this poem would

be written.


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On deployment to Adana, Turkey, just off the coast of Greece. 1961

My camera filmed the rare sights below as we sped across

our planet, capturing the beauty that inspir ed my words. The

photos provide a visual journal of a f l ight that took us across

oceans, seas, and continents, and bear witness to our presence

in Europe, the Far East, and the Americas.

It was a voyage that carried us across the towering peaks of

the snow covered Alps, and sent us sailing across a history rich

Mediterranean Sea, mother to many of the greatest civilizations

man has ever created. Their majestic ruins still stand proudly

along her ageless shores, eternal reminders of the genius and

nobility of our ancestors.

With visions of ancient empires held in my thoughts, we

raced across the blinding white sands of a barren, yet strangely

captivating North African desert, soared over the steaming


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jungles of a war-weary Southeast Asia, and chal lenged the lonely

vastness of the mighty Pacif ic—that grand lady of inexhaustible

moods and faces. These places and more would mark our passing

before we logged our final landing.

In the two decades we were given to explore our fascinating

world, my “friends” and I completed more than four thousand

hours in the air—a voyage of nearly two mill ion miles. Not an

extraordinary amount of time; others had accumulated more.

Nonetheless, we made every moment count, as we strove to

expand our knowledge and sharpen our flying skil ls. It was

from this unrelenting pursuit of excellence that we would learn

to see beyond our mundane accomplishments and lay bare a

greater truth.

That, Sabre and I were not merely partners seeking to

perfect our craft, but co-conspirators in a quixotic, yet futile

attempt to seduce the sky itself, that enigmatic mistress who

encouraged her own conquest. She beckoned with al l her

irresistible charm and we, like love-struck young suitors, eagerly

flew into her elusive embrace.

A thousand and more times we would obediently respond

to her siren’s seductive call, naively believing that we were the

conquerors and she the vanquished. Did it matter, that either

of us reign supreme?

Through a desperate merging of their material bodies, man,

machine, and sky sought to transcend their earthly existence , to

reach a place we had not yet been…a place that would always

remain just beyond our grasp, exhausting ourselves in the effort,


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but coming away wiser for the attempt and more determined to

succeed.


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PROLOGUE

It was a crisp winter morning when Sabre and I first tested

our wings over a bleak Nevada desert. I could not know then

how much a part of my Air Force career, and my l ife, this one

airplane would become. That initial fl ight together was merely

one of hundreds more to fol low, the beginning of a unique

partnership of man and machine that would last for more than

a decade.

That would come to be in another time, a future my mind

was not yet prepared to contemplate. More immediate concerns

occupied my thoughts that morning, as my instructor and I

hurried our pace across the expansive parking ramp of Nellis

Air Force Base, urged on by the bitter cold wind that pressed

relentlessly against us. Neither of us complained, for we were

about to engage in one of the most exhilarating pastimes man

had ever created for himself.

Sabre stood before us proudly, defiantly it seemed, poised

to receive yet another aspiring young fighter pilot. Despite its

intimidating aura, I wanted more than ever to take the controls

of this magnificent air machine . How could I not?

For a brief moment I was swept back to a time when a small

boy looked to the sky at the first sound of an airplane passing


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overhead, and followed it until it disappeared beyond the

horizon, taking a part of him with it . Even then, I knew that

flying was something I had to do; that , one day, I must gather

back the pieces.

As I reflected upon the fulf illment of that boyhood dream,

the sun crested the distant horizon and spread its golden l ight

across the desert landscape, bathing us in its warmth. Sabre’s

silver metal skin glowed with a beauty I had never seen before.

Nellis Air Force Base, Las Vegas, NV 1958

I completed my pre-flight inspection and climbed into the

front cockpit. My instructor settled into the rear seat. A fighter

pilot of the “old school,” he didn't believe in the “dollar ride;”

one in which the student merely observed his mentor

demonstrate the aircraft’s fl ight capabilities. His more practical

approach to teaching emanated from the belief that he had

nothing to prove to me. I , on the other hand, had a great deal


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to prove to him.

Consequently, neither that first hour, nor any to follow,

would be wasted on the luxury of a “dollar ride.” It was a lesson

I never forgot, one I would later use during my own tenure as an

instructor pilot.

As I went through the fighter pilot’s time -honored ritual of

“strapping in,” I remembered the countless hours I spent in the

cockpit of the F-100, memorizing the location of every switch,

every control, every circuit breaker, and every instrument , until

I could physically touch each one with my eyes closed. A smile

crossed my lips as I recalled the persistent, self-imposed drilling

of checklist procedures: s tart-engine, take-off, landing, engine

shutdown…repeated over and over again until they read like

famil iar passages from a favorite book, practically memorized.

Every maneuver I would be asked to demonstrate on that

flight had been visual ly accomplished in my mind a hundred

times and more. Never , was I more ready to take on the

challenge of a new airplane.

A brief wave of my gloved hand s ignaled the crew chief to

unleash the starting unit’s pressurized air, causing its flexible

tubing to convulse like a giant yellow serpent. The super

charged air raced through its writhing host like an enraged

tornado in a frantic search for freedom and blindly plunged

into the F-100’s intake portal, only to find itself trapped in the

belly of the beast. Then, in a final desperate attempt to escape

its unnatural prison, it thrust itself against the engine’s cold


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steel turbine blades, ending its fated journey in death, even as

it breathed life into the sleeping tiger within.

My Crew Chief locks down the hydraulic pump panel as we ready the aircraft for flight. Chaumont AB, France. 1959.

A crescendo of deafening sounds emanated from deep

within its bowels as the powerful jet roared to life, triggering

an unexpected rush of adrenaline within my veins . Sabre nudged

impatiently against its wheel chocks, as my crew chief and I

“walked through” the after-start checks like a well-rehearsed

play.

Cleared for takeoff, I lined up on the runway center , “stood

on the brakes,” and slowly pushed the throttle to the forward

stop. That simple action triggered a tidal wave of energy that

engulfed the airframe and awakened every fiber of my being.

The “joining” had begun.

I scanned the instruments to confirm that everything was


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still “in the green;” then, released the brakes, slammed the

throttle outboard, and waited in anticipation of the F-100’s

renowned afterburner jolt. I would not be disappointed.

Thunderbird F-100A, ready for takeoff. Nellis AFB, NV 1958

Raw fuel poured into the engine ’s aft section and exploded

with a fury that spawned a primeval-l ike howl from a time long

past. It scattered frantically in every direction, as though trying

to escape its own anger, and, were it not trapped in the

surrounding hills, would have been lost forever in the infinite

silence of the desert . Instead, the mountains, acting like giant

echo chambers, ampl i fied Sabre’s defiant cry and sent it

crashing back into the valley in a thundering avalanche of

sound.

Despite the violent forces raging within it Sabre embraced

the added burst of power as we raced down the runway, our

escape from earth’s grasp just seconds away. Nearing takeoff


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speed I eased the stick back with measured care, shedding our

concrete launching platform, and l ifted us into the element in

which we were meant to be.

With landing gear and flaps neatly tucked away my aircraft

was ready to respond to every maneuver demanded of it. I , of

course, was not. Nevertheless, with my instructor to guide me,

my knowledge of maximum performance flying was elevated to

a new level.

I had executed the same maneuvers in other aircraft in my

previous flight training, but none matched the F -100 in raw

power and speed, or attacked the elements with such sound

and fury. Indeed, no other would present a greater challenge

to my flying ski lls, or generate as much excitement within me

each and every time I “strapped it on.”

Selfie taken six miles above the Pacific Ocean. 1966


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For me, Sabre was the ideal flying vehicle, the consummate

partner that enabled me to explore the world of flight to the

outer reaches of the envelope. Our more than decade-long

association—formed on that cold wind swept day over the

Nevada desert—began a quest for flying perfection that would

never cease in my twenty two years as a pilot.

It would also, never be satisfied.


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SSAABBRREE TTHHEE JJOOUURRNNEEYY


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Old friend,

take us from here.

Undo the shackles

that bind us to this world . . .


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Lift us

into the endless blue above . . .


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There held in the radiance

of our nearest star . . .


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Speed us to nowhere,

but with incomparable beauty of style,

a style limited only by my imagination

and your inherent power . . .


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Respond eagerly to my touch,

now light and delicate,

now demanding,

never harsh . . .


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Feel the blood and nerve of my body

fusing with your life systems,

uniting us in intimate closeness.

We are one now,

you and I . . .


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Every new maneuver skillfully executed

brings us closer still .

Not enough to merely occupy a place . . .


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We must rule the sky,

conquer it, and make it ours

as no one else before us.

Its every domain must feel our knowing touch . . .


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Down,

down we hurtle

into the inviting folds of Mother Earth . . .


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Feel her warmth against our naked skin,

her womb, longing for our return.

But not for us comrade,

not this day . . .


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We are free now,

free to burst forth from her fertile valleys,

to span her vast deserts

in but fleeting moments . . .


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Lonely, spiny inhabitants

speed beneath us in blurred imagery,

as our wings brush the face of giant mesas . . .


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Ruins of ancient civil izations

materialize from out of the past,

then, melt from view,

as we trace a hurried shadow

across once venerable land . . .


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White crested mountains

erupt from the desert floor,

as if to end our sacrilegious trespass.

They too fall before us . . .


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Humbled by an unrestrained excitement,

that propels us in spiraling dance

high above their proudest summit . . .


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There to pause,

suspended in time,

to gaze, in privileged awe

of its unrivaled magnificence . . .


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At last, the sea,

sister element to our own,

an emerald enchantress

who opens herself invit ingly before us.

Beautiful, yet as untouchable

as the shore she caresses . . .


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Enough,

our mistress above once again

beckons to be filled with us.

We’ll not disappoint her . . .


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Up, ever upward

do we reach for the heavens ,

piercing friendly white clouds

that guide our way.

Now vertical in rolling climb,

the world revolves dizzi ly about us . . .


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Higher, higher we soar above the earth,

hopelessly seeking to escape

the gravity that imprisons us.

Then,

our valiant effort finally spent . . .


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We fall,

in sweet exhaustion,

exhilarated by our daring attempt . . .


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Homeward, my Sabre,

thrust your proud nose

into the blood-gorged rays of f ire

in eclipse at the edge of the world . . .


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Time to reflect upon our recent journey,

and tomorrow.

No bitterness for us,

only a deeper wisdom . . .


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EEPPIILLOOGGUUEE


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EPILOGUE

Not until my voyage in the sky had seen its final sunset, and

the words to this book were penned, did I ful ly understand the

meaning of my flying odyssey. The realization that there was

something more—something beyond the exhilaration of

unbridled freedom, or the desire to perfect my piloting ski lls—

began with my first flight over the European Alps.

For, even as I watched the world speed by from the quiet

isolation of my cockpit, I sensed the uniqueness of the gift

entrusted to me; that what I had been privileged to share,

through that marriage of man and machine, was truly a poetry

few would ever know.

Thus, the words to faithfully record the poem that was being

written in the sky would one day have to be transcribed onto


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paper. Only its term of gestation remained uncertain. For it

was up there, lost in the ecstatic throes of lovers joined in

a mutual need to become one with the other, that Sabre The

Journey was conceived. Its birth would come much later, in

the “Land of the Morning Calm.”

It was fitting that I should return to Korea for its arrival,

because it was there, eighteen years earlier, a young marine

made his decision to become a f ighter pilot. There , cradled

in the tranquil bosom of Korea’s be loved hills—crowned in

white by the first snows of winter—I would find the time to

reflect upon our still to be completed journey, and the calm

to create the words that would breathe literary life into the

poem germinating within me.

I was writing another sonnet when Sabre The Journey kept

intruding into my thoughts; not just words, but complete lines,

stanzas. Soon the entire structure of the poem fil led my mind

and excited my imagination. It was ready. I had only to serve

as the instrument for its imminent delivery.

Looking back upon that auspicious moment, I see now that

it was, in many ways, like giving birth to a child. Although no

physical pain was involved, the anxiety, the desperate struggle

to emerge, the final impulse to enter the world, to sever the

umbil ical cord of the host mother and become a separate,

independent being of its own…to be…these things were all

present.

”Sabre” entered the world a complete entity. At the time,

I thought it was flawless—as any mother would. However, the


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years to follow, distancing me from the immediacy of the

event, allowed me to more objectively view my creation.

Consequently, just as a father might turn a more critical

eye toward a son he hopes will one day surpass his own

achievements, I began to see the poem’s rough edges and

sought to make them smooth. From that continuing effort to

perfect my original work came the truth of what I had written.

Sabre The Journey is more than one pilot’s appreciative

salute to a great airplane, more than a celebration of fl ight,

and more than an expression of love. It goes beyond all of

these things, even the worldly beauty that inspired it.

It touches upon the inherent need we all share to discover

the meaning and purpose of our existence, a timeless and

undaunted human quest that draws us outward to the stars...

to accept the challenge of the universe, no matter the

consequence.


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TTHHEE PPIICCTTUURREESS


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THE PICTUR

Ezdy beamed with happiness and excitement, as she posed

in the doorway of this C-47 at Greenville Air Force base,

Mississippi. A prop-driven cargo aircraft, the C-47 came into

prominence during World War II and is still flown today in

countries around the world.

She readily endured the long Greyhound bus ride from

New York City to attend my graduation ceremony and pin on

my wings. Her beautiful smile reflects her joy at being there

to share that special day with me.

It was July 1957. We were married in August of that year,

and began our long, still unfinished journey together.

Taken with a Kodak Pony 35mm and Kodachrome film.


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Old friend take us from here.

Undo the shackles that bind us to this world…

Framed against the backdrop of an early morning sky, is

the distinctively shaped tai l of the F-100—a memorable scene

that greeted me as I walked out to my aircraft for the first

mission of the day. It was the winter of 1961, Incirlik Air Base,

Turkey.

The Super Sabre was built by North American Aviation in

the early fi fties to replace the F-86 Sabre Jet as the new air

superiority fighter for the Korean War. Though the truce was

signed before it could enter that conflict, it would see action

in Vietnam a decade later. By then it had been transformed into

a formidable air to ground weapon, and compiled an impressive

combat record in the early years of the war, flying more combat

sorties than all other fighter aircraft in Vietnam combined.

Despite its rich history, few people—save those of us who


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were there, and our immediate families—know that it was the

first American fighter jet to see action in Vietnam; that in the

decade separating the Korean and Vietnam wars— long before

the inter-continental ballistic missile came of age— it was our

first line of defense against nuclear attack during the early

"Cold War" years.

From bases in Turkey, and other countries surrounding the

old Soviet Union, the F-100 and its pilots stood poised to fly

against targets in the USSR and Easter n Europe—some of which

were beyond the aircraft’s maximum combat radius. But the

stakes were high, and the dedicated men and women who

willingly stood that watch understood and accepted the part

they had to play.

I carried a camera with me whenever I flew, so I would not

miss recording scenes like this one. Taken with a Minolta 35mm

and Kodachrome fi lm.


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Lift us into the endless blue above…

Already immersed in a sea of blue this Thunderbird pilot

reaches for more. His “launch vehicle” is the T -38 "Talon," a

small twin-engine jet— the world's first supersonic trainer .

Fast, highly maneuverable, and fun to fly, it entered service

in the early sixties as the replacement for the T -33, and soon

established itself as the ideal transitional aircraft for future

fighter pilots.

Its fighter version, the F-5, was also built by Northrup

Aviation and, like the F-100, had its baptism of fire in Viet-

nam. Nicknamed “Skoshi Tiger,” it was considered the sports

car of the air. An old squadron commander of mine once


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told me. "Every f ighter pilot should have one in his garage."

The picture was taken with a Nikkormat camera and

Ectachrome film during an aerial demonstration at Mather

Air Force Base, Sacramento, Cal ifornia, September 1977.


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There held in the radiance of our nearest star…

Its colorful red and white striped tail identifies this F-100,

as belonging to the 494 th Fighter Bomber Squadron, one of

three that formed the 48 th Fighter Bomber Wing—also known

as “The Statue of Liberty Wing,” based in Chaumont, France.

I joined the “Red Tails” in Ap ril 1958.

Photo taken with my Kodak Pony and Kodachrome film

at thirty f ive thousand feet while enroute to Wheelus Air

Base, Tripoli, Libya. Because of the poor weather in Europe

we had to deploy to the North African gunnery ca mp several

times a year to maintain currency in weapons delivery

techniques. Wheelus had great weather, warm beaches, and

the best flying in the world…a fighter pilot’s dream vacation.


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Speed us to nowhere,

but with incomparable beauty of style,

a style limited only by my imagination

and your inherent power…

Our return flight from Adana, Turkey to Cannon Air Force

Base, New Mexico, in January of 1961.

The sky and cloud formations on those long transoceanic

flights can take on a myriad of different shapes and colors.

This picture captured one of those scenes and gives visual

expression to the meaning of the words in this segment of

the poem.

Taken with a Minolta and Kodachrome film.


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Respond eagerly to my touch, now light and delicate,

now demanding, never harsh…

Flying classic diamond formation, the Thunderbirds begin

a slow barrel roll over the runway at Mather Air Force Base,

Sacramento, Cal ifornia. It was September, 1977.

From the ground their maneuvers appear graceful and

flowing; yet a twenty minute aerial demonstration is physical ly

demanding. Flying tight formation at speeds that can change

from near supersonic to stall in seconds, while undergoing

gravity forces ranging from minus two to plus nine, there is

little room for error. The slightest lapse in concentration by

any one of the team members could bring disaster.

Despite the intensity of the job most fighter pilots would

seize the opportunity of becoming a “Thunderbird,” to stand

among an elite group of pilots that epitomize the best of

our profession.


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Feel the blood and nerve of my body

fusing with your life systems,

uniting us in intimate closeness.

We are one now, you and I…

This picture embodies the essence of the poem, and the

idea of man, machine, and sky joining together a one.

The aircraft in close diamond formation are the U.S. Air

Force Skyblazers, as they performed their aerial magic over

Wheelus Air Base, Tripoli, Libya, in 1958.

The Skyblazers—the Thunderbirds European counterpart—

flew demonstrations throughout Europe, Africa, and the

Middle East; while the Thunderbirds covered the North and

South American continents. They were disbanded shortly after

the “T-Birds” acquired air refueling capability in the early

sixties.

Taken with a Minolta and Kodachrome film, while flying

at thirty five thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean on my


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first deployment to Turkey in 1961. The one of the Skyblazers

was taken with a Kodak Pony and Kodachrome film.


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Every new maneuver skillfully executed

brings us closer still.

Not enough to merely occupy a place…

The Skyblazers flying a tight, perfect diamond formation

at less than one hundred feet above the ground during an air

show at RAF Wethersfield Air Base, England.

It was a typical cloud-ladened day in the United Kingdom.

Despite the “umbrella” weather, Ezdy, the kids, and I enjoyed

our short, one year stay in that great country, and took litt le

notice of it .

Taken in 1960 with Kodak Pony and Kodachrome film.


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We must rule the sky, conquer it,

as no one else before us,

Its every domain must feel

our knowing touch…

When a formation of jet f ighters approach at more than

five hundred miles an hour and less than one hundred feet

above the ground, can anyone dispute their command of the

sky?

I took this picture with a Nikkormat and Ectachrome film

As I stood about a mile off the end of the runway of Mather

AFB in September of 1977

It was an impressive sight to see from that vantage point .

However, not until I saw the result on film did I realize how

well it dramatized the words to the poem.


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Down, down we hurtle

into the inviting folds of Mother Earth…

I debated using this photo for the book, because of

the weapons of war carried under the wings of the aircraft,

reminding us of the ugliness sometimes associated with

fighter operations . Nevertheless, the beauty of a fighter

aircraft in flight, particularly when contrasted against the

soft white clouds in the background, more than offset that

concern.

Taken with a Canon 35mm camera and Ectachrome film,

as we headed for a target in South Vietnam. Nov 1965.


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Feel her warmth against our naked skin,

her womb longing for our return.

But not for us comrade, not this day,

we are free now…

Flying across a mountainous region of Turkey enroute

to a practice bombing range about one hundred miles west

northwest of Incirlik Air Base. It is November, 1961, my first

deployment with 428 t h Tactical Fighter Squadron, out of

Cannon Air Force Base, Clovis, New Mexico.

Eight squadrons at Cannon shared alert duties for

Turkey, rotating every three to four months. About a third

of our time at Incirlik was spent on "Victor Alert," another

third training. Weather was good…the flying even better.

Taken with a Minolta and Ectachrome film.


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We are free now,

free to burst forth from her fertile valleys,

to span her vast deserts

in but fleeting moments…

We leave behind earth's beautiful val leys to challenge

her most forbidding landscapes. The Sierra mountains, near

Lake Tahoe, is the background for this F -100. It was taken in

the mid seventies with a Nikkormat and Ectachrome film.

The photo of the aircraft was taken by Ezdy in France

in 1958, with a Kodak Pony and Kodachrome film. She was

standing in front of our chateau in Cirey Sur Blaise, a small

village nestled in a small val ley located twenty f ive miles

northwest of Chaumont Air Base, home of the 48 th Tactical

Bomber W ing. It’s the only exterior aircraft photo in the

book in which I was at the controls of the aircraft .

A Count’s castle stood in the middle of a huge meadow

in the valley floor. When he took his guests out on a wild


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boar hunt we could watch the red-coated riders race their

horses through the lush green plain from the second floor

window of our chateau.

At the time, we were the only Americans living in Cirey.

Ezdy didn’t drive, and base transportation didn’t venture

out that far, so we enrolled our six year old son, Fel ix, in

the local school. His English suffered a little, but in three

months he was speaking fluent French and of ten brought

home the medal awarded to the outstanding student of

the week.

Ezdy used to caution him about winning it so often,

afraid that the vil lagers might become angry with us. She

needn’t have worried. The people of that wonderful town

could not have made us feel more welcome. Warm and

generous with their hospitality, they practically adopted

us as one of their own. We will never forget them.

Whenever I was flying solo, and fuel allowed, I ’d stop

by to give them, Ezdy and the kids, a private air show. The

people could not have been more receptive, or appreciative.

Ezdy’s picture of me was the first of many such visits.

My first pass was always unexpected, but before I could

swing around for a second the children were already running

out of the one-room schoolhouse and onto the bridge that

spanned a small creek, Felix, among them. I could also see

Ezdy and our neighbors standing on the street waving, as did

everyone in the town.

She told me later that, with every aileron roll I did ,


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Madam Gegare's mother would shout, "Bravo, Monsieur

Tomasino!"

For me, those “visits” were among the most memorable

experiences of my flying career. There are many other stories

to tell of our time in Cirey Sur Blaise, but they would fill

another book.


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Lonely spiny inhabitants

speed beneath us blurred imagery

` as our wings brush the face of giant mesas…

The T-38 seen here appears to be making a high speed

descent into the desert landscape. However, when this

Thunderbird solo man dropped down for his low pass he

wasn’t looking at a field of saguaros, he was actually over

the runway at Mather Air Force Base , California.

Taken with a Nikkormat camera and Ectachrome film in

1977. The desert scene was photographed nineteen years

earlier, near Mt. Charleston, Las Vegas, Nevada , with a Pony

and Kodachrome film.


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Ruins of ancient civilizations

materialize from out of the past,

then melt from view,

as we trace a hurried shadow

across once venerable land…

Past and present meet at the crumbling walls of an old

crusader fortress in southern Turkey, bui lt seven to nine

centuries ago. The picture was taken in 1961.

Ruins like these are found throughout the Mediterranean

region—historic signatures of the Romans, Greeks, Egyptians,

Arabs, Persians, Turks, and others, all of whom left their unique

imprint on the land and its people. None, however, more than

the Romans.

Looking upon these ancient civilizations from my unique

perspective filled me with pride in our human heritage, and

left me to wonder what the “American Empire” would leave

as its legacy.


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White crested mountains erupt from the desert floor,

as if to end our sacrilegious trespass.

They too fall before us…

This picture serves to remind us of the majesty and beauty

of our world. We can fly above the earth at supersonic speed

in our amazing machines, but, measured against this leviathan,

we appear as an insignificant intruder, unworthy of its notice.

Perhaps not.

For this is Mount Ararat, which some believe to be the final

resting place of Noah's Arc. If true, this noble giant has, thus

far, protected its worthy charge from the curious, the treasure

hunters, and other more well intentioned seekers of the truth.

Taken in 1961 with a Minolta and Kodachrome film.


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Humbled by an unrestrained excitement

that propels us in spiraling dance

high above their proudest summit…

The Skyblazers were photographed with a Kodak Pony

Camera and Kodachrome film at Wheelus Air Base, Libya in

1958; while the snow covered mountain peak they appear

to be soaring over is located in the Swiss Alps. Taken with

a Nikkormat and Ectachrome film during a road trip to Italy

in 1970.

By combining the two I had hoped to recreate for the

reader a sense of the exhilaration a pilot feels at the controls

of a flying machine so powerful it can easily hurdle even this

colossus of nature.


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There to pause, suspended in time,

to gaze in privileged awe

of its unrivalled magnificence…

Perhaps the most impressive landscape picture in the book.

Any attempt to describe it in words would be inadequate,

simply redundant. Even at thirty f ive thousand feet the

mountains appear to reach up to touch us. To be held in the

frozen embrace of these magnificent giants is a humbling, yet

moving experience. Indeed, it is what first inspired me to write

Sabre The Journey.

The F-100’s distinctive red and white striped tai l places it

with the 494 th Fighter Bomber Squadron. We were on our way

to Tripoli, Libya. A Kodak Pony camera and Kodachrome film

recorded what I saw that day in 1958. The words only begin

to express what I felt.


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At last the sea, sister element to our own,

an emerald enchantress who opens herself

invitingly before us.

Beautiful, yet as untouchable

as the shore she caresses…

This the beautiful scene that greeted us as we approached

South Vietnam from the South China Sea after a long flight

across the Pacific Ocean. We were ferrying two replacement

aircraft to Tuy Hoa Air Base.

A small peninsula of land can be seen under the nose of

Lead's aircraft. The rest of Vietnam is hidden under the clouds

below. It was July 1967. Taken with a Petri 7S and Ectachrome.


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Enough!

Our mistress above

once again beckons to be filled with us.

We’ll not disappoint her…

Another selfie , taken as I was flying over the Pacif ic on

my way to Vietnam during the same ferry mission mentioned

in the preceding picture. Taken with Petri 7S and Ectachrome.


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Up, ever upward

do we reach for the heavens

piercing friendly white clouds

that guide our way…

The Thunderbird solo pilot was photographed as he pulled

his F-16 into a steep climb during an air show at Mather Air

Force Base, October 1983. Nikkormat and Ectachrome film.


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Higher, higher we soar above the earth

hopelessly seeking to escape

the gravity that imprisons us.

Then, our valiant effort finally spent…

The Thunderbirds are nearing the apex of their signature

"bomb burst” maneuver—one executed from the diamond

formation in a vertical climb.

The strange bright light they appear to be flying into at

the top of the picture is not the sun reflecting off a cloud.

The original slide was partially overexposed. Cropping out

most of it enhanced the dramatic impact of the picture.

Taken with a Nikkormat and Ectachrome


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We fall, in sweet exhaustion,

exhilarated by our daring attempt…

Not even the Thunderbirds can sustain their powerful

thrust into the heavens, and succumb to gravity’s pull as

they plummet back to earth—their smoke trails boldly etched

against the dark gray clouds looming in the background.

It appears as though the picture was taken as if I were

standing just above the lower cloud deck. I t was actual ly

taken from the ground at Mather Air Force Base in 1977

with a Nikkormat and Ectachrome film.


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Homeward my Sabre,

thrust your proud nose

into the blood-gorged rays of fire

in eclipse at the edge of the world…

The distinctive shape of the F-100, framed against a

golden-red Mediterranean sunset, presents a stunning visual

rendering of the poem’s words.

The background scene was taken off the coast of Libya on

The Fourth of July, 1969. The image of the aircraft was captured

three years earlier, as we made our approach into Cannon Air

Force Base, New Mexico. Taken with a Petri 7s and Kodachrome

film.

Two months after the sunset was photographed another

“shot” was taken, one heard around the world, signaling the

start of Libya’s revolution. Led by a young army officer by the

name of Moammar Gadaffi, it changed the political landscape

of the Middle East as surely as it did the price of oil.


107

Ezdy, the kids, and I were there to witness the historic

event, that 1st day of September, 1969. We s tayed in Libya

until May the following year, never once concerned for our

safety, despite the increased anti -American tensions that

existed.

Through it all , our Libyan friends remained loyal until the

day we left their country. They were even there to see us off

when we boarded the aircraft for Germany, and presented us

with more gifts than we could carry. If we were we to go back

tomorrow, we know they would be there again to warmly greet

us.


108

Time to reflect upon our recent journey,

and tomorrow.

No bitterness for us,

only a deeper wisdom…

Here we are flying over the Italian Alps with Italy under

the low cloud deck seen in the right half of the picture.

There is an almost mystical quality about this picture that

draws you into it, to reflect upon where we have been, and

where we are going. Taken with Kodak Pony and Kodachrome

film.


109

Among the many pictures in my collection, this one best

portrays the sense of an unfinished journey…the wonder of

what tomorrow will bring.

As we look through this window into the universe, we are

moved by an inherent human need to know, to look beyond

the next horizon…to reach a place we have not yet been.


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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While many of my friends and associates supported me with

their enthusiasm and encouragement —something every new

writer welcomes—some also gave of their time and knowledge.

Foremost among them are Pat and Jim Stadley. Pat is a

talented writer, who has published several successful books—

one of which earned her the Edgar Allen Poe Award—and more

than a hundred magazine articles. Her knowing counsel gave

my work professional val idation, and encouraged me to have it

published. Jim, her husband and literary critic of many years,

has also reviewed my writing. His thoughtful comments have

led to some helpful changes in the manuscript. I could never

thank these two wonderful people enough.

Paul Lambert and John Parsons, premier photographers of

the photo lab at McClel lan Air Force Base, California, provided

the professional expertise I needed to compose the pictures

used to illustrate the poem; effectively putting the reader in

the cockpit. I am grateful to these two men for helping me

launch Sabre the Journey into its visual dimension.

Above all I thank my wife, that beautiful woman in my life,

and mother of our five wonderful children: Felix, Steven, Jimmy,

Robert, and Ezdy Lynn. Her unique name graced the side of the


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aircraft I flew in Vietnam. Ezdy was with me in spirit there, as

she had been on every mission I f lew. She is, and always will

be, an unfail ing source of strength and inspiration for all I

that I do.

Ezdy leaving our trailer to attend the New Year’s Eve party at the “O” Club,

Lakenheath, England (1960). The aircraft I flew in Vietnam bore her beautiful

name. 1965

Though she is not a pilot , her love for flying is as strong

as my own, and gives her rare insight into the thoughts and

feelings I tried to express in this book. I often called on that

understanding, and her keen eye for artistic expression, to

help me select the pictures used to complement my words .

Indeed, the love and friendship we've shared these many

years have enabled me to better understand the real meaning

of my flying experience.

She is Sabre!


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