Boyd by Robert Coram Page B

thus his career—were dependent almost entirely
     on his ERs. One bad ER could wreck an officer’s career.
    An ER was two pages, three if there were additional indorsements. (The Air Force uses “indorsement” rather than “endorsement.”)
     A civilian looking at an ER would say it is straightforward in its language. But this is deceptive, even misleading. Writing
     an ER is an art form—reading it, for the uninitiated, is like trying to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls. Language that appears
     to be the highest praise can in reality be language that ends a career. That is why sometimes even today when an officer is
     forced out of the military, he waves his ERs to the media, and, not knowing how to read them, the media join the cause and
     say this extraordinary officer has been treated unjustly.
    The most crucial parts of an ER were the first and last paragraphs on the second page. Boyd’s squadron commander explained
     how, after hostilities ended, Boyd “did a commendable job in teaching fighter tactics to the members of his flight.” It says
     he also taught newly assigned pilots techniques of combat flying.
    “I consider Lt. Boyd’s flying ability superior to the pilots of his rank and experience,” the reviewing officer wrote. He
     added a few lines about Boyd’s “nervous energy” and how well he got along withfellow officers. Then came the all-important final paragraph, in which the rating officer evaluated Boyd’s ability for higher
     command and greater responsibilities. The best possible rating would recommend Boyd either for early promotion or for a school
     that would prepare him for higher command. Such was the case: the final paragraph concluded with a recommendation that Boyd
     “be considered for enrollment in the Squadron Officers Course.”
    It was a good evaluation, and it was heightened by an even better indorsement from his group commander, a full colonel who
     wrote: “Lt. Boyd is an aggressive, capable, dynamic, fearless officer and fighter pilot. The USAF needs more combat pilots
     of his caliber if we expect to fulfill the responsibility for the defense of our nation for which the Air Force is unquestionably
     destined. Because of his qualifications and experience, I urge Lt. Boyd’s promotion to Captain at the earliest possible date.”
     Boyd clearly had made a good impression on his superiors.
    Boyd’s combat tour ended and it was time to rotate back to the States. Years later the pilots who roamed MiG Alley would look
     back and say Korea was a good war, even a great war for fighter pilots—the last war in which pilots were managed by leaders.
     In the next war they would be led by managers.
    The Air Force was only seven years old, but it was fast becoming not only a bureaucracy, but a technocracy that worshiped
     equipment and gadgets more than any other branch of the military. It was becoming hardware oriented and the goals for its
     hardware were simple:
    Bigger-Faster-Higher-Farther. Air Force generals were taking a cold look at fighter pilots. The high speed of jet combat caused
     generals to believe drastic changes were in order. With the merge speed of fighter aircraft greater than 1,000 mph, guns were
     a thing of the past, they said. Missiles were the answer.
    Boyd received orders posting him to Nellis AFB. He would be there six years. And in that time he would become the most famous
     fighter pilot in the world.

Chapter Five
High Priest
    I N the mid-1950s the U.S. Air Force was no place for a fighter pilot.
    Men who flew bombers in World War II now were leading the Air Force, and their philosophy of air power was based on their
     wartime experience: big, multiengine aircraft plunging deeply into enemy territory and dropping bombs. The very existence
     of the Air Force as a separate and independent branch of the military was founded on the concept of strategic bombing. Bombers
     were the favorite—some would say
only
—aircraft of consequence in the 1950s.