Boyd watched the civilian walking across the parking lot. Twice the civilian looked over his shoulder as if afraid Boyd was
still in pursuit. Boyd smiled and puffed on his cigar.
He had hosed another one.
Boyd did not see the dangers inherent in deliberately seeking conflict with others. In his mind he had been wronged by the
civilian. The fact he had briefed top people in the Air Force and in government proved he had been right and the civilian
wrong. But to be right was not enough. He had to have a redress of grievances and he had to publicly embarrass the person
who wronged him. He had to be the last man standing. “People did things to me when we were young,” he once told Mary. “They
did it because we were poor. But they’re not going to do it now.”
But when Boyd hosed the civilian, he created another enemy. A powerful enemy. And payback time was rapidly approaching. The
Air Force is a collection of coalitions, and by late 1965 there were strong anti-Boyd coalitions at Eglin, at Wright-Pat,
and in scattered pockets around the Air Force.
One day word came down that the inspector general (IG) for the Air Force Systems Command was coming to Eglin to investigate
Boyd’s illegal use of computers. No one knew the origin of the investigation, but chances are it was initiated by the comptroller
or the civilian who controlled the base computers or else someone at Wright-Pat—all of whom realized Boyd could not have developed
the E-M Theory
without countless hours of computer time. Plus, Boyd, with a wink and an elbow to the ribs, had told dozens of people about
stealing computer time. Whatever the source, the IG was well armed. He said he was investigating allegations that Boyd had
bilked the government of around $1 million in illegal computer usage. The IG investigation did not mention Christie, who was
a civilian in another chain of command. Boyd was the sole target.
If the investigation showed Boyd used government computers for an unauthorized project and without proper authority, the military
equivalent of felony charges would be filed and a court-martial would follow. If convicted, Boyd could face a prison sentence,
be asked to repay the $1 million, and be tossed out of the Air Force with loss of all benefits and allowances.
Boyd was not worried. “I did my homework,” he said to the few people who asked about the investigation. After he was questioned
by the IG team, he and Christie left Eglin for an extensive tour of the west coast, where they briefed defense contractors
on E-M. When Boyd returned, the investigation was over and the IG team wanted an exit briefing. Considering the high rank
and influence of those behind the investigation, the ending was almost anticlimactic. The colonel in charge of the investigation
sat down with Boyd and said, in effect, “Major, we know thousands of computer hours went into developing your E-M Theory.
But we can’t find any evidence of computer misuse. Everything is accounted for.”
Boyd smiled.
“My report will recommend that no charges be filed.”
Boyd nodded. It was as if the colonel were a not-too-bright child who had slowly worked his way to the only possible conclusion.
“But, Major, we would like to know how you did it.”
“And no charges will be filed?”
“No.”
“Okay, but first I want to show you something.” Boyd pulled from his desk several dozen letters he had written not only to
the civilian in charge of computers at Eglin, but to people at Wright-Pat, telling all the benefits his theory would bring
to the Air Force and asking for computer time. He showed the letters denying him use of computers. And he told how the civilian
had twice tossed him out of his office.
“Colonel, my goal here was not personal. My work was for the best interest of our country. I tried to do it the Air Force
way and was refused at every turn.”
The colonel nodded.
“Then I did it my way.”
Boyd told the colonel of his subterfuge in gaining access to the computers. Then he told the colonel about the people he had
briefed on E-M and all the changes taking place in the Air Force because of it. When Boyd finished, the colonel was silent.
He looked again at the stack of letters Boyd had written. “Thank you, Major.”
Several weeks later the IG issued a report. A copy was sent to Eglin. The report exonerated Boyd of culpability. It said his
original and creative work was of overwhelming significance to national defense and that the benefits of E-M had spread throughout
the Air Force and would have great influence for years to come. But an IG report must have a villain, even if no charges are
filed. The report excoriated the civilian who denied Boyd use of the computers.
Boyd was euphoric. What he did not know was that a few months later would come a day of reckoning. And this time he would
not escape.
By 1965 Boyd had been in the Air Force fourteen years. He was not yet up for promotion to lieutenant colonel. But each year
the Air Force selects a few promising officers from each rank and promotes them “below the zone”—that is, before they have
the time in grade. It is the best way the Air Force has to acknowledge talented young officers and to show that they have
a promising future. Boyd looked back at his accomplishments at Nellis, researching and writing the “Aerial Attack Study,”
gaining an engineering degree, and the impact his E-M Theory was having throughout the Air Force, and he knew that if ever
a man deserved early promotion, he was that man. The Air Force owed him a debt of recognition and the best way to recognize
an officer is to promote him. He was confident that he soon would be wearing the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel.
But Boyd’s name was not on the early-promotion list. That, by itself, disappointed and angered Boyd. But what sent him over
the edge was the list of men who were promoted. He read down the list in disbelief. Many of those promoted were “horse holders,”
aides to generals.
Others were nonentities whose contributions, if any, were unknown to Boyd. There was not one person on the list who had made
the contributions to the Air Force and to national defense that he had made.
Boyd was deeply affected. This was a pivotal event in his career, as well as a personal epiphany. Often, when a man is young
and idealistic, he believes that if he works hard and does the right thing, success will follow. This was what Boyd’s mother
and childhood mentors had told him. But hard work and success do not always go together in the military, where success is
defined by rank, and reaching higher rank requires conforming to the military’s value system. Those who do not conform will
one day realize that the path of doing the right thing has diverged from the path of success, and then they must decide which
path they will follow through life. Almost certainly, he realized that if he was not promoted early to lieutenant colonel
after all that he had done, he would never achieve high rank. And in light of a speech he was to give in coming years to young
officers, his famous “To Be or to Do” speech, he likely realized that while he might
do
big things, he would never
be
at the top of the Air Force hierarchy.
It was clear to Boyd’s friends what had happened. Those whom Boyd had belittled and denigrated had sent out the word, and
the word had percolated among various coalitions until it reached the promotion board: sure, Boyd has done some good things
for the Air Force, but he is unprofessional, lacks basic military courtesies, and is unfit for rapid promotion. These people
had lost battles with Boyd, but they won the war. They affected his career and his life in the most hurtful way possible.
Boyd’s public reaction to what he saw as a personal and grievous slight was entirely out of character. He went to the Officers
Club and got rip-roaring, knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk. He sat alone at the bar, not holding court, not talking about
fighter tactics or E-M, but just staring at the wall, smoking his cigar, and drinking. And drinking. And drinking. It is the
only time he is known to have gotten drunk.
A few months later Boyd was awarded the Air Force Systems Command Scientific Achievement Award, the highest scientific award
in the AFSC. Then he was awarded the Air Force Research and Development Award for Aeronautical Engineering, the highest
scientific award the Air Force gives to an officer. And in Boyd’s ER—dated September 7, 1965—which covered his work of the
previous year, he received the highest possible ratings in almost every category. “This brilliant young officer is an original
thinker,” said the ER. “His production comes from about 10% inspiration and 90% a grueling pace that his cohorts find difficult
if not impossible to keep up with. He is extremely intolerant of inefficiency and those who attempt to impede his program.”
It ends with, “Maj. Boyd should be promoted to Lt. Col. below the zone of primary eligibility at the first opportunity.”
In the spring of 1966, Boyd was granted his heart’s desire: he was ordered to Thailand as an F-4 pilot. At long last he was
going into combat and this time he would be in the thick of it. It was about time. He missed World War II and he arrived late
for Korea, but now, by God, he would be a Phantom driver in Vietnam. The air war in Vietnam was white-hot. F-105s were going
up North to the area around Hanoi—“Route Pack VI” it was called—where they were being shot down by the dozens. The previous
year, 171 American aircraft were lost in North Vietnam. That year the number would rise to 318.
The Air Force had said F-105s were fast enough and deadly enough to fly missions alone; they needed no fighter support. But
that policy changed and now F-4C Phantoms flew MiG cover for the Thuds. The F-4C was too big and heavy to get into a turning
fight with the nimble little MiGs, so a Phantom driver had to take the fight down low and keep his airspeed up if he was going
to hose a MiG. The Phantom also had no guns and its missiles were virtually useless in many air-to-air scenarios; the launch
envelope was so narrow that a pilot had to be a very hot stick to get a kill. Boyd was not worried. He told everyone he met
that the first five enemy aircraft he sighted would be history. Forty-Second Boyd was going to wax some Communist ass.
Boyd was packing, getting his shots, making arrangements for Mary and the children to go to Iowa, and handling the myriad
details a pilot must endure before a combat assignment when he received word his orders for Thailand had been cancelled.
The new fighter, the F-X, was in trouble.
The Bigger-Higher-Faster-Farther syndrome that had plagued the Air Force since its earliest days had resulted in an F-X design
that reminded many of the F-111. The proposed new fighter was a swing-wing behemoth of some seventy thousand pounds. While
the Air Force publicly praised the F-111, they were finding it more and more difficult to hide the fact that the airplane
was as bad as Boyd had said, maybe worse. The Pentagon took a hard look at the design for the F-X and realized it could only
lead to embarrassment. The Air Force probably would lose the fighter and be forced by Congress to fly another saltwater airplane.
Boyd was ordered to the Pentagon.
In the summer of 1966, before he transferred to Washington, Boyd spent part of his accrued leave in Erie. These summer trips
to Erie had become a practice he would follow for the rest of his life. But this was the first time he had taken Mary and
all five children home at the same time. Naturally he expected everyone to stay at the house on Lincoln Avenue. But when he
drove up to his mother’s house and children began falling out and running across the yard, the redoubtable Elsie Boyd told
her son they couldn’t stay. I don’t want five children underfoot, she said. They make too much noise and the noise will bother
me.
For one of the few times in his life, Boyd had nothing to say. He stared at his mother. This was his home. And he was turned
away.
“You can come by with the children every day, but I don’t want you staying too long,” his mother said.
“Mother, where do you want us to stay?” Boyd was almost plaintive.
“In a motel.”
Boyd was crushed. Almost every day he was in Erie, he told Mary of his disbelief. His dear mother, whom he often said was
the most important person in his life, had turned him away from her door.
It was a fresh reminder of how tough his mother could be, how unbending. It was a lesson Boyd learned well and one he would
need during the next few years.
Boyd’s last ER at Eglin, dated September 7, 1966, was both good and bad, and it signaled again that Boyd, despite his contributions,
was
not a company man. The ER praised Boyd’s original work on E-M but added, “He is an intense and impatient man who does not
respond well to close supervision.… He possesses a lot of nervous energy.…”
Worse for Boyd, the colonel who indorsed the report downgraded the promotion-potential block, showing he did not concur with
the reviewing officer. This is unusual. What is even more unusual is that a second colonel signed an additional indorsement
saying he agreed with the downgrade.
Boyd had established a pattern: no matter what his contributions to the Air Force or to national defense might be—and there
were significant contributions yet to come—his outspoken nature, his lack of reluctance to criticize his superiors, and his
love of conflict with others would hinder his promotion throughout his career.
Boyd and Christie went to Washington on temporary duty shortly before Boyd moved there from Eglin. They met with a series
of defense contractors to talk about E-M. Christie also talked to Boyd about the Pentagon and cautioned him about what to
expect. The people at Wright-Pat still were angry and would do everything in their power to undercut him. The coalition at
Eglin also was angry at how he snookered them on computer usage and then humiliated the civilian in charge. The defense contractors
who favored swing-wing construction would put unimaginable pressure on him. And although they had not yet revealed their hand,
top Navy officers—far more skillful at both bureaucratic infighting and public relations—would engage him in a form of battle
even more deadly than rat-racing over the Green Spot. Hundreds of millions of dollars and thousands of careers would be at
stake once the F-X contract was let.