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Perfecting His Skills. In most previous U.S. wars, Thunderchief Squadron Leader "Robbie" Risner would have been an exception, not a rule. The commander of the Fighting Cocks is no spring chicken. At 40, he still bears scars from his teen-age days as a rodeo rider in Oklahoma, where he grew up. He has been flying combat aircraft for 22 years. He was a Korean War ace—with eight MIGs to his credit. His left eye is permanently bloodshot as a result of zooming so close to a MIG kill in Korea that the ejecting Communist pilot struck Risner's canopy, shattering glass throughout the cockpit. But Risner insists that "my eyesight is perfect"—and both the medics and his flying record back him up.
Last January, as leader of the Fighting Cocks, Risner was transferred to Danang from Okinawa, where his wife Kathleen, an ex-Army nurse, and their five sons still live. Since then, he has led 18 missions against North Viet Nam—including three last week. His $2,500,000 Thunderchief fighter-bomber is a remarkable instrument of warfare. It can carry twelve 750-lb. bombs or eight pods of 19 rockets each, and has a six-barrel, 20-mm. cannon that can fire 4,000 rounds per minute. Loaded, it weighs 48,400 Ibs., and its top speed exceeds 1,660 m.p.h. Its cockpit is a bewildering jungle of more than 75 switches, toggles and levers.
To use such equipment successfully requires the highest degree of human ingenuity and precision, and despite all his experience, Risner spends most of his waking hours perfecting his skills. "You never get good enough," he says. "A complacent pilot gets killed."
"What I Had Been Taught." Only a few weeks ago, Risner almost got killed. But his professionalism saved him. He now describes the experience with almost clinical detachment: "The target that day was a radar station in North Viet Nam. I was janking [changing altitude and direction continuously] when I got hit by ground fire. They got me four feet behind the cockpit, in the engine. I had to make a 180° turn to get out over the sea. When I got to the coastline, I figured I was safe. But in the water was an enemy gunboat, so I had to keep on going. Suddenly the plane flipped over and I was flying upside down. I flew about three-fourths of a mile that way. Then I reached down and pulled the seat handles, which flipped off the canopy. Then I groped until I found the ejection handles. I was still pulling them when the butt-snapper —that's a canvas that snaps taut and flips you clear—under my seat propelled me out into the air. Three swift jolts, and I was floating down in my parachute. Since I had nothing else to do, I went through the procedure I'd been taught over and over again.