Lyon Air Museum is famous for its exquisite collection of World War II aircraft, military vehicles, vintage automobiles and aviation memorabilia. But among its most valuable assets are the docents who offer tours of the museum and the opportunity to share their knowledge with our visitors. Tom Bohman is one of those volunteers. As a pilot and an aeronautical engineer, his expertise is almost boundless. If you want to know details like why our gorgeous B-17G Flying Fortress or other vintage aircraft were built using flat head rivets in some areas and round head rivets in others, or why our B-25 Mitchell Bomber, recently returned to flight status, has gull-shaped wings instead of straight wings, just ask Tom.
In a recent chat with Tom, he told me about a dilemma that faced three F-86 pilots in 1953 and the bizarre sequence of events surrounding the incident. He knows the story because it happened near his home in Cincinnati. To supplement Tom’s memory, we gathered info from our own research and from records maintained by Paul and Terry Freeman. With their permission, we are passing this fascinating story of courage and ingenuity on to our readers. But first, let me tell you a little more about Lyon Air Museum’s Senior Docent Tom Bohman and his connection with the Sabre Jets dilemma.
Tom was born in 1931 in the midst of the Golden Age of Aviation. Record breaking daredevils like Charles Lindberg, Amelia Earhart, Jimmie Doolittle, and Roscoe Turner were the heroes of the century, and events like the Cleveland, Bendix and Thompson Trophy races were front page news. Nearly every small town had an airstrip where the thrills of barnstorming, like loop-the-loops, wing walking, and parachute jumping, could still be observed. In those thrilling days a five dollar flight in an open cockpit biplane earned more bragging rights than a front seat ride on a carnival roller coaster.
The area around Tom’s birthplace, on the outskirts of Cincinnati, had more than its share of popular airports where would-be flyers tested their courage. Family outings on Sundays meant driving to local airfields, like Western Hills, Lakewood, Cheviot, or Mount Healthy, to watch the action, marvel at the miracle of flight, and dream of the future of aviation. By age 8 or 9, Tom’s adventurous meanderings often took him to nearby Lunken Airport for closeup observations of each takeoff and landing. By 1940, his avid interest finally caught the attention of an itinerant pilot who offered him a free ride in the back seat of a Stinson SR-5. And he was hooked.
Fast forward a few years and teenage Tom was working part time at a butcher shop. (Yes, a teenager could do that in those days). The butcher owned a Luscombe 8E two-seater and lucky Tom got plenty of air time on Wednesday afternoons and Sundays when the shop was closed and his boss wanted company. School and finances delayed Tom’s training progress until, June, 1949, with a few dollars saved, he was able to start attending flight school at Lunken Airport. Lessons in an Aeronca Champ, at $8 per hour, plus $3 more for the instructor, set him on his path to become a lifelong pilot and aircraft enthusiast. His devotion to aviation motivated him to study Aeronautical Engineering at the University of Cincinnati and, in 1953, he earned his degree. Although WW-II had been over for several years, and the Korean War was nearing an end, Tom was still eligible to be drafted for military service. He instead chose to enter OCS (Officer Candidate School), rather than be an enlisted man, hoping to become an Air Force pilot. But, failing a stringent vision test, Tom chose to become a naval officer. As a Lieutenant JG, he served on the USS Lexington, CVA16, one of our nation’s finest aircraft carriers. At least his mission kept him close to airplanes and pilots, and his service earned him, in navy tradition and parlance, the distinction of “owning a plank” on the Lexington. (You Navy types will know what that means).
Returning from the Navy in 1957, he was drawn back to his aviation roots and began what became an illustrious career in aeronautical engineering that spanned over forty years. In his continuing pursuit of more challenging projects he was employed by five different aircraft companies, including Douglas Aircraft in Santa Monica. He remained at Douglas, working at various locations throughout Southern California, for thirty-one years—while maintaining his piloting proficiency.
Over the past seventy years Tom has flown seventy-one different aircraft types, from light airplanes to Aero Commanders, has flown as a passenger in dozens of other types, and has owned three different personal aircraft. With his depth of experience in aviation and engineering, and his wealth of knowledge in military history, we are privileged to have Tom aboard on the Lyon Air Museum docent staff.
But what about the Sabre Jets dilemma?
Tom has a thousand stories to tell, I was especially intrigued by this one. It’s a simple story, but steeped in mysteries. In January of 1953, Tom was finishing his senior year at the University of Cincinnati when the story broke in the local newspapers. It quickly spread throughout the surrounding aviation community—where any aircraft incident was front page stuff, especially if it involved F-86 Sabres—the famous jet fighters that had just won the air war in Korea.
As the story goes, three F-86 Sabre Jets, en route from Scott AFB, near St. Louis, to Wright-Patterson AFB, near Dayton, Ohio, had run out of fuel and had landed at tiny Lakewood Airpark just northwest of Cincinnati. This was perplexing news to Tom since he had flown in and out of Lakewood in light planes many times. Knowing that it was a narrow, rough airstrip, only 2,100 feet long, and not intended for swept-wing jets or heavy aircraft, he couldn’t understand why these high speed jets decided to land there, how they managed to do it and, more importantly, how were they going to get out?
Tom tracked the story in the local newspapers. The details were a bit muddled but the common thread was simple: These pilots had an emergency and they had to land somewhere and they had chosen Lakewood. This was not a foolish error. The three F-86 fighter jockeys were excellent pilots and seasoned combat veterans who had just returned from the war in Korea where one of them, Lt. Raebel, had scored three MiG-15 victories. Another, Lt. R. L. MaKinney had 100 combat missions to his credit. They knew what they were doing. There was no suggestion that mechanical problems forced them down, only that they had run out of fuel. It seemed a miracle that they had landed at tiny Lakewood Airpark. Only highly skilled pilots such as these could have done it successfully in high speed jets. Even so, one had clipped a telephone line on the approach, another landed safely but flamed out while taxiing in—but the third one made it without incident.
They must have been greatly relieved that they were on the ground, and with no damage to the aircraft. But why were they even in the vicinity of Cincinnati? A direct route from Scott to Wright-Pat was only 360 miles and the Sabres, especially ones carrying drop tanks, as the photo shows, had a range of at least twice that. So why did they run out of fuel? It’s possible that they decided to fly VFR (visual flight rules) from Scott AFB but ran in to bad weather. If visibility had decreased, they could have been forced to descend to low altitude, where fuel consumption would have been much higher. They could have become disoriented and simply got lost.
FLIGHT PATH FROM DAYTON RADIO TO GREATER CINCINNATI RADIO PASSING OVER LAKEWOOD
I discussed this possibility with Tom and he had another theory; one more logical and much more likely. He reminded me that the event happened in January when the weather across the midwest is usually rough, or at least unpredictable. They most certainly were on an IFR flight plan flying on instruments between radio beacons. He also recalled that Greater Cincinnati Airport, actually located across the Ohio River in Kentucky, was designated as a reliever, or alternate, for Wright-Patterson and Dayton. It was built during WW-II for that purpose for the Army Air Corps because the location is less prone to fog than the Cincinnati side of the river. He thinks they flew directly from Scott to Wright-Pat but found it socked in. If so, they would have made several approaches before the flight leader, most likely Lt. Raebel, decided to head the 54 nautical miles to Greater Cincinnati but could’t make it. Short on fuel, he was lucky to spot Lakewood on his flight path.
To test this theory, we consulted Tom’s Cincinnati Sectional Chart for that time period, which he has retained since 1950! This chart shows a cluster of six small airfields just north of Cincinnati, about 45 nautical miles from Dayton/Wright-Pat. A straight line route between Dayton VOR (VHF Omni Range) and Cincinnati VOR would have taken them just east of Lakewood. However, if these were the Sabres they had flown in Korea, they might not have had VOR receivers installed! Then, most likely they would have flown the beam from the Dayton Low Frequency radio range to the Cincinnati radio range. This flight path would have taken them directly over Lakewood airport! Having made missed approaches at Wright-Pat, they would have been at low altitude, burning fuel fast. A “bingo fuel” signaled from one of his wingmen might have convinced Lt. Raebel to take the risk and land on Lakewood’s short runway. The photo taken as they cleared the runway shows good visibility at Lakewood, with no sign of fog or snow, so that could have been the decisive factor. Whatever influenced him, his judgement proved valid—they had landed safely.
FLIGHT OF THREE F-86 SABRE JETS LANDING AT LAKEWOOD AIRPARK- 1953
Now, the dilemma: an F-86 Sabre Jet typically requires about 2,600 feet of takeoff roll. They needed to complete their journey but how were they going to take off on a 2,100 foot runway?
The next few days must have been spent in embarrassing agony for the three intrepid aviators. We have no record of words exchanged with their commanding officers, but they might not have been pleasant. Regardless of finger pointing, the problem had to be solved. Everyone exposed to the dilemma had an opinion, but Lt. Raebel was still in charge of his three-man flight. We don’t know why they were headed for Wright-Pat, since their next assignment was at a fighter squadron at George AFB in California, but nearby Wright-Pat was the ideal location to seek assistance.
The Wright Air Development Center, responsible for the Air Force’s flight testing and engineering, had recently been established at Wright-Pat. It was the home of test pilots like Neil Armstrong and Ed White, future astronauts. Surprisingly, our research uncovered that thrust augmentation testing for the J-47 engine, used in the F-86, had been ongoing at WADC for the purpose of improving the fighter’s takeoff and climb performance when in combat against the Russian MiG-15. Various methods, such as increasing engine temperature or rpm, adding water-alcohol or liquid nitrogen injection, reducing aircraft weight, and even adding rocket boost for takeoff and climb out were being considered. Any of these were possible solutions to the problem Raebel was trying to solve. Quite possibly, these three Korean combat veterans were even en route to WADC to assist in these tests or to offer their ideas for improving F-86 performance during combat.
Lt. Grabel wasted no time. He immediately went to Wright-Pat to discuss these options with the engineering and test experts. Anything that would allow a short field takeoff had to be considered. Most of the solutions turned out to be impractical for the situation he was in. The use of rockets (JATO), looked feasible, but was determined to be too difficult to install and verify. To avoid major modifications to their aircraft, or over-stressing the engines, the WADC experts recommended that the wings be removed and the aircraft be trucked to Wright Field for reassembly, then fly out. This meant consigning the property, temporarily, to another Air Force Command, which was troublesome to Raebel. He wanted to solve the problems he had created without amplifying the incident. So he decided that the best solution, and the simplest, was to lighten the aircraft as much as possible and measure the resulting takeoff roll. Using similar F-86 aircraft located at Wright Field, Raebel performed his own flight tests and he liked the results. Contrary to the advice of the “experts” he would fly the birds out.
Returning to Lakewood, and with the assistance of Air Force personnel and equipment, he had the runway smoothed out and an area of PSP (perforated steel planking) added to slightly extend its length. Then he had all unnecessary equipment removed from the aircraft, even including navigation and communications gear, except for his own radio. Enough fuel was taken aboard each aircraft to fly only a few miles. Then, on a cold February day, with wind gusting to 30 knots, and with snow showers, each of the Sabres took off. Climbing to only a few hundred feet, they crossed the Ohio river and landed at the Greater Cincinnati Airport, only 18 miles away. Lt. Raebel’s solution, as simple as it was—did work. The equipment they had off-loaded was reinstalled. Then they refueled to prepare for their flight to George AFB in California, their next duty assignment
Article by Senior Docent David Wensley