A Man Too
Hard to Kill
Robert Samuel Johnson
Robert S. Johnson grew up during the Great Depression in Lawton, Oklahoma, during the dust bowl era. High unemployment and a long drought destroyed farming, increasing the misery. His life of poverty did not prevent him from deciding to become an aviator. He eventually became a fighter pilot, serving with the Fifty-Sixth Fighter Group, known on both sides of the English Channel as "Zemke's Wolfpack," so-named for its colorful, blunt leader, Colonel Hubert A. "Hub" Zemke.
The Fifty-Sixth Fighter Group produced some of the highest-scoring ace fighter pilots in the US Army Air Forces in the European theater of operations (ETO). Including Johnson's own twenty-seven victories, his fellow fighter pilots were credited with destroying 985.5 enemy aircraft: 674.5 shot down and 311 destroyed on the ground, the most victories of any fighter group in the Eighth Air Force. Johnson scored his victories in eight-nine combat missions (a ratio of 3.17 sorties, per victory) and was the first American pilot in the ETO to break America's top World War I fighter ace Captain Edward Rickenbacker's score of twenty-six, achieved in World War I.
When I first spoke to Bob Johnson by telephone in 1986, he seemed quite keen on doing an interview. We spent many hours talking about his life as I took copious notes. Nine years later, on the way to Lake Wylie, South Carolina, where he had invited me to his home to finally meet face-to-face, I stopped to get a bite to eat at a local restaurant before checking into a hotel. As I walked in, there sat Robert Johnson, eating his dinner. "Damn," he said as soon as he saw me. "You must be anxious. I thought I was going to see you tomorrow."
The situation was more than a little uncomfortable. I did not want to intrude on his meal, but he asked me to sit down, and I did. We spoke about arbitrary things, but nothing related to the interview; I would save that until the next day. He did say that he wished his wife, Barbara, were still alive to meet me, because she had enjoyed hearing my southern accent on the other end of the line. She had seemed to be a very nice lady, one I wished I could have met, too.
Johnson was looking good for a man of his years: short but still solid and strong. I spent a couple of days with Bob, who was entertaining and energetic. He was pleased to show me the war memorabilia he'd collected over the course of his lifetime. One of his prized possessions was a painting depicting his encounter with the Luftwaffe ace Egon Mayer, titled Not My Time to Die.
We stayed in frequent contact until 1998, when I graduated from Temple University with my master of arts degree in history, and landed in Glasgow, Scotland, at the University of Strathclyde. I called him from Glasgow a couple of weeks before Christmas, and he said he was taking a trip and would let me know when he returned. I had been waiting to hear back for almost a month, when I was contacted by an attorney, who informed me that Bob had passed away on December 27. My contact information was in Bob's personal effects, which included a signed copy of his memoir, Thunderbolt!, which he had planned on sending to me when he returned. I still have and treasure his book today.
After his postwar work as an advisor for the aviation industry, Johnson traveled around the country visiting high schools to educate young people about why America became involved in World War II. He was long active in promoting knowledge about the history of aviation, stimulating younger generations' interest in those who served and fought for freedom, and educating civilians about the sacrifices of those who never returned, regardless of nationality.
A quiet, straightforward man, Bob's mild-mannered demeanor belied the killer instinct and intense focus required of the fighter pilot to achieve success, or even survive during active duty. If the highest praise one may receive is from one's enemy, Johnson has been highly praised indeed: in the opinion of Luftwaffe lieutenant general Adolf Galland, General der Jagdflieger (general of the fighters), "Robert Johnson was one of the best pilots in the war. Meeting him proved to me that the war was a contest between good men thrown together in a very bad situation. Had he flown as long as our men, he would probably have over two hundred victories."
A close look at the statistics shows that Galland assessed Johnson's skills correctly: with 275 victories, ace Lieutenant General Gunther Rall's sortie-to-victory ratio mirrors Johnson's ratio almost perfectly-the major difference being that Rall flew several hundred more missions. Had he had more opportunities to report on missions, Johnson's projected ratio shows he quite possibly would have had a much higher victory record. Galland's recognition of Johnson's achievement and his high respect for the American aviator's talents is moreover a prime example of the code of chivalry among pilots. Those who have engaged in combat and survived understand that despite the differences and against all odds, in a dogfight they are there to fight for their country: it is not personal, it is duty.
My interviews with Bob Johnson were conducted over a span of twelve years, from 1985 through 1997, in person, by telephone, and by written correspondence. This is his story, in his own words.
Robert Samuel Johnson
I was born on February 21, 1920, in Lawton, fifty-two miles north of the Red River in southwestern Oklahoma. I grew up in a very rural area during the Great Depression, when life was really hard for everyone. We were in what they called the dust bowl, and those kids who did not get an education were going to have a hard life later. I did all the boyhood things that rural American boys did. Our parents would drive us for four, maybe five hours to the Wichita Mountains and let us go. We fished and also hunted the occasional coyote, prairie dogs, and those sorts of critters.
I used to practice shooting flowers in the fields, perfecting the use of windage to hit them as the wind made them bend back and forth. I got pretty damned good with that rifle. I used to practice shooting birds-crows, pigeons, doves, anything that gave me a gunner's eye. Leading a target became second nature. A couple of friends who hunted with shotguns were surprised when I could nail a bird on the fly with a rifle just by estimating the range and adjusting the point of aim to lead my targets. It's as much instinct as it is acquired skill.
I was also in the Boy Scouts, and I loved going out and camping, sleeping in tents, and learning survival skills. Not sleeping in a bed, maybe for days at a time, never bothered me. We used to swim and sleep under the stars, cook rabbits and fish, living the rough life, or so we thought. I would have to say that at that age, we were pretty self-sufficient compared to city boys I later got to know in college and the military.
I got into boxing due to bullying, especially at school. I was very small and short for my age, and we had guys who targeted guys like me. Up until about the fifth grade, I got thumped a lot, until I finally decided that I was going to pound the cornstalk out of the next guy who tried me, just to make a point. I was in eighth grade when one of the worst bullies, this idiot named Ben, was asking boys for money. All but one guy gave it up, but this one guy a little bigger than me decided to fight. Ben won because the other guy landed a punch but didn't follow it up. Ben nailed him and took his coins.
Ben walked around and saw me. He knew me and walked over and demanded any money I had. I told him that I did not have any, and he loudly proclaimed he would see for himself. That was all I needed. I allowed him to get close, then gave him a left punch to the nose, a right to the gut, and another left back in the face. He went down, but as he tried to get up, I was on him. I pounded that fool so hard he was not moving, and a teacher came in and pulled me off.
They dragged me to the principal's office and sat me down. They then revived Ben and brought him in and started cleaning the blood off his face. He was crying. The principal and teacher both looked at me, all seventy pounds, and then looked at this other guy who was a foot taller and outweighed me by at least forty pounds. I could see that the principal was trying not to laugh. He knew about Ben-the boy had been in trouble many times for his shakedowns.
The principal asked me why I beat him up. I told him that he had already hit some other boys and then he came for me. He wanted my money. I said that I was going to make him earn it. The principal turned his head, but I could hear him trying not to laugh. He told the teacher to take Ben away to the school nurse. I sat there, and he told me that he did not allow fighting in school, and he would have to tell my dad. I said that was fine-that my dad would rather have me in trouble for defending myself than in a hospital.
My dad came to the school and was informed of the situation. I could tell that even while he was agreeing with the principal that fighting in school was a bad thing, the look he gave me was, "It's okay, I know you did what you had to do." So, I knew I was not in trouble with him. I got suspended for a day, and Ben was out for a week because other students came forward to complain about him taking their money and hitting them.
That was really the beginning of my boxing training. I knew that I was going to have to fight through life, and my dad suggested that I be trained for it. I went to the local gym and learned from an old guy who had been a sparring partner for some professionals. He had also been a boxer himself. I learned that the guy who hits first and hard often wins the fight if you follow up. "Inflict, confuse, and complete" was what he said. I studied the most vulnerable areas of the body, where to hit, and in what sequence. I got really good at it.
I started boxing in the ring in tournaments, and I learned something about myself. When I was hit, I got mad, and then I didn't care how big or bad the other guy was-only one of us was walking out of that ring. It came to a point that I didn't really have to think about where or how I was hitting a guy; it was all instinct and mental, muscle memory. Every human being has the same basic configuration. I just kept hitting the exposed and vulnerable areas. I seemed oblivious to the hits I was taking, and I never really felt them until the fight was over. Yet despite my promise as a boxer, I did not want to do that for a living.
The first real fight I had was when I was sixteen. I was up against a pro in his twenties who had a lot of experience. He also had a well-earned reputation as a tough guy and a dirty fighter. We were about the same weight, 120 pounds or so, and he was a foot taller. He was a battle-scarred guy who looked like a fighter. The guys running the club and even people in the crowd did not want the fight because they believed it was unfair, and I would be badly injured.
Well, the referee gave us the instructions, the bell rang, and this bigger guy came out. I went for the gut punch and missed, but my following right punch caught him square in the chest. I threw all my weight into it, and he fell back against the ropes, then fell down face-first and was out for the full count. Then he got up complaining, and I told the ref to let him come on. He threw a few left jabs that didn't connect, and then he went for a right hook to my head. I ducked and hit him in the chest again, and this time he went down and stayed down.
The ring doctors came in and took him out, and he never fought in the ring again, from what I was told. I had hurt him badly. That was when I learned that no matter how big or imposing an opponent was, he could be defeated. I never forgot that. I think that confidence I gained was what carried me well into my later years. To be a fighter pilot, you have to be aggressive, and you must have confidence. Add experience to that equation, and you can become a formidable fighter.
I knew I wanted something beyond high school. You have to remember that maybe half the kids never even finished high school. They went to work on the farms or in factories if such work was available. I decided I was not going down that path. I went through high school and played sports, mostly football. At less than 150 pounds, I was one of the smallest guys on my high school team, whereas the other guys were 70 to 170 pounds heavier. I still played for three years as a back, starting out. My coach moved me around to blocking and center. I still did a lot of boxing while in school and continued when I went to Cameron College, which is now Cameron University.
My dad and football coach knew I wanted to go to college, and after speaking with them and a few others, I decided to study engineering. They said that engineers had the best chances of getting good jobs even in the worst of economic times. It was while I was in college that I decided to join the armed forces and fly. That interest started early. I was sitting on my dad's shoulders at Post Field near Lawton one day. I had always been, as most kids were in that day, interested in becoming a cowboy or a railroad engineer. I loved trains-they just excited the hell out of me. But when I saw airplanes, all that changed.
A Man Too
Hard to Kill
Robert Samuel Johnson
Robert S. Johnson grew up during the Great Depression in Lawton, Oklahoma, during the dust bowl era. High unemployment and a long drought destroyed farming, increasing the misery. His life of poverty did not prevent him from deciding to become an aviator. He eventually became a fighter pilot, serving with the Fifty-Sixth Fighter Group, known on both sides of the English Channel as "Zemke's Wolfpack," so-named for its colorful, blunt leader, Colonel Hubert A. "Hub" Zemke.
The Fifty-Sixth Fighter Group produced some of the highest-scoring ace fighter pilots in the US Army Air Forces in the European theater of operations (ETO). Including Johnson's own twenty-seven victories, his fellow fighter pilots were credited with destroying 985.5 enemy aircraft: 674.5 shot down and 311 destroyed on the ground, the most victories of any fighter group in the Eighth Air Force. Johnson scored his victories in eight-nine combat missions (a ratio of 3.17 sorties, per victory) and was the first American pilot in the ETO to break America's top World War I fighter ace Captain Edward Rickenbacker's score of twenty-six, achieved in World War I.
When I first spoke to Bob Johnson by telephone in 1986, he seemed quite keen on doing an interview. We spent many hours talking about his life as I took copious notes. Nine years later, on the way to Lake Wylie, South Carolina, where he had invited me to his home to finally meet face-to-face, I stopped to get a bite to eat at a local restaurant before checking into a hotel. As I walked in, there sat Robert Johnson, eating his dinner. "Damn," he said as soon as he saw me. "You must be anxious. I thought I was going to see you tomorrow."
The situation was more than a little uncomfortable. I did not want to intrude on his meal, but he asked me to sit down, and I did. We spoke about arbitrary things, but nothing related to the interview; I would save that until the next day. He did say that he wished his wife, Barbara, were still alive to meet me, because she had enjoyed hearing my southern accent on the other end of the line. She had seemed to be a very nice lady, one I wished I could have met, too.
Johnson was looking good for a man of his years: short but still solid and strong. I spent a couple of days with Bob, who was entertaining and energetic. He was pleased to show me the war memorabilia he'd collected over the course of his lifetime. One of his prized possessions was a painting depicting his encounter with the Luftwaffe ace Egon Mayer, titled Not My Time to Die.
We stayed in frequent contact until 1998, when I graduated from Temple University with my master of arts degree in history, and landed in Glasgow, Scotland, at the University of Strathclyde. I called him from Glasgow a couple of weeks before Christmas, and he said he was taking a trip and would let me know when he returned. I had been waiting to hear back for almost a month, when I was contacted by an attorney, who informed me that Bob had passed away on December 27. My contact information was in Bob's personal effects, which included a signed copy of his memoir, Thunderbolt!, which he had planned on sending to me when he returned. I still have and treasure his book today.
After his postwar work as an advisor for the aviation industry, Johnson traveled around the country visiting high schools to educate young people about why America became involved in World War II. He was long active in promoting knowledge about the history of aviation, stimulating younger generations' interest in those who served and fought for freedom, and educating civilians about the sacrifices of those who never returned, regardless of nationality.
A quiet, straightforward man, Bob's mild-mannered demeanor belied the killer instinct and intense focus required of the fighter pilot to achieve success, or even survive during active duty. If the highest praise one may receive is from one's enemy, Johnson has been highly praised indeed: in the opinion of Luftwaffe lieutenant general Adolf Galland, General der Jagdflieger (general of the fighters), "Robert Johnson was one of the best pilots in the war. Meeting him proved to me that the war was a contest between good men thrown together in a very bad situation. Had he flown as long as our men, he would probably have over two hundred victories."
A close look at the statistics shows that Galland assessed Johnson's skills correctly: with 275 victories, ace Lieutenant General Gunther Rall's sortie-to-victory ratio mirrors Johnson's ratio almost perfectly-the major difference being that Rall flew several hundred more missions. Had he had more opportunities to report on missions, Johnson's projected ratio shows he quite possibly would have had a much higher victory record. Galland's recognition of Johnson's achievement and his high respect for the American aviator's talents is moreover a prime example of the code of chivalry among pilots. Those who have engaged in combat and survived understand that despite the differences and against all odds, in a dogfight they are there to fight for their country: it is not personal, it is duty.
My interviews with Bob Johnson were conducted over a span of twelve years, from 1985 through 1997, in person, by telephone, and by written correspondence. This is his story, in his own words.
Robert Samuel Johnson
I was born on February 21, 1920, in Lawton, fifty-two miles north of the Red River in southwestern Oklahoma. I grew up in a very rural area during the Great Depression, when life was really hard for everyone. We were in what they called the dust bowl, and those kids who did not get an education were going to have a hard life later. I did all the boyhood things that rural American boys did. Our parents would drive us for four, maybe five hours to the Wichita Mountains and let us go. We fished and also hunted the occasional coyote, prairie dogs, and those sorts of critters.
I used to practice shooting flowers in the fields, perfecting the use of windage to hit them as the wind made them bend back and forth. I got pretty damned good with that rifle. I used to practice shooting birds-crows, pigeons, doves, anything that gave me a gunner's eye. Leading a target became second nature. A couple of friends who hunted with shotguns were surprised when I could nail a bird on the fly with a rifle just by estimating the range and adjusting the point of aim to lead my targets. It's as much instinct as it is acquired skill.
I was also in the Boy Scouts, and I loved going out and camping, sleeping in tents, and learning survival skills. Not sleeping in a bed, maybe for days at a time, never bothered me. We used to swim and sleep under the stars, cook rabbits and fish, living the rough life, or so we thought. I would have to say that at that age, we were pretty self-sufficient compared to city boys I later got to know in college and the military.
I got into boxing due to bullying, especially at school. I was very small and short for my age, and we had guys who targeted guys like me. Up until about the fifth grade, I got thumped a lot, until I finally decided that I was going to pound the cornstalk out of the next guy who tried me, just to make a point. I was in eighth grade when one of the worst bullies, this idiot named Ben, was asking boys for money. All but one guy gave it up, but this one guy a little bigger than me decided to fight. Ben won because the other guy landed a punch but didn't follow it up. Ben nailed him and took his coins.
Ben walked around and saw me. He knew me and walked over and demanded any money I had. I told him that I did not have any, and he loudly proclaimed he would see for himself. That was all I needed. I allowed him to get close, then gave him a left punch to the nose, a right to the gut, and another left back in the face. He went down, but as he tried to get up, I was on him. I pounded that fool so hard he was not moving, and a teacher came in and pulled me off.
They dragged me to the principal's office and sat me down. They then revived Ben and brought him in and started cleaning the blood off his face. He was crying. The principal and teacher both looked at me, all seventy pounds, and then looked at this other guy who was a foot taller and outweighed me by at least forty pounds. I could see that the principal was trying not to laugh. He knew about Ben-the boy had been in trouble many times for his shakedowns.
The principal asked me why I beat him up. I told him that he had already hit some other boys and then he came for me. He wanted my money. I said that I was going to make him earn it. The principal turned his head, but I could hear him trying not to laugh. He told the teacher to take Ben away to the school nurse. I sat there, and he told me that he did not allow fighting in school, and he would have to tell my dad. I said that was fine-that my dad would rather have me in trouble for defending myself than in a hospital.
My dad came to the school and was informed of the situation. I could tell that even while he was agreeing with the principal that fighting in school was a bad thing, the look he gave me was, "It's okay, I know you did what you had to do." So, I knew I was not in trouble with him. I got suspended for a day, and Ben was out for a week because other students came forward to complain about him taking their money and hitting them.
That was really the beginning of my boxing training. I knew that I was going to have to fight through life, and my dad suggested that I be trained for it. I went to the local gym and learned from an old guy who had been a sparring partner for some professionals. He had also been a boxer himself. I learned that the guy who hits first and hard often wins the fight if you follow up. "Inflict, confuse, and complete" was what he said. I studied the most vulnerable areas of the body, where to hit, and in what sequence. I got really good at it.
I started boxing in the ring in tournaments, and I learned something about myself. When I was hit, I got mad, and then I didn't care how big or bad the other guy was-only one of us was walking out of that ring. It came to a point that I didn't really have to think about where or how I was hitting a guy; it was all instinct and mental, muscle memory. Every human being has the same basic configuration. I just kept hitting the exposed and vulnerable areas. I seemed oblivious to the hits I was taking, and I never really felt them until the fight was over. Yet despite my promise as a boxer, I did not want to do that for a living.
The first real fight I had was when I was sixteen. I was up against a pro in his twenties who had a lot of experience. He also had a well-earned reputation as a tough guy and a dirty fighter. We were about the same weight, 120 pounds or so, and he was a foot taller. He was a battle-scarred guy who looked like a fighter. The guys running the club and even people in the crowd did not want the fight because they believed it was unfair, and I would be badly injured.
Well, the referee gave us the instructions, the bell rang, and this bigger guy came out. I went for the gut punch and missed, but my following right punch caught him square in the chest. I threw all my weight into it, and he fell back against the ropes, then fell down face-first and was out for the full count. Then he got up complaining, and I told the ref to let him come on. He threw a few left jabs that didn't connect, and then he went for a right hook to my head. I ducked and hit him in the chest again, and this time he went down and stayed down.
The ring doctors came in and took him out, and he never fought in the ring again, from what I was told. I had hurt him badly. That was when I learned that no matter how big or imposing an opponent was, he could be defeated. I never forgot that. I think that confidence I gained was what carried me well into my later years. To be a fighter pilot, you have to be aggressive, and you must have confidence. Add experience to that equation, and you can become a formidable fighter.
I knew I wanted something beyond high school. You have to remember that maybe half the kids never even finished high school. They went to work on the farms or in factories if such work was available. I decided I was not going down that path. I went through high school and played sports, mostly football. At less than 150 pounds, I was one of the smallest guys on my high school team, whereas the other guys were 70 to 170 pounds heavier. I still played for three years as a back, starting out. My coach moved me around to blocking and center. I still did a lot of boxing while in school and continued when I went to Cameron College, which is now Cameron University.
My dad and football coach knew I wanted to go to college, and after speaking with them and a few others, I decided to study engineering. They said that engineers had the best chances of getting good jobs even in the worst of economic times. It was while I was in college that I decided to join the armed forces and fly. That interest started early. I was sitting on my dad's shoulders at Post Field near Lawton one day. I had always been, as most kids were in that day, interested in becoming a cowboy or a railroad engineer. I loved trains-they just excited the hell out of me. But when I saw airplanes, all that changed.
