Originally published in Johns' Western Gallery auction catalogue
14: The Vandenberg Military Collection (San Francisco, 2005)

General Hoyt S. Vandenberg led a remarkable life, witnessing war while exercising high command in both North Africa and Western Europe. In the course of doing so he became a friend and colleague of such legendary figures as Jimmy Doolittle, George S. Patton and Omar Bradley, the bomber barons Carl “Tooey” Spaatz and Ira Eaker, along with Generals of the Army Henry H. “Hap” Arnold and Dwight D. Eisenhower. And yet, it was only the beginning for an officer later appointed the first deputy Air Force chief of staff, and then, at the behest of President Harry S. Truman, second director of the Central Intelligence Group (forerunner of the CIA) and first director of the Central Intelligence Agency, before finally becoming a member of the Joint Chiefs as Air Force Chief of Staff. And he achieved all this before the age of fifty.

Vandenberg was no stereotypical commander; he almost never raised his voice, dispensing with those flourishes of profanity so dear to other colorful military figures. In the field during World War II he often adopted decidedly unconventional dress, it being said, “Van was wearing his limp flier’s cap and his famous disreputable trench coat, a battered garment held together by a knotted belt from which the buckle long since had been lost, and on which he wears no insignia of rank.” Even his civilian attire tended toward flashy sports clothes that seemed to work for the man Omar Bradley described as being “as handsome as a movie star and cool as a cucumber.”

A life-long devotee of cigarettes and expensive cigars, the general also surprised many with his love of Western novel—an addiction shared with Dwight Eisenhower—and a devotion to golf that nearly rivaled his love of flying. But when it came to waging war or assuring his country’s safety in times of peace he was all business. A basically sentimental figure who preferred martinis over bourbon, and films with happy endings, he could, when the occasion called, exercise a toughness that shocked colleagues; being described by one who observed this transformation as “an icy son-of-a-bitch,” to whom “friendship doesn’t mean a thing . . . when the chips are down.”

Hoyt Sanford Vandenberg was born in Milwaukee in January 1899, but grew up in Lowell, Massachusetts. It was there that he first showed an interest in the military, reading accounts of the opening moves of the First World War and of the U.S. Army’s own abortive expedition into Mexico chasing Poncho Villa.

Vandenberg’s father tried to dissuade his son from a military career, but confronted by zealous determination, he began to relent in stages. Finally surrendering, he announced that if his son was so set on becoming a soldier, he might as well attend West Point. To assure success with the entrance examination, young Vandenberg attended a preparatory school in Washington to improve his standing in English and mathematics. For the coveted political appointment, he was sent to his uncle, Arthur Vandenberg (later a powerful and influential U.S. senator in this own right). Arthur’s business and social connections in Grand Rapids, Michigan, assured the desired result through the offices of Senator William Alden Smith.

Vandenberg entered the Military Academy on June 13, 1919. But the future four-star general was quickly disillusioned, disliking the place and its stifling traditions almost from the start. He barely kept his grades and conduct scores above a level that would have assured his dismissal. Contemporaries recognized his ability, if only he would apply himself, without realizing the inner rebellion against the mind-numbing system then employed to educate officers for the United States Army. Actually, he shared with Winston Churchill the full meaning of Nietzsche’s maxim that life is one hundred times too short to spend any part of it in a state of boredom.

Years later, in conversations with his son, General Vandenberg often referred to West Point as “the Dump,” claiming with some humor that he had slept through his four years there. Academic shortcomings aside, “Van,” or “Dutch” as he was alternately called, was well-liked by classmates, who dubbed him “our handsome Lothario” and “genial comrade” in the Academy’s 1923 edition of The Howitzer, adding: “‘Dutch’ has, throughout his adventurous career, shown a mild contempt for various members of the academic board and has emerged from many bitter and violent struggles with these most learned and wise men, without feelings of rancor and malice.”

Still, all was not drudgery on the Hudson. Vandenberg enjoyed playing polo and hockey, although the best moment came when he met his future wife, Gladys Rose, the daughter of a successful realtor from nearby Sloatsburg, during one of the frequent dances held at the Academy. It was almost enough to dampen his caustic criticisms of the place.

His poor class standing—240 out of 261—actually turned into a blessing of fate. Denied assignment to the cavalry, Vandenberg elected instead to join the fledgling Air Service, a possibility first offered to his 1923 class. This was a time when aviation represented a seemingly romantic interlude. Exploits of combat pilots flying high over the trench-scarred landscape of northern France captured the imaginations of many young men. Besides, it was the Roaring Twenties, a time when adventurous ideas flooded all corners of American popular culture. Military aviation seemed just the ticket to satisfy a young man’s dreams.

The newly commissioned second lieutenant took up pilot training at Brooks Field outside San Antonio. Under a blazing Texas sun Vandenberg began applying himself as never before. It was as if this impatient fellow had finally found his calling. The hazards of flight caused many to embrace a fatalistic acceptance of risk, together with feelings of arrogance in the face of danger so common with the young. Adding to his delight Vandenberg married Gladys Rose during his first Christmas break. Contented now as never before, he won his wings in 1924 and was assigned duty with an attack group at nearby Kelly Field.

He readily absorbed the new doctrine and learned quickly. So much so that by 1926 he found himself chosen as part of the Air Corps’ contribution to the making of the Hollywood silent epic Wings, the first film ever to win an Oscar for Best Picture. The experience, not Vandenberg’s last encounter with motion picture personalities, also provided one of those outlandish experiences so prized as reminiscences amongst young aviators.

In one particularly elaborate stunt, Vandenberg, then flying a vintage German Fokker, was asked to create the illusion of being shot from the sky. To heighten the visual sensation a sack was filled with flour and lampblack to help simulate a warplane in its fiery death throes. At precisely the right moment he was to pitch the plane violently upward, as if fatally hit, followed by an earthbound spiral, all the while releasing the bag’s contents. Instead, the mixture filled the cockpit, blinding Vandenberg, who gasped for air as he frantically tried to dissipate the mess, regaining control just moments before slamming into the earth. Badly shaken, the young pilot stumbled out just thankful to be alive. The film crew, blissfully unaware of the averted tragedy, shouted admiration for the greatest piece of stunt flying they had ever seen. Impressed, they begged for a repeat performance. Vandenberg declined.

This would not be the last incident crowding Vandenberg’s catalogue of close calls, but it was a rather distinctive entry. By the time Wings was finally released Van and his family had transferred to March Field outside Riverside, California, where the confident aviator became a flight instructor. This was a valuable experience, as it is often said that no pilot reaches his own potential until after training others, guiding them through pitfalls, noting their progress and learning from their mistakes. Two years later the Vandenbergs settled at Wheeler Field, Oahu. There the lieutenant served as squadron commander of another Pursuit Group. Although tempted to prolong this Hawaiian excursion, Vandenberg put his career first and returned to San Antonio for three more years as an instructor at Randolph Field.

By the mid-1930s the newly promoted Captain Vandenberg had logged more than three thousand hours and was becoming noticed within the service. After a brief period flying air mail in an ill-advised plan to place the Air Corps in a role unsuited to its training, Vandenberg completed the course at the Tactical School at Maxwell Field, Alabama. He then attended the prestigious Command and General Staff School at Fort Leavenworth. Despite its reputation for turning out generals, Vandenberg was disappointed with the curriculum, especially how it ignored the importance of air power over the battlefield. Even so, he managed to graduate near the middle of his class. More importantly he met other up-and-coming officers, most notably Carl M. Spaatz. Eight years older and with combat experience in the Great War, “Tooey” Spaatz could always spot talent—and he saw something special in Vandenberg.

From Leavenworth Vandenberg returned to Alabama for another stint teaching fighter tactics at Maxwell. There the battle over the role of the bomber versus pursuit aircraft intensified. With a pleasing personality—that some mistakenly viewed as shallowness—a blending with growing confidence as an arbiter, Vandenberg continued developing the skills necessary for the coming years of air war and the political battles beyond. Two years later Vandenberg was chosen for the Army War College. Again, luck had intervened, since for the first time selection standards specified a certain number of Air Corps captains must attend each new class. Vandenberg’s reputation as a pilot and leader of men assured his attendance.

In April 1938, having become the new chief of the Air Corps Plans Section, Lt. Col. Spaatz requested that Vandenberg be assigned to his staff—beginning two rather intense years dealing with the practical expansion of the Air Corps as well as with conflicting theories of air power. By August 1941 Vandenberg received the top rating out of twenty-five Air Corps majors on General Hap Arnold’s staff. In November he was promoted to lieutenant colonel, assigned to help oversee the operations and training section of the Plans Division. On December 7, 1941, Vandenberg was especially busy, having the temporary responsibility for the entire division, since the man in charge could not be found due to his consummating an affair with General Arnold’s secretary at some undisclosed location just as war broke out across the Pacific.

By January 1942, now a full colonel, Vandenberg took over the policy section of the Plans Division, becoming involved with the allocation of aircraft to allies on all fronts. He continued to impress his superiors, so much so that in July he traveled to London with Generals George C. Marshall and Hap Arnold, along with other dignitaries including chief presidential advisor Harry Hopkins. As Marshall later reflected, “These young fellows hadn’t yet come into any great prominence, like ‘Tooey’ Spaatz, Vandenberg and other flyers of that category.” But things were changing fast as pent-up energies began coalescing around plans for action in 1942.

It was Vandenberg’s duty to discuss American aircraft shipments to Britain with his English counterparts. He was fast becoming known on both sides of the Atlantic. The new colonel also conferred with his friend Carl Spaatz, recently appointed a general and named senior American air officer for the European Theater of Operations. Still impressed, Spaatz wrote General Arnold to again request that Van be appointed to his staff. With President Roosevelt’s agreement with Churchill that landings in North Africa should be the first combined offensive undertaken by the Allies, Vandenberg found himself on the American planning staff for Operation TORCH.

It was immediately obvious that the only source of aircraft and trained crews for the North African adventure was the Eighth Air Force, then assembling in England for its own offensive against Germany. Spaatz complained to Arnold about the proposed transfers but to no avail. So it was that the Twelfth Air Force struggled into existence. From Washington Arnold also named its commander: General James H. Doolittle, hero of the B-25 raids launched against Japan that April from the aircraft carrier Hornet.

Doolittle was a controversial choice, as much as anything else for spending most of the interwar years out of uniform amassing a fortune as a Shell Oil executive. Nor was he particularly popular with General Eisenhower, the newly designated supreme commander of TORCH. Arnold stood by his decision, his only concession being the selection of Doolittle’s staff. He picked Vandenberg as chief of staff and Lauris Norstad as deputy of operations, a turning point in the careers of both men. Eventually even Eisenhower came to appreciate Jimmy Doolittle’s qualities as a fighting man and a born commander.

For Vandenberg, all the planning for the invasion took place in London, a grueling schedule of eighteen-hour days with no weekend relief. Those three months prior to the invasion placed the busy colonel in almost daily contact not only with Doolittle but with Eisenhower, Mark Clark, and numerous British commanders as well. Those encounters did not always go smoothly, but Vandenberg instinctively understood the need for harmony if the allied effort was to succeed.

With the November 1942 landings a success, the Twelfth Air Force set up operations outside the port city of Oran. It was a miserable place, most of North Africa being bereft of basic amenities. Vandenberg, promoted to brigadier general in December, later told his son that clean water was often so scarce that he and his men shaved with cheap French wine.

The initial goal for the allied air forces was to support land operations designed to drive Axis troops off the continent. By January the role of Twelfth Air Force expanded in anticipation of operations against enemy naval forces in the Mediterranean, involvement in the proposed invasion of Sicily, and the destruction of oil refineries at Ploesti, Romania.

It was Ploesti that would bring the future father-in-law of Vandenberg’s son to North Africa for temporary assignment with the Ninth Air Force. Leon W. Johnson, who had earned a masters degree in science from Cal Tech, had traveled to England with the Eighth Air Force in June 1942, serving as assistant chief of staff for operations. By January 1943 he was given command of the 44th Bomb Group, which six months later arrived in North Africa on loan to the Ninth for attacks on the Romanian refineries.

Operation Tidal Wave, described as “the most decorated military mission in U.S. history,” saw 179 B-24s thrown against the heavily defended Ploesti complex. On that day, August 1, 1943, five men would earn the Medal of Honor: “Though having lost the element of surprise upon which the safety and success of such a daring form of mission in heavy bombardment aircraft so strongly depended,” read Johnson’s citation, “Col. Johnson elected to carry out his planned low-level attack despite the thoroughly alerted defenses, the destructive antiaircraft fire, enemy fighter airplanes, the imminent danger of exploding delayed action bombs from the previous element, of oil fires and explosions, and of intense smoke obscuring the target. By his gallant courage, brilliant leadership, and superior flying skill, Col. Johnson so led his formation as to destroy totally the important refining plants and installations which were the object of this mission.” Fifty-four of the heavy bombers failed to return to base after that terrible day.

Back in England that September, Johnson organized and commanded the 14th Combat Wing until the end of the war. He would retire from the Air Force in 1961 as a four-star general, dying in 1997 at the age of 93.

Vandenberg and Doolittle both saw advantages to leading from the front, each flying combat missions, much to the displeasure of Eisenhower, who worried about losing good commanders to enemy fire. Vandenberg flew missions in American and British aircraft, often simply as an observer, but on other occasions as copilot and sometimes as a gunner, shooting down at least one Italian fighter.

In a dramatic show of leadership, Vandenberg offered unexpected comfort to a B-26 rear gunner who had broken under the strain during a mission briefing and refused to go. The one-star chief of staff understood the man’s anguish and from the back of the room, crowded with airmen stunned into silence by their colleague’s predicament, calmly announced, “Why, that’s all right, Sergeant, I’ll take your place.” And he did. In all Vandenberg flew twenty-six combat missions before Eisenhower intervened, giving Doolittle an ultimatum: they could either fly missions or give up command. Doolittle and Vandenberg acquiesced. And yet, for Vandenberg, North Africa offered a graduate education on the practical application of air power and with it an understanding of the problems of leading men in times of war. His schooling was about to reach new heights.

Soon after returning to Arnold’s staff in Washington in June 1943, following the liberation of North Africa, Vandenberg was chosen to accompany Averell Harriman and Major General John R. Deane on a mission to Moscow. It was hoped agreements could be negotiated allowing American aircrews access to bases on Russian soil. Instead, the three-month sojourn to the Soviet Union provided only endless lessons in bureaucratic exasperation. Vandenberg’s sole reward was gaining experience dealing with Soviet air commanders, as well as an understanding of the Russian military mentality, dominated as it was by the whims of Josef Stalin. These insights served the young American general well after his appointment as Air Force chief of staff at the beginning of the Cold War.

With the mission to Moscow failing in its main purpose, Vandenberg again landed in London, this time as a member of the combined staff planning the details of the upcoming Normandy invasion. Awarded a second star in March 1944, Vandenberg was also selected as deputy to the somewhat unpopular British airman Trafford Leigh-Mallory, named commander of the Allied Expeditionary Air Force. This unenviable role as liaison between the respective British and American camps tested all the new major general’s diplomatic skills. It proved a volatile assignment from which Vandenberg emerged with his reputation intact.

On June 6, 1944, Vandenberg took it upon himself to personally survey action on the Normandy beaches from the cockpit of a P-38. Of course his flying skills were never questioned, but his skills as a diplomatic juggler continued to develop under pressure not only from British allies unwilling to accept American suggestions for applying pressure from the air over the battlefields in northern France, but at times from fellow Army Air Force colleagues as well.

One of the more serious controversies involved the carpet-bombing of German positions in advance of General Bradley’s Operation COBRA. The question concerned the flight path to be employed, either parallel or perpendicular to the Périers-St-Lô road. The controversy questioned who it was that authorized the perpendicular approach. Vandenberg understood that General Bradley insisted that the bomb run last no more than an hour, a requirement suggesting a perpendicular flight path. Triple-checking this very point, Vandenberg recorded in his diary that Trafford Leigh-Mallory had assured him that he had “spoken to Bradley and that the additional time to deliver the bombing attack [by means of a lateral approach] was too great for Bradley to accept and that, therefore, he [Bradley] had decided to accept the additional risk of perpendicular . . . bombing.”

In writing after the war Bradley repeatedly claimed ignorance of any decision to fly a perpendicular route, which, as it turned out, killed and wounded many dozens of Americans, including Lt. Gen. Leslie McNair. Yet even at that time, no one, including Bradley or any highly placed officers at the Eighth Air Force, seemed willing to accept responsibility for this fiasco. Using Vandenberg’s diary as evidence, the military historian Martin Blumenson later speculated on an “explanation . . . distasteful to contemplate,” namely: “Were Bradley on the one hand and the air force on the other building a case to absolve themselves of responsibility for the short bombs?”

But Vandenberg’s difficult months straddling the fence at AEAF, that seeming no-man’s-land between the various discordant interests of the Allies, was fast coming to an end. An Allied Airborne Army was being formed and General Lewis Brereton, one of Vandenberg’s instructors at Leavenworth, was at last picked as its leader. Brereton agreed with Eisenhower, Spaatz, and others that Vandenberg—considered by the Supreme Commander as “imaginative and energetic”—should replace him as head of the powerful Ninth Air Force, moved to England from the Mediterranean in October 1943 to serve as the chief tactical air force for the upcoming invasion of Europe.

Ninth Air Force consisted of some four thousand aircraft, including a mixed assembly of bombers, fighters, and tactical ground support units, along with nearly two hundred thousand men to assure success of its wide-ranging activities. In time it would become the largest tactical air unit in history. On August 8, 1944, Maj. Gen. Hoyt S. Vandenberg assumed command.

Originally the Ninth was divided into separate bombing and engineer components, as well as two tactical units: the IX, commanded by Maj. Gen. Elwood R. Quesada—still harboring ill feeling at not being named Brereton’s replacement—and the XIX, under the brash Texas brigadier Otto P. Weyland. And now, Vandenberg struggled to reorganize Ninth Air Force while at the same time leading it into battle.

As George Patton’s Third Army exploded out of the Normandy beachhead, Hitler ordered a counterattack directed toward the tiny French village of Mortain, hoping to smash through to the coast at Avranches. What followed turned into a gigantic disaster for German arms, helped in no small measure by American air power. As the Australian-born Royal Air Force General Sir Arthur Coningham later wrote: “The interception of the enemy fighters by the Ninth Air Force was perfect,” adding, “This was to date one of the best demonstrations of the tactical use of air power which had been given in this war.” Such praise prompted a most favorable remark from the English historian John Terraine: “Coningham missed few opportunities of paying tribute to the excellent relations between his own Force and . . . Hoyt Vandenberg’s Ninth Air Force, which continued with mutual benefit for the remainder of the war.”

Vandenberg continued his reorganization, replacing many of Brereton’s headquarters staff, even as subordinates stifled Hitler’s meddling at Mortain. The general also devised an efficient system of delegating authority so that the commander need not devote precious time to details easily handled by others. Vandenberg embraced a similar scheme as Air Force chief of staff after the war, with the same satisfactory results.

Ninth Air Force continued to reinvent itself; not hampered by such episodes as having German soldiers wave white flags at harassing P-47s during the height of the Normandy breakout. Although the pilots had never heard of an instance of ground troops attempting to surrender to overhead aircraft, they radioed the news to forward elements of Patton’s army, who advanced to accept the capitulation of some four hundred new prisoners.

George Patton appreciated the assistance from Vandenberg, conventional or otherwise, writing General Marshall on August 17: “The cooperation between Third Army and the XIX Tactical Air Command . . . has been the finest example of the ground and air working together that I have ever seen.” For Patton, “it was love at first sight.” After Third Army overran an enemy depot filled with liquor he readily shared his good fortune: “My dear Vandenberg, if it were not for the Ninth Air Force and its affiliated units, we would not be able to capture the liquor which it gives us great pleasure to present to our comrades of the air.”

The chief task of Ninth Air Force was to provide protection and support for Bradley’s Twelfth Army Group. The new commander’s focus was complete. He saw to it that a pilot accompanied each tank unit as it raced across France, communicating through a separate VHF radio network. Ground commanders were ecstatic. Patton welcomed confident assurances that during his huge sweep toward the Seine “Opie” Weyland’s XIX TAC would protect his exposed right flank, guaranteeing that no concentration of German troops would dare venture closer than thirty miles. The revitalized Ninth Air Force impressed almost everyone, including J. Lawton Collins of VII Corps—who had gotten to know Vandenberg while an instructor at the War College.

At one point during those heady days of rapid advance, flying with a member of his staff, Vandenberg and his companion suddenly realized they could not identify any landmarks. Touching down they questioned a startled French farmer, only to discover they were thirty miles behind German lines. Climbing back aboard the two officers regained altitude and hurried westward without delay.

As American forces dashed across northern France in pursuit of the retreating German army, Vandenberg made sure that Ninth Air Force did not lag behind. As General Bradley explained long after the war, its commander’s “principal mission was to provide tactical air support to my Twelfth Army Group, a task he . . . carried out with extraordinary competence.” That task was soon strained by foul weather and revitalized German divisions hurled through the Ardennes in what became known as the Battle of the Bulge.

As the Germans attacked on December 16, most allied air power was grounded by heavy fog and low cloud. During this enforced lull Vandenberg conferred with General Spaatz in Paris, requesting and receiving additional resources so as to be ready when the weather cleared. Meanwhile, reconnaissance units, flying modified P-38s, found a German column near Stavot. On the 18th parts of two groups from IX TAC destroyed some 32 tanks and 56 supply trucks before foul weather forced another grounding.

Not until the 23rd was the Ninth Air Force, reinforced now by a heavy bomber division from the Mighty Eighth, able to fan out over the snow-covered battlefield in a two-pronged attack; destroying railroads, bridges, as well as troop concentrations. The second stage of the plan called for fighters and fighter-bombers to single out the armored columns to help weaken the thrust of the attack while upsetting enemy timetables and disrupting the flow of supplies from Germany. During those first five days the Ninth Air Force flew nearly 5,300 sorties against the Germans besieging Bastogne. When General Patton’s Third Army finally relieved the city on December 26, he knew well the debt owed Vandenberg’s airmen. In recognition he gave the flag removed from the hastily abandoned German command post to Ninth Air Force in recognition of the fact. That flag remained one of Vandenberg’s most prized mementoes from World War II.

During that busy December of 1944 an American P-47 mistakenly strafed soldiers from Third Army. Since it was unclear whether this offending fighter was assigned to Vandenberg’s Ninth Air Force, or the rival Eighth (both carrying out operations in the same area), several senior air force commanders—Spaatz, Vandenberg and Jimmy Doolittle—flew to Patton’s headquarters to apologize. They spent New Year’s Eve together, mending fences and enjoying each other’s company. Then, as Doolittle recalled, “Shortly after takeoff, tracers began going by our planes—very, very close,” adding, “Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Van, who had been flying formation with me, was also streaking for the deck. We were barreling along at full throttle close to the ground when I realized that it was our own flak that had chased us.”

The air commanders took the incident in stride. Spaatz voiced some good-natured anger, Doolittle explained, “because if we had waited just one more day, Georgie would have had to apologize to him instead of the other way around.” Later Spaatz described his call to Patton complaining of the incident. All his got was a belly laugh, to which Spaatz admitted, “You just can’t stay mad at George.”

As Ninth Air Force continued its rampage against enemy targets, General Eisenhower composed a memorandum on the first day of February 1945, detailing the qualifications of many of his officers. Concerning Vandenberg, the Supreme Commander wrote: “Studious but active; cooperative; good judgment.” Two days later he concluded, “In my opinion, Major General Hoyt S. Vandenberg should be made a lieutenant general.” Vandenberg would pin a third star to his collar in March.

That same month, after George Patton finally ended his spectacular drive to the Rhine—pausing only long enough to piss into its swirling current while crossing the river at Oppenheim—Vandenberg cabled the Third Army’s ebullient commander: THAT IS THE WAY TO FIGHT A WAR, KEEP DRIVING. MY PILOTS WILL FLY THEIR HEARTS OUT IN A BATTLE LIKE THAT.

By April 28, 1945, Patton’s aide, Col. Charles Codman, scribbled in his diary, “Today Generals Doolittle, Spaatz, and Vandenberg came to lunch. A great trio. To celebrate their recent promotions, the General had a guard of honor for General Spaatz and General Vandenberg. Flourishes, ruffles, the works. They got a big kick out of it.” The war in Europe officially ended ten days later with formal ceremonies staged in Berlin. Then, on May 23, the freshly minted lieutenant general transferred command of the Ninth Air Force to his loyal subordinate, Maj. Gen. Otto P. Weyland. Hoyt S. Vandenberg’s war had come to an end, but the future would offer new adventures and fresh challenges.

After the war Vandenberg added new laurels to an already remarkable career. In summary it can be noted that in July 1945 he was appointed assistant chief of the air staff. Six months later he took over as director of intelligence for the War Department’s general staff. Based on his performance there, President Truman named him director of the Central Intelligence Group on June 10, 1946, replacing Admiral Sowers. Within the first month Vandenberg recognized that it was essential to have an independent intelligence agency. Congress agreed, and the Central Intelligence Agency was formed with Vandenberg as its first director. Eleven months later he returned to duty with the AAF, joining others lobbying hard for a separate service.

On October 1, 1947, at age forty-eight, Hoyt S. Vandenberg received his fourth star; at the time the youngest American general awarded that rank since Ulysses S. Grant. With the creation of the United States Air Force, General Vandenberg became its first vice chief of staff, serving under his old mentor Carl M. Spaatz. Following his friend’s retirement, Vandenberg assumed the top job on April 30, 1948. He was then renominated for chief of staff by the president and served until retiring, for reasons of health, on June 30, 1953. Ten months later, at age fifty-five, General Vandenberg died of prostate cancer and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.

While serving as the nation’s top airman, Vandenberg fought countless budget battles on Capital Hill, helped form then strengthen the Strategic Air Command, stood firm during those dangerous days of the Berlin Airlift and struggling to rebuild American air power in the face of North Korean aggression. Even now sources within the Air Force History Support Office concede: “He led the Air Force during the Korean War when its budget increased greatly, but not sufficiently. The requirements of the war, and the need for maintaining a strategic posture against the Soviet threat were challenges Vandenberg faced. Even though some criticized the Air Force’s deficiencies for the Korean War, Vandenberg was insistent that the defense of American soil came first when the budget couldn’t be stretched to accommodate both.” With all that has happened since, those simple words, “the defense of American soil,” seem a fitting legacy for a genuine hero who met the frightening challenges of an earlier age.

And now, selected items representing this family’s contributions to victory in World War II are being offered through public auction. There is much pride associated with this material and those accomplishments. Looking back, the third generation sees first their father, Hoyt S. Vandenberg, Jr., himself a retired Air Force major general, onetime commandant of cadets at the Air Force Academy and veteran of a hundred combat missions over North Vietnam, commanding the 390th Tactical Fighter Squadron from Da Nang. Standing behind Sandy, still appearing much as an impenetrable wall, are those memories of the grandfathers: Hoyt S. Vandenberg, Sr., a four-star general whose contributions to the nation’s defense have only been briefly outlined here, and Leon W. Johnson, another Air Force general of four-star rank and proud recipient of the Medal of Honor—an impressive gathering of generals.

Wm. B. Shillingberg
Tucson, Arizona
March 6, 2005

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