Unlike most of us, John Skoro seemed to enjoy Doolie Summer. He was asked why nothing at the Academy seemed to bother him. His answer: he grew up as a Serb in Gary, IN. In high school he'd run track and cross-country and earned 4 letters as a swimmer. At the Academy, he discovered a new sport - fencing. He soon earned a new nickname, Animal, for his cat-like reflexes and killer instinct with a blade. During our 4 years, with the likes of John, Bill Ebert, Dom Martinelli, and Warren Manchess, the Academy fencing team ended with a winning streak of 39-0. He was captain our senior year, earned All American honors in the saber, and was named "Fencer of the Year" at the NCAA Nationals. Bill Ebert recalls those years. "We all remember John for his unpredictable antics and incredible skill as a saber fencer. He's the only person I remember making Coach Toth laugh out loud and then scold John in his strong Hungarian accent for being silly." In pilot training at Reese AFB, TX, his instincts and reflexes made him a highly skilled pilot. His silliness, however, got John kicked out of pilot training. Unlike the stern Coach Toth, the powers-that-be at Reese didn't laugh out loud, then scold. Reports came in one night that he'd flown his T-38 at fairly high speed down the main street of Lubbock, TX, so he could buzz his girlfriend's house. He quickly became the assistant club officer at Reese. John hired a lawyer and eventually the Air Force decided John's skills fit being a fighter jock better than a career club officer. He reentered UPT a few months later, graduated higher than he would have in 65-A, and got his dream assignment, an F-100 Super Sabre. "So the cat lands on his feet, aggressive as ever," according to former roommate, Bob Winegar. Bob's F-4 Squadron opened Phan Rang AB, South Vietnam in 1966. John's F-100 squadron deployed there soon after. They lived in nearby hootches and renewed their close friendship - but not for long. On 13 September, John's F-100 crashed while attacking an automatic weapons site near Qui Nhon, SVN. One report said the F-100 climbed to about 4,000 feet after being hit, but John did not make any radio calls or attempt to eject. Later Bob flew over the crash site several times. He saw a long scrape of "well over 100 yards, maybe 2 or 3 times that" before the plane broke up. Bob got the impression John had pressed his attack too low to successfully pull out. "He (John) had a reputation for getting close to his work. I had the feeling a few hundred more hours on the learning curve might have mixed enough caution with his aggressiveness that we'd still have him today." While taking off the next day from Phan Rang, Gene Knudsen's F-4C had a control failure and crashed. John and Gene were buried at the Academy cemetery on 27 September 1966. I was here, John. I remember you often. Such a waste. You were a hell of a fighter pilot. Ellery Voge I met Johnny Skoro during BCT. . . .I always looked forward to seeing him because it just didn't seem to be getting to him like it was most of us. He seemed to be enjoying himself! Robert F. Winegar '63, M.D. & P.A. (Much of this information comes from the eulogy written for Checkpoints by Bob Winegar)
35th Reunion (1998):
OBITUARY BY
Robert F. Winegar ‘63, M.D.& P.A.
I met Johnny Skoro during BCT. I’m not even sure what unit he was
in, but I always looked forward to seeing him because it just didn’t seem
to be getting to him like it was most of us. He seemed to be enjoying
himself!
In the fall we both went to Second Group, so we had classes
together, and I got to know him a little better. But it wasn’t until two years
later when we both moved to the expansion Twelfth Squadron that we
really became friends and, for one semester, roommates. It had taken me
about that long just to grow a little and begin feeling like I belonged there,
(if anyone really did), but once again he seemed to have mastered his
environment more than most of us. Nothing really bothered him much. He
said it was because he grew up a Serb in Gary, IN. He was competitive
enough to start from zero and become the fencing team captain and an All
American, his specialty the saber. The team called him Animal, and he
was. A killer instinct and cat-like reflexes. We used to double-date, and he
approached his fun in the same aggressive manner as his work, which
sometimes took bizarre turns. I remember leaving a movie theater a few
yards in front of him and looking back to see him on the sidewalk having a
mock seizure. He wasn’t making fun of anyone, and he wasn’t cruel, but
he was tired of hearing his date tell him how to behave, so he taught her in
this unique manner that he would decide for himself how he would
behave. He never drank alcohol in any form, and he never again gave such
a performance, but he did continue to think for himself, frequently in ways
different from most of us.
He showed up at Reese (65-A) in the same old Rambler wagon he
had at school. So pretty soon he’s a white rocket driver by day and picking
up chicks at night in the old wagon because none of the new cars really
impressed him! Did an old Green Rambler impress him? I never did quite
figure that one out. (We did manage to get 48 liters of booze in it on one
weekend in Juarez, so on at least one occasion it impressed ME.) Most of
our good friends from the Academy showed up at UPT married, and we
mingled some, but most of our social life was together as bachelors. Soon
after we graduated from UPT, he was impressed enough with the latest
Corvette, he bought one. But we graduated WITHOUT HIM! His absence
and the Corvette both came from the same trait, he loved performance. He
had always been one of the top stick-and-rudder guys in the class,
predictably for those of us who knew his instincts and reflexes. One night
late in UPT he demonstrated the T-38’s performance capabilities a little
low over his girlfriend’s house. [Ed: In ‘65B we heard he cracked all the
commodes for two blocks on either side of Lubbock’s main street! ] We all
knew his career was trashed. He became the assistant to whoever ran the
O’Club, his flying days “over.”
I left but we stayed in touch. After realizing he was almost fully
trained, the powers that be decided he would be of more use as a fighter
jock than a club officer. He re-entered training, 65-E I think, and
graduated higher than he was in 65-A, and got his dreamed-of F-100. So
the cat lands on his feet, aggressive as ever. Somewhere in there he
married his girlfriend, then went to Luke. We rejoined at Phan Rang,
RVN. My F-4 squadron opened the place, and his F-100 squadron joined
us not long after. We were even in adjacent hooches. I never felt like I
completely understood Johnny, but I did consider him among my very best
friends. I was really glad he had weathered the storm over buzzing
Lubbock, and that we were stationed together. We didn’t get to share war
stories for long.
On 13 Sep 66, I had just finished a flight briefing and was sitting
around waiting to go to the planes when someone called in and said an F-
100 just went in near Qui Nhon. I asked if they knew who, and he said
“Skory or something like that.”
Next chance I got, I flew over the crash site repeatedly, noting his
crash made a long scrape on the ground, I would guess well over 100
yards, maybe 2 or 3 times that. I had the distinct impression he very nearly
made his pullout and may even have been aware he was not making it
before his plane broke up and killed him. I am not aware of any enemy
fire, but sometimes it was there anyway. He had a reputation for getting
close to his work. I had the feeling a few hundred more hours on the
learning curve might have mixed enough caution with his aggressiveness
that we'd still have him today.
I promised myself that as soon as I got over feeling sorry for myself,
I would write to his wife. I had known her before they were married. She
was perfect for him. She was pregnant. Their child should be about 31
years old now. How can that be!? Maybe I’ll go ahead and do it before I
stop missing him. He was unique among us. I am honored to have been his
friend.
