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In 1952 Navy pilot Royce Williams flew into a 35 minute dogfight against seven enemy planes during the Korean War, shooting down four before landing his badly damaged plane on the USS Oriskany.
That air battle would make military history, but only after half a century of silence and secrecy. It took the U.S. decades more to recognize his victory.
Last month Williams, now 100, received the Medal of Honor during President Donald Trump’s State of the Union Address, following a years-long campaign by military leaders and politicians to secure the award.
Williams beamed amid applause as First Lady Melania Trump fastened the Medal of Honor around his neck.
“It was a big moment for me,” he said simply, during an interview at his home in North County San Diego.
For military leaders who endorsed the medal, it was confirmation of what they call the longest dogfight in history and the heroism of a lone pilot.
“It’s the longest Navy dog fight of any we know of, and it was one versus many,” said retired Navy Capt. Kent Ewing, who fought to honor Williams. “The bottom line is, a single American guy that stayed in the fight for 35 minutes, came home with bullet holes in his ship. He almost died landing on the aircraft carrier. He’s a real hero.”
Williams was 16 years old when he joined the Army during World War II and served at Camp Ripley in Minnesota. A year later he joined the Naval Aviation Cadet program and launched a 35-year flying career.
“I flew about five different airplanes, all from open cockpit biplanes to ‘everything’s made out of metal and the wheels retract,’” he said. “And then I got my wings.”
At the start of the Korean War, Williams deployed on the USS Oriskany, defending U.S. troops and eradicating North Korean trains, trucks and bridges.
On a stormy morning Williams flew out with a formation of four F9F Panthers into a cloud layer at 500 feet. They emerged at 12,000 feet to the top of the storm and trouble.
“We took off in terrible weather, a blizzard,” Williams said. “While climbing we got information from controllers on the ship that there were inbound enemy aircraft.”
It wasn’t Korean planes, but Russian MIGS. Officials aboard the Navy fleet listening to their communications heard Russian authorities order their pilots to “do battle.”
As the American formation approached the seven MIGS, the leader and his wingman were forced to return to the ship because of a fuel pump malfunction. Williams pressed on against the Russian planes.
“Four of them came in, firing at me,” Williams said. “And surprise! They weren’t supposed to be there. But the fight was on. And I made a sharp turn and got on the tail of their number four tailwind guy and shot him down. And as he was going down, my wingman left me. And that was just the beginning of the fight, and I was now alone with six of them.”
MIGS were more nimble and better suited to aerial combat than the F9F Panther, which was set up for air-to-ground operations, said Jim Kidrick, president and CEO of the San Diego Air & Space Museum. Williams was outnumbered and outgunned in a physically taxing battle.
“His air combat prowess and skill sets and abilities were totally beyond in that engagement, Kidrick said. “And he kept it up, because after 35 minutes, you’re getting tired. You’re pulling Gs, you’re banking the airplane abruptly, you’re going to be upside down and inverted in the fire fight. You’re going to expect that you’ll be challenged flying that airplane to its capacity.”
Despite the daunting odds, Williams said he wasn’t fearful: “God was in control. I was calm.”
The remaining Russian planes fired in sequence, forcing Williams to confront each attacker while avoiding the others.
“The other three came in from the other side,” he said. “And no longer attacking me in formation, but one airplane at a time taking turns. One right after another. Occasionally, they either made a mistake or did something really fantastic. And it turned out that several of them got shot down.”
But not before taking their toll on his plane. Williams considered ejecting, but concluded that if he did, he couldn’t have been rescued in the winter weather. Instead, he returned to the ship with 263 bullet holes and a 37 mm cannon blast that impaired control of the plane.
He circled for 10 minutes in his damaged plane while the crew cleared space on the landing deck, he said. He lined up to land, slowing as much as he could, but heard the landing officer alert the captain: “He’s coming in hot.”
Afterward, Williams’ superiors swore him to secrecy, knowing that word of the battle with Russian pilots could spark a far larger conflict.
“Russia didn’t want to let it be known, and America didn’t want to let it be known,” Williams said “We didn’t want World War III.”
For decades he kept the full story hidden, even from his wife. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, rumors began to seep out about the extraordinary aerial battle. Then a Russian newspaper published the names of the Russian pilots killed, confirming that at least four of the seven did not return.
In 2002, records of the Korean War were declassified and the story slowly became public. By then, Williams figured it was old news.
“At that point, nobody’s interested,” Williams thought. “It’s history, but at that point, I never figured I’d get a medal.”
His friends weren’t willing to let his story fade. Williams had received a Silver Star in 1953 for the dogfight, without mention of the Russian pilots. Retired Adm. Don Shelton, retired Capt. Kent Ewing and others wanted it upgraded.
“There were lots and lots of pushes from people who knew that the mission was extremely significant,” Kidrick said. “Seven (Russian) pilots took off that day and only one returned.”
Shelton spent the last decade of his life researching William’s air battle and lobbying for his recognition, according to the American Legion. He and others urged Navy brass to award Williams the Navy Cross, that branch’s second highest honor. For years, officials denied their pleas.
Ewing butted heads with three different military boards that reviewed the request. They demanded new information on the more than half-century old case.
“We went to the National Archives, we went to March Air Force Base, we went on a wild goose chase looking for gun camera footage” of the dogfight, Ewing said. “It might have been in somebody’s attic, but we never did find it.”
Ewing finally appealed to former Secretary of the Navy Carlos del Toro, who visited Williams at his San Diego area home and made the decision himself.
“He called me up and said this is a no-brainer, we’re going to award him the Navy Cross,” Ewing said.
In 2023, more than 70 years after the historic dogfight, Williams received the Navy Cross during a ceremony at the San Diego Air & Space Museum. But his high-ranking friends weren’t satisfied. They wanted him to get the nation’s highest honor.
Last year Rep. Darrell Issa, a San Diego Republican, introduced legislation in the 2026 National Defense Authorization Act to permit Williams to receive the Medal of Honor.
“Escondido’s Royce Williams is 100 years young, a Top Gun pilot like no other, and an American hero for all time,” Issa said in a statement. “His story is one for the ages and it now has its rightful chapter as Royce receives the Medal of Honor.”
Williams flew to Washington D.C. for the State of the Union address in February. Congress members and their guest rose in a standing ovation as the First Lady draped the medal around his neck.
“He was a legend long before this evening,” Trump praised him.
Before leaving, Williams paid his respects to his friend and champion, the late Admiral Shelton, who had died at age 100 in 2021, shortly before his campaign to award Williams the Medal of Honor came to fruition.
“I went to his grave in Arlington (National Cemetery,) with appreciation in my heart,” Williams said.
This article was originally published on CalMatters and was republished under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license.
