For The Guys Who Didn’t Come Home

The old man in the cowboy hat shuffled a little slower these days, and he carried more than his age on his shoulders. When airport security pulled him aside in 2002, it was not because he posed a threat. It was because the agents, fresh from post-9/11 briefings but ignorant of history, did not recognize what they held in their hands: the Medal of Honor. “What is this star?” one had asked. The man—his voice calm but firm—explained what the medal represented. Not for himself. For the ones who never came home.

That man was Joe Foss.

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He was born on April 17, 1915, in an unelectrified farmhouse near Sioux Falls, South Dakota, the eldest of Frank and Mary Foss’s children. He was of Norwegian and Scottish descent. At twelve, he saw Charles Lindbergh on tour with the Spirit of St. Louis, and four years later took his first plane ride in a Ford Trimotor with famed South Dakota pilot Clyde Ice. That moment planted a seed he would never fully uproot. When his father was electrocuted by a downed power line in 1933, the sixteen-year-old Foss stepped into a man’s role, working the farm through the worst of the Dust Bowl years.

Later, his younger brother took over, and Joe returned to school. He attended Sioux Falls College and then the University of South Dakota, scraping together enough for flying lessons while bussing tables and pumping gas. He earned his business degree in 1940 and joined the South Dakota National Guard. He transferred into the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve that same year, intent on becoming a Naval Aviator.

At twenty-six, he received his wings—but was deemed too old to be a fighter pilot. He was assigned as a flight instructor, then shuttled to the Navy School of Photography and the Marine Photographic Squadron 1 at North Island. Still, he refused to give up on combat. In 1942, he logged 150 flight hours in the Grumman F4F Wildcat and talked his way into Marine Fighter Squadron 121. In October, he was catapult-launched off the USS Copahee and flew 350 miles to Guadalcanal.

Foss flew his first combat mission on October 13, 1942. He shot down a Mitsubishi Zero—and was nearly shot down himself. Over the next three months, flying with the Cactus Air Force out of Henderson Field, he led a group dubbed “Foss’s Flying Circus” that racked up seventy-two enemy kills. Of those, twenty-six were personally credited to Foss: mostly Zeros, but also bombers and reconnaissance planes. He was shot down once, ditched near Malaita, and was rescued by native islanders. He made three dead-stick landings after being hit. He contracted malaria twice.

In January 1943, he returned to Guadalcanal briefly and added three more kills to his total. On January 25, he led eight Marine F4Fs and four Army P-38s against a superior force of Japanese bombers and fighters, turning them back without a single bomb dropped. He received the Medal of Honor from President Franklin D. Roosevelt on May 18, 1943. He also earned the Distinguished Flying Cross and three Air Medals during his wartime service.

In 1944, Foss returned to the Pacific as commander of VMF-115, flying the F4U Corsair out of Emirau in the Bismarck Archipelago. He never increased his victory count—though he did fly with his childhood hero, Charles Lindbergh, who visited the squadron and flew combat missions as a consultant. After another bout of malaria, Foss was rotated back to the States. In 1945, he was assigned as operations and training officer at Marine Corps Air Station Santa Barbara. He left active duty in December 1945 but remained in the reserves until 1947.

Back in South Dakota, Foss launched Joe Foss Flying Service, offering charter flights and flight instruction. He also co-owned a Packard dealership. In 1946, he helped form the South Dakota Air National Guard, becoming its commanding officer. During the Korean War, he was called back to active duty and promoted to Brigadier General. He remained involved in military aviation through the 1950s, helping transition his unit through multiple aircraft types—from the Mustang to the Starfire, Scorpion, and Delta Dagger.

Foss entered politics in 1948, winning a seat in the South Dakota House of Representatives. In 1954, he was elected Governor of South Dakota at age thirty-nine, becoming the state’s youngest governor. He served two two-year terms. Though not known as a firebrand, his administration focused on economic development and moderate Republican governance. He lost a U.S. House bid in 1958 and failed in a 1962 Senate primary.

In 1959, Foss became the first Commissioner of the American Football League. He helped negotiate major television deals—first with ABC for $10.6 million, then with NBC for $36 million. The AFL grew in size, visibility, and talent under his leadership. He stepped down just before the 1966 AFL-NFL merger agreement, which ultimately created the Super Bowl era.

Foss then parlayed his popularity into television. From 1964 to 1967, he hosted The American Sportsman on ABC. Then he launched The Outdoorsman: Joe Foss, which ran in syndication until 1974. He later served as Director of Public Affairs for KLM Royal Dutch Airlines. In these roles, Foss stayed true to his roots—plainspoken, affable, and always armed with a good hunting story.

In 1988, Foss was elected President of the National Rifle Association, serving two terms. He remained an outspoken advocate for conservative causes and gun rights. He founded the Joe Foss Institute in 2001 with his second wife, Didi, to promote civics education among youth. Over the years, the Institute reached more than 1.3 million students, championing patriotism, integrity, and civic engagement.

In 2002, a TSA agent nearly confiscated his Medal of Honor during a security screening. Foss, by then 86, handled the incident with dignity, but used the moment to raise public awareness: “I was not upset for me… I was upset for the Medal of Honor, that they just did not know what it even was. It represents all the guys who never came back.” That one quote might summarize his entire life.

Joe Foss died on January 1, 2003, following a stroke. His funeral at Arlington National Cemetery was attended by Vice President Dick Cheney, Oliver North, Tom Brokaw, and Charlton Heston. Brokaw had called him “larger than life” in The Greatest Generation. And he was right.

Joe Foss was not just an ace. He was the kind of man whose humility never shrank beneath the weight of his accomplishments. He did not build a brand. He built a life of consequence, stitched together from war and peace, public service and personal sacrifice. He flew through flak, both literal and political, and kept coming back—wings steady, compass true.

He never asked to be remembered. But some men are too big to be forgotten.