Acing five in a day—in the terminology of fighter pilots, becoming an “ace in a day”—is one of the most mythical and infrequently achieved accomplishments of military flight. It has been accomplished by a very few pilots throughout history. Among them is Major Oscar Perdomo, the last U.S. pilot to become so designated during World War II, making himself history as the conflict was ending.
Born in 1919 in El Paso, Texas, Oscar Perdomo came of age as the son of Mexican immigrants. His father had fought under the legendary Pancho Villa once during the Mexican Revolution, and the family soon resided in Los Angeles. Things were not easy, though—Oscar labored a factory job producing milk crates and studiously attended school in high school. As did so many of his age group, he responded to the call to duty, signing up for the draft and ultimately joining the U.S. Army in 1942.
Initially, Perdomo was assigned to the Army Reserves. But soon he was accepted into pilot training in the Aviation Cadet program. From his very beginnings flying the PT-17 Stearman biplane at Thunderbird Field in Arizona to flying advanced planes such as the AT-6 Texan, Oscar’s innate flying ability could not be denied.
Before long, he was flying the P-47 Thunderbolt—a rugged, muscular fighter with a reputation for heavy guns and durability. After further training at Harding Field in Louisiana, Perdomo served in the 464th Fighter Squadron, which belonged to the 507th Fighter Group. By mid-1945, they were based on Ie Shima, a tiny but pivotal island off Okinawa. Oscar was now piloting the extended-range P-47N model and had personalized his aircraft: nose art with a derby-hatted baby, chewing on a cigar, and gripping a rifle. He christened the plane Lil Meaties Meat Chopper, a lighthearted reference to his infant son.
Then came the mission that would enter history. On August 13, 1945, as Japan hung on the brink of surrender only days after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Perdomo departed on his tenth combat flight. He and his squadron flew to Keijo—now Seoul—where they were greeted by about 50 Japanese planes. It was a hot series of dogfights that followed. In command of his element, Perdomo downed two fighters in short order. He then made another crash after shoving it into a low-altitude stall. He saw two enemy trainer biplanes and destroyed one before returning to the battle to shoot down a fourth fighter. His gun camera would later verify that some of these enemy planes were the newer Ki-84 “Franks,” although official reports listed them as the more plentiful Ki-43 “Oscars.”
At the end of that exhausting eight-hour, 1,500-mile flight, Oscar Perdomo had notched five confirmed kills in one day. That made him an “ace in a day” and the final American pilot to receive the designation during World War II. He was awarded a Distinguished Service Cross and an Air Medal with an oak leaf cluster, while the 507th Fighter Group was awarded a Presidential Unit Citation for its actions. Within a week, Japan formally surrendered.
But Perdomo’s tale was not yet over. Following the war, he continued to fly, switching to jets and qualifying on the Lockheed P-80 Shooting Star. At the outbreak of the Korean War, he was recalled to active duty. During this second tour of service, he flew the F-86 Sabre and the F-84 Thunderjet. One especially vivid memory occurred when he was piloting a T-33training plane and a fuel leak came very close to taking his and his student’s lives. He pulled off a successful emergency landing, evidence of his cool head. He eventually retired as a major in 1958.
But even heroes experience heartbreak. Oscar’s son, whom he had dedicated his fighter plane to, was killed in action during the Vietnam War in 1970. It was a wound that would not heal. Oscar died in 1976 at the age of 56, with the disease of that loss festering inside him.
Perdomo’s legacy extends beyond awards and combat statistics. A proud Mexican-American himself, his life is a testament to the lesser-known achievements of Latino and Hispanic Americans in U.S. military history. In World War II, too many served heroically in integrated units and frontline positions, yet accolades did not always come. Oscar’s legacy—along with other Hispanic pioneers such as Olga Custodio and Elwood Richard Quesada—is a testament to the profound contributions Hispanic Americans have made to military aviation.
Oscar Perdomo’s name continues to echo today among those who cherish bravery, talent, and sacrifice. His remarkable record as the last “ace in a day” is more than a historical aside—it’s a testament to what can be accomplished when determination, ability, and circumstance intersect. He inspires future generations of pilots and military personnel from every background, showing that heroism recognizes no limits of heritage or birth.
As the age of traditional dogfights recedes and air warfare continues to change, tales such as Perdomo’s endure. They recall not only an extraordinary man and a turning point in World War II, but of the strong, enduring influence one can have on history.