Korean Combat (Yeoman Series) Read online

  Korean Combat

  Robert Jackson

  © Robert Jackson 1983

  Robert Jackson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1983 by Arthur Baker Limited.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  This book is respectfully dedicated to the memory of the forty-two pilots of No. 77 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force, who failed to return from air operations over Korea, 1950- 53.

  Chapter One

  AT THIRTY THOUSAND FEET, ON THE VERY EDGE OF THE stratosphere, the winter sun was a blinding white ball, low in the south-east sky directly behind the formation of eight Boeing B-29 Superfortress bombers. It was two hours since the big machines had taken off, one after the other, from the long runway of Kadena Air Force Base on the island of Okinawa. The time now was ten o’clock in the morning, and the new year of 1951 was six days old.

  Seated in the long, Plexiglas-covered cockpit of the leading B-29, rhythmically chewing gum, Colonel John C. Timms, officer commanding the 882nd Bombardment Group of the USAF, took a few moments off concentrating on his instruments to muse on the irony of his present situation. Only six years earlier, also in the cockpit of a B-29, he had been bombing hell out of the Japanese-held island of Okinawa in preparation for a forthcoming amphibious assault; now the Japs, if not actually enjoying the status of allies, were at least classed as a friendly nation after five years of occupation, and the 882nd was using one of their former bases to go to war against somebody else.

  Timms’ bombardment group, which was normally based in the Philippines as part of the US 20th Air Force, had been at Kadena since just after Christmas, but this was its first combat mission to Korea; several times the crews had stood ready to go, but on each occasion operations had been cancelled because of bad weather.

  Today, however, was different. The sky was a deep, frigid blue, with only a few scattered tufts of cloud drifting by, far below the B-29s. Pilots and bombardiers should have no difficulty in locating their objective-the twin road and rail bridges over the Yalu River at Sinuiju. Across those bridges, and others like them, Chinese Communist troops and equipment were pouring into North Korea by day and night.

  It was six months now since that day in June 1950, when North Korean forces had stormed across the 38th Parallel — that tenuous and invisible dividing line that separated communist North Korea from the Republic of South Korea — and precipitated a full-scale war against the United Nations, led by the United States; less than two months since the massive armies of Red China had entered the fight on the side of the North Koreans, flooding across the Yalu River from Manchuria to hold and then relentlessly push back the United Nations divisions, most of them composed of young, green troops, by sheer weight of numbers.

  Only air superiority could save the UN armies from a crushing defeat in the winter snows of Korea. In the early days, the UN pilots had had things all their own way; the elderly Russian-built piston-engined fighters and bombers of the North Korean Air Force had been quickly swept from the skies, their airfields shattered by continual bombing attacks.

  Now that, too, was different-and had been since that morning of 1 November 1950, when six fast, swept-wing jets had streaked across the Yalu to attack a formation of American aircraft. The strange jets were MiG-15s, supplied to the Chinese by Soviet Russia, and they had been encountered in growing numbers all through the winter.

  Overnight, the MiG-15s made the mighty B-29 — the aircraft that had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki just a few years earlier-of little more value than a museum piece. Colonel Timms remembered the faces of the crews who had flown B-29s over Korea with the bombardment group the 882nd had replaced at Kadena; the enemy jets had inflicted terrible losses on them since November. Many of the aircrews, like Timms, had fought in the war against Japan and had seen their comrades go down in flames over Tokyo and Yokohama; they had not expected to be involved in another bitter war, so soon after the last.

  Now it was the 882nd’s turn. Timms slipped another piece of gum into his mouth and sat with his hands folded in his lap-the autopilot was flying the aircraft-gazing ahead through the transparent nose to where the snow-covered hills of north-west Korea sprawled down to the sea. The hills were wrinkled, the snow broken by chasms of brown and grey; they resembled the leprous skin of some decaying prehistoric monster. The estuary of the Yalu was already clearly visible, its waters a muddy reddish-brown where they spilled into the Yellow Sea.

  ‘IP in six minutes, sir.’ The quiet voice of Lieutenant Jensen, the navigator, broke into Timms’ thoughts. The IP — initial Point-was a narrow finger of land that jutted out into the Yellow Sea twenty miles due south of Sinuiju; this was the landmark from which the bombardier timed his run-in. On the final stages of the attack, in fact, the bombardier controlled the B-29 by means of his own auto-pilot, and could release his bombs either visually or by radar. Today, with conditions almost perfect, it would be a visual run.

  The B-29s had fallen into line astern, with a mile between each aircraft. If the target had been bigger they would have bombed in formation, but this objective called for single precision attacks.

  Ahead of the bombers, F-51 Mustang and F-80 Shooting Star fighter-bombers were already swarming down on the south bank of the Yalu, hammering enemy anti-aircraft positions around Sinuiju with rockets, napalm and machine-guns. High above, two flights of Shooting Star jets of the 726th Fighter Interceptor Wing, USAF, circled watchfully, their pilots scanning the hostile sky to the north of the river.

  The voice of the lead F-80 pilot crackled suddenly in the earphones of the other seven.

  ‘MiG train taking off from Antung. Keep your eyes on ’em.’

  The two flights of Shooting Stars were stepped up, the top flight of four aircraft a couple of thousand feet above the other. Behind them, dense vapour trails streamed across the sky as moisture droplets in the hot exhaust gases of the F-80s’ Allison J33 turbojet engines froze in the icy air.

  From the narrow cockpit of the F-80 that led the top flight, the pilot stared out across the Yalu and swore quietly beneath his oxygen mask. He could clearly see the tiny arrow shapes of the enemy MiG fighters, silhouetted against the snow-covered backdrop as they climbed away from the dark slash of Antung’s runway.

  If only, he thought, if only the Allied jets could cross the river and beat hell out of the enemy on the ground! But a United Nations directive forbade it; no UN aircraft was permitted to cross the Yalu into Manchuria. Instead, the UN pilots were forced to cruise helplessly on the south side of the river, watching the MiGs gain height at their leisure and then dive across at high speed to make their attacks when the Chinese pilots judged that the opportunity was right.

  ‘Superforts at ten o’clock. Close up; stay between the big boys and the MiGs.’

  The F-80 pilots could see the silvery shapes of the B-29s now, crawling towards Sinuiju in line astern, but the whole of their attention was taken up by the rapidly-climbing MiG-15s. The first six enemy fighters, streaming contrails, were climbing hard and had almost reached the same level as the F-80s, although they were still five or six miles away across the river; they were followed by two more flights of six, which seemed to be co
ming up more slowly in a snake-like climbing pattern.

  The leaders of the two F-80 flights knew exactly what was about to happen. The MiGs would go up to about 35,000 feet and then attack in pairs, diving across the river at almost the speed of sound. They would ignore the escorting F-80s, which were a good 100 mph slower, and concentrate all their efforts on hitting the bombers.

  The latter were only a couple of minutes away from releasing their bombs. If the F-80s could delay the MiGs’ attack, hold them up somehow, then the B-29s would have a good chance of completing their bomb run and escaping out to sea without being seriously molested. But there were eighteen MiGs against eight Shooting Stars, and the American jets were hopelessly outclassed. It was not going to be a picnic.

  The two F-80 flights had turned so that they were flying parallel to the river. Directly in front of them, the leading B-29 was on the final stages of its bombing run.

  ‘Look out, here they come. Break into them!’

  Three pairs of MiG-15s were flashing across the river. As if held together by an invisible thread the eight Shooting Stars turned hard to meet them; for the moment, the Americans had the numerical advantage and their manoeuvre seemed to confuse the enemy, who broke and scattered wildly in all directions, squirting fire from their cannon.

  A MiG-15 streaked past the top F-80 flight, giving the lead pilot a vivid glimpse of mottled grey camouflage and a scarlet-painted nose; briefly, his mind registered the fact that the MiG bore no national markings. Glowing orange coals that were cannon shells pumped from the enemy fighter’s guns and curved away towards the landscape below.

  The MiG stayed in a shallow dive, its pilot probably intent on diving under the bombers and pulling up for a climbing attack. It was a fatal mistake. The leading F-80, closely followed by its number two, plummeted after the enemy fighter and soon began to overhaul it, for the F-80 was heavier that the MiG.

  The MiG made no attempt to take evasive action and the F-80 pilot watched it grow larger between the luminous diamonds of his gunsight. Every detail was etched sharply on his brain: the high tail, the ‘stovepipe’ fuselage with its transparent cockpit canopy perched on top. The two aircraft had now hurtled down below contrail height, and the white streamers from their jet exhausts trickled to thin ribbons and then died away.

  The Shooting Star pilot’s thumb jabbed down on the firing button and the fighter shuddered with the recoil of its six 0.5-inch machine-guns. Grey trails converged on the MiG and two puffs of black smoke burst suddenly from its tail pipe.

  As if realizing his error, the MiG pilot pulled his aircraft into a steep climb. His pursuer, a couple of hundred yards astern, eased back slightly on the control column and loosed off another three-second burst of fire, raking the enemy jet from nose to tail. Dense smoke, alternately black and white, poured back from the MiG’s fuselage.

  The MiG’s gleaming cockpit canopy flew off and a dark bundle shot from the cockpit as the pilot ejected. The aircraft continued its climb for a while, then winged over and plunged earthwards, accompanied by a series of brilliant white flashes as its fuel tanks exploded one after the other.

  Satisfied, the F-80 pilot climbed away, still accompanied by his wingman, to join the battle that was spreading out overhead. More MiGs were coming down hard across the river, and already a Shooting Star was limping away towards the south, a gaping hole in one wing where a 27-mm cannon shell had punched through it. Desperately, the remaining F-80 pilots tried to come to grips with the enemy and prevent them from attacking the B-29s, but the MiGs’ superior speed left the American jets almost powerless. The best the pilots could do, when they saw a MiG spearing down, was to turn hard in its path, hoping to throw the enemy pilot off his aim.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Timms’ B-29 had completed its bombing run and was turning away towards the coast with throttles wide open, nose down to gain speed. The colonel felt quite calm, despite the noise all around him; his gunners were constantly calling out the position of MiGs that were boring in from all around the clock, and the big bomber shook to the recoil of its defensive armament. The latter was formidable enough-twelve 0.5-inch machine-guns and a 20-mm cannon-but it was no match for the MiGs’ armament of two 23-mm and one 37-mm cannon. A MiG could open fire and then break away while it was still beyond the range of the bomber’s guns.

  Timms caught only the vaguest glimpse of the MiG that hit his bomber. It came diving in from twelve o’clock high, right above the nose, and he saw it only as a silvery streak flickering past, followed by a slender trail of dark smoke from its jet exhaust.

  A series of heavy explosions rippled across the B-29’s port wing and the big bomber reared up sharply, threatening to roll over on its back. A piercing yell from some unidentified source sounded over the intercom.

  Acting instinctively, Timms turned the control wheel hard, striving to lower the starboard wing and bring the aircraft back to level flight. His co-pilot, a very young second lieutenant, was sitting motionless in his seat, mouth open, apparently paralysed with fear. Timms screamed at him.

  ‘Help me get a hold of the bastard!’

  The co-pilot came out of his trance and grabbed the control wheel on his side of the flight deck. Slowly, the exertions of the two men brought the big machine back on an even keel, but it needed their combined strength to hold it level.

  Quickly, Timms assessed the situation. The port wing was spattered with jagged holes and flames were licking back from both engines on that side. The propeller blades were wind-milling, creating drag as they churned uselessly against the airflow.

  Timms reached out for the throttles on the console between the pilots’ seats and reduced power on the two good engines. Immediately, the pressure on the control column eased considerably, but now the B-29 began to lose height at a faster rate. Timms knew that they could never reach Okinawa like this. Instead, he swung the B-29’s nose inland, at the same time ordering his flight engineer to operate the fire extinguishers on numbers one and two engines and to feather the propellers, which meant turning the prop blades edge-on to the airflow to reduce the drag.

  ‘Already done, sir,’ the flight engineer told him laconically, and despite their peril Timms grinned. Master Sergeant William F. Boscoe had crewed with him, on and off, for five years. He knew his job inside out.

  ‘Aircraft commander to navigator.’

  ‘Go ahead, AC.’

  ‘Give me a course for K-14.’ Timms had been doing some rapid mental arithmetic. K-14 was the code-name for Kimpo airfield, north of Seoul. It was 150 miles away from the B-29’s present position, and the colonel reasoned that if he could reduce the bomber’s rate of descent he might just be able to scrape in for an emergency landing.

  The navigator’s response came almost without hesitation. ‘Course for K-14 is one-seven-zero, magnetic.’

  Timms glanced out of the cockpit side panel. The flames had gone out, and dark smoke was trickling back across the wing from the two dead engines. He applied some rudder trim and then cautiously increased power on numbers three and four engines; the bomber maintained level flight, although Timms and his co-pilot still had to exert considerable pressure on the control columns to keep the wings level. Even if they reached Kimpo, landing would be hazardous.

  Behind the crippled B-29, the MiGs had completed their swift attacks and had sped back across the Yalu to the sanctuary of their airfield. Over Sinuiju, smoke stained the sky from the wreckage of two bombers, fluttering down to impact south of the river. A few parachutes floated in the wake of the shattered aircraft, taking shocked and injured survivors into captivity.

  Timms called up the remains of his bomber formation, and learned that all the surviving aircraft had suffered varying degrees of battle damage. Four of the pilots radioed that they could make it back to Okinawa; the fifth told Timms that the best he could hope for was to try and struggle back over friendly territory, where he and his crew could bale out. From their positions around the twin bridges five miles below, heavy-calibre Chinese
anti-aircraft guns hurled shells at the retreating bombers, speckling the sky with white bursts. Smoke drifted over the area from the craters blasted in the rocky earth by the B-29s’ sticks of 500-pound bombs on both sides of the river, but the bridges were still intact.

  A sudden shadow fell across the cockpit of Colonel Timms’ B-29 and he looked up, startled, to see an F-80 sitting a few yards off his starboard wingtip. A moment later, a second Shooting Star slid into position off the port wing, its air brakes extended in order to reduce speed to match that of the damaged B-29. As Timms watched, the fighter pilot stuck up a thumb.

  Before taking off from Kadena earlier that morning (was it really only two and a half hours ago?) Timms had scrawled the escorting fighters’ radio frequency in crayon on one of the small side panels of the B-29’s cockpit, together with some other relevant data. He tuned in now, and pressed the R/T transmit button on his control wheel.

  ‘Jay Bird aircraft on my wing, d’you read?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Big Brother. Are you okay?’

  ‘I guess so. We’re running for K-14. You staying with us?’

  ‘Affirmative. The opposition’s gone home, but we’ll keep you company just in case.’

  Timms raised an eyebrow. The voice that crackled to him over the radio was unmistakably English. It was an accent he had not so far heard in this part of the world, apart from the cultured tones of the air traffic controllers in Hong Kong, and he was curious about its owner. Maybe he’d find out more about him when they got down. If they got down.

  Timms spoke over the B-29’s intercom.

  ‘AC to tail gunner. Anything going on astern?’

  The tail gunner sounded nervous, shaken by the MiG’s attack. Timms recalled that the boy was only eighteen.

  ‘There’s a B-29 astern of us, sir, escorted by two F-80s. Seems to be on the same course as us. Nothing else in sight except some contrails over the Yalu, a long way off.’