Korean Combat (Yeoman Series) Page 7

  Other post-war designs had been disastrous. One such was the MiG-9, an ugly, cumbersome fighter powered by two Russian copies of the Junkers turbojet. Badly overweight and prone to spin at the slightest provocation, the MiG-9 had been rushed into squadron service before any of its snags had been ironed out and had killed more pilots that Krylenko cared to remember. He himself had only just managed to get out of one that had flicked into an inverted spin without any warning.

  Then, amazingly, there had come a real windfall. In the middle of 1946, the British Government had agreed to supply several Rolls-Royce Nene turbojets to Russia. The Russians could scarcely believe their good fortune-or the stupidity of the British politicians who had agreed to the deal. By 1946 it was already apparent to Russia’s leaders that sooner or later, perhaps sooner, there would be a major confrontation between the Soviet Union and the West-and Britain had given away a vital piece of aviation technology to a potential enemy.

  But in the political climate that had prevailed in Britain immediately after the war, many influential politicians had not regarded the Soviet Union as a potential enemy. It had been a serious error on their part, and one entirely to the Russians’ advantage.

  So the design of the new fighter had gone ahead at a fast rate, the airframe now built around one of the Rolls-Royce engines, and the prototype had been completed in record time. It had made its first flight on 2 June 1947, with test pilot Andrei Zhuganyev at the controls. On landing, he had jumped down from the cockpit and executed a little dance on the tarmac. Yes, he had told the officials who crowded around him, there were a few snags-but only a few. The aircraft was a winner, a potential world-beater.

  The official Soviet Air Force designation of the new fighter was I-301, the I standing for ‘Istrebitel’, the Russian word for fighter. But it was better known by its design name: the Mikoyan and Gurevich Type 15. MiG-15 for short.

  Various modifications had been built into the second MiG-15 prototype, which had flown in December 1947. Krylenko had flown this machine, putting it through its paces, and despite his dislike of jet types he had been thoroughly impressed by its performance. He, together with other senior officers who had flown it, had recommended without hesitation that the MiG-15 be placed in full production for the Istrebitel naya Aviatsiya, Russia’s air defence force.

  Within three years, the fighter-much improved now, and with a still more powerful version of the Rolls-Royce Nene, the Klimov VK-1 — was also being supplied in considerable numbers to the Soviet Union’s ‘satellite’ air forces. Then, when the Korean War broke out in June 1950, Russia saw an excellent opportunity to test the MiG-15 under combat conditions, and arranged to equip several front-line squadrons of the Chinese People’s Air Force with it.

  Russian instructors had been sent to China with the first batch of MiGs, and the training of Chinese pilots had proceeded rapidly, the first Chinese MiG squadrons becoming operational in November. At first, these had enjoyed great success against piston-engined American bombers such as the B-29-but then, in December, the Americans had rushed the first F-86 Sabres into action, and from that moment on the MiGs had by no means had things all their own way.

  In fact, Krylenko reflected, his features twisted with sudden contempt, the Chinese had proved quite incapable of holding their own in combat against the highly-trained Americans, even though their aircraft were more or less evenly matched. The loss rate had been appalling, and this had been attended by an enormous drop in morale; Krylenko knew of some instances where Chinese pilots, pursued by Sabres, had ejected from their fighters before a shot had been fired.

  Well, things would change now. The Yanks must have had a hell of a surprise yesterday, when they were confronted by really determined pilots for a change. He wondered how long it would take them to realize that they were fighting Russians. And, very shortly, the contest would be evened up still more.

  ‘What time did you say they were due to arrive, Andrei Andreyevitch?’ the general asked abruptly.

  Semyenov jumped. He had got used to the general’s melancholy moods, and had become more engrossed in his study of the wall map than he had originally intended. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Fifteen hundred hours, local time, Comrade General,’ he said. ‘It is now fifteen-ten. They are late.’

  ‘You have an amazing capacity for stating the obvious, Andrei Andreyevitch,’ Krylenko told him sarcastically. ‘And stop calling me ‘comrade’. I am not your comrade; I am your superior officer. Merely ‘general’ will suffice.’

  Semyenov blushed deeply, and stammered an apology. Krylenko eyed him with even greater contempt. He knew all about Semyenov, and what the man got up to. Why, it was nothing short of an insult to give him a homosexual, a stinking queer, as his aide. It was time the authorities stopped turning a blind eye to that sort of thing. There was too much of it going on in the armed forces. He’d have to get rid of Semyenov, or before long he himself would be tarred with the same brush.

  A telephone shrilled. Semyenov grabbed the receiver, listened for a few moments, then turned eagerly towards Krylenko, his full lips quivering as though in some lapdog-like way he sought nothing more than to make amends for having inadvertently offended the general a minute earlier. Krylenko felt like being sick.

  ‘That was flying control, Com — I mean, General. Flying control, sir. They are about to join the circuit at this moment.’

  Krylenko grunted and grabbed his hat, which he rammed squarely on his closely-cropped head, and stumped out of the office, past the baggy Chinese sentry who stared stolidly past him.

  Outside it was hot, and a light wind stirred up little dust-devils along the ground. There was not a patch of green to be seen anywhere. Krylenko sat on a low stone wall, with Semyenov hovering around somewhere in the background, mercifully outside his field of vision, and peered through the heat-haze that danced over the airfield to where the MiG-15s were parked in neat rows. That was the Chinese idea of dispersal; it was just as well that the United Nations pilots showed no sign of attacking targets on this side of the Yalu.

  There was a sudden screech of turbojets and four aircraft blasted overhead in line abreast. Half-way down the runway they peeled off crisply, one after the other, and slipped into the downwind leg of the airfield circuit, lowering their landing gear as they did so.

  Krylenko nodded approvingly, and watched as another four jets streaked across the field, repeating the performance. Flight followed flight down to land; Krylenko counted thirty-six fighters. As the last flight touched down, the general ordered Semyenov to fetch his transport, an American jeep.

  Ten minutes later, Krylenko was shaking hands with Colonel Ilary Budyenko, officer commanding the 22nd Guards Fighter Regiment-one of the proudest and most elite units in the Soviet Air Force. After making the formal introductions, Krylenko stepped back and stood with his hands on his hips, looking at Budyenko’s aircraft.

  ‘Well, Budyenko,’ he commented, ‘I can’t see much difference between this bird and the earlier MiG-15.’

  Budyenko smiled politely. ‘The differences are mostly internal, Comrade General,’ he said, and this time Krylenko did not mind the ‘comrade’. ‘For a start, the MiG-15B’s engine produces an extra 1,000 kgs of thrust, while at the same time the machine is 90 kg lighter than the earlier model. I am confident that it will have a much higher ceiling than the American Sabre, and also a superior rate of climb.’

  Krylenko’s eyes roved over the MiG’s outline, coming to rest on one of the auxiliary fuel tanks fixed to the aircraft’s wings. He wanted to know how much extra range was provided by the additional fuel.

  ‘It gives us a range of thirteen hundred kilometres, General, instead of the usual 750,’ he said.

  Krylenko scratched his head, doing some mental arithmetic. With this improved version of the MiG, he reasoned, he could extend offensive patrols a long way south-right up to the front line, if necessary. For political reasons, his pilots were forbidden to operate over territory held by the
United Nations, but that did not matter. What did matter was that, with these reinforcements, the Communists were now in a position to challenge UN air superiority over North Korea.

  While the newly arrived crews were having something to eat and resting after their ferry flight from Vladivostok, Krylenko took up one of the MiG-15’s and put it through its paces thoroughly, to see for himself what its limitations were.

  He took the aircraft up to forty thousand feet, high over the mountains, enjoying the view as he climbed, settled comfortably in his ejection seat. The MiG-15’s cockpit was a little cramped, but Krylenko was not a large man. As he climbed up through the freezing level, he was glad to see that one problem which had beset the earlier-model MiG-15 had been eliminated; the transparent cockpit canopy remained clear of frost. To have one’s canopy suddenly ice up in the middle of a scrap was not to be recommended. Krylenko fiddled with the radio equipment as the climb continued, noting with pleasure that this model was far better equipped than its predecessor; as well as a VHF transceiver, there was a navigational beacon receiver, a radio compass, a radio altimeter and an IFF set.

  After indulging in a few aerobatics to get the feel of the aircraft, the pilot decided to see how it handled at high speed. There was little change in the handling up to Mach 0.91, when buffeting started; this built up alarmingly until, at 0.92, it felt as though the whole aircraft was being pounded to pieces by pneumatic drills. At 0.93 the severe buffeting suddenly stopped, but now the machine’s nose tried to pitch up violently, almost pulling the stick from the pilot’s hand. It was enough; hastily, Krylenko reduced power, taking the MiG down from the dangerous realms at the fringe of the speed of sound.

  He knew, now, that even the improved MiG-15B’s airframe design would not allow it to fly trans-sonically-which was something the Sabre could do. It was a disappointment, and it was not the only one.

  He had ordered the gun magazines to be filled before he took off, and now he fired the MiG’s cannon-the two 23-mm and one 37-mm weapons-at varying speeds. Everything was fine up to Mach 0.86, when the aircraft suddenly started to ‘snake’ alarmingly as he pressed the firing trigger, its nose yawing from side to side at a rapid rate.

  Krylenko swore. At very high speed, unless the pilot was quick enough and experienced enough to compensate for this snaking motion, the MiG would be virtually useless as a gun platform. He must think over this problem very carefully, he told himself, and see whether he could suggest an aerodynamic solution.

  More than anything, he did not want his Russian pilots to have to face their American opponents at a disadvantage. What would happen to him if this whole business went sour, and his squadrons suffered heavy losses, did not bear thinking about.

  Even in 1951, with things somewhat easier in Russia than they had been ten years earlier, there were two types of senior officer in the Soviet armed forces-the quick and the imprisoned.

  There and then, as he brought the MiG down towards Antung for a landing at the end of his test flight, he resolved to bring the air fighting tactics employed by his pilots to the finest possible art. Only in this way would he be able to compensate for the MiG’s shortcomings.

  As Krylenko descended, he suddenly saw, away in the distance on the other side of the Yalu, a broad contrail with several smaller ones in attendance. On an impulse, he called up Antung on the frequency now reserved exclusively for the use of the Russian pilots, and asked if there was any information about enemy air activity.

  He was told that nothing was known, so he reported the contrails he had seen. The controller was only mildly interested.

  ‘Probably an escorted reconnaissance flight,’ he said. ‘I will pass on the information to Sinuiju Anti-Aircraft Command.’

  Several miles away across the river, the American pilot of the RB-29-the reconnaissance version of the Superfortress-had also seen the threadlike vapour trail left by Krylenko’s MiG, and hoped that it was the only vapour trail, apart from those of his escorting Sabres, he would see before he reached base.

  Back in the belly of that aircraft, the two Special Signals Officers leaned back from their equipment, looked at one another and shook hands.

  ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ one said. ‘We’ve got the whole thing on tape-absolute proof that the Russians are operating out of Manchurian bases. Very obliging of that Commie pilot, to make that radio call just then.’

  ‘Now that we’ve got it, I wonder what they’ll do with it?’ his colleague mused. The other shrugged.

  ‘Use it to blackmail the Russians in the United Nations, I guess; make ’em agree to support peace talks, or something. I hope they get on with it soon. I’ve had enough of this goddam war.’

  Chapter Six

  ON AN IMPROVISED STAGE IN THE MESS HALL AT TAEGU, A TALL blonde, looking strangely out of place in her evening gown among all the uniforms, was singing ‘Goodnight Irene’. A member of some American forces’ entertainments organization, she was slender and very attractive, even allowing for a little too much warpaint, and she had her audience spellbound.

  The men joined softly in the chorus, dreaming of their own Irenes, wherever they were, from New South Wales to Oregon. Even Yeoman was in a nostalgic mood, not because he equated the mythical Irene with his own Julia, but because he had seen this all before, under the brilliant stars of the Western Desert.

  The girl they had sung of then, British and Germans alike, had waited for her sweetheart under the lamplight, in a European mist. Somehow, Yeoman thought, Irene, the darling of this war, was altogether softer and warmer — more American, in a word-than Lili Marlene had ever been. Men everywhere in the theatre, from the Thirty-Eighth Parallel to Tokyo, sang or hummed goodnight to her in a dozen tongues.

  An airman appeared suddenly at the end of the row of seats in which Yeoman sat, next to Squadron Leader Dick Thornes, and asked for a message to be passed along to the latter. Thornes opened the buff envelope and scanned the flimsy sheet of paper it contained. His face creased in a grin.

  ‘Well, there’s a bit of good news!’

  Yeoman looked at him questioningly, and his companion explained, waving the piece of paper.

  ‘It’s about Johnny Garthside.’ He referred to the warrant officer who had been shot down a few days earlier. ‘He’s safe on board HMS Glory. One of her helicopters picked him up. The wind carried him just clear of the coast, apparently, and the chopper pilot, who was looking for one of their own blokes, spotted him purely by chance.’

  ‘That calls for a pint,’ Yeoman said, rising. ‘I think I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘Make it two,’ Thornes grinned, and followed him to the bar.

  Because of the entertainment in the mess hall there were not many people in the bar. It was hardly surprising, for most of the personnel were hungry for the sight of a Western woman, even though they couldn’t lay their hands on her. A few American and Australian nurses passed through Taegu from time to time, but they were jealously guarded by the medical staff.

  That left the Korean girls who looked after the officers’ and NCOs’ quarters. They had all been screened by the padre to make sure that they were morally suitable, but it would hardly have mattered if they were not, because they were truly awful to look at. Short and squat, with bushy black eyebrows and straight jet-black hair, they would have deterred even the most drunken GI from making a pass at them.

  Nevertheless, they kept the quarters in spotless condition, once they had been educated not to spit on the floor, which apparently was quite a normal thing for a Korean girl to do. They swept and polished and shined shoes and did the laundry, which previously had been bundled up and sent back on the daily transport aircraft to Iwakuni, where it was washed and ironed by the Japanese Mama-sans who remained on the Australian ration strength there.

  Yeoman and Thornes went up to the bar. It was being propped up by a solitary American officer, the CO of one of Taegu’s F-84 Thunderjet squadrons. A major, he hailed from Augusta, Georgia. He was a superb pilot and a fine
leader of men, although most of those under his command thought that he was quite crazy, in an affectionate sort of way.

  This was because Major Jack W. Devonlee expressed a continual and undying hatred, at every conceivable opportunity, of Damyankees. Ever since the mid 1860s, when General Sherman’s army had burned and plundered its way through Georgia, the name ‘Yankee’ had been prefixed by ‘damn’ in Devonlee’s family, until the two words had run into one. Indeed, Devonlee had been ten years old before he had discovered that it had been anything other than one word.

  The jeep in which he roared around Taegu, regardless of his own or anyone else’s life and limb, was adorned with a large Confederate flag. So was his F-84, although the authorities had drawn the line when he’d got drunk one night and painted Confederate insignia over the aircraft’s white stars. The Confederate stars and bars, now, were restricted to an area immediately below the cockpit.

  It did not take long for Yeoman and Thornes to work out that Jack Devonlee was drunk now-very drunk. And bitter with it. They also knew why, although they didn’t mention the reason. They did not have to; the major seemed eager to unburden himself, and insisted on buying large whiskies for both of them.

  Jack Devonlee had lost four of his aircraft that morning. It had happened when Devonlee’s squadron had been detailed to escort eight B-29s in an attack on the enemy airfield at Namsi. F-86 Sabres had also been operating in the area, but they were high up and far away, and they had their own problems when a hundred MiGs swept across the river and cleverly boxed in the F-86s. Within minutes, the Sabre pilots had been fighting for survival.

  ‘We could see the scrap in progress,’ Devonlee explained, his voice slurred, ‘and could hear the F-86 guys on the R/T. They were having a real rough time. Then, while this was going on, fifty more MiGs approached our formation and circled it some distance away, trying to draw us from the B-29s. We stayed put and hoped they wouldn’t attack.’