12 April 1953. The sky was cold and clear. Climbing toward MiG Alley, we were the only two fighters north of the 38th Parallel. However, we'd soon be joined by hundreds of other jets in what was the biggest air battle of the Korean War. And unbeknownst to me, one in which I would face death a dozen times.
Just minutes before, four of us were sitting quietly strapped in our Sabres on the alert strip at Kimpo, waiting for the alarm scrambling us north. Ground crew-men in their cold weather gear were shadows moving among the airplanes, checking their readiness. The smell of JP-4 wafted through the cold air. The chugging of the APUs softened the tension-filled quiet. We waited. It was 4:45am.
Suddenly, the shriek of the siren shattered the calm. Pilots flipped switches and engines whined into life. Crewmen quickly unplugged power cables, and we slid our throttles forward as we taxied toward the runway. Four throttles moved in unison to full power as we picked up speed. Then we were airborne. We tightened our flight, climbing through a cloud layer that extended nearly the full length of the Korean peninsula.
Topping the cloud layer at 20,000 feet, we broke into clear sky. Well into enemy territory and subject to at-tack from the MiGs, we dropped our tanks. Well, three of us did. No. 4 had a tank hang up and had to abort taking no. 3 with him. Lead and I had North Korea all to ourselves. Immediately we saw MiGs coming south to meet us. Hundreds of them, I thought.
Soon, the MiGs were everywhere. We were only minutes ahead of the Sabres from Suwon. In fact, all the available fighters from both bases went into action as fast as possible. Ground-based radar reported "many flights of MiGs in the air" and more coming from the Communist bases. The Sabre pilots couldn't wait to tangle with them.
Maintaining radio silence, we heard other flights in hot action with the MiGs. I recognized the voice of a classmate as he called to his flight leader that he was going down into the cloud deck with a MiG firing on him. My leader was maneuvering to get on a MiG's tail. I doubled my effort to clear us, looking up, down and behind with an intensity known only to the quarry.
We were at 40,000 when Lead swung north in a nice easy climb. When we rolled out, two MiGs were directly in front of us. Perfect! One for each of us. Good show Lead! I twisted slightly, put my gunsight on the MiG's tail, and tensed my trigger finger....
BAM!!! A sharp jolt brought me out of the gunsight. Close in on both sides of me were white puff balls. MiG cannon fire! I rolled right, then left, looking hard to the rear. Far back was a small black dot. Sparklers from his cannons showed me that he was serious about getting me off his buddy's tail. With a now-damaged aircraft, I wasn't in position to argue.
I shouted into the radio, "Yellow Lead, break left! HARD!" As we snapped to the west, I heard and felt my engine lose power. Engine instruments unwound at a startling speed. I pointed the airplane down to maintain air speed, descending in a wide 3600 turn to keep that 20,000 foot cloud layer under me in case I needed a place to hide.
Lead and the MiGs followed, but at a higher altitude, seemingly waiting and watching. My engine quit. Raw fuel spewed out of the tailpipe, so I shut off the throttle. I lost altitude fast and leveled out above the clouds. Since there were no MiGs attacking us, I made a turn to the west, heading for the Yellow Sea about 100 miles away.
At 25,000, my engine and air speed were slow enough to attempt a restart. The procedure was simple enough - if you got it right. If not - BOOM! Turn on the ignition switch, then the fuel switch, and bring the throttle forward. I didn't blow up. I guess that was right.
The fuel system resumed spewing fuel into the engine compartment and out the tail. Fuel flowing next to a hot jet engine should have blown the airplane apart. 60% power was the best I could get. Not enough to sustain level flight, but enough to extend the glide and hopefully, get to the Yellow Sea. I held steadily on course toward the water. Later, Lead said I laid a white trail that could be seen from anywhere in North Korea. The MiGs followed at high altitude, but chose not to come in for the kill.
I turned on the IFF radar distress signal as I headed west. Every radar screen in Korea flashed a bright blip showing my position, starting an area-wide rescue and recovery process. I had great confidence that the Air Force would do all they could to get me back home. No one foresaw that this would be one of the rescue service's busiest days.
Rescue efforts were in full operation as I limped seaward. Joe McConnell, later the top ace in Korea, was hit soon after he entered the combat area but made it to the water. I listened as the chopper relayed information about his pickup. Joe hardly got his feet wet and was back at Suwon in time for lunch and the afternoon mission. Would I be so lucky?
My engine was still running at reduced power. But the radio was still working and my IFF was still squawking "MayDay!" Fuel continued streaming from the tailpipe. The shoreline was now visible in the far distance. Lead and the MiGs were still with me. Questions raced through my mind.
Would I run out of fuel and have to bail out over land where I'd face certain capture and possible death from civilian pitch forks? Would the fuel last long enough to make the sea? And could I survive long enough for a water rescue? Maybe one of the MiGs would try for a last minute kill! I kept heading west and watched my altimeter slowly unwind.
We passed over the coastline at about 15,000 and I made a sharp turn south, still descending and seriously low on fuel. The MiGs broke off and went home. In a few minutes, Lead called to say that he had to leave since he had just enough fuel to reach an island we occupied north of the 38th Parallel. He made a dead-stick landing on the beach, a difficult job even with the engine running.
Alone now, I edged away from the coast, fearful that North Korean fishing boats would see my `chute if I bailed out. Abruptly, my engine quit, and my radio and IFF went dead. I turned 90° right, directly away from the coast. (I found out later that this maneuver nearly cost me my life.) I prepared to eject. Because of the engine inlet in the nose, the Sabre didn't ditch well. I'd heard that only two pilots had survived a water landing in the F-86.
Quickly, I pulled away the scarf protecting my neck from the rubber collar on the survival suit ("poopy suit") we wore, adjusting the collar snugly to make a waterproof seal. Approaching 5,000 feet, the recommended bailout altitude, I tightened the seat belt and shoulder harness. I was ready to eject. I didn't realize it but my problems were just beginning.
I was too tall to properly fit the ejection seat. If I sat up straight, my head hit the canopy and bent my head and neck forward. Ejecting in this position would surely break my neck. If I scrunched down to clear my head, my butt slid forward and bent my lower back. Ejecting in this position would probably break the lower spine. I assumed a compromise position bending a little at each end.
Precisely at 5,000 feet, I pulled the handle to blow the canopy. Nothing happened! I applied some muscle to it - nothing. Well, no sweat I thought, I can eject through the canopy. I pulled the ejection handle. Nothing! Pulling with both hands, I felt the cable stretch but nothing happened. Although I was sure the safety pins were removed, I could think of no reason for the failure. But at least I didn't have to test which vertabrae would break first.
There were other ways out. I pulled the lever under the right canopy rail to disengage the canopy from the frame. I pushed upward on the Plexiglas but there was no give. I reached forward with my right hand and slid my fingers into the handle to open the canopy. The canopy slid back about a foot, then stopped. If it had snapped away from the wind, it would've ripped off my fingers, if not my whole hand. I was wasting precious time and altitude.
I wanted out! With a 12 inch opening between the wind-shield frame and the canopy, I attempted to crawl out. I'd heard of only one pilot successfully crawling out of an F-86. Most who tried were killed hitting the tail. I decided to turn the airplane upside down and fall out!
Now well below 5,000 feet and with the airplane upside down, I stood up (or down depending on your viewpoint), stuck my head and arms out. Instantly, they were pinned to the canopy by the wind. My helmet flew off. (There went protection for my head if I should hit the airframe when I did get out.) I couldn't get back in even if I wanted to, and couldn't wiggle out because my `chute was caught inside the canopy. "Out! Out!" screamed somewhere in-side my head. I pushed with all my strength.
Suddenly there was total silence. The canopy had broken loose. I was free! And falling. Without hesitation I pulled the D ring. There was a short ruffling as the `chute deployed, and a sharp Snap! when it opened. I looked down and saw a splash where my plane had gone in. I couldn't tell how high I was but just to be safe, I inflated my life vest.
Grabbing the risers, I turned in the harness to see the coastline, with villages and fishing junks not far away, maybe 4, 5 miles. Close enough for my parachute with orange and white panels, to mark my location. I should have tried to get further from shore.
Wham! I hit the water as if it were concrete. Stunned, I didn't realize for some moments that my `chute was pulling me shoreward like a great sail. If anyone had seen me come down, the chute (now in full bloom) would surely give me away. The cold water cleared my head fast and I released the risers. The chute collapsed and just as quickly, I became entangled in the shroud lines. To panic now would have been fatal. Slowly, methodically, I unwrapped the lines.
Now there was work to do. I no sooner thought of my life raft than it was floating in front of me, with the CO2 bottle knob in easy reach. I pulled it. With a hiss, the raft inflated. As it took shape, I slipped it under me. The raft floated me into a sitting position with my knees bent. My "waterproof" survival suit leaked and filled with cold sea water. I started to shiver. Hypothermia was to be-come a major threat.
I took stock of the gear stashed in the pockets of the raft. Shark repellent, sea anchor, fishing kit, two "oars" the size of paint stirrers, two flare canisters, and best of all, a radio and battery pack. Just connect them and call for a chopper.
But this was not to be. The battery and radio were flooded with sea water. With great regret, I dropped them over-board. Any direct comunication with my rescuers was now impossible and I was getting cold.
Thick clouds moved in over the coast. Visibility was limited. The water, which a little while ago was calm, now became choppy. Small waves washed over me every few seconds. If conditions worsened, my raft might capsize. I made sure it was still connected.
Then that I saw blood in the water - my blood. I touched the right side of my head and felt scrapes and cuts from above the ear down to my jaw. I'd hit some part of the airplane as I went out. Any closer and I would've been knocked unconscious or worse.
My spirits suddenly brightened when I spotted a helicopter near shore. They were looking for me. "I'm over here!", I shouted inside. They set up a search pattern exactly where my engine and the IFF signal had stopped. God, if I'd bailed out then, they'd see me. Had I made a mistake seeking the safety of the open sea?
After about 10 minutes, the chopper completed its search pattern and moved south. Hope subsided, then vanished. It was now late morning. I was cold and exhausted. I knew I wouldn't live through the night so I put out the shark repellent and waited to die.
I sat motionless for a long time. I don't know how long. Never before nor since have I been so cold. Infrequently, I'd open my eyes and glance toward shore. After a number of such fruitless glances, I thought I saw an airplane. Yes, way inshore where the chopper had been. It was an SA-16 Grumman flying boat.
I watched as it set up a search pattern similar to that of the chopper. And like the chopper, it soon gave up and flew south. The rescue service had plotted my last known position where the IFF quit. Not guessing I'd turn west-ward, they were looking in the wrong place.
The wind had blown me around facing north when I heard engines to the south - the SA-16 again, and coming toward me! Then it stopped and set up another search pattern a couple of miles away. I knew the crew would never see me in the black sea. The flares! They could see the flares at that distance.
I grabbed a flare canister. A little longer than a juice can, it contained two flares, one smoke, the other flame. I held it in front of me and pulled the igniter. A slight explosion followed. Black smoke shot into the wind, and fiery volcanic-like magma boiled out of the can onto the rubber covered canvas life raft. I thrust the canister underwater and quickly washed the fiery mass off the canvas. Another mishap like that and there wouldn't be anything for the SA-16 to pick up.
I knew the searchers hadn't seen the short-lived smoke of the flare, so I turned it over, held it well overboard and pulled the second igniter. Swoosh! An intense 6 inch flame shot out. Like the Statue of Liberty, I held my flame high. But the SA-16 continued its pattern. I saved the last canister for a better opportunity.
In a little while, the SA-16 concluded its pattern and flew a little farther out. Now only about a mile and a half away, I waited like a hunter fixed on its prey. I'd wait until the pilot made a turn towards me, watching care-fully as his turn brought me into his line of sight. NOW! I lit the smoke flare. This time the smoke was orange. I was directly in his view.... But the nose of the airplane kept turning past me to start another leg. I had only the flame flare left. I had to try it. The pilot would complete his pattern any time now. I waited for one more turn.
There it was. Just as the nose swept through my direction, I set off the flame flare and held it high. The pilot kept turning. By the time the plane was on its next leg, the flame was spent. The pilot held course for a moment, then turned toward me and flew directly to me. They'd seen me!
The pilot dropped close to the water. Two big propellers roared past only feet away. The pilot waved and I clasped my hands together like a prize fighter. I could dare to hope that I would live. But one more harrowing experience was yet to come.
The pilot lifted the aircraft enough to turn without dragging his wing in the water and started his landing. What a beautiful sight! I'd never seen a water landing before and this one I'll never forget. The pilot taxied toward me. It was a bit unnerving at first but I caught on quickly.
Just before the left pontoon would've hit me, the pilot swung the left rear section toward me where there was a big open door with two crewmen waiting to grab me. But the propwash blew me and my raft past the door. On the second pass, I got out the two "paint-stirrers" and paddled like hell, but I was spent. The cold had exhausted my strength. I'd blown the second pickup.
The third pass worked. The pilot's timing was perfect. The tail swung and I paddled as if my life depended on it. It did! My strength gave out when the raft was only inches from the crewman's reach. The other man threw a rope that hit my right foot. I lunged for it, holding on with what strength I had left. They pulled me alongside the hull, then all three of us tried to get me through the door. With my `poopy suit' weighted down with water, it was no easy task to get me over the ledge. I got one am over, then the other. "Get him in. Let's get the hell out of here!", shouted the pilot. We were 100 miles behind enemy lines and a sitting duck.
The crewmen grabbed my harness and pulled. With both heaving, I got one leg over the gunwale. They rolled me into the airplane, then cut both pant legs open to release the water. "Tie him down! We're goin'!" The engine roared to full power. As we picked up speed, the crew men threw me on a stretcher, then lay on top of me and held tightly to the supports so I wouldn't get thrown loose during the takeoff.
As the big seaplane approached takeoff speed, the banging of the waves against the hull threatened to break us apart. The pilot throttled back and aborted the takeoff (I later learned that the sea was beyond safe conditions, but the pilot risked his plane, his crew, and his life to pick me up. Now there was the possibility that he couldn't get off the water!)
As soon as the plane slowed, I was secured to the stretcher The crewmen dove for their seats and strapped them-selves in. Again, the bird tried and failed to get off the Yellow Sea. The pounding on the aluminum hull made frightening sound. It shook the very soul of the aircraft and all of us in it. If I had to die, this was a hell of a way to go!
On the third try, the pilot caught a large wave just right literally throwing the airplane into the air. We were safely off and on our way south. Fifty minutes later we landed at Seoul with the sun shining brightly. I would live to fly again. I could have died a dozen times. If, as the foxhole philosopher observed, you don't die until your number comes up, who determines when that number is called: And why? And what does the "giver of numbers" have in store for me in future years?
No portion of this article may be used or reprinted without permission
from the President of the F-86 Sabre Pilots Association or the editor of Sabre Jet
Classics magazine.
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