By the Skin of my Teeth: The Memoirs of an RAF Mustang Pilot in World War II and of Flying Sabres with USAF in Korea

by Colin Downes

  The 4th FIG order of battle concentrated on the ground attack role to deny these supplies reaching the front line positions. The briefings were clear and adamant: to seek and destroy anything that moved as a potential weapon supply carrier. Although not equipped for bombing or rocket attacks our F-86s could carry out napalm and strafing attacks. In the four days the 4th FIG converted to a ground attack role I carried out two ground attack missions. Napalm can be a very effective weapon on suitable targets such as supply dumps and entrenched troops. The problem with napalm delivery is that it requires different sighting parameters to that of a gun or rocket attack. To achieve the optimum spread across the target requires a relatively low, slow, straight and level approach before release. Napalm released too high, or too low, or too fast, reduces the effective spread pattern and under these circumstances the napalm may not ignite. Such a delivery makes the pilot vulnerable to ground fire while providing any defending gunners with an optimum tracking time. Although the use of napalm has a psychological effect against ground troops, the same can be said for the attacking pilot.

  On the first mission I was leading the second section of a flight and we each carried two 120 gallon drop tanks converted for napalm with phosphorus cap detonators. We flew to an initial point north of the line over rugged, bleak mountains laced with valleys of paddy fields. A forward air controller (FAC) operating from an L-19 light spotting aircraft called us on to a target of supplies and troop concentrations in some entrenchment. I could not see the target as I followed the flight leader in close formation down a valley at 150 feet and 300 knots, and we dropped our tanks on his call. Looking round as we climbed up I could see a good spread of fire from the eight tanks apparently across the target area, but I could see nothing else. The FAC called a good strike and for us to strafe targets of opportunity. Nothing appeared opportune and we returned to base without noticing any ground AA fire. The interesting aspect of flying over the battle front lines by day was the absence of any visible troops, guns, tanks or trucks. I noticed this fact during a tour of the front line with the British Commonwealth Division the previous April. In visiting the various units during my stay I was prevailed upon to fire a howitzer, a tank gun and a phosphorous bomb from a heavy mortar into the communist lines. I never did see any activity, apart from some return fire, across no-man’s-land despite the thousands of Chinese and North Korean troops entrenched below ground.

  The second and last ground attack mission I flew proved quite different from the first. Again I was flying as number three in the flight and again we carried napalm. After orbiting an initial point north of the line the FAC called the first pair in for an attack on some unspecified stores and troops. I could not make out the target clearly at the end of a narrow valley but it appeared to be a farm. The approach to the target was very tight and I was glad we were not attacking together. The four napalm tanks of the leading pair spread across the farm and the flight leader called there was some ground fire. My section then commenced an attack on an emplacement on the side of the hill, and as we dropped the tanks and pulled up sharply to avoid the hill I could see the four tanks had ignited in a wide spread of flame. There was no return fire during the attack and the FAC called two good strikes and instructed our two sections to seek targets of opportunity on an independent return to base. While flying low over the hills alongside a valley of paddy I saw a single ox-cart proceeding south down a dirt road in the valley. This was not an unusual sight in Korea and I was fairly sure what it was, but I was not alone and faced with implicit orders of engagement I told my wingman to give me top cover as I turned across the valley to the road. I flew low across the road and could see that the cart pulled by a single ox appeared loaded. The driver stayed where he was as I buzzed him at 50 feet and continued on his way. I cranked the aircraft hard round close to the hillside and made a run back down the road. I decided to give the driver one more chance to jump ship and fired a burst at long range to one side. The first ten rounds in each gun being tracer there could be no mistaking my intentions, but still the driver remained on the cart. I lined up on the road and started firing short of the cart and while still firing allowed the sight pipper to move up the road until stopping it on the cart. The six 50-calibre Browning guns delivered 120 rounds of armour-piercing explosive and incendiary bullets per second for 2 – 3 seconds. No explosion occurred as the driver, cart and ox, disappeared in a puff of brownish cloud, and I said the one and only appropriate word as we headed back to base.

  On the debriefing the intelligence officer did not want to record one honey bucket wagon destroyed preferring to claim a military supply transport, together with the arms dumps destroyed. I could not bring myself to argue. The result of this mission did not bring any satisfaction for a job well done. For some time after I had visions of an old Korean papa-san in wind-blown white robes, with a black conical hat on his head as he acted out a rendition of Ben-Hur against an F-86 winged chariot. My attack and destruction of the honey bucket express exquisitely projects the absolute simplicity of ‘Catch-22’. My orders were explicit and unequivocal: attack anything moving that could be conveying munitions and supplies to the front line. Not to do so was a dereliction of those orders, and despite a gut feeling to the contrary there would always be nagging doubts that failure to attack a farmer about to fertilize his paddy may have resulted in injury, mutilation or death to UN troops. In giving the driver a chance to escape I placed myself at some risk from any AA guns sited on the surrounding hills, and sentimentality has no place on ground attack missions. Quirks and absurdities are commonplace in war and it was no consolation to me that my instinct on this occasion was correct. As Heller says in his novel, ‘That’s some catch, that Catch-22!’

  The time spent flying was a small percentage of the time spent on the ground in the mundane process of living in an unusual environment, for to quote out of context we were Strangers in a strange land – Seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth. In common with most wars it was a time of brief moments of anticipation, apprehension, exhilaration and relief interspersed with long moments of boredom, inconvenience, discomfort and frustration. Consequently, certain minor factors and incidents tended to be exaggerated. The Americans were very good at providing all manner of things necessary and unnecessary to live and operate successfully, but it was up to the individual to make the best use of these facilities. At K-14 we lived in old Second World War huts once used by Japanese fighter pilots. The huts were allocated by squadrons and each hut was usually occupied by four to six pilots. This was preferable to the other bases where they lived in tents, as did our ground crew. Apart from the provision of a camp bed the rest was up to the occupants of the hut. In my hut we achieved some basic furnishing although not as elaborate as others, but I made sure I slept under a mosquito net in summer as there was a particularly virulent form of malaria in Korea in 1953. As a prophylactic we had to take one large chloro-quinine tablet a week instead of a previous daily dose of quinine. The weekly medical procedure to protect us against the effects of a very unpleasant, and possibly lifelong, disease was easy and convenient. Yet a few pilots appeared unable to carry out this simple regime, or bothered enough to draw a mosquito net from the base stores.

  It was the same with the escape and evasion kits, where the variety of items available for survival was considerable. In addition to a silk-screen map of North Korea, marching compass, signalling mirror, torch and flares, I used to carry quite an assembly of camping, hunting and fishing gear attached to my Mae West. With my Colt 0.45 automatic I carried spare clips of ammunition with one clip loaded with tracer rounds and one loaded with bird shot. All this equipment was extra ballast to the Mae West, first aid kit, emergency radio, and the rescue items contained in the dinghy pack. In the event of a bale out I should probably have found it all quite superfluous. I was to discover later that a ‘45’ tracer round was considered a dumdum bullet and therefore illegal under the terms of the Geneva Convention; not that the North Kore
ans would have needed that as an excuse! The tracer and bird shot rounds were in short supply and I did not test the tracer effect until after the Cease Fire, when I found it did not work anyway!! A five inch switch blade knife, together with some items for barter, completed my ‘Escape, Evasion and Survival Pack’, but there was one last very important item to be included – a small bottle of Dimple Haig Scotch for the ‘last hurrah’. Many pilots did not bother about evasion and survival on land, and traded comfort for survival at sea by not wearing the immersion suits that were essential to survive in the sea during the winter and spring months. They held a fatalistic attitude towards possible capture or death.

  On my arrival at Kimpo I was informed that the local village women could provide a laundry service. I tried it once and received back some unrecognisable remnants of grey and tattered rags infested with lice. When I witnessed their method of washing by thrashing the clothes against stones in the paddy water and saw the condition of the houses, I realized I had a fortunate escape from what might or could have been. Clearly we could not rely on any outside laundry facilities and we engaged the services of a Korean room boy to take care of the hut cleaning, with a stove to provide a constant supply of hot water for washing and our laundry. The base Post Exchange (PX) together with a larger PX at our main supply and servicing base at Tsuiki in Japan provided most things we required, and as far as I was concerned it was the means by which I maintained a constant replenishment of shirts, socks and underwear. The PX also provided such luxuries as cameras, binoculars, watches, radios and record players at discounted prices and would order from the US any special items requested. A small portable record player and a small collection of long playing records was a particular pleasure for me, and I even carried it with me on R&R trips to Japan. In Korea when England, home and beauty was so very far away, lying on my iron cot listening to Mozart, Beethoven or Brahms was not only a pleasure but a comfort. In more sentimental mood a Puccini extract from ‘La Boheme’, ‘Tosca’ or more appropriately ‘Madama Butterfly’, would fill the bill. There was, however, one peculiarity that would not have appealed to the musical purist in that the voltage and hertz in Korea was less than in Japan or the US, consequently a long playing 33 rpm record had to be played on the 45 rpm setting to achieve a nearer rendition of the original sound track.

  Some of my more lasting memories of living at Kimpo are regretfully olfactory and lavatorial. One was continuously aware of living among the surrounding paddy fields, except perhaps in winter when the paddy was covered with ice. There was a daily ordeal in performing the normal bodily functions carried out in an impressive outhouse for twenty; reserved for the exclusive use of the officers of the 4th FIG. Between breakfast and the morning briefing it was fully occupied and after waiting in line for a vacant seat, one developed quite differing impressions while seated face to face, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder with one’s comrades at arms. Identification was often uncertain with the outhouse filled with dense clouds of defensive cigar smoke. During the summer months it was a particularly trying olfactory ordeal; and during the winter months the ritual while dressed as Eskimo in arctic clothing presented additional difficulties requiring the talents of Houdini. One particularly nasty experience to avoid was being present when the Korean ‘honey bucket wagon’ arrived and the long side flaps of the outhouse opened with a clang. The ensuing icy blast of arctic air may have been refreshing; but it also presented a distinct danger of mutilation or frost bite in the nether regions. There was, therefore, a definite advantage in knowing the timetable for the ‘honey wagon express’.

  More lasting and irritating problems were due to the constant sweating when dressed in survival suits in winter or in normal flying gear during the heat and humidity of summer. This resulted in constant skin problems that became aggravated during the summer months when torrential monsoon rains washed out our water supply, depriving us of washing water and showering facilities. There were occasions when the supply of one personal canteen of heavily chlorinated drinking water a day had to suffice during the day for drinking, cleaning teeth and other bodily ablutions. On two occasions this lasted for more than a week and we were lucky when a water wagon arrived enabling us to bathe under a water hose. For the rest of the time we waited for a convenient thunderstorm to take a shower in the rain. I had one particularly unpleasant experience while taking a shower from a visiting water bowser when, after I had completely soaped up, the bowser ran dry. Trying to remove the caked soap from my body with my meagre ration of drinking water was an ordeal not accomplished until I traded several cans of beer for a canteen of water. It was on these occasions that the beer sales increased considerably in the officers’ club. The skin rashes that resulted from flying under these conditions were difficult to clear up and lasted for some time after I left Korea.

  I rarely flew more than once a day and for the remainder of the time, unless released for the day, my time was spent at the squadron dispersal or on the alert strip. Occasionally if the weather was fine I would draw a shotgun from the armoury and spend some time on the skeet and trap shooting range. About once a month I would take an aircraft, preferably my own, down to the firing butts to harmonize the guns and the gun sight. The six 0.50-calibre Browning guns were bore sighted on a target to converge at 1,000 feet. On one occasion while waiting to put my aircraft on the firing base I watched the testing of another aircraft. A short burst of fire came from a machine-gun after which an airman marking the target stepped out of a bunker to check the target. As the airman marked the target a hot round in the gun fired and the 0.5 inch solid round hit the airman high in the thigh near the groin, sending him spinning like a top for several feet. The bullet passed through the upper leg causing a massive wound and severed the femoral artery. Despite efforts to staunch the spurting blood while unable to apply a tourniquet, the man died before reaching the base hospital.

  As if to illustrate that death was often at hand without flying, I witnessed another accident shortly afterwards that was equally avoidable if more dramatic. The crew chiefs on the flight line often called on us to check out some servicing on an aircraft by ground running an engine and clear a fault written up in the Form One. It was a fine day as I sat outside the squadron dispersal talking with one of the pilots while another carried out a ground run on his aircraft. Suddenly, I saw one of the ground crew walk across the front of the F-86 and disappear. The engine running near full power at the time then exploded with a loud bang and the pilot shut it down and jumped out expecting an engine fire from the disintegrating turbine. I ran over to the aircraft and asked after the airman, but it appeared I was the only one who witnessed the incident and neither the pilot nor the crew chief was aware of what had taken place, until they realized the man was missing and that the engine intake guard was not in place for the engine run. This was contrary to standing orders and it was the responsibility of the person doing the engine run to see it was in place before starting the engine. Nothing could be found of the unfortunate airman and after towing the aircraft to the squadron hanger they removed the engine. Following a complete dismantling of the engine, two of the wing doctors spent several hours scraping every compressor blade in the axial flow turbine to accumulate enough human material to fill a small box for burial. The accident was quite unnecessary and due entirely to carelessness on the part of the pilot and the crew chief for not seeing that the safety guard was in place, and by the airman in walking in front of the aircraft during an engine run. However, the suction at the engine intake is so great at high rpm that even with the engine intake guard in place severe injury can occur and even death from asphyxiation if drawn against the intake. This was the second time I had seen a jet engine ingest a man and fortunately, it proved to be the last.

  I was always careful while eating and drinking in Korea, but sometime during April I developed a particularly severe case of the ‘runs’ that made flying difficult and stressful. Overseas it was not unusual to suffer from loose bowels due to changes in
diet and the water supply. The only ones immune to the problem and the local god’s revenge were those who stuck rigidly to an intake of gin or whisky. Although I was susceptible to the problem I limited my alcoholic intake, as I hated flying hung-over. Beer consumption could be a problem overseas as beer produced for warmer climes contained a percentage of glycerine as an inhibitor, and this acted as an intestinal lubricant. However, on this occasion I started losing weight rapidly, with a looseness of the skin that indicated severe dehydration. The squadron flight surgeon after some tests diagnosed typhoid fever and shipped me off to the USAF hospital on the other side of the airfield. This was a considerable shock to me as no one else on the squadron seemed to be affected. I attributed it to a ferry trip to Japan where I may not have been so circumspect in my eating and drinking. My doctors asked to which hospital in Japan I wished to be evacuated to and I elected to go to the British hospital at the main Commonwealth forces base near Kure in Japan: the British military hospitals were less egalitarian than the US military hospitals. My evacuation process was delayed due to an influx of casualties from the front and in the meantime the doctors started me on a course of auromycin; a new antibiotic of the tetracycline group that proved to be very effective against typhoid. The result was dramatic and after a week, although I felt very weak, I elected to return to the squadron where the squadron doctor grounded me for two weeks. In discussing my ailment with an RAF colleague flying with No. 77 RAAF Squadron on Meteors, he confessed that he suffered constantly with the same problem. On one occasion during an interdiction sortie in North Korea he felt unable to control himself before landing back at Kimpo. Trimming the aircraft he released the seat and parachute harnesses, and while attempting to undress, partially standing up he continued to fly the aircraft. Spreading his map on his seat he attempted to relieve himself. I expressed incredulity at his attempt to achieve a feat not even the great Houdini himself had attempted. I said he was fortunate the Migs were not flying that far south. My friend replied his most satisfactory accomplishment was to leave his map behind for the North Koreans to read. I mention this vignette to illustrate the fact that not all our flying operations and their associated problems were routine.