The next morning, the Australians at Iwakuni were at last released for offensive operations. For three days, Yeoman and his team flew intensively, attacking enemy troops and transport wherever they could be found; the sorties were flown either in conjunction with the Australian squadrons in Korea or with American F-80 units. And for three days the Chinese came on, to be smashed by napalm or rocket fire or shot down in their hundreds by the defenders.
On the morning of the fourth day, Yeoman led three pilots on an escort mission over the Imjin. On this occasion the Mustangs carried no bombs or rockets; the pilots’ orders were simply to ensure that a squadron of transport aircraft, which should be coming up with vital supplies of ammunition at Solma-ri, made their drop without interference from enemy aircraft.
The four Mustangs orbited the drop zone in a broad, lazy circle, the sun glittering sharply on their silver wings and the perspex of their cockpit canopies. The aircraft bore no camouflage; nothing broke their natural metal finish except a black anti-dazzle patch painted on top of the engine cowling, directly in front of the windscreen, and the red, white and blue roundels stamped on their wings and fuselage sides.
The Mustangs flew in pairs, as was the normal procedure. As the minutes ticked by, Yeoman began to scan the southern horizon with growing anxiety; the aircraft they were supposed to protect should have been in sight some time ago. But Yeoman was under orders not to break radio silence, so all he could do was go on circling, and waiting. He wondered how the men on the ground were faring, and was puzzled by the absence of smoke. On every other occasion when he had flown over the battlefield, the Chinese positions had been clearly marked by smoke from the British artillery, dug in some miles to the rear; today, however, there was nothing.
Yeoman’s number two suddenly came up close alongside, waggling his wings, motioning towards the south with a gloved hand. Yeoman looked in the direction indicated and gave a sigh of relief as he picked out the silvery shapes of four Fairchild C-119 transports, distinctive with their twin tail booms, crawling across the drab background a few thousand feet lower down.
There was no longer any need, he reasoned, to keep radio silence. Pressing the R/T button, he briefly ordered his pilots to fly over to the north bank of the Imjin and patrol there, placing themselves between the transport aircraft and any possible threat. Then, with one eye on the northern sky and the other on the C-119s, he settled down to watch the air drop.
It never happened. Even as he watched, the four transports altered course, wheeling ponderously around one after the other until they were flying in the opposite direction. Hastily, Yeoman scanned the sky to see what danger might be approaching, but there was nothing; the northern horizon was empty, apart from a few drifting vapour trails at high altitude.
Yeoman reached out for his radio selector switch, changing frequency to that of the Tactical Air Control Centre at Taegu, as he had been instructed to do in the event of a problem developing.
‘Mellow, this is Anzac Purple. Big Truck is aborting. I say again, Big Truck is aborting. Request instructions.’
There was only a short delay before the TACC controller came on the air, his mid-west accent sounding quite unruffled.
‘Anzac Purple from Mellow, Roger. Return to base. Acknowledge.’
Yeoman did so, and the four Mustangs swung away from the Imjin, pointing their shark-like noses to the south. In the cockpit of the leading machine, as he set course for Iwakuni, the wing commander wrinkled his brow beneath the leather of his flying helmet. The supply drop had been cancelled, and that could mean only one thing. The battle for the Imjin river crossings was over, and it had not been won by 29th Brigade.
Nevertheless, as Yeoman learned later, the action of 29th Brigade-and especially that of the Gloucester Regiment, which was later described by General James Van Fleet, commander of the US Eighth Army, as ‘the most outstanding example of unit bravery in modern warfare’ — had effectively saved the left flank of Eighth Army’s 1st Corps, making possible an orderly retreat down the road to Seoul. Not only that; it had disrupted the entire timetable of the Chinese offensive, robbing it of its momentum. In three days of savage fighting, 29th Brigade-which had been contemptuously dubbed the ‘Old Men’s Brigade’ by other UN troops when it had first arrived in Korea, because much of it was composed of reservist veterans of the Second World War-had destroyed a complete Chinese division.
By the end of April, the Eighth Army had established a new defensive line running across the Korean peninsula from Seoul to Sabangu, and then on to Taepo-ri on the east coast. That same day, the Communists made a last desperate attempt to reach Seoul along the Inchon road by ferrying six thousand assault troops across the Han estuary, but this was broken up by concentrated attacks.
On the following day, 1 May 1951, the Chinese forces began to pull back. Their offensive had gained just thirty-five miles of ground and it had cost them at least seventy thousand casualties; the United Nations had suffered only a tenth as many.
That same morning the two Australian squadrons were finally declared operational on the Meteor Mk 8. No. 77 Squadron, to the pilots’ intense chagrin, was ordered to remain in Japan for a further period while its aircraft were fitted with new radio compasses, but within twenty-four hours No. 493 was on the move to Taegu, code-named K-2, which the squadron was to share with the F-84 Thunderjets of the USAF’s 49th Fighter-Bomber Group.
Yeoman and one of the other RAF instructors, Flight Lieutenant Geoffrey Benson, went with the squadron. Yeoman was well pleased with the way the conversion programme had been handled, although there had been one fatality when the starboard turbine of one of the Meteors had inexplicably exploded shortly after the aircraft took off, causing it to roll violently and plunge into the ground. There had been no chance for the pilot to eject.
It was not long before the squadron was pitched into action. Less than forty-eight hours after its arrival at Taegu, eight Meteors were detailed to provide top cover for an attack on Sinuiju airfield, which the communists had just repaired after heavy B-29 attacks, by the 49th Wing’s Thunderjets. One flight of Meteors, callsign Anzac Able, was led by 493 Squadron’s commanding officer, Squadron Leader Richard Thornes; the other, Anzac Baker, was led by Yeoman, who was anxious to participate in what might be the Meteor’s first jet combat.
It was a classic operation. While the Meteors patrolled south of the Yalu at twenty thousand feet, the Thunderjets swept down on Sinuiju like a whirlwind and raked the airfield with rocket and machine-gun fire from end to end before climbing hard to join the Australians. The defences on Sinuiju had not fired a shot. Tall columns of black smoke, rising from the carcases of wrecked aircraft, were witness to the effectiveness of the Americans’ attack.
From their vantage point south of the river, Yeoman and the other pilots had seen the drifting dust clouds that betrayed the take-off of large numbers of MiG-15s from their Manchurian bases. Contrails had begun to develop north of the river a few minutes later, and the Meteor pilots had nerved themselves to meet the expected onslaught.
It never came. The pilots watched the enemy aircraft manoeuvring on the other side of the river, but there they stayed, showing no aggressive intentions at all. The Meteors and Thunderjets went on patrolling for a time, ‘trailing their coats’ provocatively, but it was soon clear that on this occasion the communists had no desire to join battle. Disappointedly, the Americans and Australians flew back to Taegu.
Thunderstorms brought a halt to air operations for thirty-six hours, but then the weather cleared and, for the first time, No. 493 Squadron was detailed to provide fighter cover for Commonwealth fighter-bombers-the Sea Furies and Fireflies of the Royal Navy, operating from the aircraft carrier HMS Glory.
On 7 May Glory-which had replaced HMS Theseus as the central unit of the British Task Force some time earlier-launched two squadrons of Sea Furies and one of Fireflies against bridge and road targets near Chinnampo, in northwest Korea. Twelve of No. 493 Squadron’s Meteors provided close
escort while a screen of faster F-86 Sabres patrolled farther to the north; Yeoman and the other jet pilots had a clear view of the Navy machines sweeping in from the sea, hurtling towards their objectives through a speckle of anti-aircraft bursts.
The Sea Furies went in first, and as he watched them Yeoman felt a brief nostalgia, for the powerful piston-engined aircraft were the latest in a long line of first-class types produced by the Hawker company-a line that ran in direct descent through the Hurricane and Tempest, both of which Yeoman had flown in action.
With a top speed of over 450 miles an hour the Sea Fury was one of the fastest piston-engined fighter-bombers in the world, and the Meteor pilots looked on admiringly as their Fleet Air Arm colleagues went flat out for their objectives, boring on through flak that was growing denser with every passing second. It seemed impossible that the fighter-bombers could get through, and yet they did, to blast their targets with bombs and rockets. They attacked in pairs, weaving away at high speed as soon as they had released their missiles, and as one aircraft turned steeply, showing its underbelly, Yeoman caught a glimpse of the black-and-white stripes that had been painted on the under surfaces of its wings as an aid to identification. Allied aircraft had carried the same stripes at the time of the D-Day landings in June 1944.
After the Sea Furies came the Fireflies, slower than the Hawker aircraft but effective nontheless. Unlike the Sea Fury, the Firefly had entered service with the Royal Navy in time to see combat during the Second World War; Yeoman recalled that in the summer of 1944, Fireflies had been used to attack the German battleship Tirpitz as she lurked in a Norwegian fjord, several months before RAF Lancasters had finally put paid to her.
The Fireflies zoomed low through the smoke that shrouded the target area from the Sea Furies’ bombs and rockets and proceeded to give anything that even vaguely resembled a military target a thorough working over with their cannon. Five minutes later, their task completed, they climbed away and set course for their carrier base. Yeoman saw that one aircraft had been hit and was trailing smoke; it was shepherded by two others as it headed out to sea. If the machine had to ditch, Yeoman was in no doubt that the two-man crew would be quickly picked up by one of HMS Glory's rescue helicopters.
Although Chinnampo was within easy reach of the MiG bases to the north, none of the Russian-built jets made an appearance to challenge the Fleet Air Arm strike, and the Meteors returned to base at Taegu with their guns unfired. Later, in the bar, Yeoman expressed the thought to Dick Thornes that the enemy was definitely up to something, for the Sabre pilots had once again sighted large numbers of MiGs manoeuvring on the other side of the Yalu without making any attempt to attack.
The next morning’s operation was what Yeoman and his fellow fighter pilots would have called a ‘big show’ just a few years earlier. It was not an escort mission this time, but a major fighter sweep along the north-west sector of the Yalu, involving fifty Sabres stepped up at altitudes of between 25,000 and 30,000 feet, and No. 493 Squadron’s Meteors lower down, between 18,000 and 20,000 feet.
On the way north the Meteors were overtaken by the Sabres, streaming their contrails over the deep blue of the sky. It was a magnificent sight, and Yeoman felt a sudden brief emotion well up inside him. Those silver darts speeding across the heavens, each trailing its white streamer, were far removed from the Mustangs, Thunderbolts and Lightnings with which the Americans had taken the war deep into Germany less than a decade ago; but the men who rode them were the same, cheerfully aggressive and supremely confident of their abilities.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden crackle of a voice on the radio frequency used by the Meteor squadron. From high above, one of the Sabre pilots had recognized the distinctive shapes of the British jets.
‘Anzac Squadron from Bad Hat. That you down there, George?’
Yeoman grinned behind his oxygen mask, recognizing Callender’s drawl, and could not resist a joke.
‘Who’s that up there, saying who’s that down there? As if I didn’t know. Good morning, Jim. Any chance of hitching a lift?’
Callender chuckled over the R/T. ‘We’ll leave a few for you, George. Take care of your ass.’
‘You too, Jim. Anzac, out.’
Another voice intervened, that of the American ground controller who was directing the operation. ‘Anzac and Bad Hat aircraft, clear the frequency. I repeat, clear the frequency.’
Yeoman heard Callender blow a loud raspberry into his microphone, and laughed.
Over the south bank of the river, the Sabres and Meteors turned on to parallel courses. Sixty-two pairs of eyes scanned the Antung airfield complex for signs of movement. It was not long before they were rewarded by the sight of the now-familiar dust clouds.
Yeoman watched as the MiGs, looking like tiny black arrowheads at this distance, paired up on take-off and went into their snake-like climbing routine, the leading machines beginning to stream vapour trails as they passed twenty thousand feet. Over the north bank of the Yalu the MiGs assembled into squadrons and then circled slowly while others climbed up and joined the flock. Yeoman counted at least seventy fighters and knew, from a feeling deep inside his gut, that this was going to be a big one.
‘Watch out, Anzac,’ he said quietly over the R/T. ‘Here they come. Five, seven, ten of ’em, two o’clock high.’
The Meteors and the Sabres, higher up, were flying in a westerly direction and the MiGs were coming down at them from a point high on the starboard quarter. Yeoman, watching the enemy’s movements, suddenly realized that this particular bunch of MiGs was heading for the rearmost flight of Sabres, curving round astern of it as though aiming to box in the Americans. The latter were taking no evasive action, and Yeoman hurriedly switched to their radio frequency.
‘Bad Hat rear sections from Anzac, watch your six. Bandits coming down from six o’clock.’
The reply was laconic. ‘Okay, Anzac, thanks. We’d got ’em already.’
Yeoman craned his neck in an effort to peer above and behind. The rear part of the Meteor’s transparent cockpit canopy was obscured by a fairing, which made it virtually impossible to see rearwards through a dangerous thirty-degree angle. Switching back to the Australian squadron’s frequency, he was just in time to hear an urgent yell from Thornes, who was leading Anzac Charlie-the rear flight of four Meteors.
‘Thirty plus, coming down hard from twelve o’clock!’
Jesus, Yeoman thought in a flash, where did they come from? Then, just as quickly, he realized what had happened.
A few moments earlier, when he had alerted the Americans to the danger on their tails, he had spotted another formation of Sabres, flying some distance ahead of the main body on a parallel course. But now he knew that they had not been Sabres at all, but MiG-15s, cleverly stalking the United Nations aircraft and awaiting their opportunity to strike. It came when their comrades attacked the Sabres from astern, causing a diversion that momentarily distracted the UN pilots’ attention.
The diving MiGs suddenly split into three sections, one of which disappeared below the noses of the Meteors. The other two came out of their dives and turned away briefly before closing in once more, circling, their aim apparently to get astern of the Meteors.
‘Baker and Charlie Sections, take the port and starboard MiGs,’ Yeoman ordered crisply.’ Keep turning into them. Able Section, follow me.’
He put the Meteor into a steep diving turn, followed by the other three aircraft of his section. As he did so, he switched quickly to the frequency and made a short radio call.
‘Bad Hat from Anzac, we’re going to need some help down here.’
The reply came without hesitation. ‘Roger, Anzac. Be right with you. Hold on.’
Yeoman, still followed by the others, came out of the diving turn and twisted his aircraft to left and right, looking for the MiGs that had dived under the Meteor formation. Unlike the Sabres and Meteors, the MiGs were camouflaged, which made them difficult to spot from above. It took him a few seco
nds before he found them, and saw that they had split up into pairs, each pair now climbing hard towards the Sabres high above, which by this time were twisting and turning in battle with more MiGs which had come arrowing down across the river.
Yeoman made another call on the Sabres’ frequency, warning the Americans of the danger from below, and knew at once that his Meteors would have no chance of catching up with the enemy, still under the impetus of a dive whose speed had taken them close to Mach 1. Quickly, he ordered his section into action in support of Anzac Baker and Anzac Charlie, who were having a hard time of it.
One of Anzac Charlie’s Meteors was already going down like a stone, pouring white smoke, its outline shaken by a ripple of exploding fuel tanks. The pilot, Warrant Officer Garthside, had bailed out and was now falling in his ejection seat towards the North Korean landscape, far below. He would automatically separate from the seat at ten thousand feet, where his parachute would open and lower him reasonably gently into captivity. A distress call had already been put out, and if the wind carried Garthside sufficiently near to the coast it was just possible that he might be picked up by a rescue helicopter from Task Force 77, but Yeoman doubted it. There were too many enemy troops in that part of the world for the shot-down pilot to evade capture for long.
Yeoman fired a burst of 20-mm at a MiG that fleeted across his nose, but missed by a wide margin. The enemy fighters were infernally fast, and were coming in from all directions. Their high speed margin gave the enemy pilots every opportunity to choose their pattern of attack with plenty of time in hand, and also enabled them to break away and dash to safety if they were threatened.
It was a strange, unreal kind of combat, at speeds such as these. In the cockpits of the jet fighters, friend and foe alike, there was little sound, except for the humming of the electrics, the harsh whisper of the slipstream against the fuselage, the faint hiss and crackle of the radio and the pilots’ own laboured breathing. The noise of the thundering turbojets was far behind, lost in the wake among the seething vapour trails.
Korean Combat (Yeoman Series) Page 5
