As each aircraft was modified, it was taken up by Yeoman, Thornes or one of the Squadron’s experienced pilots for an acceptance check. One of the pilots employed in this way was Flight Lieutenant Peter Sweeney, who was now ‘A’ Flight Commander and Dick Thornes’ deputy. He took off in a Meteor one day to make a practice rocket-firing sortie against a target off the east coast and returned to Taegu in an American rescue helicopter, dripping wet, bruised and severely shaken.
He had been circling the target area at about two thousand feet, with everything going absolutely as it should, when without any warning at all his ejection seat had blasted him out of the aircraft, straight through the cockpit canopy.
‘All I remember,’ he told Yeoman and Thornes, ‘was that I had my right hand on the stick and my left on the throttle, so I couldn’t have accidentally pulled either of the seat firing handles. Next thing I knew, there was a hell of a thump and I think I must have blacked out, because I found myself dangling under my parachute with the Meteor doing steep turns around me. It must have circled me five or six times before it dived into the sea. I never want to see a Meteor that close again, from the outside,’ he added ruefully.
‘I’ll have to convene an inquiry,’ Thornes told him. ‘It’ll take at least seventy-two hours, so in the meantime I’m sending you off to Tokyo for a spot of rest and recuperation, as our American friends would say. Don’t get run over by a bus.’
The inquiry was duly held, and Sweeney, looking much fresher on his return from Tokyo and with only slight backache and a black eye to remind him of his accident, was absolved of all blame. No one ever found out why the seat had fired, but everyone agreed that Sweeney had been extremely lucky.
Sweeney’s accident was the only setback in the programme of air-to-ground firing practice. Most of the pilots already had considerable ground attack experience with Mustangs, but it took some of them a while to get used to the Meteor’s relatively high speed when engaged on this kind of work. Nevertheless, within two weeks every pilot on the squadron was achieving an accuracy of ninety per cent, with both bombs and rockets. It was the best they could hope to obtain — far better than average, in fact-and in mid October the Squadron was declared fully operational in its new role. Almost immediately afterwards, Fifth Air Force HQ ordered it up to Kimpo, which was much closer to the Thirty-Eighth Parallel and consequently to potential targets in North Korea.
The Australians welcomed the move, not only because it brought the promise of more action, but also it was the home of 493’s sister squadron, No. 77, whose Meteors were still engaged in fighter sweeps over ‘MiG Alley’.
Kimpo was also used as a forward base by squadrons of USAF F-80 Shooting Star and F-84 Thunderjet fighter-bombers, and the Australians who had been there for some time were not slow to entertain their newly-arrived friends with hair-raising tales about the Americans and their modus operandi.
‘They always seem to have a lot of trouble getting airborne when the weather’s hot,’ one of No. 77’s flight commanders told Yeoman. ‘The runway here’s not very long, and although we’ve never had any bother ourselves the Yanks seem to pile themselves up in the overshoot area two or three times a week.’
In fact, the term ‘overshoot area’ — the strip of dead ground at the end of the runway, on which aircraft were supposed to be able to stop if they aborted a take-off for some reason-was an unfair description, when applied to the facilities at Kimpo. There wasn’t one. The runway-itself a rough strip, cratered again and again earlier in the year by United Nations air attack, and repaired so many times that hardly any of the original surface remained-terminated abruptly in a drainage ditch, apparently deliberately constructed to wipe the undercarriage off any aircraft that came into contact with it.
It seemed to be very effective, Yeoman thought, as he toured the airfield later to see how much it had altered since his last visit in January, because the adjacent paddy fields were piled high with rusting metal, the smashed remains of airframes and engines. Surmounting one pile, like a tombstone, was the huge fin of a B-29; Yeoman wondered if it was the last relic of Colonel Timms’ B-29, but he had no means of knowing for certain.
‘One Yank Shooting Star pilot gave me a hell of a fright once,’ the 77 Squadron flight commander said. ‘I was sitting at the runway intersection with my number two, waiting for a section of F-80s to take off; they were carrying a full weapons load, and I was laying bets with myself on whether they’d make it or not. Well, the first one got off all right, albeit with a bit of a struggle, but the other chap must have had second thoughts, because when he was half-way down the runway he suddenly jettisoned his entire load — wing tanks, couple of thousand-pounders, the bloody lot. They went bouncing down the runway, right past our nose ends, while the F-80 went bounding into the air like something out of a catapult.’
‘Wasn’t the only time it happened, either,’ another pilot commented. ‘They had some fun and games with the F-84s, too. Seems that if a pilot made a really hard landing, the guns would fire. First time it happened, the poor old GCA controller was sitting in his caravan, minding his own business, when he heard this funny crackling noise. He went outside to have a look, realized it was bullets from an F-84 that had just crunched down at the other end of the runway, and dived under his van. Had to coax him out with a saucer of milk.’
‘Yeah,’ said the flight commander, still recalling the sight of a thousand-pound bomb hurtling past his aeroplane, ‘those F-80 jockeys had their problems, all right. It’s not so bad, now that the weather’s cooler.’ He looked at Yeoman thoughtfully. ‘Wonder how the old Meteor’ll get on with a full load? Tell you one thing, sir, you want to watch out for the spots where they’ve filled up the holes in the runway. The surface has subsided in quite a few places. Could be nasty, if you run into one of ’em with a full load.’
‘We’ll be careful,’ Yeoman promised, and changed the subject. ‘How’s the night life in Seoul these days?’
‘Seoul isn’t there any more,’ the flight commander told him. ‘Well, put it this way — there’s a bloody great mound of rubble where Seoul used to be. The University building is still in one piece, but that’s about all. Some of the blokes hitch-hike down there when they’re off duty, God knows why. Maybe they know something I don’t.’
It seemed that the Communists were aware of 493 Squadron’s move to Kimpo, because on the night of the Australians’ arrival the airfield was raided by two PO-2 biplanes, the first time this had happened for several weeks. They dropped a few fragmentation bombs, one of which slightly damaged an F-80.
Most of Kimpo’s personnel took cover during the raid, not because of the danger from the enemy bombs, which was minimal, but because of the shrapnel spewed across the airfield from the shell-bursts of Kimpo’s anti-aircraft defences. The Americans had set up batteries of 90-mm guns all around the perimeter and these opened up with an ear-shattering din. Powerful searchlights, probing the darkness, fastened on one of the intruders; Yeoman, peering up from a slit trench, saw it clearly, looking like a tiny white moth, fluttering this way and that as it tried vainly to escape the glare and the shells that bracketed it.
Suddenly, something broke away from the aircraft and it came spiralling down, still followed by the searchlights. It crashed beyond a cluster of ruined stone buildings, accompanied by a crunch that made Yeoman wince in sympathy for the crew.
There had been two men in the PO-2; one of them, the pilot, was dead, his brains spattered all over the instrument panel. The other, who presumably had dropped the bombs, had been thrown out of the rear cockpit on impact and had miraculously survived, although his legs were badly smashed up and he had a splinter wound in one shoulder.
Out of curiosity, Yeoman went to have a look at him as he lay in Kimpo’s sick quarters. He was a North Korean, not Chinese, and he looked no more than seventeen, although he was in fact twenty-four and had twice been decorated for successfully completing several similar missions.
He was conscious whe
n Yeoman visited him, and stared at the RAF officer with black, impassive eyes that revealed no trace of feeling. As he was leaving, Yeoman called in to see the medical officer, a grey-haired US Army major who had been called up to serve for the duration of hostilities, and found him engaged in a heated argument with two officers of the army of the Republic of Korea. When Yeoman appeared, they saluted stiffly and left, anger plain to see on their oriental features.
‘What was eating those two?’ Yeoman wanted to know.
The major sighed. ‘They wanted the prisoner,’ he said. ‘I told them he was too sick to be moved, and we had something of an argument. Even if he’d been fit, I don’t think I’d have turned him over to them. I know their methods.’
‘You mean they’d have tortured him?’
The major nodded. ‘Most certainly. And after they’d found out what they could, they’d have killed him. Mind you, he’d probably have done the same to them, given different circumstances. Koreans are cruel bastards, no matter which side of the Parallel they come from. Ask anyone who had ’em as prison camp guards during the last war.’
‘But you’ll have to hand him over sooner or later?’
‘I guess so,’ the major said. ‘They’ll be back, armed with some bit of paper signed by some goddam general who doesn’t know what goes on, and that will be that. I don’t give much for the kid’s chances.’
Neither, apparently, did the young North Korean. That night, he tore a strip from one of his sheets and strangled himself.
Chapter Eight
‘ABLE SECTION, ROLLING.’
Four pairs of Derwent turbojets howled as the Meteors gathered speed down the runway, shuddering from time to time as their undercarriages struck a rough patch, their wheels sending cascades of spray drifting through the air. It had been raining heavily, and much of Kimpo was waterlogged.
‘Baker Section, rolling.’
The first four Meteors lifted away cleanly, well short of the runway’s end despite the load of sixteen 90-pound rocket projectiles each aircraft was carrying. The second section of four machines thundered behind.
‘Charlie Section, rolling.’
The smell of kerosene drifted across the airfield. Near some buildings, a fair-sized group of Americans-the personnel of one of the F-84 squadrons-had assembled, huddled against the cold, to watch the British jets; a formation take-off by a squadron of Meteors was an impressive sight, and invariably attracted an audience.
‘Dog Section, rolling.’
The last four Meteors sped down the runway, their silver fuselages gleaming dully in the wan late October sunlight, and climbed away to join the other twelve. The noise over Kimpo was deafening; it would have needed a mass take-off by thirty-two Thunderjets to create a similar din.
Yeoman was flying in the lead position, at the head of Able Section. It was a generous gesture on the part of Dick Thornes, who had pointed out that as the RAF wing commander had done so much to bring the Squadron to its present level of efficiency, he should have the privilege of leading it on its first ground-attack mission.
Yeoman pressed the R/T button. ‘Sixty-five seconds, Anzac. Good show.’
The sixteen Meteors set course north-westwards, with half a mile between each section of four aircraft. High overhead, the sky was a mass of contrails, all heading north towards MiG Alley. Yeoman had never seen so many Sabres airborne at one time. There were now two F-86 Wings in Korea: the 4th and 51st, the latter having recently converted from Shooting Stars. There would soon be a third, for the Wing commanded by Jim Callender had gone to Japan to exchange its weary F-86As for the more modern F-86E, the latest version of the American jet fighter.
Those distant contrails represented the biggest challenge thrown up so far against the enemy MiGs. The latter had been aggressive of late, with up to ninety MiGs crossing the Yalu in two separate trains and heading south to rendezvous over Pyongyang before returning to their bases in Manchuria, detaching flights as they went to attack United Nations aircraft as the opportunity arose-the favourite targets being Sabres or fighter-bombers on their way home, short of fuel. As the MiG train approached the Yalu once more, the Communists themselves now low on fuel, more MiGs would cross the river to cover their withdrawal.
It was vital that the enemy should not be given the chance to use such tactics today, which was why as many Sabres as Fifth Air Force could muster were heading hell-bent for MiG Alley. For on this October morning, United Nations fighter-bombers-including the sixteen Meteors of No. 493 Squadron-were setting out to deliver the heaviest blow so far to North Korea’s industry.
The targets were four major hydro-electric plants at Sui-ho, Fusen, Choshin and Kyusen, and the operation was to be a joint effort between the Fifth Air Force’s land-based fighter-bombers and carrier aircraft-nearly two hundred machines in all.
Everything depended on perfect timing, with the strike aircraft scheduled to hit their targets at almost exactly the same time so that the enemy defences would not have a chance to react. The pressure would be kept up after dark by B-29s from Okinawa, and there would be more fighter-bomber attacks the next day.
The target assigned to 493 Squadron was the power station at Sui-ho, which was to be hit in conjunction with naval strike aircraft from the American Task Force 77. It was potentially the most dangerous objective of all, for there were 250 MiG-15s less than forty miles away, across the Yalu at Antung.
There were four separate installations at Sui-ho; one of them was to be attacked by the rocket-armed Meteors, the other three by the Naval aircraft. Because of the need for surprise, the Meteors’ route to the target from Kimpo had been worked out very carefully by Yeoman and Thornes; it involved crossing the north-east coast of Korea to the south of Chinnampo, dropping to low level over the Korean Bay, making rendezvous with the Naval aircraft at exactly the right spot over the sea, and then turning in for the final run to the target.
Flying low over the sea was exhilarating, although it consumed a great deal of precious fuel. There would not be much in reserve if the squadron were attacked during or after the strike; it would be a case of throttle open and run for friendly territory, without staying to fight. Yeoman hoped fervently that the screen of Sabres would be enough to keep the MiGs at bay.
A cluster of dark specks, like a flight of migratory birds, appeared low over the western horizon. Yeoman relaxed a little; the carrier aircraft were right on time. There were fifty of them, a mixed formation of McDonnell Banshee and Grumman Panther jets.
Cautiously, for the Americans were bound to be a little nervous this close to MiG Alley, he led the Meteor formation towards them, climbing a little so that the Navy pilots would see his sixteen aircraft in good time. Strict radio silence was in force until they entered the target area, so everything depended on visual contact.
He brought the formation round in a broad curve and tucked the Meteors in on the starboard side of the Navy jets, adjusting his speed to match theirs. Together, the sixty-six fighter-bombers sped in towards the enemy coast.
Five minutes later they were thundering across the mouth of the Yalu, with Chinese territory just a couple of miles away on their port side. The waterlogged paddyfields of the coastal strip flashed under their wings, and flak sprayed at them from an emplacement near a road junction. It was wide of the mark, and they ignored it.
Finding Sui-ho presented no navigational problems, for the huge reservoir, its waters held in check by one of the biggest dams in Asia, was visible for miles away. The fighter-bombers’ targets lay in the valley below, and were defended by forty-four heavy guns and thirty-seven automatic weapons.
Dealing with the latter was the responsibility of a squadron of Panthers, whose pilots now opened their throttles and sent their aircraft streaking ahead of the main formation with dark smoke trails streaming from their jet exhausts. From reconnaissance photographs, they had memorized the position of every flak battery around the hydro-electric plant, and now they were going for the enemy weapons with rocket and
machine-gun fire.
Yeoman had already picked out the sprawling complex of Sui-ho’s No. 1 Plant, the target assigned to the Meteors. It was the farthest away of the four, at the eastern end of the valley. He called the other Meteors; there was no longer any point in keeping radio silence.
‘Anzac, target ahead, one o’clock, three miles. Attack in pairs, line astern.’
The Meteors slipped into attack formation, with Yeoman and Pete Sweeney in the lead. Flak was starting to come up, but it was inaccurate. The flak suppression Panthers were doing a fine job; out of the corner of his eye Yeoman could see a couple of them streaking low over the hills, preceded by the smoke trails of their rockets.
The target seemed to leap towards Yeoman’s Meteor, which was doing close on 500 mph. He had selected a full salvo of sixteen rockets-the equivalent of a broadside from a cruiser-and had briefed the other pilots to do the same.
The big transformer building was centred squarely between the luminous diamonds of his sight. He pressed the firing button, and felt the Meteor give the mildest of shudders as the rockets hissed from the rails under the wings and leaped ahead of the aircraft, glowing coals that dwindled as they converged on the target.
The rockets seemed to hang poised for an instant, then erupted on and around the building in a ripple of smoke and flame. Off to the right, Yeoman caught a brief glimpse of Sweeney’s rockets blasting a cluster of huts which were surmounted by some sort of aerial arrangement. Wood and concrete debris burst upwards as the two Meteors sped through the top of the burgeoning smoke clouds and the pilots pulled hard on their control columns to avoid the flying wreckage, for even the smallest piece of wood ingested by one of the thundering Derwent turbojets at this height and speed would probably prove fatal.
Korean Combat (Yeoman Series) Page 10
