Korean Combat (Yeoman Series)

by Robert Jackson

  This strengthened the belief of United Nations Command that General Krylenko was holding his best pilots in reserve until the final assault before dark. Opposing them, Callender’s F-86E pilots were likely to be outnumbered by two to one. It would be a stiff fight.

  The afternoon dragged on. Overhead, flights of Sabres whistled south to their bases, their ammunition exhausted.

  The movements of the MiGs to and fro across the Yalu were still being tracked by RB-45s, operating in relays from a base in Japan. It was one of these aircraft which, shortly after four o’clock, flashed the alert. Two large MiG trains were taking off from Antung and the neighbouring airfield of Ta-tung-kou. There was, as yet, no sign of activity from the Ilyushin-28s which had been observed on the latter base.

  A few minutes later, there was no longer any doubt that the MiGs had aggressive intentions. After assembling over Manchuria, they headed south in two groups, crossing the Chongchon. The RB-45 crew, examining the enemy fighters through high-resolution lenses as they passed several thousand feet below, reported that the MiGs were carrying long-range tanks, which meant that they were planning a prolonged sortie. It was virtually certain that they were heading for the Parallel.

  Watching eighty enemy jets at such close range was an unnerving experience for the RB-45 crew; even though they knew that their height gave them immunity, it needed only an engine to fail for their aircraft to lose altitude, and that would be the end. But the enemy flew steadily on, making no attempt to climb up and intercept the reconnaissance aircraft.

  The American crew turned their attentions back to Ta-tung-kou, and immediately sent out another coded signal. The Il-28s were taxying towards the end of the long runway.

  At Kimpo, the pilots of both Sabres and Meteors had been brought to cockpit readiness. The Sabres’ engines were idling and Callender, plugged into a special telebriefing system that linked his aircraft to the Operations Centre by detachable cable, was able to listen in as the progress of the oncoming MiGs was plotted.

  In Fifth Air Force HQ, Seoul, the commanding general was also following the progress of the enemy fighters. As the leading echelons came up to the Imjin River, sixty miles to the north, he picked up a red telephone and called Kimpo Operations. His order was brief and typically American.

  ‘Tell Callender,’ he said, ‘to turn the tigers loose.’

  Chapter Twelve

  YEOMAN WATCHED THEM GO, FLIGHT AFTER FLIGHT OF THEM, streaking down the runway and climbing away to the north, dragging long trails of dark smoke as their turbojets thundered at full power. He wished that he were going with them, and mentally wished his friend good luck. As the last of the Sabres vanished into the thin overcast that had been creeping slowly northwards for the past hour, he heard the Derwent engines of the Meteors whine into life too, and knew that the Australians would soon be in action.

  Meanwhile, Jim Callender was leading his Sabre wing up through the cloud into a weird sky of frozen pink and grey, hues that gradually gave way to a watery blue as the fast jets ate up the thousands of feet at a steady 400 knots, their best climbing speed.

  ‘Bogies ahead, eleven o’clock high.’

  The MiGs were lower than Callender had expected, flying in groups of fifteen or sixteen at between 25,000 and 30,000 feet. So much the better. At that height the Sabre had an all-round advantage.

  The Sabres reached the same height as the MiGs, which suddenly began to climb and turn towards the American fighters. The opposing formations now began to split up into four-aircraft elements, each jockeying for position like duellists seeking an opening thrust.

  Callender, his index finger curved round the gun trigger on the control column, had spotted what he took to be the enemy wing leader’s aircraft, a shiny MiG-15 with a red nose and tail. Accompanied, like himself, by three other jet fighters, it was flying straight and level across his nose, still outside the range of his .5-inch machine-guns. Glancing round briefly to see that his tail was clear, he pushed open the throttle and headed to cut off the MiG. He saw it drop its long underwing fuel tanks and pull sharply round to meet him, followed by its companions. The battle was on.

  Back at Kimpo, Dick Thornes’ Meteors had at last received the order to scramble. The last of them was airborne in sixty seconds, a record time for the squadron.

  As he was tucking up his undercarriage, Thornes received his instructions from the fighter controller.

  ‘Anzac, this is Dentist. Inchon radar reports a plot out to sea, low, south of Yonan, heading one-six-zero. Vector two-nine-zero to intercept. Radar information suggests eight-plus bogies, speed about three-five-zero knots.’

  Three hundred and fifty knots, Thornes mused; just over 400 mph. Too fast for piston-engined jobs, but a little on the slow side for MiGs.

  Suddenly, although he still had not been told what kind of aircraft his squadron had been scrambled to intercept, everything started falling into place. For weeks now, ever since photo-reconnaissance aircraft' had detected their presence north of the Yalu, the United Nations pilots had been expecting the enemy’s Ilyushin-28 bombers to make an appearance in action. This must be it; the jets must be trying to make a sneak attack under cover of the air battles that were raging north of the Parallel.

  A few minutes later, his suspicions were confirmed. Low down on the horizon he sighted nine twin-jet aircraft, flying in three tight vies. He yelled, ‘Tally-ho!’ and brought the fourteen Meteors that had taken off with him curving round for a stern attack. For once, the odds were in the Australians’ favour.

  Thornes had no means of knowing it, but six more II-28S had also set out from Manchuria. Their low-level route had taken them out over the Sea of japan, far to the east, the plan being to stay over the water until they reached Yongdok on the south-east coast. Then they would turn inland to hit targets, including the headquarters of the Republic of Korea Government, in Pusan.

  These six aircraft had never even reached the line of the Thirty-Eighth Parallel. East of Wonsan, they had run into two patrolling squadrons of Panther jets from a Task Force 77 aircraft carrier, the Bon Homme Richard. In panic, the Chinese crews had jettisoned their bombs and fled for safety. One II-28, its pilot pulling too tight a turn in his efforts to escape, had ploughed into the sea, and it was unlikely that any of the others would have got away if the Panthers had not been short of fuel.

  The Ilyushin-28s off the west coast were not so lucky. The Australians swarmed over them, cutting off their line of retreat, pairing up to attack individual bombers. One of them was soon in flames, its fuel tanks exploding, breaking up as it hit the sea.

  The fight, however, was not entirely one-sided. A Meteor, one of its wings badly holed by cannon fire from an Ilyushin’s rear gun turret, broke off the action and limped away towards Inchon Island, where the pilot ejected. A rescue helicopter picked him up safely and he was soon on his way back to Kimpo.

  The Chinese formation suddenly split up, four of the Ilyushins turning away to the north-west and the others flying low and fast north-eastwards, back towards the Parallel. Thornes ordered his pilots to concentrate on these four, for any pursuit of the others would involve a long flight over the Yellow Sea, with the Meteors drawing further away from friendly territory all the while.

  Thornes found himself on his own, for his wingman was having trouble with his port turbine and was lagging behind. The wing commander told him to head for base, and continued the chase. Already, the jubilant cries of the other pilots had told him that two of the fleeing II-28S would never regain Manchuria.

  The bomber Thornes was chasing was obviously flown by a very skilful pilot. He twisted this way and that, leap-frogging over ridges as he headed inland, streaking low through valleys so that his pursuer could not get into position for a shot at his vulnerable underbelly. The rear gunner was unpleasantly accurate too, and several times Thornes closed in for the kill only to be forced to break in order to avoid the cannon fire that came at him.

  Nevertheless, it was a fight that could not l
ast. Thornes fired in short, devastating bursts, concentrating on the rear gun position, and saw his shells explode all around it, blowing gaping holes in the Ilyushin’s tail. The defensive fire ceased at once and the Australian was able to close right in almost to point-blank range, his thumb tensed on the gun button.

  At that instant, a terrific explosion shook the Meteor. Startled and in sudden fear, he looked away from his intended victim. He was just in time to see the aluminium nacelle of his port engine unravelling like a long leaf of tobacco from a cigar, shedding pieces into the slipstream.

  There was another loud thud, and splinters rattled on the armour plate behind his seat. At the same instant, the shattered port engine burst into flames.

  Instinctively, Thornes pulled back the stick, using the Meteor’s speed to take it up in a rocketing climb. As he did so, more explosions shook the aircraft.

  He pulled a handle and the cockpit canopy flew off with a bang. Thornes gasped as a torrent of freezing air swept into the cockpit. Then he reached up with both hands, grasped the face blind handle of the ejection seat, and blasted himself into space with a crunch that jarred his backbone.

  High above, Jim Callender had momentarily lost the red-nosed, red-tailed MiG with which he had been sparring. It had been a lengthy duel, a darting cut-and-thrust battle lasting several minutes in which neither adversary had gained the advantage and in the course of which both pilots had lost contact with their respective sections. Now Callender, soaked in sweat from his exertions, tilted his Sabre from side to side in an attempt to relocate the enemy before the latter got the drop on him. The man was good, one of the best the American had ever faced, and Callender was certain that he had been fighting a Russian.

  The battle had carried him down to ten thousand feet. Above, MiGs and Sabres still fought it out, and long black smoke trails marked the last plunge of doomed aircraft. But the fight was thinning out as pilots on both sides, with either battle damage or a shortage of fuel, broke off and headed for home.

  Still unable to locate the red-nosed MiG, Callender decided to drop down through the thin cloud layer which had now spread over the whole sky at about eight thousand feet. It was only a few hundred feet thick, and he quickly emerged from its base.

  Almost immediately he sighted three aircraft, low down and directly in front of his nose. At first, he thought that the leading two, one behind the other, were Meteors, for both had twin engines. Then he saw that the first machine was much larger, and that unlike the Meteor it had swept-back tail surfaces.

  But what really caught his attention was the third aircraft. It was the red-nosed MiG, and it was rapidly overhauling the unsuspecting Meteor in a shallow dive.

  Callender winged over and went after it, so that now all four aircraft-Ilyushin, Meteor, MiG and Sabre-were speeding in line astern. The MiG pilot must have forgotten to look over his shoulder, too, for he made no move to escape as the Sabre bore down on him. Callender watched the swept-wing shape grow larger in his gunsight, and waited for the range to close.

  It was the MiG that fired first. Callender saw the Meteor stagger and then enter a steep climb, exploding in flames as it did so. With relief, he had time to glimpse the pilot blast out of the cockpit before he, too, opened fire.

  A two-second burst from his six .5-inch machine-guns struck the MiG squarely in the fuselage, midway between the cockpit and the tail. At once, dense white smoke streamed back from the tail pipe and the enemy fighter went into a steep climbing turn to the right, gaining height rapidly. Callender fired again, and a large section of the MiG’s tail fin fluttered away.

  The American knew the MiG was finished, even before he saw the cockpit canopy whirl off. A fraction of a second later there was a big puff of smoke from the interior, followed by the dark bundle of the pilot, strapped in his ejection seat.

  Looking round quickly to make sure that he was under no threat, Callender circled the spot. The MiG had impacted with a massive explosion of blazing fuel, and bits of it were scattered over a wide area a few hundred yards from where the Meteor also burned. Of the Il-28, there was no longer any sign.

  Callender could see that both pilots had got out. The Meteor pilot had already landed and was collapsing his parachute, while the Russian-if that indeed was what he was-was drifting slowly towards him. He watched the Meteor pilot flatten himself behind some rocks, tugging out what must be a pistol, then climbed a little to take a better look around.

  It did not take him long to pick out the enemy troops. There were about fifty of them, moving rapidly over open ground towards the smoke that rose from the crashed aircraft. There was clearly no time to be lost.

  Swiftly gaining a little more height, Callender punched in the emergency radio frequency and called for assistance, giving his position.

  ‘Two pilots, one of ours and one Red, down ten miles inside Indian territory. Request chopper and ResCap, urgently.’ ResCap was the umbrella of fighters that would be sent up to cover the rescue helicopter. But it would be some time before they arrived, and by then it might be too late for the shot-down Australian.

  Callender changed back on to his own Sabres’ frequency, gave his position as accurately as possible once again, and called, ‘Hey Rube.’ That was part of the language evolved by the Sabre pilots; it meant, “Rendezvous on me. I need help.”

  Maybe, thought Callender, I can handle this all by myself. Winging round in a steep turn, he brought his Sabre arrowing down towards the brown knot of advancing enemy soldiers and gave them a long squirt with his machine-guns. The men scattered in all directions, throwing themselves down behind the scant cover available. Some of them began to return the fire with carbines and burp guns.

  Callender pulled round for another run. As he did so, two more Sabres dropped down out of the cloud layer some distance away and, sighting the two columns of smoke and the diving jet, turned to join their leader.

  It was at that precise moment that the Auster came chugging round the crest of a hill.

  *

  Half an hour earlier, with the big air battle about to be joined, Captain Welsh had finally received the order he had been expecting. The Observation Flight’s three available Austers were to patrol sectors of the front line near Kaesong, the pilots having instructions to report any parachutes-friendly or enemy-they happened to see, and to pinpoint the spots where they came to earth.

  Yeoman, muffled up in heavy winter clothing, flew in the rear seat of Welsh’s Auster, wedged uncomfortably against a couple of M-i carbines they had decided to take along with them just in case they had to make a landing in enemy territory and ran into trouble.

  They reached their patrol sector and there was no sign of anything for the first few minutes, because the overcast robbed them of a view of the battle that was spreading across the sky to the north. The only indication that such a battle was being fought came when they sighted two smoke trails falling through the clouds a long way off.

  It was Yeoman who spotted the Ilyushin, Meteor and MiG, streaking low over the hills to the north-west in a dizzy tail-chase. He saw the Sabre too which, unknown to him, was flown by his friend Jim Callender, suddenly pop out of the cloud layer and turn in pursuit.

  The four jets disappeared behind a range of hills. A moment later, Welsh and Yeoman both saw a solitary dot reappear. Yeoman fixed his binoculars on it, and identified it as the Sabre. It began to circle, then dived away out of sight. Then the voice of the air rescue co-ordinator came crackling over the radio, giving Welsh’s callsign.

  ‘Beagle Two, we have two parachutes down approximately eight miles north of you, bearing three-five-five. A Sabre is providing ResCap and more help is on the way. Can you take a look?’

  Welsh acknowledged, and immediately turned the Auster towards the spot where the Sabre was still circling and diving at some unseen target. They could see two columns of smoke now, rising from behind the hills. A few moments later, more Sabres came down out of the clouds and joined the first.

  It took the
Auster just over six minutes to reach the range of hills. Welsh stayed low, using the high ground as concealment. As he leap-frogged a ridge, he and Yeoman simultaneously took in the scene in front of them.

  The wreckage of two aircraft lay some distance apart, burning furiously. Overhead, the Sabres wheeled and dived, machine-gunning something that was out of sight among the hillocks on the other side of the narrow valley.

  Yeoman hit Welsh on the shoulder and pointed to the left, where he could see a discarded parachute canopy. A moment later he saw a second canopy, a different colour from the first, lying on the valley floor a hundred yards or so away.

  Throttling back, Welsh made a descending turn towards the parachute Yeoman had seen, and almost immediately detected movement among some rocks. A man, wearing a yellow Mae West lifejacket, was waving frantically at the Auster.

  Welsh lowered the Auster’s big flaps and pointed its nose at the valley floor, aiming for a spot as close to the rocks as possible. The little aircraft went down like a lift, then flattened out as Welsh eased back the control column and closed the throttle. The landing was a perfect three-pointer-or would have been, if Welsh had seen the narrow bed of a stream, concealed by coarse grass, that meandered across the valley.

  The main wheels slid into it and the Auster stopped dead, throwing its occupants violently forward against their seat harnesses. There was a loud sound of ripping fabric and splintering wood, and pieces of the propeller spattered against the windscreen. Then there was silence, except for the pinking of the hot engine.

  Yeoman was the first to speak. ‘That’s buggered the job,’ he said.