Korean Combat (Yeoman Series)

by Robert Jackson

  ‘Out we go,’ Welsh ordered. He had cut his forehead slightly on one of the metal struts in the Auster’s cockpit, but it was nothing to worry about. ‘Don’t forget the carbines,’ he added.

  Welsh kicked open the door, which had stuck, and the two men crawled out of the wreck, Yeoman dragging the carbines after him. He had several clips of ammunition tucked away about his person.

  A Sabre flashed overhead, its turbojet screeching. The two men heard the staccato crackle of its machine-guns as it fired at something on the north side of the valley.

  ‘The inference,’ Yeoman said, ‘is that the nasties are over in that direction. I suggest we remove ourselves in the opposite sense, sharp-ish.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Welsh answered, dabbing at the cut on his head. Then, suddenly, he pointed up at the rocks. The man in the yellow Mae West had half-risen from his hiding place and was gesturing to them. Yeoman gave an exclamation.

  ‘Why, it’s Dick Thornes. Come on, let’s get up there.’

  They scrambled up the slope to the rocks and threw themselves down under cover. As they did so, a burst of machine-gun fire from the far side of the valley snickered over their heads, raising fountains of dust from the hillside above them.

  ‘Unfriendly,’ Yeoman grunted, then grinned at Thornes. ‘Looks as though we’re in a bit of a spot, Dick. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right, sure enough,’ Thornes replied. ‘He’s not, though.’ He gestured with his thumb, and for the first time Yeoman and Welsh saw the man in the dark brown flying suit, propped up against a cluster of rocks in a sitting position. His lolling head was topped by close-cropped greying hair, and he had an enormous bruise down one side of his face.

  Yeoman studied him closely, then regarded Thornes in astonishment.

  ‘He looks very familiar,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Doesn’t he, though,’ the Australian commented. ‘And if you want a real surprise, unzip his flying overall and take a look inside.’

  Keeping his head well down in case the enemy opened fire again, Yeoman crawled over to the unconscious man and did as Thornes had suggested. Beneath his flying suit, the man wore a uniform tunic. There were three rows of medal ribbons above the left breast pocket.

  Yeoman peeled back a little more of the flying suit, revealing one of the tunic’s epaulettes. His first thought, irrationally, was that it must have made the wearing of a seat and parachute shoulder harness extremely uncomfortable. Then he saw that the epaulette, which was light blue with a red stripe running down the centre, bore three gold stars, set in the form of a triangle.

  There was no doubt in Yeoman’s mind about the identity of the man in front of him.

  ‘It’s Krylenko,’ he said, half to himself. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘Who’s Krylenko?’ Welsh asked.

  ‘Of course, you wouldn’t know, would you?’ Yeoman said, ‘He’s the Russian mastermind behind the enemy’s fighter tactics. We think he runs the whole show. Incidentally, Dick, what happened to his head?’

  ‘I hit him with a rock,’ Thornes told him in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. ‘He shot me down, and then I reckon the Sabre must have got him in turn. Anyway, we both got out all right, but I landed first. I was thinking about shooting him, ’cause I was feeling pretty mad, but then I saw that he was having trouble disentangling himself from his parachute, and so I ran over and belted him one. Got a hell of a shock when I saw he was a European. Thought I’d drag him up here and hold on to him until help arrived. Maybe the boys back home will want to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m sure they will, Dick,’ Yeoman said. ‘Let’s hope he stays out cold for a while. I hope you didn’t hit him too hard, though.’

  He looked up at the sky, and observed that it was getting dusk.

  ‘Yes,’ Welsh said. ‘And, in case you hadn’t noticed, the Sabres are leaving.’

  He was right. The last pair of Sabres made a low run along the valley, the roar of their engines echoing from the surrounding hills, and climbed away into the gathering gloom.

  ‘I suddenly feel very, very lonely,’ Thornes observed. He peered cautiously over the rim of a rock.

  ‘No sign of any opposition,’ he commented. ‘Maybe the Sabres killed ’em all.’

  ‘Don’t bank on it,’ Welsh said. ‘They know where we are, and it’s my guess they’ll wait until it’s fully dark before they move in to finish us off.’

  ‘Maybe we can bargain, using him,’ Yeoman said, indicating the recumbent Russian.

  Thornes gave a grunt. ‘Oh, sure. So we just wander across and say, “Look here, chaps, we’ve got a Russian general, and if you don’t shoot us or take us prisoner we’ll let him go”. That’ll pull a hell of a lot of weight with the Chinese, I don’t think. Anyway,’ he added, ‘they wouldn’t understand us.’

  ‘Never thought of that,’ said Yeoman, admonished.

  They checked their weapons-they had three pistols and the two carbines between them-and waited. The Russian was showing signs of regaining consciousness, and so, having no means of tying him up, they rolled him over on his face and took turns at sitting on him to keep him quiet. The beginnings of a protest were quickly strangled when Yeoman pushed a cold pistol muzzle into the general’s ear and waggled it about a bit.

  The darkness brought with it a fiercely cold wind that knifed among the rocks, moaning like souls in purgatory. It tore at them, freezing them to their very bones. It was almost a relief when, from the other side of the valley, tracer lanced at them. Glowing coals of fire spattered on the rocks and leaped away into the night.

  ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ Welsh muttered, straining his eyes. ‘We need some light, or they’ll be on top of us.’

  Suddenly, he laid aside the carbine he had been holding and turned to Yeoman.

  ‘Back in a jiffy,’ he said.

  Before either Yeoman or Thornes had a chance to restrain him he had slipped away into the darkness, bent double. They heard him scrambling down the rocks.

  ‘What the hell’s the bloody fool up to?’ Thornes asked hoarsely.

  ‘I think I know,’ Yeoman said quietly. ‘The stupid, brave bastard.’

  They waited in silence, Thornes kneeling on the faintly groaning Krylenko. All at once, there was a small flicker of light in the valley below, beside the wrecked Auster.

  As they watched, the flicker suddenly burst into a vivid glare of flame that threw the wreck of the Auster into sharp relief. The harsh light illuminated the ground for a long way around.

  Silhouetted against it they saw Welsh’s dark shadow, running back towards the rocks. The trail of petrol he had ignited reached the aircraft’s fuel tank, which exploded with a thud. Blazing tendrils reached out after the running man, as though to snatch him back.

  He almost made it to the rocks. Then, just as he reached the foot of the slope, there was a burst of fire from across the valley. A red line of tracer passed straight through Welsh’s body. Slowly, he sank to his knees and remained in that position for a few seconds, as though in an attitude of prayer. Then he crumpled forward on to his face, and was still.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Yeoman whispered. There was nothing else to say.

  ‘Here they come,’ Thornes said harshly, and raised his carbine to his shoulder.

  Dark shapes were running across the valley, zig-zagging over the open ground. Yeoman and Thornes, the latter still with one foot on the Russian’s neck, opened fire. Both were excellent marksmen, and each dropped a couple of the advancing enemy. The others came on more hesitantly, then another of them went down and the remainder went to ground. Flame flashed from the muzzles of their guns as they returned the fire.

  ‘They must be North Koreans,’ Thornes observed, inserting a fresh clip of ammunition into his carbine. ‘The Chinese would have come on regardless.’

  Yeoman made no reply. He had his head on one side, listening. Suddenly, he grabbed Thornes by the arm.

  ‘Listen!’ he said urgently. ‘Do you hear anything
?’

  Thornes peered up into the darkness, then said, ‘Damn right I do. Where’s it coming from? I can’t — ’

  The rest of his words were drowned by a sudden thunderclap of sound as an aircraft jumped over the crest of hills and raced low across the valley.

  ‘Heads down!’ Yeoman yelled, dragging at Thornes and covering his own eyes.

  He was only just in time. A blinding white light burst out across the sky, stark in its intensity, casting such brilliance that the flames from the burning Auster paled into insignificance beside it. Almost immediately, there was a further roar of engines and three aircraft swept into the valley, guns hammering as they raked the enemy troops who were now Scurrying back towards cover, looking like small black puppets as the parachute flare cast its merciless light on them.

  The aircraft that now raked the valley from end to end with their gunfire were Mustangs. On their wings they bore red, white and blue roundels, and Yeoman knew that they could only belong to the South African squadron. He and Thornes cheered hoarsely as they turned and swept in for another run, seeking their human targets.

  A strange muttering sound filled the air, and something that looked like a great black insect crept over the ridge behind the two airmen. It was a Sikorsky rescue helicopter, and the pilot brought it to rest as lightly as a feather close to the burning Auster.

  Dragging the Russian between them, Yeoman and Thornes stumbled down the slope towards it. As they reached Welsh’s body, Yeoman suddenly relinquished his grasp on Krylenko.

  ‘Take care of him,’ he yelled above the clatter of the helicopter’s rotor. ‘I’m not leaving Welsh.’

  Kneeling, he hefted the Army officer’s body over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and staggered towards the helicopter with his burden. An American crewman jumped down and helped him to lift the dead man through the hatch. Thornes and the Russian were already on board, the latter looking bemused and utterly dejected.

  Yeoman covered Welsh’s dead face gently with a jacket. Then, the strength suddenly drained from him, he slumped against the cold fuselage side, huddled next to Thornes as the machine’s whirling rotor increased its beat.

  The Sikorsky lifted away from the valley, nose down to gather speed, and turned towards the south. Behind it, in the dying light of the flare, a fine white mist drifted across the frozen earth. It was beginning to snow.

  Epilogue

  NO. 493 SQUADRON WAS DISBANDED SHORTLY AFTER THE END OF the Korean war, but was reformed in the mid 1960s. Today, based in Queensland, its young pilots — a generation removed from those who fought in Korea-fly Mirage jet fighters at twice the speed of sound. There are many trophies and photographs in the Officers’ Mess, but one in particular is a source of intrigue. It is a framed cutting from an American newspaper, and this is its text:

  Mystery of the Missing General Tokyo, 25 January 1952

  Following a flurry of diplomatic activity between Washington and Moscow, State Department sources have today confirmed that General Ivan Krylenko, one of Russia’s top Second World War fighter aces, is in American hands. The General appears to have been taken prisoner in Korea. It is not known under what circumstances this happened.

  The State Department’s spokesman told pressmen at a news conference this morning that General Krylenko would be returned to the Soviet Union as soon as diplomatic formalities have been completed.

  Newcomers to the Squadron ask about the cutting, and the old hands tell them the story. It has, of course, become embellished with the passage of time, and a more legendary tale has taken over. For the true facts, together with George Yeoman and Dick Thornes and all those others who flew and fought in that forgotten war, have lapsed into the pages of history.

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