by Adam Makos
That night, like others, Koenig saw Jesse sketching. Jesse smiled to himself when he drew a line perfectly. He erased vigorously if an angle wasn’t perfect. He stared deep into the drawing, as if he could see the house filling with color and coming to life, as if he could see the front door swinging open and Daisy standing there.
With every passing night, Jesse sketched faster, as if the drawing were his ticket home.
Several days later
In the darkness a lantern sat on the snow. Twenty yards ahead sat another lantern—then another, and another for as far as the eye could see. The flame from each lantern flickered against the frigid night, spreading just enough light to see by.
A white shape lumbered along the path of light. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The shape was a man—short, stocky, and wrapped in a quilted white jacket and pants. His chin was lowered and his face was bundled by the earflaps of a winter cap. Tanned brown skin showed around his eyes.
He was a Chinese soldier. Close behind him marched his fellow soldiers in a silent, seemingly endless parade. Each soldier resembled the man ahead of him and behind him. The only difference was their weaponry—submachine guns around their necks or rifles slung over their backs or bags of grenades across their shoulders.
Beneath their feet, the Yalu River was frozen solid. The bridges that the navy had destroyed had been rendered meaningless. Under darkness, the communist troops marched across the ice and into North Korea.
A man who called himself “Feng Xi” had goaded the Chinese into the Korean War. Feng Xi was Stalin’s diplomatic code name. Fully aware that the Chinese still suffered from the wounds of World War II, Stalin preyed upon their worst fears. He told the Chinese leader, Mao Zedong, that the Americans would transform Korea into a “bridgehead” by which a “future militaristic Japan” could once again invade China. To prevent this outcome, Stalin urged the Chinese to commit five or six divisions to battle in Korea. Mao pledged nine.*3
The soldiers’ breath hung in the subzero air. On each man’s back was a backpack and bedroll and across his chest hung a bag of rice. Stubby, slipper-like canvas shoes covered his feet. The ice creaked and groaned.
For the average Chinese soldier, this was just another march in a lifetime of war. He had once been a rural peasant, drafted to fight the Japanese in World War II and then his countrymen from 1947 to 1949 in the Chinese Civil War. He couldn’t read but was street-smart, stoic, and indifferent to pain. He had been trained to fight in close quarters—to “hug the enemy.” For him, there was no honorable discharge except for crippling wounds or death.
By then, more than three hundred thousand of these soldiers had snuck into Korea, far more than the one hundred thousand that American commanders had imagined. The brass had consistently underestimated the Chinese. They’d failed to realize that the first Chinese attack had been only a test, something the Chinese called the “First Phase Offensive,” a study of the Americans’ weaknesses, an exchange of blood for information.
Now armed with knowledge of American tactics, thousands more fresh Chinese soldiers crossed the Yalu, their feet polishing a path on the ice. Soon, they’d join their comrades to set the largest trap in modern history.
In rugged mountain terrain, in bitter winter conditions, they would attempt to destroy all the American forces in North Korea.
Several days later, November 26, 1950
In the warm confines of the ready room, Jesse shook the dice and threw them onto the backgammon board. His eyes drifted to the strangers in the rear of the room. Cevoli sat by Jesse’s side and glanced in the same direction. So did Wilkie and other pilots. No one was flying—the Leyte had departed the fleet to resupply from tender ships—and now the pilots were distracted.
At the back of the ready room, the Leyte’s PR team was setting up near the curtain. A sailor erected a camera’s tripod while another tested flashbulbs. A PR officer flipped through a notepad to review his interview questions. Jesse and the pilots of Fighting 32 were about to become American celebrities.
“So when’s this piece gonna run?” Wilkie asked the PR officer.
“Oh, in a few weeks, I’d wager,” the officer said. “It’ll go coast to coast.”
“That’s great,” Wilkie said. “I’ll tell my wife to snag some copies.”
Life magazine had decided to run a photo essay about Jesse. Life was one of America’s biggest magazines, seen or read by half of all American adults in any week. The magazine simply needed some photos of Jesse and quotes by him. The Navy Department in Washington was eager to help and had relayed the request to the Leyte.
Everyone in ’32 was thrilled for Jesse—except Jesse himself. The PR officer made small talk with Jesse to loosen him up for the photo shoot, but Jesse wasn’t biting. “Isn’t it too soon to be celebrating?” he asked. “Shouldn’t we wait until we’re out of this mess?”
The PR officer brushed off Jesse’s concerns. “It’s perfect, you’ll be famous by the time you get home!”
Embarrassed, Jesse turned back to his game.
The “mess” that Jesse referenced had begun two days earlier. In northwestern Korea, the forces of democracy had left their defensive positions and resumed their drive to the Yalu, giving the Chinese the opportunity they had been waiting for. From the mountains, the enemy had attacked, launching the “Second Phase” of their plan. Now the U.S. 8th Army—four full divisions—was stopped in its tracks after covering just fifteen miles and South Korean divisions were disintegrating on the flanks. History was repeating itself.
The lights and camera were ready. The PR officer asked Jesse and Cevoli to pause their game and smile. They did.
Pop, flash!
The officer was unsatisfied. Life magazine required something better. The officer asked Jesse to wear his leather jacket, so the folks back home would know that he was an aviator. Jesse sighed and reached for his jacket.
A month earlier, after the first mission, a sailor from the PR department had interviewed Jesse for a press release. “There’s nothing special about me,” Jesse had said. “I’m just another pilot.” In search of a better quote, the sailor had turned to Captain T. U. Sisson, the forty-nine-year-old captain of the Leyte. No one knew how Sisson felt about Jesse. Sisson was from an aristocratic southern family, and his father had been a congressman and a champion of segregation. But Captain Sisson had surprised any doubters by straightening the record about Jesse. “He’s one of the best pilots of the air group,” Sisson said.
Jesse slipped into his jacket. On one breast was a nametag: J. L. BROWN, U.S.N. On the other, Jesse wore the squadron patch: a blue disc with a golden lion and the squadron motto, DIEU ET PATRIA—“God and Country.”
Cevoli wore a tent cap but Jesse didn’t have a hat, so someone tossed him a ball cap. He slapped it on.
“Okay, look excited,” the officer said.
Cevoli grinned and Jesse forced a smile.
Pop, flash!
The officer urged Jesse to show more animation. “Your wife will see these photos,” he said, “and someday your grandkids!”
Cevoli shook Jesse by the shoulder to loosen him up. “Hey—this is good PR for the navy,” he said.
“Okay, okay.” Jesse scooped up the dice, shook them in his fist, and flashed a wide grin.
Pop, flash!
“Great!” the PR officer said. He flipped open his pad and began to interview Jesse. When the officer asked if there had been any prejudice aboard ship, all eyes turned toward Jesse, curious to hear his answer.
“There hasn’t been one instance,” Jesse said.
The officer nodded, impressed. “So what’s your secret?”
Jesse thought for a second. “I never try to force myself on people. If they’re going to be friendly, then they will be pretty soon.”
The officer chuckled. Cevoli and the others nodded—it was true. A journalist would later read Jesse’s answers and publish his conclusion: “The key to Jesse’s popularity was his assumption that no race problem
existed and, as a result, none did.”
The PR officer closed his pad and turned to Jesse with a last request. “Can you suit up like you’re going to fly?”
Jesse took a deep breath and went to retrieve his gear.
—
The flight deck was quiet with flight operations suspended. Here and there, mechanics used the reprieve to check their machines. The sky was calm and cold. Jesse followed the officer and cameramen across the deck. He had dressed as requested, in helmet and goggles, a green flight suit, and a yellow life vest. He wore a pistol on his side.
The officer led Jesse to a Corsair with rockets loaded on a folded wing. The cameraman asked Jesse to pretend to check the rockets. Jesse reached up to verify that the rocket was secure on its rail.
Pop, flash!
The officer directed Jesse into a Corsair cockpit and sent a deckhand up on the wing. Jesse acted like he was strapping in.
Pop, flash!
The photo shoot wound its way up to the tower and onto a high deck at the front. With the parked Corsairs below, the photographer directed Jesse to stare ahead, into the wind. As Jesse gazed toward the horizon, he couldn’t relax. His face was uneasy, his eyes tense, his mouth tight.
He tried. He knew the camera was on him. But at that moment, far beyond sight, the western half of Korea was embroiled in battle, and in the eastern half the Marines were marching deeper into the frozen mountains.
As if he sensed the peril beyond the horizon, Jesse didn’t even fake a smile.
Pop, flash!
* * *
*1 For the remainder of the war, Soviet-flown MiGs would battle American pilots. American pilots would report seeing defeated enemy pilots in their parachutes, sans helmets, with red hair flowing—an unusual appearance for “Chinese” pilots. At any given moment, twenty thousand Soviet advisors, pilots, and gunners were fighting in the Korean War, mostly behind the front lines. The author interviewed a former Soviet flak gunner who was serving at the Yalu in 1953 when Dwight Eisenhower was president. The gunner admitted, “We used to say, ‘Get to your guns, quick, the Eisenhowers are coming!’ ”
*2 The skipper’s brother, Ensign Peter Neill, went missing on June 19, 1944, at the age of twenty-three. He remains classified as “missing in action” to this day.
*3 Stalin told Mao that if Chinese intervention led to a war between the forces of democracy and communism, “Together we will be stronger than the USA and England, while the other European capitalist states…do not present serious military forces. If a war is inevitable, then let it be waged now, and not in a few years when Japanese militarism will be restored as an ally of the USA.”
CHAPTER 31
A TASTE OF THE DIRT
A day later, November 27, 1950
Wonsan Airfield, North Korea
THROUGH THE FRIGID LATE-DAY GLOOM, a line of Corsairs taxied along the airfield by the sea. The planes wove in S-turns, their noses zigzagging as their pilots tried to see ahead. Lights glowed from their wingtips: green on the left, red on the right.
Corsair 202 bounced on its tires against the bomb-scarred taxiway. At the controls, Tom’s vision jostled. To his right lay Wonsan Harbor, and to his left a chain of scrubby hills overlooked the field. Gray clouds drooped low, swollen with snow. It was nearing 4 P.M.
Tom leaned in his seat and worked the brakes to swing the Corsair’s nose back and forth. Up ahead, Cevoli led the way, his rudder flapping. Fourteen more Corsairs rolled behind Tom. One by one they passed a wooden hangar, its roof and walls shattered like matchsticks. Inside sat abandoned North Korean fighter planes, former Soviet Yak-9s.
A ground crewman parked Cevoli on a patch of concrete beside a bullet-pocked control tower. Tom swung in beside Cevoli, Jesse pulled up next, and the remaining Corsairs followed.
Tom cut the engine. He leaned his helmet back against the headrest and took a deep breath. Sweaty and tired, he had never been happier to reach land. The flight had just returned from a strike in northwest Korea when a blizzard set in over the Leyte. Unable to land on the ship, Cevoli steered the sixteen Corsairs—eight from ’32 and eight from ’33—to the Marine air base at Wonsan. The pilots knew this area, having flown their first mission against islands in the harbor.
As the propeller fluttered to a stop, Tom surveyed his surroundings through the canopy. The airfield resembled a POW camp. Grimy wooden barracks stood side by side and smokestacks rose from a maintenance garage. American tents now dotted the grounds, but few men were in sight. Over the engine’s hot ticking, Tom heard a popping noise in the distance. Then a crackle and more popping. He removed his helmet to be certain—it was gunfire.
A young Marine ground crewman hustled to the plane to see if Tom needed assistance. The Marine wore a hooded parka and a helmet with a camouflage cover. A carbine dangled from his shoulder. What the heck? Tom thought. The Marine was dressed for battle.
Tom cranked open the canopy. Cold air and the scent of the murky sea swept inside. The gunfire sounded louder now. Tom slipped a knit cap over his head and leaned outside. He traced the sounds of battle behind the plane’s tail. From the hills above the field came staccato bursts of noise and tracers that arced and fizzled. Tom’s eyes filled with worry. Did we land in the wrong place? Wonsan was supposed to be ninety miles behind the front.
“Sir, you may want to come down,” the Marine shouted to Tom. “You’re presenting an awfully big target!”
Tom dismounted hurriedly, careful to remain shielded by his plane.
“What’s happening out there?” he asked.
“The Reds are making a play for the field,” the Marine said. He explained that a contingent of North Korean guerrillas and Chinese troops were attacking and the army’s 3rd Infantry Division was holding them back, but barely. Tom shot him a questioning look. The Marine was suggesting that this could be the start of a new Red offensive.
Tom dashed to Jesse’s Corsair, a plane away. He found Jesse, Cevoli, Koenig, and a handful of Marines crowded around the tail. During the flight’s strike on Chinese troop bivouacs, a flak burst had hit Jesse’s rudder, partially stripping the fabric skin. The right side of the white letter K now dangled in ribbons.
“Think you can still make the deck?” Tom asked Jesse with concern. The damage could hinder a carrier landing.
“Sure,” Jesse said as he tugged and tested the remaining fabric. “I made it this far without a rudder.”
Marty approached the group with several pilots in tow. “Any of you fellas get shot at coming in?”
Several pilots nodded.
Cevoli told the Marines around him that if the weather didn’t soon shift from the Leyte, the flight would need to spend the night here. The pilots glanced uneasily at one another. The temperature was falling, and many of them had already flipped up their collars against the cold.
A Marine approached the group. “Sirs, if anyone wants chow, they’re serving supper early.” He gestured to a green tent about a hundred yards behind the tower where infantrymen waited in line.
Marty and Cevoli said that they were hungry and a few others agreed.
“I’ll stay near the tower and wait for word from the ship,” Jesse said. Tom said that he was staying too. It’s a bit hairy to be wandering off, he thought. Koenig was of the same mind. In the harbor, ships were running for open seas for fear that the Reds would sack the port.
Marty, Cevoli, and others departed for the chow line. After several paces, Cevoli turned and shouted over the distant gunfire, “If the Reds rush the field, just go!”
Tom and Jesse glanced at each other with unease.
—
The chow line was long and slow, and no one seemed worried about snipers. Outside the tent, Marty smoked to keep warm while he and the others waited with exhausted Marines and army soldiers. The infantrymen wore battered helmets. Their uniforms were soiled, their boots muddy.
The line shifted forward and Marty ducked inside the tent. A blast of warmth and a savory smell greeted him.
At the end of the line, cooks in winter jackets stood behind tables that held plastic tubs. As each fighting man reached the cooks, he held out a mess tin. One cook ladled mashed potatoes inside, another drizzled gravy, and a third forked up a juicy steak and dropped it into the tin.
Marty turned to a Marine. “You fellas always eat like this? I think I joined the wrong branch!”
The Marine grinned. “No, sir, this is a treat for us, too. The cooks figure if we get overrun tonight, we’re not leaving anything good for the Reds.”
Marty glanced down at his feet, embarrassed at his question. He collected a plate and utensils and was about to reach the cooks when a tent flap was flung open and a Marine air traffic controller stepped inside. The controller hurried to Marty and the other pilots. “You can launch!” he said. “Leyte just called—they found a window in the storm!”
Marty set down his plate and tried to restrain his grin—the ground pounders were watching. “Hey, just take a steak with you!” a young soldier suggested. Marty politely declined and his face turned sheepish—he knew that a bottle of brandy, a hot shower, and a meal on china were awaiting him.
Adrenaline pumping, Marty and the others sprinted for their planes.
—
In the cockpit, Tom set the throttle forward and flipped switches to bring the engine to life. He pushed the starter switch forward and held it. A whine leaked from the engine and the four propeller blades began clunking counterclockwise. Tom pushed a lever to open the fuel lines. Come on, old girl, kick over! he thought. He had never felt more eager to reach the sky.
Tom held his breath as the propeller revolved faster and faster. The engine wheezed, coughed, then caught with a roar. White smoke poured from the exhaust ports and the propeller whirled into a blurry circle. A grin cracked Tom’s face. He cranked the canopy shut.