by Adam Makos
“120!” Tom called. “110!…100!”
The white pasture and slope widened before them.
“Two hundred feet!” Tom shouted. “One hundred feet! Hold it steady—fifty feet—here you go!”
Tom gunned his throttle, hauled back on the stick, and climbed. He looked over his left shoulder and twisted to maintain a view.
Jesse’s plane was bucking, struggling to keep its nose up, but without an engine pushing, the Corsair’s wide wings lost lift, as if someone had cut the string that was holding the plane up. The twelve-thousand-pound fighter suddenly quit flying and dropped the final twenty-five feet to earth.
The nose slammed the slope in a burst of snow. Shattered propeller blades were flung in every direction, the engine ripped from its bolts and cartwheeled away, the tail smacked hard. Groaning, the Corsair skidded to a stop.
A cloud of snow embraced the fighter.
—
Tom orbited over the crash site, just above the mountain peaks. His eyes fixated on the cloud that obscured Jesse’s plane.
Come on, Jesse, Tom thought. Cue the radio.
The snow slowly settled and Jesse’s plane appeared. Tom inhaled sharply. Ahead of the cockpit, the Corsair’s long nose was bent toward the right wing. It had bent so far that it nearly snapped off. Behind the tail stretched a path where the plane had skidded. The snow had parted and revealed sheer rock beneath. Jesse’s canopy had slammed shut and remained so.
Then Tom saw it. Inch by inch, the canopy cranked back.
Relieved voices flooded the airwaves. Tom had almost forgotten about the four pilots orbiting above him. Jesse waved but didn’t leave the cockpit.
“What’s he waiting for?” someone asked.
“He’s gotta be hurt?” Koenig suggested.
Cevoli tried to call Jesse over the radio, but got no reply.
“I’m going upstairs to call for a helicopter,” Cevoli announced. By calling from a higher altitude, he could beam a clearer transmission down to Hagaru. “Fellas, maintain orbit,” Cevoli continued. “Tom, once Jesse gets clear, destroy the plane.”
Tom agreed. He knew the rule: Never leave an intact plane and its technology in enemy territory.
Cevoli climbed from the circling planes into the dark clouds.
At separate altitudes, Tom and the others orbited. Minutes passed and Jesse kept waving.
Cevoli’s voice crackled over the radio. He was still above the clouds. “Okay, a chopper’s coming,” he said. “But it’s going to be twenty minutes or more. I’ll keep you posted.”
Tom’s face twisted. If Jesse was hurt, he might freeze to death in that time.
Wisps of smoke began floating from the twisted nose of Jesse’s Corsair. The plane’s 230-gallon fuel tank lay just beyond Jesse’s feet. Koenig called Cevoli to alert him to the fire, but Cevoli didn’t reply. He had switched radio channels and was transmitting on the Search and Rescue channel.
“Come on, Jesse, get out!” Koenig radioed.
The smoke began pouring thicker and the wind carried it back into the cockpit. Jesse looked to be struggling. Tom’s eyes tightened. He watched the nose of Jesse’s plane and dreaded the thought of flames. Lord, don’t let him burn! Tom prayed. The smoke rose from the pasture like a thin arrow pointing to Jesse’s location. Tom’s face sank. If he could see it, then the Chinese could, too. They were probably already on their way.
Tom took a deep breath. There was one last option.
The Tom Hudner who’d reported to Fighting 32 in December 1949 would have kept orbiting. From above, he’d have watched Jesse burn and told himself that there was nothing he could do. A downed pilot was to be left alone—the skipper had said so. It was his rule and he’d court-martial any man who broke it. It was probably the navy’s rule too, written in some manual.
But this was not 1949.
Tom lowered his black-rimmed goggles.
“I’m going in,” Tom radioed.
Above, Koenig and the others remained silent. Cevoli was still away and they either didn’t understand what Tom meant or didn’t want to encourage what he was thinking. So they watched.
Tom dipped his left wing and swooped down toward the pasture.
It was time to break the rules.
—
Jesse must have known that a Corsair had come to earth.
He must have felt the blast of wind at his back and heard the metallic crunch and the engine’s whine as its propeller blades bent backward. In his rearview mirror, he must have seen the plane rushing toward him like an angry blue wave in a sea of white—sliding, metal screeching against rock—and he must have seen it stop in a violent lurch and toss a whiteout of powdered snow.
When the whiteout had settled, Jesse must have seen the plane sitting in the snow behind his right wing, a dark bird so out of place that it might have made him cry. Jesse didn’t need to see the number on the nose or the face of the pilot behind the shattered windscreen.
He must have known who had come to try to save him.
High above, Koenig muttered in admiration: “Of all the guys, it would be Tom.”
—
Tom lifted his head from the seatback and released a deep breath. His brow lifted with relief. “My God, it worked,” he muttered. The windscreen had shattered, the props had folded backward, but Corsair 205 had held together. He had survived a carrier-style landing on a mountaintop.
Fifty yards ahead and to the left lay Jesse’s plane, still smoking. Tom came to his senses and clawed at the latch on his chest. His shoulder straps released. He tugged his helmet’s radio cord from a panel.
Tom cranked open the canopy and frigid air flooded the cockpit. Damn, it’s cold! he thought. The pasture sat so high he could see the Chosin in the distance through the opening in the valley.
Tom lifted his arms to the canopy rails and pushed himself from his seat. A wave of pain shot up his back and he grimaced. Tom sank back down with a groan. He figured he had possibly fractured a vertebra. Eyes tight with pain, he stood again. This time he swung his leg over the rail, inserted a boot in a toe hold, and lowered himself down to the right wing.
Tom slowly slid from the wing and his boots sank into the snow. It was nearly a foot deep, but the powder was deceptive—the snow was thick beneath. The sun was gone, and dark clouds now rose around the peaks as if hungry to swallow the two men and their wrecked planes.
Tom took a step and winced, then managed a second step. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled around the steaming engine and kept going. Frigid wind whipped his tan flight suit and snow stuck to his goggles. Doubled over, Tom hobbled uphill toward Jesse in a race against time.
CHAPTER 38
ALL THE FAITH IN THE WORLD
On the mountaintop
FROM A DISTANCE the sight must have looked odd—the pilot plodding through the snow, his helmet still strapped, his goggles down, his life preserver flapping in the wind.
With every step, Tom panted. The air felt thin and the snow gripped his boots. He glanced at Jesse’s plane and could see his friend sitting high in the cockpit, smoke rising around him. Hang on, Jesse! Tom thought.
Halfway between the planes, Tom stopped. His eyes locked on a pair of footprints that dotted the snow in front of him. Chinese! They might belong to one man, they might belong to a hundred men. The Chinese were known to march strategically in the same footsteps. Tom drew his .38 revolver.
His eyes followed the tracks to the end of the pasture. At the base of a peak sat a wooden shack with a boarded-up window. A farmer probably worked the pasture during the warmer months. The wind howled and Tom’s helmet muffled his hearing. He could have sworn that he heard voices. Tom whirled, pistol in hand, searching. Dead trees creaked and snow swirled.
Tom raised the pistol skyward and fired. A crack echoed between the peaks. No one emerged from the shack or stepped from the trees. He fired again. Nothing. Tom holstered his revolver. He wasn’t worried about the Chinese hearing his gunshots and discovering his loca
tion. All they needed to do was follow the smoke.
Tom plowed ahead and approached Jesse’s right wing from the rear. Jesse waved weakly.
“Tom, I’m pinned,” he called down.
“Don’t worry, Jesse,” Tom shouted up. “A helicopter’s on the way.” All he needs is one good tug to get him out, Tom thought. He stepped onto the wing. His snow-caked boots slipped on the metal and he slammed down. Tom picked himself up and shimmied up to the fuselage. The cockpit sat well above and behind the wing—he’d need to climb.
Tom inserted a gloved hand into a high handhold and leaned his left foot out from the wing. He kicked a spot in the fuselage and a metal foothold folded down. Tom rested his boot on the foothold. With his weight distributed between the foothold and the wing, he grabbed the canopy ledge and stood face to face with Jesse.
Tom’s eyes sank at the sight. Jesse’s lips were blue and his ears looked frozen and brittle. He was shivering wildly, his arms folded, his breath puffing. The cold had curled Jesse’s fingers into claws. Jesse looked up with glassy eyes and said simply, “We’ve got to figure a way of getting out of here.”
Tom nodded rapidly. “Let’s see what’s got you pinned.” He raised his goggles and leaned into the cockpit. Wisps of smoke seeped through the shattered instrument panel. The smoke was the reason that Jesse couldn’t close the canopy to escape the cold—it would asphyxiate him.
“It’s this one,” Jesse said, tapping his right thigh. Tom waved the smoke away and saw it: When the fuselage buckled, it had crushed Jesse’s knee against the part of the instrument panel that ran between his legs.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. Jesse’s helmet was lying next to his left foot. So that’s why he wasn’t responding, Tom thought. The helmet contained Jesse’s microphone and earphones. His gloves lay on the floor as well, also out of reach. In Jesse’s hurry to flee a potential fire, he had discarded his cumbersome gear and only then realized that he was trapped.
With one hand on the canopy rail, Tom grabbed the chest of Jesse’s leather jacket with the other. Jesse’s hands gripped the canopy ledge.
“On three,” Tom said. “One. Two. Three!”
Tom tugged while Jesse pushed upward. Jesse’s eyes clenched with pain, his bottom raised from his seat, but the metal gripped him fast.
Jesse lowered back into his seat. He leaned his head against the headrest and gasped. Tom surmised that his friend had internal injuries, a shattered back at least. He hated to try again, but one glance at the plane’s nose reminded him that a fire could spark at any second.
“Okay, Jesse, let’s try again,” Tom said.
Jesse nodded.
Tom placed his full weight on the foothold and let his right leg dangle over the wing. He gripped Jesse and pulled, using his whole body for leverage. Tom strained, his arm shook, his right leg swung against the fuselage. Jesse groaned and pushed but his knee wouldn’t budge.
Convinced that Jesse was immovable, Tom knew he had to buy time. “I’ll be right back,” he told Jesse. Tom lowered himself to the wing and slid down to the plane’s broken nose. He scampered around to the empty engine cavity and fell to his knees. With gloved hands he shoveled snow into the cavity, toward the source of the smoke. After several heaps, the smoke settled into a trickle. Tom raised his goggles and squinted inside. He couldn’t tell what was burning—it was probably the engine’s residual oil. He didn’t know if he had squelched the fire or just barricaded it off.
Tom scampered back to the wing and up to Jesse’s side. Wisps of smoke still filtered through the instrument panel but less than before. “Fire’s contained,” Tom reported. “If it hasn’t erupted by now I don’t think it’s going to.” Jesse nodded, his teeth chattering. Tom unzipped his jacket and retrieved the black knit cap he always carried. “Hold still,” he said. Jesse’s eyebrows lifted. Tom flopped the cap over Jesse’s head and pulled it down over his friend’s frozen ears.
“Thank you,” Jesse said.
Tom glanced down and tugged the silk scarf from around his neck. “Jesse, give me your hands,” Tom said. Jesse raised his hands but averted his eyes—the sight was too painful. Tom wrapped Jesse’s hands tightly in the scarf and Jesse settled his hands back to his lap.
“We’re going to need an ax to cut you out,” Tom said. “So I’m gonna go get a message to the chopper to make sure they bring one.”
“Okay,” Jesse nodded.
Tom slapped Jesse on the shoulder and climbed down. He couldn’t believe it: Jesse’s composure was settling him down.
As Tom plodded downhill, he noticed that the snow, the Corsair, the peaks, all were turning a deeper shade of blue. Time was slipping away.
—
Several miles to the southeast, they ran through a snowy field between two mountains, like a pack of upright wolves. White Jackets, a hundred or more. Their black sneakers crunched the snow and weapons bounced on their shoulders. They ran for the distant mountain, the one where the smoke had risen, where planes now circled.
—
Three thousand feet above the mountain, Koenig boiled with worry as he followed the planes ahead of him. Snowy peaks and valleys slid across his windscreen as the flight orbited rightward. Something was terribly wrong; fifteen minutes had passed and Jesse was still in the cockpit.
Cevoli swooped down from the clouds and slid back into the lead. “Helicopter’s halfway here,” he reported, his voice high with hope. After an orbit or two he asked, “Where’s Tom?”
“Lead, you might want to look down,” Koenig replied.
Cevoli’s right wing dipped for a better view. “Holy cow,” he muttered.
—
Far below his circling friends, Tom lowered himself into the seat of his crashed Corsair and plugged his helmet’s cord into a panel on the right. He squeezed the red button on the throttle and keyed the mic. “Iroquois flight, do you copy?” His chest heaved as he glanced upward.
“Go ahead, Tom,” Cevoli replied.
“Jesse’s alive but pinned inside,” Tom said. “I think his back’s broken. Tell the helicopter we need a fire extinguisher and an ax to extract him, and tell them to hurry, please.”
Tom cupped his earphones tightly to hear the reply. “Helicopter’s already in the air,” Cevoli said. “I’ll relay your message. If there’s no ax aboard, there may be a delay while he goes back for one.”
“Okay,” Tom said, his face twisting. “Thanks for sticking around, fellas. Jesse’s in rough shape—but he has all the faith in the world.” Tom tugged the cord from the radio to return to Jesse’s side. He had been gone long enough.
—
In his Corsair above, Koenig reached to his right and slid the radio dial to number 7, the Guard Channel. He couldn’t wait for permission—Cevoli was on the horn with the helicopter. “Calling all transports,” Koenig said. “If anyone’s listening, fly over grid Charlie Victor 40-96 and drop a fire extinguisher—we’ve got two pilots down and they need one desperately.”
Static crackled.
“Any transport, come in?” Koenig shook his head. The transport planes were probably on their way back to Japan.
Cevoli’s voice returned to the airwaves. He sounded somber. “The chopper’s turning around to get an ax,” he told the flight. “The rescue’s going to be a while.” Koenig’s jaw clenched at the news. In silence, the flight kept circling.
The radio hissed to life. Koenig’s eyes lifted—someone was listening.
“This is Split Seam flight,” a pilot announced. “Heard you’ve got pilots down?”
Koenig glanced toward the Chosin—in the distance, four Corsairs were approaching. Koenig checked his knee chart. “Split Seam” was the call sign of a Marine squadron called the “Devil Cats.” Cevoli welcomed the newcomers and asked them to take up a wider orbit, three miles outside ’32’s circle. The Devil Cats peeled into a line and began prowling.
In no time, chatter burst across the radio.
“Enemy in the open!” a Devil Cat reported
.
“Oh, I see ’em!” shouted another.
Koenig’s eyes traced the commotion. In the direction of the reservoir, the Devil Cats were circling a field between two mountains.
“Iroquois flight, you have a serious Chinese problem!” the Devil Cat leader reported. “We’re engaging.”
One at a time, the planes dived toward the field with smoke puffing from their wings. Each plane disappeared behind a snowy rise, then rose again from the trees.
“Iroquois flight, this is Fire Guard,” a new voice spoke. “Need more guns?” The pilot reported his heading, and Koenig spotted them—four Corsairs, coming from Yudam-ni.
They were more Marine planes—“Fire Guard” was the call sign of the “Black Sheep Squadron.” Cevoli asked the Black Sheep to fall in with the Devil Cats.*1
Again, the radio crackled. “This is Attack 35, coming on station.” Two Leyte Skyraiders banked over from the Chosin to fall in with the Marine Corsairs. Cevoli welcomed the Skyraiders and urged everyone listening, “Keep ’em off our boys!”
—
On the mountaintop, Tom dangled from Jesse’s canopy ledge and shivered. Without an ax to free Jesse’s leg, there was nothing more he could do.
From the right, thumps of cannon fire sounded. Tom and Jesse glanced across the pasture, but a peak blocked their view. They caught sporadic glimpses of the fighting, when a Corsair climbed high or a Skyraider turned wide. Overhead, Tom could see his shipmates clearly. Their bent wings tilted toward him as they circled, a final line of defense. Tall in their seats, the pilots were silhouetted against the gray clouds. A steady roar of engines filtered down.
As the daylight faded, the temperature was plummeting. The sweat on Tom’s skin froze like a layer of frost and he shivered.
Tom’s eyes wandered to his watch. It was already 3:40 P.M., and darkness would arrive around five. Cevoli and the others still had an hour’s flight ahead of them. If they were to reach the ship before dark, they’d need to leave. Tom gulped. We’re going to be alone soon.