First Man

by James R. Hansen

  On Monday, June 25, 1951, Fighter Squadron 51 received its orders. Three days later, at 1430 on June 28, the Essex upped anchor. As she approached the Hawaiian Islands on July 3, most of the carrier’s aircraft flew ahead to Oahu’s southwestern tip.

  At NAS Barbers Point, the squadron’s aircraft were first equipped with heavy (four 250-pound general-purpose or four 260-pound fragmentation) bomb racks. Ken Kramer remembers: “We had expected that we would be fighting MiGs, and we had practiced our dogfighting tactics probably more than any other squadron before us.” If the navy’s Pentagon aircraft procurement unit “had only gone with the North American Fury [the progenitor of the Sabre jet] instead of the Panther,” Kramer has speculated, “we would have been the pilots fighting the MiGs” in the Sabre jet being built by North American Aviation for the air force. “Instead, we became a ground attack squadron,” “a big letdown for us” as naval aviators.

  Yet, the navy’s decision to add the bomb racks was sound. The FJ-1 lacked carrier suitability; among other reasons, the plane kept losing its tail-hook in its landing gear. VF-51 became a fighter-bomber unit because, as CO Ernie Beauchamp put it, “it was the only game in town.” In the eastern half of Korea into which VF-51 would be flying, there were simply no MiGs to engage.

  During the training in Hawaii (from July 4 through 31), it was unclear whether all of VF-51’s officers would make the cruise. On July 11, 1951, Rickelton wrote in his diary: “We are still wondering if they are going to have to kick us ensigns off the ship due to lack of room for planes.” Neil Armstrong, a brand-new ensign and the squadron’s youngest officer, felt equally vulnerable.

  There was still a chance no one at all would be going. On June 23, 1951, the Soviet delegate to the United Nations had proposed a truce between North and South Korea. Treaty negotiations, started on July 10, at Kaesong near the 38th parallel, were still taking place on July 25, the day that Rickelton optimistically recorded in his diary: “I think the war is as good as over.” Starting on August 1, United Nations forces, in order to consolidate their front lines, resumed limited attacks, which the Communists called an act of aggression. By August 18, heavy fighting resumed. Five days later, the Communists broke off peace talks, charging the United States with violations of neutrality and with restarting the war. September 1951 would see some of the bloodiest fighting of the war. At the Battle of Bloody Ridge, the U.S. Army’s 15th Field Artillery Battalion set a record by firing 14,425 rounds in a twenty-four-hour period. On its heels came the monthlong Battle of Heartbreak Ridge, costing the United States 3,700 casualties to North Korea’s nearly 25,000-man loss.

  By the time belligerency resumed on August 23, 1951, the Essex was fifteen days out of Pearl Harbor (having left on August 8, four days away from what had been a quick stop at the U.S. Naval base at Yokosuka [pronounced Yah-koo-kah], Japan, and already on station some seventy miles off the northeast coast of Korea near the harbor at Wonsan). Joining Fighter Squadron 51 aboard the Essex were one squadron of F4U Corsairs (VF-53), one squadron of AD Skyraiders (VA-54), and one squadron of F2H-2 Banshee jets (VF-172). Also embarked were four VC detachments: VC-61 with F9F-2P photo planes; VC-3; VC-11; and VC-35 (“VC” designating a “composite squadron” trained in night attack and defense, air early warning, and antisubmarine warfare). The replacement at Pearl Harbor of the Banshee squadron for VF-52 (and its F9F-2s) was an unhappy surprise for the Panther pilots, who took no delight in the notion they might play second fiddle to the Banshees.

  They need not have worried.

  CHAPTER 9

  Fate Is the Hunter

  Skipper Beauchamp foresaw the perils of his squadron’s upcoming cruise. In its four months of combat in Korea in late 1950, Carrier Air Group 5, while aboard USS Valley Forge, had lost fourteen aviators, more than 10 percent of CVG-5’s entire complement of pilots. True, VF-51 itself had suffered only one casualty. Beauchamp knew that his own squadron might not be so lucky.

  The men of VF-51 were more excited than scared about the prospects of combat. They were, in Ernie Russell’s words, “in the company of fellow travelers at the peak of their potential, overflowing with energy and good spirits, and embarking on the adventure of their life.”

  A bad omen for what was to come, typhoon Marge battered the Essex for two straight days, rolling the ship just ten degrees shy of its thirty-five-degree capsize point. In his journal for August 20, VF-51’s Bob Kaps wrote, “Same rolling, pitching motion. Becoming very disagreeable, says my stomach.” Several of the men got sick and hardly anyone got good rest. “I didn’t get much sleep,” Rick Rickelton noted in his diary, “Every time I would doze off I would get banged against the side of my bunk. I woke up so mad I almost broke my fist on the…bulkhead.”

  On August 22, the Essex joined Task Force 77 about seventy miles off Wonsan. Looking out the large bay door of the hangar deck, Armstrong saw his first American carrier battle group. The carrier Bon Homme Richard; the battleship New Jersey; two cruisers, the Helena and Toledo; and some fifteen to twenty destroyers numbered among some two dozen warships that would swell in the following months to marshal as many as four carriers and three cruisers in simultaneous action.

  The previous day, the pilots of Fighter Squadron 51 had gotten airborne, though bad weather on August 22 and 23 grounded them again.

  Air Group 5’s first stretch of combat operations commenced on August 24, when CVG-5 launched seventy-six sorties against “targets of opportunity.” It was not Armstrong’s turn to fly that first day. Nor did he participate on the twenty-fifth in a massive air raid on the railyards at Rashin near the Soviet border—the first time navy fighters (both Panthers and Banshees) ever escorted air force bombers over hostile territory.

  According to Armstrong, “The four-plane division was the mainstay of the operation.” A division consisted of two sections of two airplanes each. In flight, the sections stayed separated (as opposed to the World War II–era partner maneuver “Thach Weave”) by a quarter mile to a half mile.

  Beauchamp divided his twenty-four pilots into six divisions scheduled to receive approximately the same number of hops. The Skipper led the first division with Bob Rostine as his section leader. Benny Sevilla led the second with Wiley Scott as section leader. Dick Wenzell and Tom Hayward led the third, Wam Mackey and Chet Cheshire the fourth, and Danny Marshall and Bill Bowers the fifth. The head of the sixth division was John Carpenter. An air force major, Carpenter came to VF-51 on an air force–navy exchange program. Carpenter’s section leader was John Moore. The junior officers flew as wingmen. At the start of the cruise, Armstrong usually flew as Carpenter’s wingman, in the division with John Moore. Later, Neil flew mostly with Wam Mackey. Like the other pilots, Armstrong also flew a number of photo escorts, which were not done in divisions.

  Though Armstrong “was one of the boys,” as Hersh Gott declares, a special interest in education did set him apart somewhat. According to Beauchamp, “It was not unusual to find Neil in the ready room after dinner at the blackboard with a piece of chalk in his hand illustrating a math problem, an aerodynamic principle, or so forth.” Early in the cruise, Armstrong taught an algebra class to some thirty interested enlisted men. So wrapped up in one lesson, Armstrong missed muster for a scheduled squadron briefing. It took a call over the ship’s PA system to get his attention. Neil burst through the rear door of the ready room and apologized for being late. As VF-51’s John Moore has told the story, Beauchamp accepted no excuses:

  Beauchamp: “Neil, where were you?”

  “Down below, sir.”

  “What were you doing down below?”

  “Sir,” said Armstrong, “I am teaching an algebra class to some of our crew and tonight I had a scheduled class meeting. Sorry, sir.”

  The skipper demanded an explanation from his youngest ensign. Armstrong answered, “It’s no big deal, sir. Some of our guys asked me if I would do it and I said, sure. No big deal.”

  The fact that CAG Marshall Beebe always asked for the squadro
n’s youngest aviator as his wingman did not go unnoticed. Ken Kramer relates, “I never discussed Neil with Beebe, but it is a fact that CAG chose to fly with Neil whenever he flew the F9F-2 Panthers. I think they had a very good relationship.” Armstrong concurs: “I flew with Commander Beebe some and thought he was quite a good air group commander, the first I’d known and certainly the first in any operational circumstances or any combat circumstances…. I was delighted when I had the chance to fly with him.”

  Flying as Beebe’s wingman did not afford Armstrong any protection from danger; in fact, CAG’s aggressive approach to combat flying may have put Neil even more into harm’s way. Beebe “seemed to be completely fearless,” Hal Schwan says. “I was on missions with him where there would be a lot of antiaircraft fire—we would go in and make our run and he would call everybody to go up and orbit while he would go down to see if another strike was needed. I can remember looking down and thinking, ‘My God, that guy just doesn’t care!’”

  Beebe had a well-deserved reputation for staying “feet dry”—overland—for too long, maximizing air time over enemy targets but leaving the planes with barely enough fuel to make it back to their carrier. Wam Mackey remembers: “We’d always have a hell of a time when we got to the ‘bingo’ point [the minimum fuel needed to return to the carrier safely]. We’d say, ‘CAG, help me out,’ and he’d say, ‘Okay, I’m just going to take one more look around.’” More than once, Beauchamp expressed his displeasure with Beebe for pressing everyone’s luck. Some of the pilots in Air Group 5 called Beebe “the greatest of the ‘follow me, boys!’”

  On a couple of occasions Beebe managed to get authorization for his jets to fly up into MiG Alley in the uppermost regions of North Korea, though the requisite defensive maneuvering against MiGs would have used up too much fuel to afford safe return to their carrier. Balancing the risk against the unknown military gain, some of Beebe’s aviators wondered privately, What the hell was the man thinking?

  Armstrong has never criticized Marshall Beebe for his aggressive flying, though he has said, “I do remember when I would have appreciated a couple of hundred more pounds of fuel in the landing pattern.”

  Armstrong’s first action over North Korea came on Wednesday, August 29, when he escorted a photoreconnaissance plane above the 40th parallel over the port of Songjin, then flew a routine combat air patrol over the fleet. Three of the next four days (except for September 1, when the task force replenished its fuel and supplies), he flew armed reconnaissance over Wonsan, Pu-Chong, and again up to Songjin. A few VF-51 aircraft encountered small-arms ground fire on the twenty-ninth, but the squadron’s first taste of potent AA fire did not come until September 2. Beauchamp’s divisions’ main objective was disruption of the transport system that fed the North Korean and Chinese armies. “We did that by blowing up trains and bridges and tanks,” explains Armstrong, “and just being as contrary as we could.”

  In its first ten days of action, Air Group 5 experienced a nasty rash of casualties. On August 23, LTJG Leo Franz in a Corsair from VF-53 disappeared in heavy overcast. In a “shocking incident” early on Sunday morning, an AD-3 (Attack Douglas) Skyraider piloted by LTJG Loren D. Smith of VC-35 was “seen to burn in midair and then crash into the water,” killing both Smith and his radioman, Philip K. Balch. Bob Kaps (nicknamed “Bottle”) reported: “Night heckler [typically a Corsair attack plane] exploded after catapult. Bomb & napalm load gave them no chance.” Covering the week ending Sunday, September 2, the ship’s combat action report noted, “Not a day had gone by but at least one plane had been hit by AA,” the casualties provoking “a more pronounced outlook on the point of survival.” Bottle Kaps wrote in his journal, “Have already decided I’m not the hero type.”

  The next week almost ended Neil Armstrong’s life.

  On Monday morning, September 3, 1951, following a briefing in the ready room, Armstrong suited up for what was to be his seventh combat mission since arriving in the Korean theater. Although years later Armstrong would take even greater care with the complicated suit so vital to an astronaut’s survival in the vacuum of space, donning a naval aviator’s two-part “poopy suit” drew comparisons to putting on a straitjacket. The inner lining, similar to a child’s snowsuit, was relatively comfortable compared to the tight rubber outer garment that resembled a frogman’s suit. According to one naval aviator, “If your face turns blue and you gasp for breath, you know the suit fits properly.” All of this trouble for an outfit that might keep a downed pilot alive in the cold ocean water for twenty minutes, yet that was considerably better than the ninety seconds without it. Carrier lore held that one successful ditching was all any pilot had the right to expect. This made the experience of Paul Gray, the thirty-five-year-old commander of VF-54, all the more remarkable. During the Essex cruise, Gray ditched an AD Skyraider into the sea five times and was rescued each time.

  Having struggled into the rubber exposure suit, next came an outer shirt, a survival jacket, a holstered .38-caliber Smith & Wesson pistol, extra ammo, a life jacket, and gloves. As with his fellow aviators, Armstrong finished his raiment by tying a silk scarf around his neck. The scarf was not simply stylish; it was necessary to help stop water from getting into the immersion suit from around the neck if a ditching did occur.

  The call to “Flight Quarters!” commenced a noisy, frenetic choreography on deck. The “plane captain” started the jet engines even before the pilots arrived to make their assisted climb into the cockpit, where the plane captain connected the shoulder and lap straps and arranged the parachute harness. Following a check of his oxygen mask and the status of his life raft and radio, the aviator was primed for the ship’s powerful H8 catapults. His cat shot that day would be Armstrong’s twenty-eighth in three months.

  Armstrong’s mission was to fly an armed reconnaissance mission into a hot zone that U.S. naval intelligence called “Green Six.” Located west of Wonsan, Green Six was the code name for a narrow valley road that ran south from the village of Majon-ni, southwest of Wonsan to the interior border of South Korea.

  The principal targets for September 3, 1951, were freight yards and a bridge. According to Rick Rickelton, who was flying wing for Mackey, “We really ran into a terrific concentration of AA; fairly heavy stuff. I think I could have walked on it.” Flak hit Lieutenant Frank Sistrunk’s AD Skyraider from VF-54 while Sistrunk was bombing the bridge. His plane smoking badly, Sistrunk headed toward the safety of the east coast thirty air miles away. Halfway to the beach and at an altitude of about 2,000 feet, the Skyraider nosed into a steep dive and crashed. Sistrunk became Air Group 5’s fourth casualty during the Essex cruise, following Franz, Smith, and Balch.

  Armstrong, flying with John Carpenter, made a number of attacking runs that day. So many different versions of what happened next to Neil have been told over the years that it is difficult to sort out what really occurred.

  The complete official version of Neil’s incident was reported, doubtlessly with input from Armstrong and other division pilots, by Marshall Beebe to the commanding officer of the Essex just days after the incident.

  Ensign Neil ARMSTRONG of VF-51 saved his own life with a piece of exceptionally fast headwork. He’d been attacking a target in very hilly country.While he was in his run he was hit by AA. He lost elevator control but in a fraction of a second he rolled in all the back tab he could get. His aircraft, well loaded with ordnance, came so close to the ground that he sheared off two feet of starboard wing on a power pole. By babying the stick and the trim tabs he was able to fly to friendly territory and to safety. The stall characteris-tics of the plane were such that a landing speed of over 170 knots would be necessary without positive elevator control, which dictated the bailout. This was the first ejection seat bailout by an Air Group Five pilot. ARMSTRONG ejected himself, cleared the seat, opened his chute and landed near K-3 without further incident.

  According to Beebe’s report, Neil’s emergency occurred “at approximately the same time” that
Sistrunk was hit and killed.

  Naval Aviation News, during wartime a “restricted” publication, capsuled Armstrong’s close call in its December 1951 issue under the title “One Stub Wing”:

  The Panther jet Ens. Neil Armstrong was using to strafe trucks near Wonsan spun out of control and nosed downward, badly hit by AA. Armstrong struggled frantically with the controls. The plane leveled finally at about 20', struck a pole and tore off three feet of its right wing. The pilot nursed the crippled fighter back to 14,000 feet and headed for friendly territory. Radio out, landing gear jammed and rockets hung, Armstrong bailed out.

  Safely back aboard the Essex two days later, Armstrong reportedly commented, “Twenty feet from Mother Earth at that speed is awful doggone low!”

  In the 1960s, NASA publicists and news media reporting Armstrong’s military background relied on “facts” presented in these two accounts. The superlative historian of military aviation Richard P. Hallion also cited them in his 1988 book The Naval Air War in Korea: