Korean Combat (Yeoman Series)

by Robert Jackson

He turned and strode off down the hillside to where a car was waiting, followed by his entourage. Walking behind him, Semyenov kept his eyes fixed rigidly on the back of the general’s head.

  One of the other Russian officers came alongside Semyenov and placed his hand on the latter’s arm. There was nothing sexual in the gesture, but nevertheless Semyenov shivered slightly and felt his face grow hot. The other must have noticed it, because he removed his hand hastily. Quietly, he said: ‘I really don’t know how you tolerate it, Andrei Andreyevitch.’

  Semyenov said nothing, for he had long since learned to keep silent. Nothing, however, could stifle what was passing through his mind as he stared after Krylenko.

  One day, he thought. One day, you uncouth, bull-necked peasant bastard, we’ll see what’s what. He had several visions of all the horrible things that might be done to the general, supervised by himself, and felt a little better.

  A small fleet of cars took Krylenko and his staff to a nearby airstrip, where a twin-engined Li-2 transport-the Russian copy of America’s famous C-47-was waiting to fly them back to Antung. The aircraft belonged to the Chinese Air Force, but it was flown and maintained by Russian personnel; Krylenko had no intention of trusting his life to people he despised and whose technical prowess he rated as almost non-existent.

  That Krylenko might basically be wrong about the Chinese was something that never crossed his mind. Others could see the true picture, and readily admitted that the Chinese pilots had adapted themselves to modern jet aircraft with astonishing speed; given time in which to refine their training methods and develop suitable tactics, they would be a formidable force.

  But Krylenko was a European Russian, and viewed Asians with contempt, no matter whether they shared his own country’s ideology or not. His immediate function in life — that is to say, the function dictated to him by his orders from Moscow-was to command the Soviet fighter squadrons that were now being sent to Manchuria at the rate of one every two months, to devise jet fighter tactics that might be applied in a future war against the West, and, very low down on his scale of priorities, to provide instructors and training facilities for Russia’s Chinese ‘allies’.

  All Krylenko could think of, as he flew back to Antung and stared moodily at the barren, freezing mountains below, was that his masterly plan for dealing a series of devastating blows to the United Nations war effort was in danger of foundering.

  The plan was simple enough, but it depended on a good deal of expertise. Over the past few weeks, Krylenko had assembled a list of worthwhile targets in South Korea; they ranged from airfields to a huge fuel dump south of Seoul, where reliable intelligence had indicated that more than five million gallons of aviation gasoline were stored. If that could be knocked out, it might bring UN air operations to a complete standstill for days-long enough for the MiGs to establish complete air superiority over the North, all the way down to the Thirty-Eighth Parallel.

  Krylenko now had, at his disposal, twenty Ilyushin-28 jet bombers with which to carry out the air strikes. The problem was that they would have to be flown by Chinese crews, and practice bombing attacks so far had hardly been encouraging.

  Although Krylenko was aware that the United Nations suspected that Russian pilots were flying in combat over North Korea, they had no real evidence to substantiate any accusation. Russian pilots who were shot down either crashed in or baled out over friendly territory, so avoiding unpleasant international repercussions. For Soviet Air Force crews to fly the II-28s, therefore, was out of the question.

  Nevertheless, Krylenko was determined to go ahead with the operation. He had worked everything out in minute detail, and was prepared to override everyone to achieve his objective, even if it meant committing every aircraft based north of the Yalu.

  There were three separate phases to Krylenko’s plan. The first involved a series of pre-dawn attacks on the United Nations airfields immediately to the south of the Thirty-Eighth Parallel by the North Korean Air Force’s elderly piston-engined types, such as the PO-2, the La-9 fighter and the Ilyushin Stormovik. It was a matter of indifference to Krylenko whether these aircraft were shot down in large numbers by the UN air defences; they were expendable, in any case.

  He did not expect them to inflict any real damage. Their job was to sow confusion, to pave the way for the next part of the plan.

  From first light onwards, squadrons of MiG-15s would operate in strength as far south as the Chongchon River, and in some sectors they would push almost as far as the Parallel. These offensive operations would go on all day, the object being to give the UN fighter squadrons no respite.

  By late afternoon, Krylenko reasoned, the United Nations air defences would be in a depleted state. A full day’s combat could not help but cause chaos in the UN system, with pilots, ground crews and controllers exhausted. The Soviet general had calculated that the Americans would throw almost every fighter into the air to meet the challenge; they had never been slow to engage in combat before-as the MiG losses regrettably showed — and there was no reason to believe that they would be any less willing on this occasion. Krylenko had always prided himself on being one of the few Russian generals who really understood the Anglo-Saxon mentality.

  Shortly before dusk, he would play his trump card. Taking advantage of the confusion in the United Nations air defences, his small force of Ilyushin-28 bombers would slip across the parallel, flying fast and low, to strike at their assigned targets. Wherever possible, to avoid detection, the bombers would fly out over the sea, only turning back over the coast to make their final run.

  It would be a classic operation, he thought, if only its final phase were not marred by the incompetence of the Chinese. Its success would mean more decorations, more honour for him. He planned personally to lead one of the Russian MiG squadrons into action at some point in the day, so that no one would ever be able to accuse him of sending his men out to die while he stayed in safety.

  Perhaps, he thought, his ambitions running away with him, he might manage to shoot down one or two United Nations aircraft. Just another two, added to his wartime score, would put him on a level with Pokryshkin-and Pokryshkin had never fought in jets.

  These thoughts combined to put him in a more cheerful mood by the time the afternoon conference came round. Those present were mostly Russians, with a small group of Chinese and North Koreans clustered at the far end of the table. Their interpreters hovered behind them, for the proceedings would be conducted entirely in Russian. Krylenko had left his opposite numbers in no doubt that the air war over Korea was now a Russian-controlled affair.

  This was the first time that Krylenko had gone over his attack plan with all those senior commanders who would be involved. They listened in silence, except for the hushed whispers of the interpreters, as the general intoned the details of the operation. Some of the Russian commanders, Krylenko noted with open satisfaction, were looking at him with frank admiration. He also noted the impassive faces of the Chinese and Koreans, and was not pleased. It was as though they resented Russian intrusion. On reflection, they probably did, but there was nothing they could do about it. Russia supplied them with everything they needed, and they danced to the Kremlin’s tune.

  For the time being, at least. Krylenko was under no illusion on that score. The partnership between Russia and China was one of convenience, no more. It was the Soviet Union that had stirred the Chinese giant into wakefulness; no one could tell what would happen when it flexed its muscles.

  Krylenko had misgivings for the future, and did not deny the fact. But he would never admit what his aide, Andrei Semyenov, knew to be the truth; that the general, like many others of his kind, despised and disliked the Chinese because he was afraid of them.

  He concluded his briefing, then asked if anyone had any questions. There was silence for a moment, followed by a whispered consultation between one of the senior Chinese officers and an interpreter. The latter coughed nervously, then addressed Krylenko.

  ‘Comrade Gene
ral,’ he began formally, ‘Comrade General Li asks me to inform you that he is conscious of the honour accorded to our glorious aviators of the Chinese Revolutionary People’s Air Force in that they are to be permitted’ — he stressed the word deliberately, bringing a wintry smile to Krylenko’s face — ‘permitted to carry out the final and all-important bombing attacks.’

  Tongue-in-cheek bastard, Krylenko thought. Get on with it.

  ‘B-but — ’ The interpreter was beginning to stammer slightly. Krylenko glared at him, guessing what was coming next and secretly enjoying every second of it.

  ‘But,’ the interpreter went on, pulling himself together, ‘the General wishes to know why the most important fighter operations beforehand are to be undertaken by our gallant allies of the Soviet Air Force, leaving our own pilots to play only a secondary role.’

  It was true; the really aggressive fighter operations would be flown by Russian MiG pilots, the Chinese squadrons being held in reserve to fill any gaps.

  Krylenko was in no mood now to mince his words.

  ‘Tell the general,’ he said, ‘that the answer to his question is simple. Russian pilots shoot down more Americans than Chinese pilots do. It is a matter of record.’

  The interpreter flushed, hesitated for a moment, then muttered something rapidly to Li. The Chinese general smiled and inclined his head briefly towards Krylenko, who was quite certain that his words had not been translated literally. It didn’t matter.

  Later, as if to underline what Krylenko had said about the prowess of Russian pilots, he received a top secret intelligence report about a clash that had occurred the day before between MiG-15s and United States Navy jets, Grumman Panthers. The difference about this encounter was that the MiGs had not been masquerading under Chinese colours; a squadron of them, bearing the plain red stars of the Soviet Air Force, had flown from a base near Vladivostok to attack the American jets, which were operating from an aircraft carrier in the Sea of Japan. Three of the slower Panthers had been shot down, and the MiGs had suffered no losses.

  Krylenko raised his eyes at the report; it was the first time that the Soviet Air Force had thrown down a direct challenge to the Americans, and he could not help wondering if the action heralded an escalation of the war.

  In one sense, he thought, that would be a good thing; in another, it might prove to be disastrous from one point of view alone: the Americans had big stockpiles of atomic weapons and the means to deliver them. On the other hand, the atomic capability of the Soviet Union, which had exploded its first A-bomb only two years earlier, was puny. In such a war, Russia was bound to be the loser.

  Try as he might, Krylenko could not understand why the Americans, with their monopoly, had not used atomic weapons to smash the Chinese invasion of Korea. His masters in the Kremlin, he felt sure, would have had no such scruples.

  That evening, in the mess hall obligingly provided by the Chinese for their Russian ‘guests’, there was a special dinner for all the Russian Air Force officers at Antung. It was an all-Russian affair; some senior Chinese and North Korean officers had been invited to attend, but they had politely declined. It was a pity, Krylenko thought; he would have liked to humiliate General Li a little more.

  There was a plentiful supply of vodka, and half-way through the meal Krylenko was drunk, as were most of the others. When the dishes were finally cleared away, two of the officers, flushed with drink, jumped on to the table and launched into a Cossack dance, accompanied by roars of encouragement and shouts of laughter from the rest of the company.

  Krylenko watched, laughing and cheering with the others, when, through the legs of the dancers, he noticed something that wiped the mirth from his face. At the far end of the table, Andrei Semyenov was engaged in deep and earnest conversation with a smiling, fair-haired young lieutenant, his lips close to the latter’s ear as he spoke.

  Krylenko lurched to his feet, his right arm sweeping out, sending bottles and tumblers crashing to the floor. The dancers paused in their routine, startled by the noise, and a sudden silence fell on the room.

  Krylenko waved an imperious hand at the dancers. ‘Get out of the way,’ he hissed. Sheepishly, they climbed down from the table, leaving a clear view of the two men on whom the general had fixed his bleary gaze.

  ‘Semyenov,’ Krylenko said, ‘why don’t you take your little friend to bed, and have done with it?’

  His aide flushed, conscious that the eyes of the whole company were on him, and stared down at the table top. His eyelids fluttered, and this seemed to enrage Krylenko even more. The general’s voice rose to a shrill pitch as he screamed abuse down the table.

  ‘You scum!’ he cried. ‘Must you bring your filthy habits into the dining hall?’ Obscenities poured from him and the other officers looked away, trying to hide their embarrassment. Most of them knew that Semyenov was a homosexual, but then so were many others in the Russian armed forces. So long as they did not bother anyone, and their duties did not suffer, they were left alone.

  Semyenov looked close to tears. Next to him, the lieutenant was staring at Krylenko in what seemed to be pale-faced shock, his mouth wide open.

  Suddenly, as though exhausted, Krylenko slumped into his chair.

  ‘Get out of my sight, both of you,’ he said wearily. ‘You are dismissed.’

  They rose and stood rigidly to attention, staring over the top of Krylenko’s head. Then, in unison, they clicked their heels and left the room. Behind them, a muted buzz of conversation resumed and, in an attempt to break the tension, someone struck up a mournful tune on an accordion. Krylenko, feeling drained of all emotion, as though his tirade against Semyenov had been a kind of orgasm, reached shakily for a fresh bottle of vodka.

  *

  A pale dawn light filtered through the window of Semyenov’s room. He was lying fully-clothed on the bed. He supposed he must have dozed, but he felt as though he had lain awake throughout the night. His throat ached abominably, and his eyes were sore from the tears he had shed.

  He stretched out a hand, and touched something hard and cold. It was his pistol, and he remembered with shame how, in the misery of the night, he had not had the courage to use it either on himself or the man he hated.

  His resolve was firm enough now, in the sober dawn. He knew what he must do.

  He went quietly out into the corridor, to the communal washroom that was used by a dozen officers, and shaved carefully, afterwards splashing cold water on to his face. Feeling a little better, he returned to his room, changed into another uniform and crammed a few personal belongings into a flight bag. Then, without a backward glance, he left the sleeping quarters and went out into the freezing morning.

  The general’s car was parked outside. Semyenov, who did most of his superior’s driving — it should have been done by an ordinary airman, but this was just one of the irritating menial tasks Krylenko forced him to do-took the keys from his pocket and opened it, climbing in and settling himself behind the wheel. Despite the low temperatures the engine started first time. He moved slowly away, driving cautiously until he was clear of the officers’ quarters, then gathered speed as he headed out towards the airfield, making for the buildings of the Training Flight that was tucked away in one corner.

  At this early hour, the Training Flight-which operated a mixture of PO-2s and Yakovlev-18 two-seaters — was manned only by a bored sergeant and one mechanic, both of whom were looking forward to going off duty. The sergeant was Russian, the mechanic Chinese. Semyenov addressed the former.

  ‘Is my aircraft ready?’

  The sergeant looked perplexed. ‘What aircraft, Comrade Captain?’

  Semyenov adopted an outraged expression. ‘Yesterday,’ he said icily, ‘I telephoned to book one of your Yak-18s for an early morning sortie. I need to get some hours in before the end of the month, and the early morning is my only free time. Was my call not noted?’

  The sergeant glanced at a book that lay on the table in front of him.

  ‘No. Co
mrade Captain,’ he said apologetically. ‘Please understand that I was not on duty … ’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Semyenov snapped. ‘The general will be most displeased when he learns of this lack of efficiency. I want an aircraft immediately, with full tanks. See to it.’

  ‘At once, Comrade Captain.’ The sergeant kicked the lethargic mechanic into action and rushed off to carry out Semyenov’s order.

  Semyenov spent the next twenty minutes in an anguish of suspense, sweating with fear at the thought of being discovered. He almost collapsed with relief when the sergeant returned to tell him that an aircraft had been prepared for flight, and that the mechanic was warming up the engine.

  Five minutes later Semyenov was sitting in the Yak-18’s cockpit at the end of the runway. He called up the control tower for take-off clearance, and it was granted immediately. No one suspected a thing.

  He turned north after take-off, heading towards the interior of Manchuria, and stayed above two thousand feet for several miles. Then, losing altitude rapidly, he slipped behind a range of hills and headed west, as though making for the Kwantung Peninsula-a favourite turning-point for pilots on cross-country training sorties.

  He forced himself to remain on the new heading for fifteen minutes, still behind the shadow of the hills, before swinging sharply south-east over the Korean Bay. Far ahead of him, beyond Japan, the upper sliver of the rising sun’s disc glowed molten on the horizon.

  The Yak-18 trundled along at a steady 150 miles per hour, following the red ribbon cast on the water by the sun. Semyenov stayed well out to sea, casting frequent apprehensive glances over his shoulder, expecting at any moment to see the snub-nosed shape of a MiG arrowing down behind him. But he was alone in the sky, and the Yak’s M-11 radial engine sang sweetly. It was pleasantly warm in the cockpit, and for the first time in years Semyenov began to feel content. He hummed a little tune to himself.

  He flew steadily on for just under two hours, then turned in towards the Korean coast, which was visible as a grey blur away to the left. He calculated that he was somewhere south of Inchon. Suddenly he began to feel afraid again, not knowing what would happen next. A sense of utter loneliness gripped him for a few moments; then he steeled himself, telling himself that whatever happened, he could not be lonelier than he had been before.