by James Salter
We were north of the river, near Antung, going almost straight
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down at .95, even Mach 1, leveling out below 1,000 feet as the MIG landed. We went across Antung on the deck. My heart
was pounding. Crossed back over the Yalu near the mouth and
headed back. I could hear them talking. Love had gotten two, Straub one, Kasler one.
DeArmont had been shot down. He was on Amell’s wing.
They broke, but the MIGs turned inside them. The cannons hit him. His wing was on fire. He bailed out, they saw his chute open.
Gun camera footage of MIG-15 being destroyed
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Talked with Casey about the MIG at Antung. “His wheels
are down!” I’d called. Casey grinned with yellowing teeth—the cigars.
—If he’d bounced once, I’d have gotten him.
In the afternoon I led an element. Cirrus haze at 30,000
feet. Smooth, milk sea and above it cloudless sky. We conned across it—eternity. MIGs were up, but we couldn’t find them.
Came home in the dusk, low on fuel, Austin and I, unsuccess-
ful.
28 April 1952. Sometimes at night, uneasiness. The states are far away, many missions. Thinking of Miyoshi’s, the spare, clean rooms, the deference. Once more before the end, I think.
m
The mind could occupy itself, but the dumb, quavering heart
could do nothing. Cleve sat in the cockpit, checking the second hand on his wristwatch. He drummed his fingers on the
tight metal skin of the ship. Finally, it was time to start
engines. He passed gratefully into the realm of function.
Once they were into it, the sky was clear, and bright sunny
blue. It was a sky, Cleve thought, you could see tomorrow in.
He looked over towards Hunter on his wing. DeLeo was flying
number three, wide on the opposite side, just then moving
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into position with Pell number four out beyond him. They
climbed north, over the quiet Haeju Peninsula and then across the edge of the Yellow Sea, heading the shortest way for
Antung.
A fight seemed to have started already. They could hear the
loud, excited transmissions of one flight among the MIGs.
They were late, Cleve thought angrily. He pushed the nose of his ship down slightly, lowering the rate of climb and increas-ing the forward speed. He wanted to get to the Yalu as soon as possible.
m
He felt a buoyancy that was both fear and expectation. From
here on, he was working against time to find them. He headed up the river, passing occasional elements, all friendly. He
scanned the wide sky meticulously, high and low. There was a speck of dirt on the plexiglass canopy that looked like a distant airplane every time his eye passed over it. Despite himself, it tricked him again and again. Aside from that, there was nothing. As he turned to go down towards the mouth of the river
he saw four ships chasing two MIGs far below, flashes of silver against the snowy ground. The radio was cluttered increas-ingly with cries of battle.
“Bandit train number six leaving Antung.”
It seemed impossible to be traveling through so big a fight
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Leaving squadron locker room for a mission
without finding anything. A desperate sensation of futility
seized him. He was certain he was heading in the wrong direction, but he had turned less than a minute before. He could
not cover ground fast enough. He felt as if he were merely
hanging in air.
m
30 April 1952. Terrible day. We were on alert and scrambled to cover a downed F-80 pilot near Sinanju. On the way north a
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fake Dentist Charlie was reporting MIGs, “Ko-shun Flight,
Jackpot Flight”—between Pyongyang and Anju. They were
supposed to be at 30,000. We squirmed in our seats, banked,
saw nothing.
We were cruising, not very fast, at about 85%, near Sinanju, working slowly north. Suddenly there were two MIGs coming
down behind us, close together, that dull smooth gray.
—Break left, Casey! I called.
He hesitated for a moment to look back and in that second
was hit twice, once by an explosive shell.
I heard Austin,
—Where do you have them, Jim?
A moment later, he called to his leader,
—Break left, Kas! Break left! For Christ’s sake, break left!
The last was so convincing that Casey and I momentarily
broke left again.
The MIGs hadn’t followed us. We’d reversed, but they had
too much speed. We followed them for 40 or 50 miles but
never gained. I fired a few times but with no apparent results.
Near the river we saw six more to the west. Then two more
were turning in behind us. We were at about 35,000. We
started turning with them. Passed canopy to canopy halfway
around. After another 180 they dove and we started getting
behind them. Casey was leading again by then. We were at .95
or more. The MIGs began to pull up, then split. One turned
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towards Antung, the other dove towards the Sui-Ho reservoir.
We followed the second but Casey’s oxygen hose became
unbuckled. He caught it when his vision became blurred, but
we lost the MIG.
We leveled out. Two more MIGs were coming in behind
us. I called them out, two or three thousand feet back. Casey began a slight turn to the left. The MIGs were gaining. He
turned right momentarily. They were 1,500 feet back.
—Break one way or the other, Casey! I called.
He broke left. Too late. They were following close, firing.
Their noses lit up as they sailed around behind us like toys on a string. Their tracers were arcing between Casey and me. We were literally flying between the rounds, I don’t know how. My heart was pounding, and at the same time it was as if I were watching it all from above. Behind us they had the scent of the kill, they could see the strikes; nothing would dislodge them. I was in panic but also calm, as if observing from some higher, safer place. We were turning as hard as we could and they were turning with us. The altimeter was unwinding. Straining to
look back, I could see them, steady and unmoving, like the
pods behind you on an amusement park ride that rise when
you rise and go down when you go down, mechanical and
effortless.
Somehow we had pulled ahead a little. We were flying too
desperately for them to lead us. The other element was call-
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ing—they could hear us—to ask where we were and whether
they could help us, but neither Colman nor I could answer. It was pitiless. It was like being held by a python—the least relin-quished space, it constricts to hold. We were being crushed in boundless air.
The break had been into me, and I lost Casey, he didn’t
keep me in sight though he should have. I was diving, pulling 6
or 7 Gs, straining to look back. Finally I saw the two MIGs
split and climb away. I was down to 10,000 feet. I held it on the Mach and climbed towards the sea.
At 25,000 picked up Casey near Chong-ju. We headed
home together. I had 40 gallons at 30,000 feet, about 35 miles from the field. I went in first, made a quick pattern, turned onto final at 170. I was too high. I slipped
to lose altitude but hit hot and long. Maybe it was nerves, delayed reaction. I was on the brakes immediately but couldn’t stop. Somehow I
didn’t consider going around, I was so certain of stopping. In mobile, they thought my engine was running high; they
thought I had added power and was going around. A lurch as a tire blew. The end of the runway was coming up. I suddenly
thought I’ll just turn at the end, onto the taxiway, but as I did, almost relieved, the right landing gear folded under the strain.
The wing hit and buckled.
The fire trucks and Col. Thyng and Casey drove up.
—Nice work, the colonel said coldly. You know how badly
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we need airplanes, too. You were hot as hell. What a pattern. I saw the whole thing.
He had me put my gear in the car. We drove off.
—Colonel, I could cry, I said, absolutely shamed.
—Well, he said more calmly, at least it’s an old A.
They wrote it off as a combat loss, the low fuel, a damaged
plane just behind me, plus the high idle of the engine. I wasn’t charged with an accident. I told Col. Mahurin I would make it up to him.
m
“D” Flight 335th Squadron, left to right, Salter, James Low, Albert Smiley, Coy Austin, Philip Colman
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4 May 1952. The worst feeling of all is when flights come back with no tanks and noses blackened from firing—they have gotten MIGs. Late today Colman and Kasler each got their third, Mattson his fourth.
9 May 1952. Winter is over. Mornings are quiet and dreamy.
Guys moving cots outdoors to take sunbaths. Woody pointed
out three small locust trees turning green between the bar-
racks.
m
On takeoff, he noticed for the first time that the rice paddies surrounding Kimpo were turning green. He watched the
ground flowing beneath him. There was one small farm that
had three tall poplars in front of the house giving it shade. They swept across it. Now, in motion, he felt somewhat better. They picked up speed and began to climb. He was aware of an elusive, mystic sensation supporting the physical as they went up.
It was a beautiful day. The coarse, brown peninsula looked
peaceful. The snow had vanished from the mountains, and the
rivers were free of ice. The sea was like an immense piece of jade through his sunglasses. Along the many crestlines were
veins that gleamed like silver when the sun hit them. Thick
green crowns were beginning to appear, and even the clay and
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sand seemed brighter. Low, scattered puffs of clouds looked
like foam flecks on an even surf.
m
Free of the gravitational forces of reality, he sat in the sunshine and looked out over a crystal empire. Antung lay under a dome of clear air that reached every horizon. The river, its bridges, and the earthen town beside it were as small as a history book map. It was almost sleep-inducing. He knew a tranquility as
timeless as a dream of deepest waters. If death were ever to touch him here, it would be with a gesture of equality, with fingertips only. In this high, sterile realm he would fight and, conquering, it seemed, become immortal.
m
15 May 1952. Sultry morning. As we withdraw from the Yalu they are calling MIGs taking off—five bandit flights heading south, but it’s too late for us, we’re low on fuel, just enough to get back.
Walking across the ramp after debriefing, I hear the news—
the alert flight has gotten three MIGs. That’s Casey, Low,
Kasler, and Smiley. Near Ops, Van Herschberger confronts me.
Have I heard the news? Kasler shot down two! He’s made ace!
Sudden, fierce heartbreak. Juvenile, perhaps, but unquench-
able. Smiley had gotten the third MIG.
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They were still in the air. I didn’t want to be at the debriefing and have to congratulate them, I didn’t have the courage.
As I passed the firing-in butt, two planes were completing their landing roll and turning off the runway. I recognized Casey’s dark, leather helmet in the first one. His gun ports were clean. Low’s also.
Another two ships were just rolling to the end of the strip. Both with blackened gun ports. Kasler and Smiley. It was true.
With James Kasler, later to win three AF crosses
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Later I went down to D Flight to congratulate them.
Kasler was radiant. Col Thyng had jumped up on his wing to
congratulate him.
m
The single daring act—it was hard to imagine the enormous
distance that it placed between us. The fifth was more than
just another; it was beatification, the step across the gulf. On the tail of another plane at top speed, determined, closer than one dared, not knowing the other pilot or what he would do,
down to the treetops, to the fatal earth—I had flown this very flight myself, it had been my initiation though I hardly imagined repeating it in war. Kasler had his fifth, but more than that, he had reorded the state of things; he had begun like me, as a gunbearer, and now was where boldness had placed him,
on the other side.
m
About 17 May 1952. Col. Mahurin shot down today. He seemed absolutely indestructible, twenty or more victories in Europe, smiling, enthusiastic, a group commander at thirty-two. It was at Sinanju and he was on fire, whether from flak or MIGs
nobody knows for sure. He may have bailed out, but the wing-
man never saw it.
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7 June 1952. Dreaming. In a house at the edge of an airfield. At night, the roar of an engine coming over, low, very low. The windows rattled. We ran to look, saw it clearly, dull silver in the moonlight. It turned and headed back towards us, someone from the squadron, in trouble. He came over again, loud, very low, and started to turn in on the runway but fell off on a wing, out of control, and went in with a great explosion that filled the night. The flaming fuel sailed out and dreamily fell earthward.
24 June 1952. We were called in from alert, all except four ships.
At the squadron, everybody was dressing.
—What is it?
—Don’t know.
In Combat Ops the whole Group had been assembled.
Every seat taken. Pilots standing in the back. Hot. Uncomfortable. The buzz of the unknown. Cigarettes being lit. Finally, Col. Thyng stood up.
—Well, boys, he said, this will be the biggest one of the war, the one we’ve been waiting for. The Joint Chiefs have finally OK’d the target.
My heart was galloping. My God, I thought. What? The
enemy fields? Antung?
It was Sui-ho. The dam. North Korea’s electric power. Max
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effort, the AD2’s in first, unescorted, on the deck, then the 80’s and 84’s. All of it right across the river from the MIGs.
—There’ll be hundreds of them up, said Thyng. It’s up to
us to get the fighter-bombers in and out. They’re the ones who’re going to pay.
m
“You flight leaders! Be aggressive. Don’t waste your time on long shots. Get in close where you won’t miss. And element leaders. I want you covering the flight leader as long as you can. Split up when you have to and not before. You wingmen. You’ve got the toughest job of all. Keep your eyes open. Keep your leader
cleared. The air is going to be loaded with ships today, so don’t be calling a break for some goddamned speck five miles behind you. Make sure that they’re MIGs and that it’s time to break.
Everybody! Keep off
the radio unless you’ve got something
important to say. Don’t clutter up the air with long conversa-tions. If you lose each other up there, go to another channel and work it out. Watch your fuel. Don’t stay up there until you’re down to just barely enough to make it home, because if you do and you get bounced on the way back, you’ll never get there.
When you’re down to fifteen hundred pounds today, clear out.
Don’t make that one last sweep. Get going right then.
“This is one time when there’ll be MIGs enough for every-
body. When you see them, go after them; and when you get
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close, put that pipper on them and keep it there. Hold down
that trigger as long as you’re hitting them. I don’t want to hear about any goddamned damages when we come back. I want to
hear about kills. Nothing but kills. Remember that.” He
paused. “You can take a look around you right now, because
there’ll probably be some empty seats here tomorrow. Just
make sure it isn’t you.”
m
He walked around the airplane, inspecting it, and then
climbed into the cockpit and began strapping himself in. This occupied him for a while. When he was finished, he looked at his watch. Still several minutes remaining. He felt he had been waiting for hours. His thirst was very strong by now, and he seemed to be sitting in a pool of searing air. Every piece of metal about him was too hot to touch. He could feel the sweat going down his legs in hesitating streams. Finally, it was time.
He started his engine.
It was even hotter taxiing out, but by that time a kind of
transition had been completed. He was immersed in discom-
fort. He no longer noticed it. It was even satisfying to be so baptized. The interior of his oxygen mask was as slippery as fish, and the air he drew from it was warm and flatulent, but at last he was fully involved in the mission and far beyond any of the trivialities that went with it.
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As he taxied through them, pools of soft tar at the end of
the runway sucked at his wheels and splattered up in oversized drops to stain the underside of the wings. He lined up and
waited until Hunter drew alongside him. They ran up their
engines. He looked across. Hunter nodded. Cleve dropped his
raised right hand, and simultaneously they released their