by James Salter
brakes. Gathering speed, they moved down the runway
together. It was the highest moment of confidence forever
renewed upon taking off, the soaring of spirit. Cleve felt light and new again, invincible. They were moments of well-being
that did not last long. They were gradually replaced by nervousness. Cleve could feel it running through him, as they
started north.
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Flashing like fish silver, they broke through a low, billowing surf of clouds and into unmarked sky. They climbed. They
crossed the Han and into enemy territory, passing the invisible line beyond which little was forgiven. Time seemed to be
going quickly. The tempo of landmarks was greater than usual.
The compounding hands of the altimeter seemed to be mov-
ing more rapidly. Over the radio, nothing except for routine traffic. The fight had not started. Cleve felt elated. He had not hoped for such luck.
He looked back towards Hunter, and his courage and pride
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swelled. There was nothing to compare with the happiness of
leading. Towards the final test and winnowing they flew
together, and though a man on the ground could neither see
nor hear them, they were up, specks of metal moving through a prehistoric sky, contaminating an ocean of air with only their presence, electrifying the heavens. Cleve felt a distilled
fulfillment. For these moments, no price could be too high.
As they neared the Yalu, the cloudiness increased, and
above a spotty floor of white there was one huge cumulus
buildup, a towering mushroom of brightness as big as a county.
It looked like a cosmic fungus, like layers of wrath. They were at forty thousand feet then and climbing. The river was still five minutes away. Suddenly, cutting through the lesser voices, there was Colonel Imil’s.
“Dust on the runway at Antung, boys,” he called. “Heads
up.”
It was as if they had waited for him, Cleve thought slowly.
He tried to see the reddish plumes rising, but the cumulus was in the way. Beyond that vast cloud and beneath it, they were taking off to fight. He began searching the sky with the intensity of a man who has lost a diamond on a public beach.
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24 June 1952. Left the briefing nervous. Dressed, flight briefing.
Finally we were off. North in ominous silence. Far below
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glimpses of the straight-winged fighter-bombers. Explosions
were hiding the dam in smoke. Not a MIG in the air. It was as if they didn’t exist. The fires burned into the next day. Not a ship lost to either ground fire or enemy aircraft. We landed in disappointment.
4 July 1952. Fighter-bombers going north again today. Target the North Korean Officers’ Academy about 25 miles south of the
Mizu. First good weather in a week. My 89th mission.
We’re at 25,000, watching the fighter-bombers move
evenly across the green earth and hills. Enemy trains being
called out. Air is flashing with F-86s.
Suddenly, MIGs called out along the river. Then Low calls
them at 30,000, heading along the Yalu. We drop tanks and
begin climbing through a layer of scattered cirrus. All at once the MIGs are on us, coming in from 8 o’clock, slightly high.
Cope is on my right. We break into them. They pass behind us and are immediately lost from sight as we continue to turn and roll out at 22,000.
MIGs being called out everywhere, the radio is cluttered
with cries. Someone says there are many south of the Mizu at 24,000. We head that way, 86s all around. Search for three or four minutes.
We’re turning north again when we see two to the west,
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heading south. We turn, fall in behind them a mile or so back.
We’ll never catch them, but then they chandelle up to the
right and we gain on them by Immelmaning up between them
and the river. I’m behind and slightly beneath the leader,
about 1,500 feet back. He turns to the right. I duck my head, can’t find the gunsight reticle—we’re pulling Gs and it’s off the glass. As we level, it swims into view. I fire a burst. The tracers fall short.
He begins to climb and turn and I cut him off, firing and
closing. At about 1,100 feet, some hits in the right wing and a few moments later, at less than 1,000, I get a solid burst into his fuselage. Intense, bright flases.
He rolls over. I push forward, still shooting, hitting him.
Suddenly the canopy flies off. A second later the pilot, a com-pact bundle, comes out.
I shout to Cope.
—Did you see that?
—Roger.
We watch the MIG spin down from 30,000 feet, very
leisurely, until finally in some wooded hills its shadow rises to meet it and it hits and explodes.
We’re below Bingo, with 200 gallons. We head back.
My first MIG, after these months of heartache and trying.
On this mission, the Fourth claimed six MIGs. Two of our
planes were lost, Jolley and Beetle who was on his second mis-
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Captain Troy Cope
sion. They got into trouble up north, Jolley was hit and heading for the water when Beetle was hit, too. They were very low on fuel. I heard one of them say, “500 pounds.” They bailed
out over the water near Cho-do. Jolley was picked up but Beetle drowned.
If it hadn’t been for one man, Low, who had spotted the
MIGs taking off and called them out, things might have been
very different, Col. Thyng said.
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10 July 1952. Woody said good-bye this morning. Watched him go with genuine sorrow. In the afternoon, my 92nd mission.
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Tremendous heat. Sat in the cockpit bathed in sweat, the oxygen mask slippery with it.
The north seemed serene and unthreatening. MIGs called
out between Antung and Anju. Flew along the river near a
huge cumulus build-up that covered the entire area and
beneath a lean shelter of clouds that formed a tunnel 20,000
feet high along the Yalu. Hoped to catch them coming back or others heading south but saw nothing.
Came home, climbing fast, clean through the empty air,
over the water, just Drukenbrodt and I. Felt again how heartbreaking to leave.
11 July 1952. MIGs were being called up, but nobody saw them until we were nearly to the river. Then the excitement. Somebody chasing a pair north, didn’t think they could catch them.
Somebody else, Dog, screamed to break. We dropped tanks.
Spotted a single, to the north and west, across the setting sun.
Headed for him. It was a good area to be in when the MIGs
came home. I was sure we would intercept them.
I lost the single. We turned towards the river. Flew
around a thunderstorm there and looked in. Through the
gray rain ships were climbing and diving like gnats under a
streetlight. Went on, spotted two more, turned after them
and lost them in the cloud.
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20 July 1952. Big fight this time. Col. Baker was Red Flight, first off. He was to cover the airfields. I was John Yellow, far back. On the way north I could hear him going after some. Finally he said something like “Dust in center field, boys,” then nothing more.
Blue Flight dropped tanks for a flight of six above them at
36,000. Soon we ran into MIGs ourselves. Chased two for a
2nd Lt. Jame
s F. Low, in the course of the extraordinary record he made in Korea
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while, gave up, turned west along the river, then back east
again. Two MIGs crossed above us, heading north. Turned
after them. Fell in about 2,000 feet back and the same below.
Jones had a slow ship. The MIGs turned. I cut them off and
gained, but Jones was falling behind. He was barely in sight.
Then he called, there were twelve MIGs behind him, he said.
Did we have a better chance at them, I asked? He didn’t
know. We continued on. Finally Jones lost me. I was alone.
Heard the weather recall being given. I was closer than ever to the MIGs. They began another turn, to the right. I asked
Jones if he had me. He thought he did. He was at 9 o’clock, he said. I looked but couldn’t see him. I heard him cry,
—Hey, that’s a MIG!
He’d joined up with one by mistake. He swung in to try
and get a shot but it climbed away.
I was very close now, just one more turn from being in
range. I cleared myself as well as I could. I felt very alone.
Watched as two more MIGs came down from 3 o’clock high
and joined the two I was chasing. Then they climbed back out to the right. Was sure they were going to come in on me but
they must have lost sight of me. Didn’t see them again.
I was very far north and down to minimum fuel. I had to
break it off. Began a gradual turn towards home at 40,000. As I did, I was horrified to see the MIGs turn, too. They had
never done that before.
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I was at 100% and going .95 in an A (#158). Antung was at
least seventy miles ahead. I was weaving slightly, looking
behind me. Saw two other MIGs turning far below, on the
deck. Couldn’t do anything about it. A minute later, another one down there. I hadn’t seen them low for months. Then,
suddenly, I saw tanks falling to both left and right, from above.
Searched for the MIGs dropping them, but couldn’t find
them. Another pair of tanks fell, pale, curling trails, at 2
o’clock, and behind them came a MIG. Probably misjudged his
pass because of my speed and slight dive. He swung in a good way back and began firing. The rounds were dropping short,
below me. At last I crossed over Sinuiju at 10,000 feet and
began climbing slowly out towards the sea.
Druckenbrodt had become separated, too. He was at
20,000 over Pyongyang with 100 gallons. I told him to climb
to 30,000. He was getting steers from Dentist, 180, then 200, then 220 degrees.
At 30,000 he reported 60 gallons. I told him to shut it
down at 50 and save that for making the field. A rain squall was moving in rapidly from the south. K-13 was already closed in.
I landed and sat in the cockpit near the squadron area listening to the radio. The storm was almost at the far end of the runway, huge, gray mass. I alerted GCA to try and pick him up. The ceiling was coming down fast. Finally he appeared to the north, coming in on initial. Had a terrible 30 seconds waiting for him to make base leg without flaming out, but he did. It was OK.
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Once again, no luck. Four missions left.
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He could not tell what it was at first. Far out, a strange, dreamy rain was falling, silver and wavering. It was a group of drop tanks, tumbling down from above, the fuel and vapor streaming from them. Cleve counted them at a glance. There were a
dozen or more, going down like thin cries fading in silence.
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He was not completely conscious of what he was doing or even planning. A hand that had done this for years was guiding his ship. He was merely riding along, it seemed, striving to see better, to see everything; and he was cutting the MIGs off slightly in the turn, getting inside them. He could distinguish the black markings on the leader. He pulled after him, distended. As he did, still far from being in a position to shoot, he was stricken with a sense of resignation and fear. They went around and
around in this silent, unyielding circle. His fuel was getting lower and lower. He glanced quickly at it: seven hundred
pounds. They were going down steadily; they had passed
through twenty thousand. The airspeed was building. He had
lost sight of the other two MIGs, of Hunter, of everything but the winding earth and the lead ship turning with him, motionless as the world spun about them.
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The airplanes no longer seemed involved. It was a battle of
wills, of the strength to hang on, as if by the teeth alone. To let up meant to lose, and it was Cleve’s advantage. He was rigid with the determination to stay there.
Suddenly the MIG rolled over and started down. For an
endless part of a second Cleve hesitated, surprised. They were very low. He was not sure he could follow him through and
clear the ground. He was almost certain the MIG could not
make it. He knew a moment of awful decision, and then rolled and followed. They were going straight down, in a split S, wide open. They burst through the level of clouds. The earth was
shooting up at him. The stick seemed rigid. He trimmed and
pulled back as hard as he could, popping the speed brakes to help pitch him through. Everything faded into gray and then
black. When it began to be gray again, he saw that they had
made it. He was right behind Casey, on the deck. The hills and trees were whipping past just beneath them. His ship slammed and jolted crazily against ripples of air.
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Late July 1952. Days of rain falling hard, then soft, like layers of gravel. Water everywhere except in the latrine—the pumping
station is flooded. K-16 is flooded, too, all the transports and helicopters have come in here temporarily. The hours seem
endless. Sitting in the same room, day after day, with nothing to do. Everything leather has green mould.
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1 August 1952. First good day in a week. A max effort escort and sweep. Climbing north through thin layers. Bandit
trains being called out, near Anju, northeast of Anju, north of Antung, seven in all. Coming up to meet us this first fair day.
We’re at 40,000. Kozey calls MIGs taking off at Antung.
We’re too high and far away to go after them. Then Col. Baker calls MIGs above him.
—Where?
—At the Mizu. Come and get them, Yellow, he says.
—Roger, colonel, we’re on the way. What altitude?
—33,000.
We head northeast. To the right is another flight of 86s,
heading the same way, and below specks are wheeling up and
down with each other in a canted Lufberry. When I take my
eyes off them, I lose them. A moment later I see what looks
like many aircraft heading generally west. We turn slightly
north. Then they are streaming beneath us like salmon, MIGs, many of them, about 5,000 feet below, the perfect bounce.
—MIGs below, I call. Let’s go!
We pull around and start down. I have Miller on my wing.
I warn him to keep a good eye out, there are many, many of
them around.
We’re closing on a flight of four. They break slightly to the right and up. I’m cutting off the leader, decide to take the wingman, who’s lagging a little, instead. I roll out briefly, then
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in behind the wingman at about 1,500 feet. I hunch over, looking for him in the reticle. An 86, firing, goes
by beneath
behind another MIG. A moment later still another, greenish
gray with a Chinese communist or North Korean insignia
pops up almost beside but in front of me to the right. He starts a slow turn to the left, crossing below my nose, not 500 feet out. Can’t believe my luck. I reverse my turn to get right
behind him as he descends towards the west.
I clear myself quickly to the right. Nothing. Where’s
Miller? Now left. There’s a MIG just behind, firing, showing a little of his belly so I can tell he’s leading me! He’s at 7 o’clock, enormous, not 300 feet back! I can see his nose flashing and the lashes of cannon fire whipping by!
—Break left! I cry and pull it in.
There’s a second MIG, his wingman, inside of him and
firing, too. We’re breaking down from about 35,000, not able to pull it too tightly. I can see them following me around.
Can’t see Miller. I pull harder, it snaps and heads straight down. I let it go and pull into a turn again a few seconds later with more airspeed. I look back. Nothing. They’re gone.
I call Miller. No answer. Only the radio clamor of a fight,
then an anguished moan. Someone says,
—Oh, Jesus.
It’s Miller. I call him again and again. Towards the Mizu an airplane with a heavy trail of white smoke is going straight
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down, near where we’d been fired upon. Miller, I know. Then
he answers.
—Roger, he says. I got the MIG that was after you.
We head to the outermost island at Long Dong and finally
spot one another at 24,000 feet. He has 230 gallons, I have
250. We head back to the Mizu, climbing, and get to 40,000
but there’s nothing left of the fight when we get there. It’s vanished completely. It’s like visiting a Civil War battlefield.
Back on the ground it turns out that Miller had screamed,
“Break left, Yellow Lead!” at me three times, but I had a bad receiver and failed to hear it. Cope heard it, though. The
MIGs had just popped up between Miller and me as I was
reversing to go after the olive green one and had started firing.
Miller thought I was hit. He fired at the MIG, not hitting him until a last burst when the MIG was rolling over to follow me down. The pilot bailed out.
Felix Asla was lost. His wing was shot off south of Mizu,