Blind and alone over North Korea

0 Comments | Naval Aviation News, Sept-Oct, 2004 | by Kenneth A. Schechter

I was blind, in pain, bleeding profusely and very much alone. At the controls of my A-1 Skyraider attack plane over Wongsang-ni, North Korea, I was climbing toward a solid overcast at 10,000 feet--from which there might be no return.

It was 22 March 1952 and I was just 22 years old. Earlier that day, dawn found me on the flight deck of Valley Forge (CV 45) in the Sea of Japan, warming up my Skyraider. As a pilot in Fighter Squadron 194, the Yellow Devils, I was the standby in case one of the eight planes scheduled for the morning's flight became inoperative. When Charlie Brown's plane lost its hydraulic system, I was launched in his place. It was my 27th bombing mission in North Korea. The targets were enemy marshaling yards, railroad tracks and other transportation infrastructure.

On the ninth of my planned 15 bomb runs, at 1,200 feet, an enemy antiaircraft shell exploded in the cockpit. Instinctively. I pulled back on the stick to gain altitude. Then I passed out. When I came to a short time later, I couldn't see a thing. There was stinging agony in my face and throbbing in my head. I felt for my upper lip. It was almost severed from the rest of my face.

I called out over the radio through my lip mike (which miraculously still worked), "I'm blind! For God's sake, help me! I'm blind!"

Lieutenant (jg) Howard Thayer, in his own Skyraider nearby, heard the distress call. He saw my plane heading straight toward the heavy overcast. He knew that if I entered those clouds no one would be able to help me.

He called out, "Plane in trouble, rock your wings. Plane in trouble, rock your wings." I did so. Then came the order, "Put your nose down! Put your nose down! Push over. I'm coming up."

Again, I did as he said and pushed the stick forward. He climbed and flew alongside my plane and radioed, "This is Thayer. This is Thayer. Put your nose over further."

I complied. Howie Thayer was my roommate on Valley Forge. Hearing his name and his voice gave me just the psychological boost I needed. He continued, "You're doing all right. Pull back a little. We can level off now."

Thayer could see that the canopy of my plane was blown away and that my face was a bleeding mess. The crimson stain on the fuselage behind the cockpit turned dark and blended with the Navy blue of the Skyraider as the blood dried. He was amazed I was still alive.

Without the canopy, the 200 mile per hour slipstream and unmuffled engine noise made sending and receiving radio transmissions exceptionally difficult, Despite these obstacles, I began to think clearly in my moments of consciousness and began to try to help myself. I managed to pour water from my canteen over my face. For a fleeting instant there was a sight of the instrument panel, which disappeared immediately. I was blind again.

Howard kept up a stream of conversation, "We're headed south, Ken. We're heading for Wonsan [a port and prime target on the Sea of Japan]. Not too long."

The throbbing in my head was getting worse and the blood running down my throat nauseated me. I hurt, but was unable to get the morphine from my first aid kit. I radioed, "Get me down, Howie!"

"Roger. We're approaching Wonsan. Get ready to bail out." To which I replied, "Negative! Negative! Not going to bail out." All too often our pilots had drowned or died of exposure after their planes had been crippled by enemy antiaircraft fire and they ditched the aircraft or bailed out into the frigid waters of the Sea of Japan. My wingman, Lieutenant Commander Tom Pugh, had been killed in just this way on our second mission. In my case, I would have had to successfully evacuate the Skyraider and enter the water blind, with the probability of a tangled parachute harness and with my rubber immersion suit pierced by shell fragments and unable to offer protection from the freezing ocean. To my mind, bailing out meant certain death.

I would not bail out. Howie understood my decision. He would get me back behind the front lines into friendly territory--or I would die in the attempt. We turned and headed south.

Thirty miles behind the front lines, on the coast, was a Marine airfield designated K-18. This was our destination. I wasn't sure whether I could make it that far as I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Then Howard spotted a cruiser shelling enemy positions and knew that this was the bomb line. South of the bomb line was friendly territory. The instructions continued, "We're at the bomb line, Ken. We'll head for K-18. Hold on, Ken. Can you hear me, Ken? Will head for K-18. Over."

"Roger. Let's try." It was an effort to speak.

"Can you make it, Ken?"

"Get me down, you miserable s.o.b., or you'll have to inventory my gear!" (In case of an aviator's death, a shipmate must inventory his personal belongings before they are shipped home--not a welcome chore. Howard and I had designated each other for this function.)

I continued to follow Thayer's directions, but he could see that my head kept flopping down from time to time and he doubted I could make it to K-18, so he decided to get me down right away.