To Die Among Strangers: The Naval Air War in Korea a Novel

By Clair Calhoon

To die Among Strangers is a love story set against the background of the Korean War, which lasted from June 1950 until July 1953. Robert Bruce piloted an F9F Panther Jet, and saw action from the wars beginning until its end. Court martialed for refusing to obey orders from his squadron commander placed his freedom, indeed his very life, in danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469109107

Clair Calhoon

Clair Calhoon served on the aircraft carrier USS YORKTOWN during the Korean War. He acted as defense counsel in 35 court martial cases aboard the carrier, including two general courts martial and thirty-three special courts martial. The records of these courts martial no longer exist. He also served as a Division Officer and Education & Training Officer. He lives in Walnut Creek, CA with his wife and cat.

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Copyright © 2009 by Clair Calhoon.

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Contents

Author’s Note:

YELLOW SEA

1950

PENSACOLA

1949

YELLOW SEA

1950

PENSACOLA

1949

YELLOW SEA

1950

PENSACOLA

1949

EPILOGE

Author’s Note:

Not everything in this story is wholly true . . .

. . . and yet nothing is entirely false . . .

YELLOW SEA

1950

Robert Bruce was flying cover for his friend, Jim Green, on a mission over enemy-held territory above the 38th Parallel. Jim, flying at treetop level, was strafing enemy troop columns when thick black smoke began gushing from his engine. I’m hit! radioed Jim.

Can you make it back to the carrier? asked Robert.

Afraid not, said Jim. All I got is a smidgeon of oil pressure. I’m gonna head as far south as I can and hope to get to friendly territory before I have to bail out.

The smoke became denser and flames were now streaming out of the engine cowling.

You’d better climb to 1000 feet and bail out now, radioed Robert.

Can’t do it, replied Jim. The old girl just doesn’t have any pep. If I tried to climb I’d stall. I’ll have to crash land—and quick.

There’s a dirt road about a mile up ahead—looks like a good spot, said Robert. Jim put down his landing gear, lowered his flaps and throttled back. It looked like he might make it.

Robert brought his Panther down alongside Jim to have a closer look at his plane. Your right landing gear is stuck part-way down, said Robert.

Jim replied, I’ll try raising the gear manually and go for a belly landing.

Good idea.

But the landing gear was stuck good, and would go neither up nor down. Nothin’ I can do about it now, radioed Jim. I’ll just have to go for it.

Upon touching down, Jim’s left wing tore into the ground, gouging out a furrow in the dirt. As the wounded plane thundered down the road, it tossed out clods and dust before coming to a stop. The fuselage rolled onto its left side, ripping off the left wing. Then the plane cart-wheeled violently into a tree, smashing everything forward of the cockpit. Thick black smoke blossomed out of the engine cowling.

Jim did not get out! He must be unconscious, thought Robert. Or crippled."

Robert had already radioed the USS THOMAS JEFFERSON for a helicopter rescue, and was told a helo would be there within 30 minutes.

By this time what was left of Jim’s plane was burning and Jim was still in it!

There was nothing for Robert to do to help his best friend, except to land his Panther as close as possible to Jim’s wreck, and hope that he could do so without damaging his own plane, an F9F Grumman Panther jet.

His heart was racing, and his muscles were tense. But fear and apprehension gave Robert the edge he needed to land his plane in such an inhospitable spot.

As Robert approached Jim’s plane he exclaimed, Oh, damn! He could see that Jim was unconscious, and blood was oozing from his nose and ears. Using his sheath knife, Robert cut loose Jim’s safety harness. He managed to pull Jim out of the cockpit and off the road before the wreckage exploded in a fireball of jet fuel and whitish-black smoke.

Robert’s heart was beating rapidly, and his breathing was rapid like that of a fullback thundering through a line of scrimmage. The acrid smell of the burning Corsair filled his nostrils and made him feel sick.

Jim was alive! But his shallow breathing showed that he was going into shock. Nevertheless, Robert dragged him to his Panther, and lay him down on his back in the shadow of a wing, and placed his parachute under his feet. to elevate them in an effort to minimize the effects of shock.

Robert again radioed the carrier to check the status of the helo. It would be another 15 minutes!

Robert looked around to see if there were any enemies in the vicinity. He saw several about 400 yards away up the hill among the bushes and trees. They were armed with rifles; but fortunately none had machine guns.

As the helicopter was landing, shots rang out from the enemy soldiers. Robert realized that he must somehow get Jim into the helo and as quickly as possible.

He began dragging Jim toward the helo. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his right thigh, making him stumble and fall. Damn—I must have been shot, he thought. He didn’t know if he could get Jim to safety before succumbing to his own wound.

The helo was now settling down about 10 feet away. A big sailor jumped out, ran toward Jim and bodily picked him up like a babe in arms and rushed him to the helo.

The helo pilot beckoned Robert to come aboard, but Robert waved him off, and the helo immediately departed.

Robert limped and dragged himself back to his Panther, and before climbing into the cockpit he pulled a shoelace from his boot and wrapped it around his leg above the bullet wound. He cinched it tight—as tight as he could to staunch the flow of blood.

Once in the cockpit of his Panther, Robert revved up the jet engine, and pushed the throttle full forward. The Panther leapt like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby.

Robert was jostled menacingly by the bumpy road. His head hit hard on the underside of the canopy. And through his daze he wondered if he could make it back to the carrier.

Bullets were whizzing past him, some hitting the plane but doing no serious damage. Nevertheless, Robert worried that he might not remain conscious long enough to land on a pitching flight deck with an almost useless leg and wooziness from loss of blood. He was wavering on the edge of blackness.

Once airborne Robert felt his shoulders relax somewhat and his hands loosen on the stick. He set a heading for the JEFFERSON, which had changed course to minimize the flight time from the crash site. Robert kept the plane at full throttle to get back to the carrier as quickly as possible while he could still see, however dimly.

It was a dicey landing but Robert managed to hit the last wire with only a couple of bounces—a miraculous, though imperfect, landing!

Two corpsmen helped him out of the cockpit and onto a stretcher. They immediately took him to sickbay, where the flight surgeon was standing by.

Jim was unconscious on an operating table next to Robert.

How is he, Doc? asked Robert.

The good news is that he wasn’t shot. But the bad news is that he probably has internal injuries. At least a serious concussion, as well as a busted arm and some banged up ribs. Hopefully, that’s the extent of it. Nevertheless, he’ll be out of action for a while. I’ll send him to the Naval Hospital at Yokosuka tomorrow morning, after I’ve stabilized him. There’s a COD flight coming in at 0900 hours that can take him out.

Robert’s surgeon had cut away the leg of his flight suit and a corpsman was swabbing down the skin around the gunshot wound to make it sterile. We’ll get an x-ray to see if any bones were broken or chipped, said the doctor. But my preliminary exam doesn’t suggest anything more than a very painful and bloody flesh wound. Smiling out of the corner of his mouth, he said, You should be back in that Panther of yours before you know it."

By the way, continued the surgeon, That bullet barely missed your femoral artery—by less than a centimeter. If that artery had been severed, you wouldn’t be alive now.

I guess God or the good fairies were with me today. Robert mused: What would have happened to me if the bullet had been a few inches higher and a bit more toward center?

You have to ask? You could sing first tenor or soprano in the church choir for the rest of your life, chuckled the doctor.

As a reward for his injury, Robert was given a healthy slug of medicinal brandy to alleviate the pain and help him get some sleep.

That evening, when Robert was drowsily awake, his Squadron Commander, CDR Garrett, visited him in sickbay.

After some pleasantries, Garrett said sternly: "Ensign Bruce, that was one of the craziest, most hair-brained actions I’ve ever witnessed by a fighter pilot!

He continued: Due to your foolishness in landing your Panther to help Jim, the Navy could have lost two planes and two pilots. Panthers cost a quarter of a million dollars, and a pilot is worth at least as much in money alone, considering the time and cost of training. Not to mention the needless loss of life.

Robert replied sheepishly, Yes, sir.

What you should have done, Mr. Bruce, after you radioed the JEFFERSON for a helicopter evacuation, was to circle Jim’s plane and strafe any enemy NKPVA (North Korean Peoples Volunteer Army). Instead, what you did was foolhardy, extremely dangerous, and inexcusable. The only reason that you and Mr. Green are here and alive is because you were exceedingly lucky, not because you were in command of the situation.

Robert mumbled a Yes, sir.

Garrett continued, In spite of your imprudence—and at plenty of risk to my own reputation, I will write a letter of commendation for your file—for your bravery and coolness in the face of great danger. In fact, I may even recommend you for a medal. But I must warn you to be more sensible in the future.

CDR Garrett then extended his hand and shook Robert’s. Now get well and get some rest—I’ll need you back in tiptop shape as soon as possible. We have a big job on our hands protecting our ground troops, with no help from our NATO allies at this time. As you know, we’re the only naval asset the UN has in the area.

On leaving, CDR Garret remarked, almost as an afterthought, By the way, Bruce, I consider you one of my best and most dependable pilots—but no more heroics—understand?

Yes, sir, responded Robert, as he drifted off to dreamland.

PENSACOLA

1949

Magnolias, hibiscus, hyacinths and other semi-tropical flowers were already in full bloom. Moist, sultry tropical air blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico made even the voracious mosquitoes lethargic. Soon it would be raining torrentially, surmised Robert.

He was nearing the end of his naval flight training. and tomorrow he would face his first carrier landing—on a small jeep carrier, not one of the big WWII Essex class floating cities that were currently patrolling the Yellow Sea between Mainland China and Korea, where the UN forces were inhibiting Mao Tse Tung from annihilating Chiang Kai Shek and his Nationalist forces on Formosa.

Tonight would be a welcome break from hitting the books. There was to be a dance in one of the hangars, with local girls coming stag, or with flight cadets who had already staked out a claim.

Robert had been on the dance floor for only a few minutes—half the first number—when he spotted a really gorgeous girl. She was not sporting a form-fitting skirt and tight sweater like many of the other girls. She did not use eye shadow or other makeup except for a touch of lipstick. She was wearing a simple outfit that was rather plain by comparison with many of the others, some of whom looked like courtesans with their slinky tight-fitting skirts and gushy makeup.

What attracted Robert was that she was so understated. With her looks and figure she could have been a fashion model. But she chose only a plain mauve dress and no accessories. Her natural beauty made these superfluous.

Once the first dance number was over, Robert made his way across the hangar floor. Screwing up his nerve, he said, Excuse me, Miss. Would you care to dance?

Yes, thank you. She got up and took Robert’s hand. It was a slow number, and soon they were dancing cheek to cheek to Glen Miller’s rendition of Moonlight Sonata.

I’m Robert Bruce. What’s your name?

Julie Zhukov.

Zhukov. Umm—that sounds Russian, surmised Robert.

It is, said Julie. I’m half Russian and half Chinese.

Robert said: "Your father must be Russian and your mother Chinese.

Otherwise, your name would be Wang or Tang or Tsang—or who knows what.

And I suppose with a name like ‘Bruce’ you’re Scottish or English or something European, said Julie with a big smile.

Well, my name is Scottish, but I’m only partly Scot, with a good deal of Irish, English, German, American Indian, and who knows what else—maybe even some African-American.

My, but you have a mixed ancestry, said Julie.

I’m just glad my parents didn’t name me ‘Robert the Bruce.’ Then I’d really have something big to live down.

Why’s that?

‘Robert the Bruce’ was a Scottish king or high muckey muck whose reputation is in some disrepute among Scots, as I understand it.

Really?

It seems he stole the title, or murdered the rightful king, or something sinister like that.

Is it ok if I call you ‘Robert the Bruce’? asked Julie teasingly.

You can call me anything you like, just as long as you don’t call me ‘late to dinner,’ smiled Robert.

The music changed from slow-and-mellow to Benny Goodman’s Stompin at the Ritz—as hot-and-furious as they come!

Julie grinned, You’re about to see some really world class jitterbugging!

OK, but you’ll have to find a different partner—I’m not a jitterbugging man. Tommy Dorsey and Glen Miller are about my top speed.

With that Robert made his way to the sidelines and sat down. Julie selected a flight cadet that she had earlier noticed was nimble on his feet during the fast numbers.

The other dancers soon made a large circle around them so all could watch.

After several numbers, Julie, breathless, came back to Robert, took his hand and pulled him on to the dance floor.

Robert said, I didn’t think you’d come back to ‘old lead foot’, after what I just saw. You are a terrific jitterbugger—a really great dancer—way out of my league.

Oh, no. You shouldn’t feel that way. I like dancing with you, said Julie.

I like dancing with you, too. But I’m awfully awkward on the hot numbers.

Come on, big guy—Robert the Bruce—let’s give it a try. Julie dragged a reluctant Robert onto the dance floor. It was a really fast number, and Robert kept tangling his feet in hers. After he stepped on her foot for the third time, Julie said, Ok, Rob, you’ve proven your point—you can’t jitterbug! Let’s go out on the veranda and have something cool to drink.

Expressing relief, Robert obligingly took Julie’s hand and let her lead the way. On the way, he ordered two Tom Collins with lots of crushed ice."

I’ve never tasted this drink, said Julie. I like it.

It’s great for cooling down, said Robert. I don’t drink much, except for Coca Cola—and an occasional Tom Collins.

Boy, you sure are a strait arrow, aren’t you, said Julie with a grin.

I was hoping it wouldn’t show.

We’ve got to do something about your jitterbugging—I would love for you to do it with me.

Thank you, Julie. I would love to do it with you, too, said Robert.

Julie said, Come over to my house some afternoon after you’re done at the Naval Air Station, Rob, and I’ll give you jitterbugging lessons. No charge, she added with a twinkle.

I’ll do that. When would be a good time?

Almost any time. I’m just loafing till I leave for D.C. and a new job, in about a month.

What kind of job? asked Robert.

I’ll be an analyst for the CIA.

Wow! That sounds exciting. Will you also be a spook? teased Robert.

No way, Jose’. Languages are my specialty, not spying.

I guess you must be an expert in Russian and Chinese. Did you come by these naturally, since your parents were native speakers?

"Yes—partly—But I also went to the University of California in Berkeley, and majored in those two languages. Afterwards I went to the