Not Quite a Hero: Fighting the Migs with Gabreski, Mahurin and Adams

By Lt Col Joseph R. Clark

Since the Korean War ended in 1953, a number of books and articles have been written about the air-to-air battles between the American F-86s and Russian MiGs. Some parts of the stories that appear in those publications are probably true, but many of them contain fantasies, exaggerations and even lies that are both preposterous and demeaning to the Air Force. Unfortunately much of what survives in the West as the history of those epic air battles is found in those partially flawed publications. I was in a position to know what was going on there since I spent a year observing the scene as an F-86 pilot fighting the MiGs with the 51st Fighter Wing. I have written this book because I want to leave history a more complete and honest picture of what went on there. I have been retired for more than fifty years, but my love for the Air Force and loathing for anything that reflects shame or dishonor on that great organization has compelled me to act. Feeling the way I do, writing in an effort to correct and enhance the record is an easy task since I enjoy writing and was reared to place real value in truth, honor and integrity and hate dishonesty, dissembling and deceit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524591175

Lt Col Joseph R. Clark

Joe was born on 4/25/1924. He graduated High School in June of 1942, became a private in the Army Air Corp October in 1942, an Aviation Cadet in 1943 and graduated from Advanced Flying School in June of 1944 as a pilot with a commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Army Air Corp Reserve. Joe realized his dream of becoming a fighter pilot two weeks after graduation by flying the Curtiss P 40 Warhawk. In February of 1945, he departed for combat duty in the SW Pacific where he was checked out in the “new” P 51 Mustang. In April, he was assigned to the Fifth Air Force and spent the rest of the War flying against the Japanese in Luzon, the China Coast and Kyushu, Japan.

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Copyright © 2017 by Joe Clark.

Library of Congress Control Number:         2017903859

ISBN:                      Hardcover                         978-1-5245-9118-2

                                Softcover                           978-1-5245-9116-8

                                eBook                                978-1-5245-9117-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, © 1983 by the Zondervan Corporation.

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Rev. date: 09/07/2017

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CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

The Air-To-Air War In Korea

Off To The War

An Aircraft Carrier To Japan

The 51St Fighter Wing

Headquarters—51Stt Fighter Wing Flying Safety Officer

The 51St Fighter Group Assistant Group Operations Officer

Letter To The Officers’ Wives Club At Wpafb, Ohio

Headquarters Of The 51St Fighter Wing

Epilogue

An Interesting New Assignment

Glossary Of Terms

List Of Personnel Mentioned In Book

Afterword

PREFACE

B ud. Bud.

I winced at the sound of my sister’s shrill voice as it ricocheted from the sides of the garage walls that separated my house and the Eaton’s, from Carleton Court, the old dead-end court that had been my playground as long as I could remember. In the fall it was my football field, in the winter my hockey rink, and in the spring and summer it was my baseball park. It was late spring, and my friends and I were furiously occupied with our evening game of baseball.

Bud. Bud. Joyce’s dreaded wail once again echoed through the court. Joyce’s nightly dinner call for me usually meant the end of the evening baseball game in Carleton Court because it was my baseball and bat that we used. And my Dad had a hard and fast rule that when I left the playing field–my equipment left with me. That was not an arbitrary or selfish rule on his part. We’d had an unpleasant experience when I was younger. When I was called in for dinner, I had left my equipment with my friends. My family was not quite as poor as most of the other families that lived in homes in the general area of the court, but we were poor. Mom and Dad had to struggle to make ends-meet, and the loss of my baseball and bat was not a matter to be taken lightly.

Bud. Bud. Joyce’s voice again echoed across the court. I know you hear me, She screeched. Supper’s ready. Ya better get in here quick. Dad says the next call will be from him.

That last remark was all that it took to terminate the game. The neighborhood kids all knew that if my dad had to call me—or even more critically, had to come out and get me—that would be the end of our baseball for several days.

O.K. guys, I gotta go in. I announced, as I gathered up my ball, bat and my favorite Goose Goslin fielders’ glove and starting toward my house. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

My shadow, my dog, Pal, who had been lying quietly in the shade of a small box elder tree on the edge of the court, got up lazily as he saw me heading for home. I watched as he balanced himself, momentarily, on three legs, dug furiously at an itch on his dusty belly with his other hind leg and then loped off after me. I was just passing between the garages when Pal caught up to me. He playfully grabbed at the cuff of the right leg of my jeans, startling me and throwing me off balance.

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Sister Joyce, Dog Pal and Author in 1932

Oh, there you are? I teased, as I stiffened my right leg and began dragging it and the playful young Airedale who was by now shaking his head and my pant cuff vigorously from side-to-side and growling fiercely in mock-anger. I wondered where you had gone.

My trouser-cuff-tug was a game that we two inseparable friends had played since my folks had got Pal from the city dog-pound three years earlier. He was my present for my seventh birthday. He was an adorable little black, brown and tan puppy, one-half Airedale and the other half Hound. The bond between us had been both instantaneous and powerful. The pant-cuff-tug game came to an abrupt end when Pal suddenly caught the scent left by some strange dog on the corner of ‘his’ garage. The hair bristled on his back near his muscular shoulders as he stood still and carefully surveyed the surrounding area. When he saw no sign of the offender, he growled unconvincingly several times before proceeding to the corner of the garage and dribbling a couple of squirts of urine over that left by the stranger to ‘paint-over’ the offended spot. Then, after one final truculent scan of the area, he appeared to be satisfied that he once again had things under his control. He furiously scattered bits of sand and gravel behind him with his powerful hind legs before galloping up the driveway and catching me just as I was laying my baseball equipment next to the step by the door to our apartment.

Atta Boy, Pal, I said as I scratched his ears and patted him on the head. You guard em.’

That too was a game we played. All it took from me–just those three words–meant that no one outside the immediate Clark Family would dare, touch—or even closely approach–whatever of mine I had ordered Pal to guard. And, since I had given Pal the guard assignment, I had such a special relationship with him that even within the family, mom, dad and Joyce knew it was wise to speak softly and lovingly when approaching Pal and any material that I had left him guarding. In cases when I had left Pal guarding something, carelessly had forgotten about it and had moved onto other things, other family members never had any difficulty relieving him of his assignment and retrieving the material I had left him guarding. Mom and Pal had a special kitchen relationship. The whole interplay within the family was just sort of a game we all played, the four humans and the half-human dog. We all tacitly acknowledged that we were one big, happy family in which friendship, loyalty, love and respect ran smoothly in all directions.

Pal was a respected and widely recognized character in the north-eastern portion of Pontiac, Michigan. In those days, dogs had to wear collars with dog-licenses attached to them, but there were no leash-laws. Pal had a route within ‘his territory’ which he traced several times daily. He had a number of friends who looked forward to his visits, the residents of homes and businesses along his route. Some favored him with a tasty morsel, others just liked to have him sit briefly by them as they scratched his head. He was a much loved character. He was never known to have bitten, attacked or in any way aggressed a human, but there was not another dog of any size who ventured into Pal’s territory that was not painfully aware that the soil around Carleton Court and 185 N. Perry St. was the domain of sixty, fearless and ferocious pounds of Airedale who—once engaged—neither knew the meaning of caution nor quit. And, when it came to guarding my home, the members of my family or their property, Pal was every bit as territorial and protective as any mother lion with cubs was in the Serengeti. Pal did not win every fight he got into—but he never lost one. He could very well have been Pal who inspired the saying:

It’s not the size of the dog in the fight—It’s the size of the fight in the dog.

As I opened the door to our apartment, I reached down, kissed Pal on the head and whispered, Good Dog to my friend.

Wash your hands and face, Honey, My mother said, patting the top of my head with its messed and unruly mop of dark brown hair.

Dinner’s on the table.

Yes, Mom. I answered, wondering what good it did to wash ones face just to eat dinner. Why didn’t they ever say, wash your neck as well? I looked at my hands as I headed for the bathroom, and allowed as how it probably wasn’t a bad idea to remove some of the more obvious dirt from them since I used them to pick up bread, rolls and stuff like that. But, I didn’t use my face for anything when I was eating—just my mouth––and no one had ever told him to wash my hands and ‘mouth’ before dinner,

I stopped for a moment, turned and looked at my still smiling mother and thought about raising the Face question. But, a quick glance at my father who was already seated at the dinner table with my sister, made me decide that was probably not an auspicious time for a philosophical discussion about the value of washing for dinner. Another time, I thought.

Get a move on, Splinter. My dad ordered as he reached for the dish of mashed potatoes. We’re all hungry. We’ve been waiting for you.

O.K., Pop, I answered as I rounded the archway between the family living-dining room and the short hallway that led to the lillipution bathroom of our apartment.

God! I thought. I wished my Dad wouldn’t use that pet nickname he had hung on me—especially when people other than the immediate family were around. It was such a strange nickname that didn’t make any sense to anyone other than my Dad. I knew that I should be getting used to his special name for me since he had rarely called me anything other than Splinter for as long as I could remember. I thought about it as I lathered my hands with the gritty, Lava Soap that my mom kept in a special place in the bathroom for Dad and me to use. I hadn’t really objected to my Dad’s cognomen for me until my neighborhood friends had started teasing me about the name. I thought about it as I dried my hands. I guessed I didn’t really object all that much anyhow. It was something unique in my relationship with my father that I shared with no one else—not even my adored mother. That something made it special for us both. When I was much younger, I had asked my father why he called me ‘Splinter’. My Dad laughed and explained that be, the father, was the log. And when I was born a ‘splinter’ had been separated from that log. I was that ‘Splinter’.

Hey, Splinter. Are you planning to eat with us tonight?

I’m coming, Dad, I replied, pausing long enough before the rococo and fading old bathroom mirror to make a muscle and admired its reflection. Getting bigger all of the time, I noted approvingly.

I slipped into the room and into my seat at the end of the table opposite my Dad. My parents barely noticed my arrival as they were in the midst of an animated conversation about something. I waited for a break in the colloquy before muttering a perfunctory, I’m sorry, and digging the serving spoon into the mashed potatoes.

Everyone knew that my apology was ceremonial, and that no acknowledgement was necessary or expected. I didn’t understand what it was that my parents were talking about, but that was not at all unusual for me since their Adult conversations always seemed to me to be great concatenations of unintelligible words that defied understanding. Of course, I recognized some of the words, but not enough to make any sense of the whole bunch when they were all strung together. I assumed that was what that education thing that I was always hearing promoted in the Clark home would eventually fix. I hoped so! I had no trouble communicating with my young friends, and not too much trouble understanding Miss Foley, my fourth grade teacher—but, of course, Miss Foley was not as smart as my parents and most of their friends. I wasn’t sure just how I was going to manage that education thing. I didn’t like school. And I never read any of the many books, including lots of children’s books, that filled the bookshelves in our home. But I was a little confused. I knew that however I was going to accomplish it, I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life just being able to understand ten-year-old kids and fourth grade teachers. I took a quick glance at my sister and wondered if it was possible that she actually understood what our parents were talking about? I knew that, unlike me, people were always making comments about how smart Joyce was. I felt a sudden pang of jealousy, but was able to quickly dismissed it with the reminder that she was only in the second grade where things were easy—and I was in the fourth. I looked at the big, old chime clock that was on top of the piano. Darn, I thought. It was five minutes before six and I wanted to tell my Dad about the great running, over the shoulder catch I had made of Nobel’s long fly ball to center field. Now it was too late. There was one hard and fast rule at the Clark family’s evening dinner table which was violated only in the event of a genuine emergency: that was that once C.C. Bradner had started his six-o’clock world news report on radio station WJR Detroit, absolute silence was observed until he was finished.

Hey Dad, I blurted out during a brief conversational interregnum, Lemme tell you about the great catch I just made a little bit ago.

My folks both attended admiringly to my account of my miraculous accomplishment on the baseball field and registered appropriate appreciation and amazement when I had finished my story.

You keep it up, Splinter. If you do you’ll end up playing for the Tigers just like your hero, Goose Goslyn, My Dad exclaimed as he reached back from his chair and turned on the old Zenith radio. It takes practice, honey, just takes a lot of practice. I smiled proudly and looked over to my mother for some indication of equivalent approval.

Mmm-huh, My mother nodded as she patted me on the arm, Your father’s right honey. It takes a lot of dedication and effort to be good at anything, and that’s as true with baseball as with everything else in life.

She hesitated and then added, We have hot Apple pie and Ice cream for dessert tonight. With the ‘tonight’, she raised her eyebrows in anticipation of my reaction.

Wow! Great! I exclaimed just as the antique old radio started its normal emission of spine-tingling and nerve-wracking, howling, squee-squawkling and static that usually preceded the broadcast of intelligible words.

That’s great, Mom, I hooted, clenching my right fist and shooting it skyward in a gesture of great delight and approval.

The moment had come. Dad lifted his Index Finger to his lips and focused thoughtfully on the radio as C.C. Bradner started his riveting and dramatic account of the most recent major happenings of the world. Mr. Bradner’s voice was stentorian and commanding. It seemed that he almost dared you not to listen and be impressed by what he was saying. I usually listened to C.C. Bradner in thoughtful silence. As was the case with my sister, I didn’t understand much of what was being said, but was simply awed by the tone of the newsman’s voice. Our preacher at the First Baptist Church, Reverend Savage, had a good speaking voice too, but his was nothing compared to C.C. Bradner’s.

That night, like most nights during the broadcast, my thoughts slipped unobtrusively to other things. I thought about my dog, Pal, who was waiting patiently for me to emerge from the house and relieve him of his guard duty. I thought of my best friend, Ted, and the art project the two of us were working on at school. And, I thought about the new girl in my class, Alice O’neil, the pretty little dark-haired girl whose family had just moved in over on Fairgrove Street.

I was snapped from my reverie when Mr. Bradner’s voice suddenly took-on an even graver and more melodramatic tone.

Ladies and Gentlemen. I heard Bradner saying, Tonight I am going to tell you a story about a real hero.

I listened, transfixed and scarcely breathing, as Mr. Bradner told the story of the incredible heroism of young Reggie Roberts, a twelve-year old Detroit boy scout. He told how Reggie had noticed a fire burning in the back of an old house in his neighborhood, and how—with little regard for his own life—he had fought his way into the inferno and save the lives of two old women, one of whom was blind. He did it by taking their hands and leading them from the conflagration. The boy scout had been rather severely burned while saving the women, but he would be all right. Mr. Bradner mentioned that Reggie was going to be presented a Medal of Valor and be the guest of honor at a special dinner which was being arranged for him by the Mayor of Detroit. And even more profound than those honors, Mr. Bradner took my breath away when he said that upon hearing of Reggie’s feat, Franklin D. Roosevelt, The President of the United States, had personally telephoned Reggie at his family home in Detroit and congratulated him for his heroism. And with that ultimate tribute to Reggie, C.C. Bradner signed-off for the night.

My Mom, Dad, sister and I had listened to Mr. Bradner’s riveting and emotional report on the courageous young Reggie Roberts with rapt attention. We were scarcely able to breathe. When he finished we just sat staring at one another in a hushed and respectful silence before falling into an unusually emotional and involved four-way discussion about what we had heard. We all agreed that it was a brave and wonderful thing that Reggie had done and that he richly deserved all of the congratulations and admiration that were being heaped upon him. The slight change in the way Mr. Bradner delivered his report made it obvious to us all that he too had been overwhelmed by the magnitude of Reggie’s performance that day. We were all deeply moved by the story, but it affected me much more powerfully than anyone at the table would ever know. President Roosevelt was an admired, much loved and greatly honored man in our home. My parents worshipped him. When they spoke of him their voices changed. They referred to him with such reverence that it was not clear in my young mind who was greater, God, Jesus or FDR. His promotion and passage of the Home Owners Loan Act in 1933 had saved the Clark home as well as millions of other poor family homes from foreclosure by the Banks. The unusual significance of Reggie’s act had its final imprimatur of greatness put on it when as wonderful and famous a man as President Roosevelt took the time to call him and thank him for what he had done. Both Reggie’s audacious and heroic action, and President Roosevelt’s response to what he had done that day, changed my life. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to manage it, but it was then that I decided that someday, somehow, I too was going to be a hero.

We had been so moved by Mr. Bradner’s report and had become so involved in our post report discussion that until—with a mischievous gleam in his eye–Dad reminded us about the Apple pie and Ice cream that mother had promised us. Mom and Joyce served the dessert, but we were still so taken by the report of Reggie’s intrepid rescue of the old ladies and what succeeded it that we couldn’t stop talking about the whole incident.

Wow. Where did the time go? My mother suddenly asked as she pointed at the clock.

It’s time you kids got ready for bed. Bath time. You first, Bud.

I didn’t argue. I was tired, and my mind was in a whirl. I finished my bath in no time. Bathing was never one of my favorite things to do. I stopped and kissed my Dad on the ear as I passed him on my way to my bedroom.

Goodnight pop, I said with a smile. See ya tomorrow.

C’mon Pal, s’ bedtime

Did you brush your teeth?

Yes maam, I assured my mother.

Well, say your prayers and I will be right in to tuck you in, OK?

Okay, Mom.

And, I don’t want Pal up on the bed. Do you hear me?

Ah-h-h-h, Mom. Why not? Pal’s not dirty.

Not on the bed, dear. Not on the bed!

I hastily said my prayers. I said the same prayer every night of my life. I asked God to bless and care for all of my relatives and friends, especially Pal, and I named everyone by name. I felt sure that God would not have any trouble hearing and understanding what I was saying even thought I spoke very softly and rapidly. After all, God had the best ears in the whole world—and besides, he already knew what was going to say even before I started saying it. As I finished my prayers, I heard Pal panting. He was lying on the floor right at the head of my bed. I reached over the edge of the bed and started scratching Pal’s ears-one and then the other. That was Pal’s favorite thing in the whole world. He loved having his ears scratched. He would lie quietly for as long as anyone would scratch his ears. As I scratched, my thoughts strayed back to C.C. Bradner’s account of the heroic boy scout. I was thinking about that when my mother came into the room.

I was lying on my stomach, but moved over ever so slightly as I felt my mother sit on the edge of my bed. We had a nightly routine that was just as important to me as having his ears scratched was to Pal. My Mom gently pulled my pajama tops up over my head baring my back for my wonderful nightly back-scratch. That had been a bed time ritual for as long as I could remember—my mother tirelessly scratching my back with her gentle and loving hands, frequently until I had fallen asleep. But, I was not falling asleep that night. My thoughts were still full of the boy scout and the fire. Finally, believing me to be asleep, my mother finished her scratch, pulled my pajama tops down over my back and my blanket up over me. She patted me lovingly on the back of my head and stood to leave the room. But, I surprised her by rolling over onto my back and reaching up to her for a goodnight hug.

You scallywag, she said playfully, I thought you had fallen asleep.

No, Mom, I have been thinking, I said leaning up on my elbows and taking my mother’s hand. You know how you and Dad have been asking me what want to be when I grow up?

Yes dear? She said questioningly, sensing something important from the tone of my voice.

Well, I have decided. I said with an air of determination and finality in my voice. I don’t think I really want to be a cowboy or a fireman. I am going to be a hero!

My Mom hesitated momentarily. She looked admiringly down into my face, and then— while lovingly stroking my cheek with the back of her hand–she replied. I’ll bet you will, honey. I just bet you will!

And with that, she bent down, kissed me on the forehead, turned the bright light down, and quietly tiptoed out of my bedroom.

********************************************

I spent the next few years of my life on the lookout for houses on fire as I walked to school or when I was just playing in my neighborhood, but never found a one. On a late September morning I thought I saw one West down Fairgrove Street as I walked North on Edison on my way to school, but when I ran down to where the smoke was billowing from between two houses, all I discovered was no house afire, just old Mr. Jenkins burning some leaves. I began to abandon hope at ever having the opportunity to become a hero. I gradually came to realize that becoming a hero was not quite as simple as it had first seemed to be. There were several essential elements that had to coexist in the same space-time envelope. One: There had to be a situation that, unless remedied, exposed a person to an immediate and potentially lethal outcome. Two: A potential hero had to be in physical proximity to, and have the knowledge that a situation requiring heroic action existed. Three: A potential hero had to possess the physical and/or intellectual ability necessary to reach the scene of the situation and take the action necessary to resolve or ameliorate the crisis. And four: As with everything in life–a potential hero had to be lucky.

I maintained a constant vigil and search for an opportunity to become a hero, but I had to wait five years for my first real opportunity to be able to fulfill my dream. It happened in the summer of 1939 when I was a fifteen-year-old caddie at Green Lake Golf and Country Club. Mondays were Caddie Days at Green Lake. That meant that from daylight until noon on Mondays, caddies were permitted to play golf and use the Club’s beach facilities. One hot Monday in July I was enjoying the refreshing waters of Green Lake when I noticed one of our weak swimmers, young Teddy Lazarof, in deep water frantically clawing at the sky in an effort to keep his head above water. I yelled for some of the caddies nearby to help him, but they were making so much noise splashing about in the water that no one heard me. Desperate, I ran across the dock, launched myself into the water and swam to Teddy’s side. But I’d had no water rescue life saving training and really didn’t know what to do. I reached for Teddy, but in his panic he clamped both arms around my neck and the two of us headed for the bottom. The next thing I knew I was lying on the dock next to Teddy with the Life Guards trying to pump Green Lake out of both of us. I hadn’t saved Teddy. I’d had to have been saved myself by Life Guard, Bill Cash. My effort to be a hero had ended in dismal failure.

When I was lying in bed that evening, I began re-evaluating the whole ‘hero’ business. For years I thought I had known exactly what a hero was, but now I realized that I really wasn’t sure. I thought that someone who saved the life of a person who was facing death was automatically a hero. But now I wondered. What about someone who tried his best to save the life of a person who was facing death, but failed. Was he a hero for trying? What if the person who needed saving was not facing death, perhaps just a broken leg. Would the ‘saver’ still be a hero? What if Reggie’s life had never been in jeopardy and he had not been burned by the fire? What if he had just calmly walked into the burning house and walked out with the two old women. Would he still have been a hero? Did the ‘saver’ have to be placing his life in jeopardy in his effort to save someone to be considered a hero? But how seriously in jeopardy? Would an emergency room doctor who just used his training to save a patient’s life be a hero even though his life was never in jeopardy and he just did what he had been trained to do? It seemed obvious to me that for one to be considered to be a real hero he had to have put his life in grave danger while doing the saving. Was Bill Cash a hero for saving Teddy and me? Bill was a strong man and a powerful swimmer who just did what he had been trained to do. His life had never been in any jeopardy at the hands of the two skinny little caddies that he pulled from the water that day.

I decided that I still wasn’t exactly sure what a ‘hero’ was, but that whatever it was, if sometime I had the chance to be a real ‘hero’, I’d do it.

INTRODUCTION

I n the years that have passed since the end of the Korean War, I have frequently found myself grimacing in disgust and shaking my head in disbelief at some of the utterly preposterous things I have seen on television and read in books or publications about the F-86 Sabre and the air-to-air war in Korea. As one with an undergraduate degree and graduate work in history, I know that if events are not registered without bias and are not recorded as accurately and completely as possible, the finished product has to be misleading and of questionable historical value.

I was a fighter pilot and a career officer in the U.S. Air Force from 1944 until 1966. In 1951–52, I spent a year in Korea with the 51st Fighter Wing as an F-86 pilot, flying combat missions against the splendid Russian-built MiG-15 in the air-to-air war over North Korea. As one with great affection for the Air Force and profound pride in the fine organization, which was my life for twenty-four years, I have always been deeply troubled by anything that reflected adversely on the honor of the Air Force. Perhaps if my parents had not reared me to hate liars and cheats, loathe hypocrisy, and place great value in honesty and integrity, I would not be as deeply troubled as I have been by some of the exaggerations, deliberate distortions, and in some cases blatant lies presently accepted as fact about that more glamorous half of the Korean Air War.

At the present time (January 2015) and from the Western perspective, the History of the air-to-air war in Korea between the F-86 Sabre and the Russian MiG-15 contains some honest and interesting stories, a few fanciful and self-aggrandizing tales, and—in other unfortunate instances ludicrous and even demonstrably false yarns about that aspect of the war. Unfortunately, most of the material that survives as the history of the air-to-air war in Korea is that which is found in the braggadocio and frequently flawed memoirs of a handful of vainglorious F-86 pilots who have been popularly accepted as the heroes of that war. The average American who has an interest in, and/or has read much of what has been written about the air-to-air war that raged in Korea between the F-86 and the MiG-15, probably has the impression that only a dozen or so flamboyant and celebrated American pilots ever flew the F-86 in dogfights against the MiGs. That was not the case. Actually, although they have remained largely anonymous since that war, more than a thousand American and UN fighter pilots flew the F-86 against the Russian MiG-15 in the skies over North Korea, and they flew their missions courageously and competently. And unquestionably, some of them even performed heroically on some of the missions they flew. But they were not showy, self-promoters, and glory seekers; their heroic performances somehow never came to the attention of the Fighter Wing’s Public Information Office or the hero promoters of the media. Those nameless and faceless heroes were rarely, if ever, recognized for the contributions they made to the war effort. Their stories have never been told. They never wrote any books about their experiences fighting the MiGs or boasting about their real or imagined heroism.

As things presently stand, the truth about, and therefore the value of, the history of the air-to-air war over North Korea is incomplete and partially inaccurate. A more thorough and honest history of that exciting half of the air war over Korea will continue to suffer grievously unless someone who knows the true story writes a book that exposes some of the exaggerations, inaccuracies, and plain lies that are now accepted as factual. To be comprehensive and equitable, it should be a book that contains scrupulously accurate information not only about the nature of the dogfights between the two fighters but also about the relative performance of the MiG and the F-86. And another important statistic is the actual number of MiGs that were shot down during the war vs. the number that a few dishonest F-86 pilots claimed to have shot down and managed to have verified by at least three dishonest members of the five-member claims boards. The book should also include a more in-depth examination of the lives and experiences of some of the vast majority of nonhero F-86 pilots who flew against the MiG-15s in Korea.

Americans are inveterate hero worshippers. They make heroes of people who are not really heroes at all rock stars, football players, movie actors, etc. They are romanced by and live vicariously through the exploits of the people they read or hear about who are popular and have theoretically performed extraordinarily in some superficial field of endeavor. But unless the individuals happen to be experts or highly knowledgeable in those various fields, most of them are not very well equipped to discriminate true excellence from sham. It distresses me to reflect upon the situation that currently exists with respect to the lack of a more honest history of the air-to-air war in Korea. I know that the window of opportunity is rapidly and permanently closing for someone who is both motivated and qualified to strip the veneer of fantasy from some of the more outrageous misinformation that exists about the first time in history that the people of different nations engaged in jet fighter, air-to-air combat. Unless someone who can write and has both the knowledge and the desire to correct and enhance that important history steps forward soon, a more accurate and comprehensive record of the air-to-air war in Korea will be lost forever. Posterity will be the winner if a more precise history is published. To be of value, the work must make some badly needed corrections, add some new material, and unfortunately reveal some unpleasant but much-needed truths about the Air Force’s involvement in the air-to-air war in Korea. That is what I have tried to do in my book, Not Quite A Hero. It is a true story about the experiences and observations of one of the 51st Fighter Wing’s many nonhero young jet fighter pilots who flew air-to-air combat missions against the Russian MiG-15s in Korea.

THE AIR-TO-AIR WAR IN KOREA

T he Korean War had been raging for more than a year before it became a more real part of my life. My active participation in it began quite unexpectedly in the early morning hours on Saturday, October 26, 1951. I was in a deep sleep, dreaming that I was still a member of the 27 th Fighter Wing and stationed in Kearney, Nebraska. I was enjoying pheasant hunting with my Fighter Group Commander, Col. Cy Wilson, and my squadron mate and friend in the 524 th Fighter Squadron Capt. Claude Horne. I had just handed my old 16-gauge Ranger shotgun to Cy, and with one leg over the middle strand of the barbed wire, I was climbing through a fence at the end of a stubble field of corn when the strident ringing of the telephone at my right ear set me bolt upright in bed. I groped in the darkness for the phone and swore quietly, as I knocked over a glass of water on my bedside table. I glanced at the clock. It was 0345. I wondered who could be calling at that hour of the night. I grabbed the phone before it could ring a third time. I was afraid the ringing would awaken the baby, my second son, Randy. He was a cantankerous tyke just four months old and a very light sleeper. I brought the instrument to my car, and struggling to disguise my agitation, I spoke rather gruffly. Captain Clark’s quarters, I growled.

Captain Clark? I immediately recognized the voice on the phone as that of Maj. Walter Modesitt, the Operations Officer of the 97th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron.

Yes sir. I answered in a significantly more conciliatory tone.

This is an emergency. You are to be in Squadron Operations in ten minutes. Do you understand?

I said I did and that I would be there. By that time, my poor wife, Scotty, was sitting up in bed, wearing a puzzled frown and sleepily rubbing her eyes. What time is it? What’s the matter? What is it? Who was that?

That was the Major, I said, jumping out of bed and quickly zipping myself into the clean flying suit that I always kept hanging on the back of my closet door.

I have to be at ‘Ops’ in ten minutes, I said as I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for my shoes. He said it was an emergency.

Scotty jumped out of bed and put on her robe and some slippers. What kind of an emergency? she asked, suddenly becoming quite pale. Her look of concern quickly changed to one of alarm. You want a cup of coffee?

I don’t know, honey. The Major didn’t say. It’s probably just some kind of a readiness test to see how fast we can react in the event the Russians ever start coming over the pole. I tied my other shoe and stood up.

Coffee?

No time, honey. I’ll get some at the Squadron. Just go back to bed. I’m sure everything will be all right.

I was a member of the United States Air Force’s Air Defense Command, serving as an F-86 pilot with the 97th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron. Our Squadron Operations was located in the back portion of the old MATS Terminal on the east end of the ramp at Patterson Field in Dayton, Ohio. My family and I were living in modest quarters (actually just old WWII barracks that had been made over into apartments) right there on the base at Patterson Field. Normally, a captain would never rate quarters anywhere on that huge old Airbase which probably had more general officers assigned than second lieutenants. But ours was a special case. My Air Defense Command (ADC) fighter squadron was charged with the air defense of the greater south central Ohio area, and quick reaction to a Russian air attack over the North Pole made it essential that squadron pilots live in close proximity to their planes. My fellow pilots and I in the 97th were an especially privileged group of aviators. Each day, when we strapped ourselves into the cockpits of our planes, we did so with the knowledge that we were sitting in the newest, hottest, fastest, and finest jet fighters in the world, the magnificent North American Aviation Corporation F-86E Sabre jet.

As I drove into the squadron parking lot, I noted that it was an inordinately busy place for 0400 hours. One car pulled into the lot in front of me, and two cars followed me into the lot in rapid succession. I didn’t see who emerged from the first car, but Lt. Ken Shealy pulled in next to me, and Lt. Glen Linton parked on his right.

What the hell’s going on? Are we at war? I called to them as I locked my car.

They both laughed nervously and said that they had no idea what was up. We walked into Squadron Operations together, where we found a number of the other pilots already in the Ready Room, sipping coffee and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Glen, a coffee lover like me, headed for the rack on the far wall, where we kept the coffee mugs that carried our names and were emblazoned with our Squadrons’ Insignia. He took Ken’s and mine down along with his, and we quickly filled them with the steaming black gold from the large urn on the table, which seemed to always contain an endless supply of strong, hot coffee.

I took a sip of my coffee and noticed that Maj. Walter Modesitt, our foppish and somewhat aloof Operations Officer, was sitting on one of the couches on the other side of the Ready Room. He was casually smoking a cigarette, looking wise, and quietly observing his pilots as they filed into the room. He had the same arrogant expression on his face that he normally did. But that morning, his especially smug aspect revealed that he knew something that the rest of us didn’t. He knew what the unusual gathering was all about.

First Lt. George George George walked over to where I was sitting. George was one of the unhappy lieutenants in my Flight, who had recently been recalled to active duty from his assignment with the Michigan Air National Guard. Hey, Joe. You’re a Flight Commander. Why don’t you go ask the major what’s up?

I was curious as we all were. I looked at him and nodded, took a step in the major’s direction, and then hesitated. I’d recently had a rather unpleasant confrontation with Major Modesitt that had left us on rather poor terms. But even before that inauspicious incident, I had found him unusually difficult to like. When we met, my initial impression of him, his demeanor, and the way he related to other pilots in the squadron had been unfavorable. I observed his mannerism and listened very carefully when he spoke. It appeared to me that he was always on stage, performing for his audience and choosing his words more for effect than for meaningful communication. The Major didn’t walk. He carried himself with a self-important strut. And most distressing to me, in his interaction with the squadron pilots, he seemed to expect a certain degree of toadyism. That was a quality in a man that had always been an anathema to me. But since I was already in his doghouse, I decided that I really didn’t have much to lose. I walked slowly over to where he was sitting, made a little small talk, and then asked him. What’s this all about, Major? Do you know?

He gave me one of his supercilious looks, took a long, slow pull on his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then answered me through a haze of exhaled smoke, Colonel O’Connor will be out here soon, Captain. He will fill you in.

By now, our Ready Room was filled with all the combat ready pilots in the 97th Squadron. The room was abuzz with the chatter of anxious pilots speculating on the reason for such an unusual early hour emergency meeting. I reflected that the Ready Room sounded a lot like how the Officer’s Club did on Wednesday afternoons, when the Ladies’ Bridge Club was meeting. The consensus was that the 97th Squadron was being put on maximum-alert status because something had happened that had increased the chances of imminent and open hostility between the United States and Russia.

Suddenly, someone shouted, Ten-hut! The chatter ceased and everyone jumped to attention as the Squadron Commander, Lt. Col. Frank Q. O’Connor, walked into the room.

At ease, gentlemen, The Colonel said. He was carrying a folder that he promptly opened and from which he took a single sheet of paper. Sound off as I read your names. He started reading names that were listed on the paper, pausing after each one to look into the face of the person after they answered. Clark, Linton, Little, George, Shealy, Dunjill, Hatchitt, Eskew. And he went on down the list. According to my records, you pilots are all qualified as ‘combat ready’ in the F-86 aircraft. Is that correct? Is there anyone whose name I have called who has not been classified as combat ready?

No one answered. The colonel took a deep breath, looked grimly around the room, and then continued, Well, here’s the news! You people will all be leaving in three days for combat duty in Korea. Effective immediately, I am granting you all a 72-hour VOCO, which you may utilize to take care of any affairs that need to be attended to before your departure. Your overseas shipment orders will be ‘cut’, and available for you here in the squadron in about an hour. You must all report into Alameda Naval Air Station in San Francisco no later than 1800 hours on October 29th. Your airplanes and crew chiefs are going to Korea with you, but you people will not be flying your planes out to Alameda. Those of us who are left in the squadron will fly them out to Alameda. We will also be available to help your dependents in any way we can after you have departed. Please tell them that. Any questions? There were all kinds of questions, most of which the colonel couldn’t answer.

I had a strange feeling as I unlocked my car. The sudden, profound, and life-changing news had left me a little numb. But at the same time, I felt wildly exhilarated. The Korean War had started when the Air Force still had me locked in in their Civilian Institution Program as a student at Purdue University. I was enjoying the opportunity to get a first-rate education with the Air Force footing the bills, but when the stories started coming back to the States about the dogfights our F-86As were having with the new Russian MiG-15s over in North Korea, I knew that somehow I had to become a part of it. I immediately started scheming in an effort to find a way to get over there and join in the fun. And although I hadn’t been able to directly engineer the event, things developed in such a way that I had lucked out and was on my way to the war. After all of my years as a fighter pilot, I was thrilled at the prospect of finally having an opportunity to do what real fighter pilots lived for—meet enemy fighters in air-to-air combat.

As I made the short drive back to my quarters, I thought about how my wife was going to take the news. I reflected on the fact that since our recent move to Patterson Field from our apartment on the far side of Dayton, Scotty and I had not even had the opportunity to get completely settled in our new quarters. In fact, some of our belongings were still in boxes from the move. I thought about my kids. My two-year-old son, Mike, was already a handful, and number two son, Randy, was just an infant. My mind was a whirl as I parked the car and walked up the steps to the front door to our quarters. Scotty had heard the sound of my car as I drove in, and she met me at the door. I sensed the depth of her anxiety and did my best to calm her a bit before I broke the news to her.

Tears welled up in Scotty’s eyes, but after a few minutes, she regained her normal composure, and we began talking about what we needed to do in the short time we had before I had to leave for Alameda. She suggested that, since I had been given a 72-hour leave, we should immediately drive home to Pontiac, Michigan. She knew I would like to have a chance to see my mother and dad before I left for the war, and a trip to Pontiac would work for her too since her parents lived in Pontiac as well. I thought about it for a minute and then agreed. We had just purchased the first new car either of us had ever owned, a 1951 Buick Special, so we anticipated that the trip home would be an easy one.

We packed the boys into the car and headed for Michigan. The sprinkle that had started as I was driving to our quarters from Operations had turned into a steady rain by the time we left Dayton. We drove north through Ohio in the cold, driving fall rain but made good time and arrived in Pontiac just a little after noon. My deadline for leaving Dayton for Alameda Naval Air Station gave us just 48 hours to visit our families before we would have to head back to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.

Scotty and I had spent our public school years in Pontiac, so we both had a number of friends who were still living there. She got together with several of her friends, but I wanted to spend most of my time with my parents, so I only took the time to have a quick lunch and a couple of beers with my oldest friend, Ted Cowdrey. Ted was a Marine fighter pilot in WWII. He was the one friend I had in Pontiac whom I knew would understand and appreciate the implications of the fabulous and exciting experience I had in store for me.

Fighter pilots, irrespective of branch of service or nation they served, were unlike any other kinds of pilots anywhere in the world. There was something about the uniqueness of fighter flying and professional fighter pilots that made them members of a special fraternity of aviators. Once Aviation Cadet days were over and an aviator had become a fighter pilot, on every flight when his wheels left the runway, he lived for just one thing—the chance to put his flying and fighting abilities to the test by engaging in mock aerial combat with any other fighter he could find in the air. In peacetime, those dogfights involved just taking pictures of the enemy with the attacking fighter’s gun camera, which showed where the attacker’s bullets would have hit if his machine guns had been fired. Those fights were usually just friendly jousts with one’s squadron mates, but any other fighter plane that might happen by was fair game as well.

Of course, in actual air-to-air combat with enemy aircraft, things were different. The friendly tussles became lethal, life-and-death fights. You were trying to maneuver your fighter into a position behind the enemy, ideally directly behind him, and he had the same plans for you. Your gun camera was focused on the point in space where the fusillade of bullets from your fighter’s machine guns would converge to provide a record of your battle.

Ted was jealous. My animated and deeply envious friend was literally salivating as we talked about my forthcoming dogfights with the Chinese and North Korean MiG-15 pilots. As we said good-bye, instead of the customary handshake, Ted gave me a warm hug and wished me good hunting. Ted and I had more in common than just the friendship that had begun in kindergarten in 1929 and had grown as we were public school classmates for the next 12 years. As had been the case with me and the Mustang I was flying in the Southwest Pacific combat theater, the sudden end of WWII in the Pacific had also denied Ted, who was flying the F4U fighter, his chance to engage in dogfights with Japanese fighters. Ted viewed my extraordinary good fortune and my forthcoming dogfights with MiGs as the opportunity for him to vicariously fulfill every fighter pilot’s dream to have the chance to engage in air-to-air fighter combat. He made me promise to write often and give him every minute detail of my dogfights with the MiGs.

Our brief stay in Pontiac passed quickly, and before we knew it, we were packing the car for the return trip to Dayton. Scotty decided that it would be best for her to move back to Pontiac while I was in Korea, so we used part of our time there to locate a nice apartment for her. The farewell scene in my folks’ home was a carbon copy of the one we’d had there during WWII as I was leaving for combat duty in the South Pacific. Dad, my emotional parent and the perennial worrywart in the family was in tears. First, he had my aircraft carrier foundering at sea on the way to Korea and plummeting to the bottom of the ocean with all hands. Then if I somehow managed to survive crossing the ocean, he was sure I’d be killed on my first combat mission. He fought against it, but his tears gave way to sobbing as he was hugging and kissing me good-bye. My mom, on the other hand, was the same pillar of strength and picture of equanimity that she had been when I left for combat duty overseas in WWII. She looked into my eyes, smiled, and gave me a warm hug and a big kiss and then said, Get one of those Commies for me, honey.

The cold front that had been lingering over the area had passed, and it was a bright, sunny Monday when we headed back to Dayton. The traffic was relatively light, and I was making good time until I hit a section of the three-lane highway just south of Toledo. Suddenly, I found myself at the back of a long line of cars that were puttering along at exactly the published speed limit. Cars were moving along normally in the far lane heading north, but the center passing lane that was shared by both north- and southbound traffic was empty. I was impatient and eager to get back to Dayton, so I pulled over partially into the center lane in an effort to determine what it was that was holding things up in my lane.

You’d better just stay in line. Scotty warned.

I eased back into my lane, grumbled, and then pulled out to the left again to take another look down the passing lane. It was empty, so I jammed the accelerator to the floor. The passing gear in that new Buick slammed us back in our seats, and I began streaking past that long line of cars as though they were parked. I was doing almost 80 mph when I finally got to where I could see the slowpoke in the lead car that was holding things up. It was an Ohio State Trooper.

It’s a cop! Scotty screamed. Slow down! Oh my God! I told you so!

I was scared too. But what could I do? The cop had seen me coming at a high rate of speed, so there was no way I could deceive him by a cowardly dodge in among the line of cars. I had committed myself, so I didn’t slow down a whit. I just kept on driving right past him and never looked back. Scotty slid down in the seat and sat there, staring rigidly ahead, awaiting the sound of the siren. But hearing none, she finally got up and had enough nerve to look slowly around and peep out the back window. The trooper was just maintaining his pace, and the long line of cars behind him had become even longer.

Boy! That was dumb! she scolded. What would you have done if he had pulled you over?

I would have shown him my ID card and a copy of my orders and told him that I was leaving tomorrow morning for Korea to fight the Russian MiGs.

We got back to our quarters in Dayton at 1800 hours on October 28, unpacked the car, got the kids ready for bed, and then got me packed for my vacation in Korea. I called Maj. Don Trautwein, a buddy of mine from the old 27th Fighter Wing who was also currently stationed at Patterson Field and asked him if he would take me to the civilian airport at Vandalia the next morning so Scotty and the kids wouldn’t have to get up early to make the trip. Don said he would.

The next morning, I crept quietly into the bedroom where my sons, Mike and baby Randy, were sleeping and kissed them each good-bye. Then after promising Scotty that I wouldn’t let the Commies get me, we shared a tearful farewell just as Don pulled into the driveway. Don, who was a fighter pilot in Europe in WWII, had trouble hiding his envy at my good fortune as he drove me out to Vandalia Airport to catch the TWA Constellation for San Francisco and Alameda Naval Air Station.

OFF TO THE WAR

T he flight from Dayton to San Francisco was pleasant and uneventful, but it was raining hard and unexpectedly cold when our plane landed at San Francisco International Airport. I caught a taxi from the airport to Alameda Naval Air Station. After signing in, I went to the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters and was assigned a room. I was hungry. But I also felt a little grungy from my day in the air, so I took a quick shower before heading for the Officer’s Club to get something to eat. As I walked through the front door of the Club, I bumped right into Lt. Ken Shealy, the bashful young farm boy from Bucyrus, Ohio. Ken was not only the best pilot I had ever engaged in a mock dogfight with: he was also my favorite second lieutenant in the 97 th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron. I joined Ken who was just heading for the bar, where some of the other pilots from the 97 th had congregated and were blowing some foam off some beer.

Hey, look who’s here. We can start the war now. The voice belonged to 2nd Lt. Beverly L. Dunjill. Larry was a fellow F-86 pilot and the first Negro officer I had ever served with. The others in the Michigan Air National Guard recall contingent—1st Lts. George G. George, Glen W. Linton, and Donald E. Little were with him.

As I stood chatting with them, I glanced around the bar area to see if there were any other officers that I might knew. There was a small group of Naval Officers sitting at a table by the wall and a noisy bunch of Air Force Officers in a group at the other end of the bar. I was curious to see if I knew any of them, so I headed in their direction, checking faces as I approached the group. I didn’t see anyone whom I recognized and was about to return to my friends when a tall, lean guy with thinning, sandy hair—a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a drink in each hand suddenly loomed prominently in their midst. I remembered him. I had forgotten his name, but I immediately recognized him as the wild man and superb pilot with whom I’d had that fierce and exhausting dogfight