Flowers of Carnage

By Rain S. Chetdav

The Japanese new-fangled regime publicized itself as a self-sufficient, self-sustaining entity, freed from Big Brother USA and the United Nations sphere of influence, asserting itself as an anti-Big Brother USA and aligning its military might with North Korea, China, Taiwan, and Russia. As a more severe, brutal blow to Big Brother USA and the United Nations Armed Forces, Taiwan discharged the Western and the European military and civilian personnel from its soil, ending all interrelations. Communist China led its new military allies of Japan, North Korea, Russia, and Taiwan in attempt to demoralize Big Brother USA and the UN military forces.

The Second Korean Wars sonata forced its resonance into us with the proverbial reverberations of fighter jet air assaults, howitzer artillery rounds, helicopter gunships, rocket-propelled grenades, machine guns, military weaponries of all sizes and types . . . boom, thump-swish, ka-boom, bang-bang-bang, pa-pa, pa-pa! And on and on and on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532001154

Rain S. Chetdav

Rain S. Chetdav is now retired from the US Army.

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Copyright © 2016 Rain S. Chetdav.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0116-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0115-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/28/2016

The night got darker, windy, and frosty; shadowy clouds moved overhead with the ratification of another passionless night—another nightfall of anguish and painful sensation—another nightfall of recollection for retaliation against the North Korean hostility.

Monkey Seven was located deep in the woods, several miles south of the DMZ—the demilitarized zone line parcelled out between north and south Korea, where the Second Infantry Division soldiers—2ID—continued to recoup the North’s advancement. Artillery shells, rocket-propelled grenades and automatic gunfire sounded, breaking the sadistic night. Explosions ripped the earth as rockets hit the ground in the vicinity.

But Monkey Seven was not an airfield and it was not an army post—but the secret location that served as infirmary for the wounded and the dead. Within the soundless, unilluminated field site, moving about were the medical doctors, soldiers and armed forces VIPs. At the front gate, I volunteered to pull gate guard, and as Staff Sergeant Bills was verifying the number of occupants and military tactical vehicles, I chambered a round in the M4 Carbine semiautomatic rifle and pointed at the driver; around us and looking down were the other soldiers with their weapons pointed at the vehicles also.

SSG Bills said…yes, Sergeant Major, I understood, but the number of vehicles is one less than the Monkey Seven report—

The Sergeant Major stepped out of the leading hummer. With his hands up, he approached SSG Bills, who was standing behind the triple-stranded concertina wire gate. What is the problem? The Sergeant Major yelled, I’m a Sergeant Major in the United States Army and I demand that you treat me with respect and dignity!

I could barely see the Sergeant Major’s face, but he was a tall man, and in his hummer, since the vehicles were operating in the blackout mode, made it that much harder for me to figure out the occupants. SSG Bills chambered a round, then pointed his M4 at the Sergeant Major’s lower body, then stepped back, yelling, Sergeant Major, step back into the vehicle until I can get a confirmation from Monkey Seven! Without looking at me, he yelled, Ma’am, take cover—then he yelled at some of the concealed soldiers nearby, lock and cock—second to none!

Then in default of warning, a bullet was fired from one of the hummers behind—the weapon was equipped with a silencer; the bullet went through the Sergeant Major’s head—it entered from the back of his head and exited through the forehead. The Sergeant Major fell face first and landed on the concertina wire with blood gushing from the bullet hole. At once, we opened fired, and the silent Nightfall was illuminated up with bullet sounds and the screaming noises at the front gate. The bullets shelled against the hummer, screaming noises of agony from the unidentified occupants as the rounds ripped through the metal doors of their hummers and ripped through their bodies.

One of the soldiers radioed to Monkey Seven, Monkey Seven, this is front gate, engaging enemies!

The light flashed from the tip of SSG Bills’ M4 as the round flew out of the weapon; he fired, then dived to the ground, got in the prone position, then continued to suppressive fire.

Some of the occupants got out of the hummers, flanked left and right, and then opened fire at us. I opened fire in the darkness, the rounds shelling against the metal hummer doors were heard and the metal-to-metal sound was made as the bullets ripped through the hummer. A person ran toward the gate, yelling, then dived on the concertina wire, took out a hand grenade, but before he had a chance to throw it, about a hundred rounds of 5.56MM profligate his body.

One of the soldiers yelled, Grenade!

Boom! It exploded, and knocked SSG Bills several feet back, and blew up the concertina wire. The first hummer, the attacker’s, and the Sergeant Major’s bodies were blown into pieces. Seconds later, more soldiers rushed over. They got in the prone position. Some soldiers concealed themselves—and everyone opened fire. The four hummers were completely bullet ripped, and the enemies were dead. More and more soldiers came. Some of the sergeants took charge.

One of the sergeants yelled, Team Two cover Team One! Another sergeant yelled, Call for medic! And another yelled, One hundred percent on the perimeter—Dear God, help us!

Team One reported back all clear. All enemies were dead. We cleared our weapons. Several soldiers were trying to revive SSG Bills. I went there and stood among them, looking down at him through the dimmed moon. A combat medic rushed over and quickly jumped into action. He evaluated the staff sergeant. The medic checked for the casualty’s breathing by putting his hand over the nose portion—none. Then he listened to the casualty’s chest. He looked for the rise and fall of the chest—none. Five-minutes passed, the undertaking to reanimate Staff Sergeant Bills failed.

I stood up. I did not cry; crying would not help. Something I learned from the SERE course—survival, evasion, resist, escape; a mandatory course for all flight school candidates. I turned around, and looked at the burning hummers, and listened to the disquiet noises being made by our soldiers. Some were put out the fire, others gathered bodies, and others continued to pull guard.

A strong hand touched my left shoulder. I turned around quickly and saw my boss standing tall and was armed with an M9 pistol. COL Drake interlocked his eyes with mine, then said, Young pilot, it’s time to go!

I looked at him, then at SSG Bills who was being taken away by some of the soldiers; I looked at the open concertina wire gate, then at the burning hummers. I listened to the take amiss noise as the soldiers and the sergeants were trying to make sense out the disarray. I turned my head and faced skywards, witnessing another low temperature enigmatic Nightfall. Groups of dark clouds were moving away slowly. Lenient breezes blew across my face.

I walked on the left side of COL Drake, who was lecturing me. He did not like the fact that the Army evacuated pilots from Osan Air Base, and then disbursed us into dissimilar undisclosed locations. Half of the Rock On Squadron was taken away to other posts, and we had not heard from any of them since. Pilots from other squadrons were among us. When North Korea shelled Osan, most of the jets were destroyed. Then some genius with quick-thinking ability rounded us pilots up like cows, and rushed us into buses and moved us in different directions—our group of pilots was shit out of luck. Instead of moving us away from the danger, they put us closer to it!

A few miles away in the northwest direction, artillery rounds from 2ID continued to shell the North Korean capital, Pyongyang—and heavier rounds shelled against the snail’s pace advancing North Korean infantrymen. Continuous sound of automatic weapons, rocket-propelled grenades and grenade launchers erupted from both sides of the Korean Peninsula. Unseen F117 Stealth Bombers continued their bombing missions flying overhead—to the untrained eyes and ears, no one guessed the Stealth’s whereabouts—to pilots, we knew better.

COL Drake cleared his M9 and put it back into the holster. My boss signalled for me to clear the M4 Carbine and I did, then handed him the automatic weapon and the leftover ammo and magazines. At the first tent that we passed, the armor tent, he entered to return the weapons. I stood fast and waited for him.

I turned around, facing the lower ground from atop of the hill and witnessing flashes of lights as artillery rounds were dropping. The continuous flickering lights from automatic weapons fired—the 2ID soldiers had their hands full since the first shelling of Osan. These soldiers have been trained with the fight tonight philosophy; for the past three weeks that school of thought was put into practice, and these soldiers extradited what they had been training to do.

Cursory motion from the soldiers within the covert location was still in motion. Soldiers by two or in groups rushed to and fro. Some carried stretchers. Others carried food and water. The 2ID soldiers were tired—they were experiencing energy depletion and complacency, and I hypothesized that they started wondering about safe passage out of the line of fire, or perhaps, would they catch a catnap, a snooze—a forty winks before facing another lengthy and excess sleep deprivations—facing another arctic temperature and passionless night. A Nightfall filled with the question—will I live to see another misery tomorrow?

Several helicopters flew overhead, several Black Hawks and Chinooks. They landed with much disruption from the soldiers who were pulling security around the perimeter. The blades from the helicopters created strong wind, further helping to drop another 10–15ºF to the already low temperature and windy Nightfall.

COL Drake came back out, called for me, it’s time to go, young pilot!

I followed him to the next tent. The medic tent, we stood on the side of the building as the soldiers rushed to and fro carrying the wounded soldiers. My boss instructed for me to rally up all of the pilots from inside the tent and link up with him at the helipad. I saluted him. He walked away without saluting me. He hated saluting; he gave me a comical facial expression. I took a deep breath, then stepped inside.

Flight surgeons had their hands full. Their white overcoats were stained with blood; the medical doctors rushed from cot to cot, checking up on the stats of the wounded soldiers. The more seriously wounds—and the dead, the FS gave more consideration to. Chaplain Tombs prayed over the dead after reading scriptures from John 3:16. The dead had brown towels covering their faces and each cadaver had a toe tag around the big toe. Combat medics, Army nurses and flight surgeons worked together as an army of one and each with an alignment of thought—sustain the wound.

I walked past by the first row of cots, refusing to look at the wounds, but the agonizing pandemonium of noises could not help but to be heard. I could not help any of them—I was a fighter pilot, not an FS, nor was I a combat medic or a nurse—at the moment, several others and I were pilots without the fighter jets. To the war, we were useless. That was why I volunteered to pull gate guard and the other pilots volunteered to do whatever they could, serving food or help carrying casualties to the medic tent. At the next cot, as I walked by, a hand grabbed my left lower leg, and then pulled on my flight suit. I paused, and then looked at the soldier with a white towel wrapped around his head covering his eyes.

I bent down and saw his right ear was shot off and blood continued to flow. His battle dress uniform—BDU was wet with blood and vomit and the 2ID insignia on his left shoulder was stained with blood. His left arm was laid in a peculiar position as it was broken—it was twisted backward and pushed under his back. What’s wrong? I asked.

Morphine! The soldier cried, trying desperately to sit up but failed.

I looked around, and then signalled for one of the combat medics. Specialist Kaon rushed over and reassured the casualty that everything would be okay, what’s your name? SPC Kaon asked the casualty as he tried to remove the hand away from my pant.

More Morphine! The soldier solicited.

I stood up, saluted the 2ID soldier and the 2ID combat medic, and then moved out, allowing for the soldiers to do their wartime mission. Halfway through the tent, some of the F7 pilots were helping out the FS with minor chores. Leigh wrapped white Band-Aids on soldiers with minor cuts and bruises; Brian Thule tagged the dead with toe tags. Patricia Gore, as always fearless, helped to hold a gadget inside a casualty’s heart as the flight surgeons worked conscientiously and perseveringly. I saw the naked beating heart and the pond of red blood and blue tubes of veins—I was just about to pass out. But at the last moment, regained my composure—I had to remain equanimity; this moment was the worst possible time to be weak at heart.

Toward the middle with the more serious wounded soldiers, Leigh was diligently working with several combat medics, wrapping endless Band-Aid tapes over the cuts and other opened wounds. Leigh had not slept in almost seventy-two hours—her bloodshot red eyes with excess bags at the lower portion of her eye sockets. Her nape-length hair was hastily tied into an untimely ponytail. Her once proud kArmSuits flight suit wrinkled beyond recognition from days of being unwashed—and like other flight officers, 1LT Leigh Vich ate, slept and worked in it. When Osan was being shelled, none of us had a chance to pack; our worldly belonging was what were on our backs that derelict morning ago.

I bent down next to her, put my finger at the last wrap of Band-Aid on a cut PFC Melons obtained while defending the perimeter, then in an agonized tone of voice, the soldier said, Thanks.

I grabbed another clean towel near her cot, then wiped her lip, then told the wounded female soldier, No need for thanks.

Leigh studied the wound one last time, then she examined the Band-Aid. She gently touched the arm, rotated it so carefully as to not farther cause injury to the already wounded soldier. Satisfied with the knowledge that she did what she could have done, Leigh stood up, and faced me; we both walked away. Outside the tent, the Nightfall had gotten colder, the temperature dropped at least by 10º and the breaking wind picked up its speed just a bite. We pilots stood side by side— the F7 Aero Tactical Fighter Jet pilots—there were few of us still living, Leigh, Patricia, and Brian in addition several other pilots from the other squadrons. We were dirty, and we were tired—sleep deprivation seemed to be the functions at Monkey Seven.

Several seconds later, other pilots from other squadrons came; they stood between us, and feeling ill at ease, discomposed and on the move. Like ours, those pilots’ flight suits were dirty, filthy, wet—stink and unwashed for weeks. But we retained our sanity—thanks to the SERE course and those wonderful, dedicated instructors; if it was not for them, carnage and butchery visual modality like so would have taken its annihilation effect on our psyches.

Ten pilots accounted for. We stood fast when COL Drake walked toward us with two tall helicopter pilots. One with curly hair and the other was a female with an untamed hairdo. CPT Mike McQuay, from the Phantom Squadron, a medium-size husky man in his mid-30’s, called us to attention with the recognition of the full-bird colonel.

COL Drake returned CPT McQuay’s salute, and then said in an unmusical tone of voice. Carry on. Evening, pilots, how are we doing?

Outstanding, sir! 1LT Ellen Green yelled.

She was from the Shadow Squadron, the legendary A10 Bomber Fighter pilot, known for its infamous suicide-bombing mission during the Vietnam era. 1LT Green was a medium size female with short hair and an insouciant facial expression. Another bomb dropped nearby, the impact rocked the earth and almost knocked us out of balance—it was an artillery round, probably from the 1055MM Howitzer; more screaming noise of the soldiers as they continued to perform their wartime mission and elongated the 2ID fight tonight doctrine.

The two helicopter pilots led us to a hastily made airfield, which was up the hill from the tents and the destroyed main gate. I walked at my boss’ left side, just like him and the rest of the other pilots and the 2ID soldiers. I felt in suspense for a lot of reasons—I had not talked to Ron. I was sure that he knew the stat from Intel—the intelligence operation, that he had a close tie with; but I needed to talk to him and to let him know that I was fair enough—I have had better days, but for the most parts, I was acceptable.

We reached the airfield, and their crew was prepping a CH47 Chinook helicopter. The silent pilots signalled for us to get in. Once we were seated, the crew’s chief verified the safety straps ran across us and to the seats as the two pilots initiated the protrusive black bird. The engine started. The rotors rotated faster and faster, emitting sound of impregnable breaking wind and the mammoth back burner outputted out a symptomatic sound—and it sounded like released compressed air.

I sat close to the cockpit and listened to the pilots’ transmission to the tower control at an undisclosed location. The female pilot said, Roger, that’s 30º—flying at 13,000-feet for 75 nautical miles then follow the beacon from Warrior Base 0. Good copy, Zulu Flight, out.

The male pilot switched on some of the buttons on the gear panel, cocked his head to the left, and then said, I do not like Zulu Route.

There was no beacon from the fat bird, and the pilot was manoeuvring the chopper with LANTIRN—low altitude navigation and targeting for night—the sophisticated night vision contraptions; envision flying a fat bird like the CH47 Chinook looking through a straw. Back in Weapons School for night training when the boss wanted us to use the LANTIRN, we always scorned the idea. It was extremely strenuous and a high-risk evasive action. No pilots liked using the gizmo.

The fat bird crew’s chief signalled with her hand, telling us the lift off time minus three-minutes, then turned off the dimmed red light and blackness appeared inside the Chinook. As the bird was readying to lift off, the rotors sounded more swiftly, rotated more rapidly, and the backburners outputted the compressed air in a more accelerated mode. The male pilot communicated with Warrior Base 0, looking back at us, showing thumbs-up, smiled, then said, Warrior Base 0, this is Zulu Flight, we are off the ground, ETA to North Star Airfield forty-five minutes and eight-seconds—he paused, listening to the incoming transmission from tower control.

A male’s voice from tower control said, Zulu Flight, Warrior Base 0, we have you on radar. Remember it’s a blackout flight, how copy?

Good copy, Warrior Base 0. Zulu Flight, out, the female pilot said.

Once the auditory sensations from the giant rotors and the compressed air outputted from the back burner were at their peak electronic performance, the fat bird lifted up slowly, then as time progressed, the lifting and the elevation climbs increased acutely. It felt as if, as the fat bird rose, we were pushed down with ear popping and the air felt tighter.

Coming near seven thousand feet at close to three hundred knots, the male pilot said.

How’s your LANTIRN working! The female pilot asked, then tilted the fat bird just a degree or so, but it felt as if the Chinook tilted sideways. After switching off and on a few more buttons on the gear panel at the inter- mediate portion, the male pilot said, while trying to adjust the contraption, ever so softly tuning the frontal pommel as if he was readjusting it, Laborious as usual. Who was the brainchild for this gizmo?

Both pilots laughed—something I forgot to do.

Leigh sat directly in front of me. She slept, with her head leaned against Brian. Patricia sat next to the boss, still, even in the combat environs—facing combat fatigue and complacence, the heroine seemed untouchable and not agitated by the carnage; even the sleep deprivation and the nauseating smell had not touched her nerves of steel. The other pilots from the other squadrons were in similar mode. CPT Mike McQuay took out a small map; then with a Lilliputian flashlight with a dimmed red lenses, he studied what he got, probably the map of the Korean Peninsula. Sitting to his left was Green, who seemed determined and strong-willed; she sat there with unblinking eyes. The other three pilots, I did not know who they were nor did I know what type of fighter jet they flew.

Another transmission came through and the female pilot answered, receiving, Warrior Base 0. Send your traffic.

Static background noise was heard from a host of people, it seemed as if the tower control had been tracking us and had us on their radar screen and studied our progression. A female’s voice said, Zulu Flight; there is some small arms activity at your 32º east. Warrior Base 0 will reroute Zulu Flight. Stand by.

The pilots slowed the Chinook; we felt the sudden pause—the rotors speed and rotation also changed their revolution and the compressed air outputted at the backburners also changed to a lesser accelerated mode. The crew’s chief said something to the pilot through the IC—internal communication contraption, causing the pilots to reposition the fat bird and as the CH47 maneuvered, we paid the penalty. I almost vomited, and it seemed the fat bird flew sideways; the pilots sat in front of me seemed tilted up. In a harsh tone of voice, the male pilot said. Those Intel bastards must not have been doing their job!

The intelligence operation community for the military had been coming under fire lately for bad info and statistical data, useless predictions and forecasts.

Everyone started doubting the Intel cats and their credentials devalued as more mistakes about the enemy whereabouts and missed hints of the opposition added onto the list of worthless shit.

The female levelled the Chinook, then a steep depression was felt—the pilot stabilized the fat bird. The rotor blades rotated less than before. I could tell by the sound, I noticed that the compressed air from the backburner outputted in a more accelerated mode.

This is the absolute last mission, the female pilot said, if the Intel keeps up with this type of catastrophic mistake, I will have to make a career changeover and become a newspaper carrier.

Both pilots laughed. The fat bird stayed levelled off and at the lesser airspeed at the constant rate for some twenty minutes, but it seemed like days, until another transmission came from Warrior Base 0.

Zulu Flight, this is Warrior Base 0. Prepare to receive the new route. How copy?

Warrior Base 0, this is Zulu Flight. Sending your info, the male pilot said.

Zulu Flight, Warrior Base 0 is now sending the new route coordinates—after a short pause and the male pilot readied to input the new route coordinate. The communication continued, Alpha 46620198. Zulu Flight will fly at 65º angle 09 at 250 knots. Break communication with Warrior Base 0 until Zulu Flight receives the beacon with a confirmation. Warrior Base 0, out.

The male pilot cocked his head to the left and tossed us thumbs-up; the gizmo LANTIRN linkage to the helmet made him look like a clown or a simulated gadget, Rough rides!

The fat bird started twirling up and as the chopper fought to get up to the altitude, we felt the G-pull and then the pilots tilted the aircraft. The bird flew sideways, so it seemed. The rotor blades rotated faster as the accelerated mode was applied and the back burner outputted more rapid compressed air.

Beep…beep…beep!

We got a rocket approaching! The male pilot yelled, masters’ weapons selected to chaff!

I’ll take us up higher! The female pilot said.

A sudden lift was felt. The CH47 second engine was initiated, significantly forced the fat bird to fight harder to get its big body to the higher altitude. Releasing chaff now! The male pilot informed. An abnormal elongated sound was made from the middle bottom of the bird as the chaff dropped then exploded to confuse the rocket and the enemy radar.

The female pilot yelled, I see a lot of flak down there! No need to be alarmed. It’s indirect fire; the communists have no idea of our whereabouts.

Approaching a mountainous region—selecting Gatling now, the male pilot yelled, who acted as a gunner. Then he unleashed several hundred rounds.

The fat bird shifted left. The aircraft tilted sideways to the point of almost turning it upside down. The Chinook dropped in a lower altitude; it felt like a miniature HALO—short and sweet, something I wished could happen in the actual high altitude low opening parachuting. The female pilot yelled from the cockpit, Sorry about that!

COL Drake fell asleep with his head crouched forward. The poor guy, he had been working day and night at Monkey Seven. He volunteered for every detail— from washing pots and pans, to perimeter patrol and pathfinder, to pulling front gate guard and forwards observation. At one time, he helped some of the flight surgeons to operate on a critically wounded soldier. Another time, he co-piloted an AH64 Apache Attack Helicopter. The boss did just about everything and yet, he obtained his functionality.

Beep…beep…beep…beep…! Another warning device went off, signifying that the CH47 had been locked-on by the enemy’s radar and either a missile or worse yet, a SAM—surface-to-air missile, had been tracking the fat bird.

The male pilot yelled, Unleashing chaff!

I’ll take us up higher! The female pilot yelled.

Forthwith, the back portion of the fat bird lifted up by a few degrees. Then the entire body of the Chinook lifted up. We felt our body shrink toward the floor as the chopper rose. For part of one hour, the manoeuvres involved tilting, shifting, raising, dropping and circular twirling as the CH47 fought to avoid being hit by a rocket or a missile. The pilot received what we had been praying for since we lifted ground at Monkey Seven. They received the Warrior Base 0’s beacon. Warrior Base 0, this is Zulu Flight. We are homing in on your beacon; the male pilot paused, cocked his head to the left then showed us a thumbs-up, verifying your degree and angle. Prepare for the transmission—break—2º angle 19. Warrior Base 0, do you copy?

A male’s voice responded, saying. Good copy, Zulu Flight—verify degree and angle. Prepare for the transmission—break—11º angle 32. Zulu Flight, do you copy?

Good copy, Warrior Base 0, the female pilot answered, cocked her head to the right, showed us a thumbs-up, and then smiled widely. Zulu Flight’s estimated time of arrival is seven minutes, and three seconds. Zulu Flight, out. Both of the pilots screamed in celebration, another suicide mission completed, another death avoided.

Warrior Base 0, out, a male’s voice confirmed.

We felt the initial line of descent and started seeing lights—I happened to glance over Leigh’s head and out the small window and saw something that looked like an airfield runway. I recognized the small light lined and lit in horizontal formation marking the runways. Were we at the so-called North Star Airfield! Were the F7 Sonic jets there also? Were Chandler, Akuma and the rest of the Rock On Squadron there also? What about the other pilots from the other squadrons—how many survived the initial impact from the North Korean artillery shelled on Osan Air Base? What about Blair Warren? Was she there, too?

I looked out the cockpit and saw a ground guide assumed guidance and took control of the CH47 Chinook; we felt the discomfort of the fat bird’s shift sideways as the ground guide tried to park the chopper in its proper parking space. The crew’s chief leaned her head out the small door. She was verifying for the proper landing procedure. The bird touched down. We felt as the heavy, massive metal body presses against the shocks at the landing gears. Slowly, the rotor blade rotation slowing down and the once extreme compressed air exhausted from the backburner depleted to an almost unheard noise. Then, the rotor blades stopped the rotation.

The light turned on, exposing our depleted energy and deadening physical appearance. The crew’s chief walked around the chopper, then released the back door, walked up, turned off few more buttons, then unattached herself from the long cable that was once attached to the helmet for the IC. She took off her helmet, placed it on the shelf, exposing her sweaty forehead, then smiled at us, All clear!

Walking out of the Chinook, the two pilots led. They were in silence; perhaps, they were trying to recuperate from the earlier combat flight. Outside, they picked us up on a horse cart. At first, I almost could not believe it, but it was true—we, the F7 Sonic pilots, were trained on the most advanced and cutting edge technology in aeronautical equipment—then, we were back to horse and wagon! The fat bird crew’s chief was the last to load up. COL Drake said, let’s go, mister!

The driver, a local Korean man called Ah-jue-si, a slim male attired in short, flip-flops for footgear and an old white V-neck shirt. The horse made an agitated noise, and then pulled the wagon and the two-wheeled wooden cart went off on the dirt road in the middle of the quiet Nightfall. CPT McQuay fell asleep with his head crouched and episodically leaned against my left shoulder. All of us were mellowed out, at ease and ran empty on vigor. The past two weeks had been the longest combat-ready days and nights and I could not remember when I slept for four hours uninterrupted—the standard deviation to catch some Z’s was when our bodies shut down. While standing on gate guard one time, I fell asleep standing up.

The wagon started going up on the gradual inclined dirt road. The driver said something in Korean to the horse and applied several whips to the horse’s back; then the horse made another agitated sound with its unstop wiggling tail. COL Drake, Patricia, Brian, and several other pilots jumped off, then helped push the cart. Once we reached the peak of the hill, those pilots jumped back on the wagon. With another several whips, the horse continued pulling the wagon. Along the way at the edge of the primitive route, other local Koreans continued their daily—or nightly farming endeavour. A few farmers carried baskets filled with fruits and cabbages, and others pushed handcarts filled with peppers. Other farmers laboriously cultivated rice fields.

The moonlight exposed the so-called North Star Airfield area, but I had not seen a fighter jet yet, from what I could make out with the limited visibility, it seemed like a hasty set up airfield, overriding the unapproved area and piggybacking on the poor civilian farmers—barbarically and meretriciously mutilating their farmland. The Nightfall got colder; a stronger zephyr blew in from the southern direction. The stars seemed higher with stationary dark clouds above. At the long-range distance, artillery rounds continued to drop on both sides of the Koreans; auditory sensation of small arms fires, rocket-propelled grenades and unseen fighter jets continued. The sound of M1 Abram tanks was moving toward the west, moving closer to the DMZ with a focal point of mission to stop the North Korean infantryman’s snail pace advancement.

Another unemotional, frosty Nightfall, stronger wind blow carrying with it the anguish and excruciating cries from both sides of the Korea—a Nightfall of sleep deprivation, filled with painful sensation and exhaustion; a Nightfall filled with 2ID soldiers applied the fight tonight school of thought—a Nightfall of thunderous artillery fires and bombardments from fighter jet A10s, B2 Bombers and other bomb-delivery jets—a Nightfall of flight surgeons reaching yet another maximum performance—another Nightfall of ferocity and intensified death…

The briefing room was filled with pilots who formed the Task Force Falcon flight, the code name used for the series of flights into North Korea. The nick- name Falcon symbolized the intensity needed in the bombing rage, involving a number of the other fighter jets—the KC3 Tanker, Prowler to jam the enemy radar, Sonic for air-to-air combat with the MIGs and best defense against SAMs. But the A10 was the main focal point of the briefing, and would be flown by the most experienced fighter pilots and most of which former Army and Air Force elite combat soldiers. They were situated in the middle of the large tent and surrounding them were other pilots like myself, XOs, briefer, Intel cats and other VIPs with years of the so-called combat experience stood idling, listening intensely to each of the briefer—after all, the pilots’ asses was on the line.

They hastily set up briefing stage was very poor; cardboard cut from boxes used to draw figures with half-dried marker making it almost impossible to read. And it was held up by four duffle bags stacked in a column of two. The air was thin and smoke rose and trapped from the smoker farther impeded the already poorly drawn figures. The briefer was from the intelligence cat, CPT Jay, a tall, slim man in his mid-30’s, with reddish hair and curly at the top. He taped to the cardboard four printouts of what looked like GPS photos of the target. It was almost impossible to figure out what was what’s, much less for the pilots trying to remember exact targets.

COL Drake stood next to me at the left side of the aisle with his head tilted so that he could see what the Intel cat was talking about. He wrote down notes and occasionally, he closed his eyes and coughed, a sign of stress. 1LT Brian Thule stood on the boss’s left, his head also tilted and with hands busily writing down notes. Our boss chose Brian and me as escorts; it was our first combat flight and after all of the training, it did not prepare us to fly into combat. I felt somewhat jittery—the in suspense tone impeded me from thinking straight.

With half of his slim body titled, hand held onto a twig and pointed to the top left printout, CPT Jay lectured in a humdrum tone of voice, Panmunjom is located approximately three clicks from the DMZ, here—he discontinued for a moment, looked up at the pilots. What he was pointing to from what I could make out from the back, were artillery and SAM sites and it seemed the Communist North aligned the missile batteries and the surface-to-air missile sites in an accompaniment with the parallel line that parcelled the two Koreas. CPT Jay dropped the twig down just a mark, then continued lecturing and said, Panmunjom is the most heavily mounted with military personnel, air artillery and surface-to-air missile sites. All along the parallel line and several clicks back, is the People’s Army—two million active duty. Today’s prime target is around the mountainous region called Panmunjom—to cut out access from Panmunjom to Pyongyang, the most common route used to re-supply the soldiers. Intelligence shows that the Communist North is moving for- wards to the DMZ more aggressively. Several GPS photos showed heavy movements of soldiers and tactical equipment around the clock.

I lost interest in the lecture, looked at my watch, 1500 hours; the Task Force Falcon would go into an afterburner at the very early first light, preferably at o’dark thirty—0430 hours. For the next some two hours, CPT Jay lectured. He covered from every possible angle about the target sites—primary and subaltern sites and a contingency rescue plan, escape route and friendly territories, and some of the North Korean farmers knew some of the secret tunnels that lead back to the friendly. But the majority of the farmers were just as barbaric as the Communist North soldiers—thoroughly brain washed and perception integrated to become suicidal in defense of Kim Jong Dynasty and upheld the Communist creed. From the intelligence source, the people and the soldiers were all-inclusively manipulated to fight and defend North Korea and Kim Jong Dynasty. At 1921 hours, Major General Yong from the ROK Air Force—Republic of Korea, our friends and comrades in arms took over the lecture podium. In his slurred and broken English way of speaking, MG Yong took the twig from CPT Jay, tilted his body to align with the angular hasty lecture board, and then pointed to the bottom left printout. The two-star general started from the top left of the page. He said, Panmunjom Mountain has a lot of SAM sites, triple-A and artillery placements. MG Yong was an old man, in his late 50’s perhaps, with baggy eyes and several missing teeth from both end of his mouth; a short statue figure and skinny, fatigued in the traditional ROK officer’s uniform of navy blue.

Leigh came and stood next to me with arms folded and irksome facial expression from the last two weeks of bombardment of artillery rounds from the Communist North Korea. She stood leaned her back against one of the medium poles supporting the tent. She closed her eyes, and then bit her lips together. Her slim figure and model-like visual aspect downgraded to shitbag—just like me and the other pilots who have been actively awakened for the past three hundred thirty-six hours plus of sleep deprivation, malnutrition, unhygienic and the aroused feeling of flying into combat—well, for those of us who just had recently graduated from weapons school—young pilots or young lieutenants as the more experienced pilots like to brand us.

Our combat flight hour was in a single-digit compared to the more experienced pilots normally ranked at captain and above; their combat flight hours or flight hours emblematically in triple-digits.

MG Yong slid the twig down to the middle of the printout and pointed to a military complex with railroads and factories surrounding it and a river were nearby—a nuclear facility affixed for world community notice as everything else but a nuclear facility. Not that that would make any difference since the so-called Second Korean War—or Korean War2 started, with the Communist North initiating the war. Military analysts and other combatant enthusiasts have made predictions over the subject of a nuclear arsenal. Was North Korea willing to use nuke on its neighbor South Korea—with the American soldiers sandwiched in the middle? A generous sixty-four percent prognosticated yes. And as might be expected, the nay-sayers probably wanted diplomats and diplomacy, perhaps wanting to start another fifty-years of endless chatter and yakked-yak—indefensible speech and empty promises, unbreakable stupidity and imbecility; the more the peacemakers talk over the subject of the Korean Peninsula, the more impaired the problems become.

Your primary target one, MG Yong said in the hard to understand English due to his accent and speech impediment, he crouched his head down just a degree and looked over at us over his reading glasses, code name Target Area Sierra…

The old guy continued on with the lecture. I tabbed Leigh’s left arm and led her outside. On the outside, the Nightfall, yet, another venomous sensation—satisfied demon’s doctrine of death and destruction, annihilated and wiped out the hope for a peace and happy medium, and brought into a certain state of another long and drawn out, pricey war. The eclipses were overcast by shadows of destruction. The zephyr blew in the gentle western direction, carrying with it the cries of some unknown soldiers—flight surgeons, pilots, civilians—children—hearing the voices of infants screaming for their mothers and fathers—the cries of the elderly and the physical impeded individuals as they watched their settle down villages burned into ashes and their lifesaving became a ruin, a dilapidation of value.

An elderly lady pulled a small wagon filled with different types of food, to include cold pop, coffee and noodles in a bowl, along the way she yelled, ahn-nyung-hah-seh-yo—meaning hello, she was trying to sell her goods to the soldiers. When she got directly in front of us, she stopped, gently downed the cart, took out a towel and wiped her forehead. A short lady with a humped back and irregular arched pair of legs from years of pulling the small wagon up and down hills and all along villages, highways and byways.

Leigh and I bowed down, the local’s way of showing the elderly respect. Tiredly, Leigh said, ahn-nyung-hah-she-yo.

The elderly lady, we called her Ah-ju-ma, a common name used to call an older female. She smiled at us, and then signalled for us to view her product. She said something in Korean, but I figured out what she was trying to get us to do, to look at the product she was selling.

The cart was filled with fresh fruit today—bananas, peppers, apples and small bowls of kimchi. Leigh picked up several bananas, two noodles in a bowl and two small cans of medium cold coffee. Ah-ju-ma took out her old, dirty medium notebook and pen, then she wrote down Leigh’s name, with a smile—a simple smile from a simple life—a life closely aligned with the biblical era—buy, sell, or trade with what one could produce in one’s backyard. She knew that the first and the fifteen of each month the military got paid. On the third and the seventeenth of each month, Ah-ju-ma would pursue those who owed her money and she had a photographic memory. A story she liked to tell us—over ten-years ago, a GI Joe named Tony from somewhere, owed her money for a bowl of noodles. Nowadays, whenever she heard one of the soldiers named Tony, she would check him out only to decline in the pursuit because that particular GI Joe from somewhere was probably long gone. But the old Korean lady had a photographic memory of the debt.

Leigh tossed me a can of cold coffee, then handed Ah-ju-ma the two noodles in a bowl. Ah-ju-ma took them from her and walked to the other side of the cart where she had some hot water, saying something in Korean, but of course, we did not understand her. Leigh looked up at me with her baggy, tired eyes, an outward expression of complacence and low-tolerance of combatant state of affairs that was beyond her assertions. She tried to smile at me. She managed a smirk at the left edge of her lips. I thanked a fellow F7 Fighter pilot with a hug—the first time I hugged Leigh since I first knew her from flight school, and for the next two years, I had held a grudge against her because I was a second place to her; I had held a grievance over a silly reason. Then we were only hours away from flying to combat, nothing else mattered that much—my life depended on her, and hers depended on me.

I released from hugging Leigh then gulped a mouthful of the cold caffeine drink. Ah-ju-ma came back with the two bowls of noodles, saying something in Korean again, then handed us the hot soup. Leigh and I took the hot food with a bow down, saying thank you. We sat leaning against the cart and started eating. Once we were done, Ah-ju-ma collected the empty bowls, thanked us with a bow down.

Back inside the tent, just as soon as we walked in, MG Yong finished the lecture, then the Task Force Falcon Commander, Colonel Lawrence, the pilot of the F4 Phantom, from the Phantom Squadron, took over the center stage. COL Lawrence, like the rest of us, fatigued in flight suit, with modified harness enwrapped on the upper shoulders and left mid-section of the leg. He was a big husky man with broad shoulders, thick eyebrows and gray hair from stress— baggy eyes and stained teeth from heavy coffee consumption. A pack of Newport was exposed from of the lower right pocket.

COL Lawrence started the lecture by pointing to the last of the four printouts, what looked like the Panmunjom Mountain region, Evening fellow pilots and VIPs—some laughter erupted as Leigh and I made our way back COL Drake. It should be an easy bomb-dive delivery—he paused, eyed around the room then stop at the primary A10 pilots who grouped tightly together in the middle of the tent, the ones who would deliver the bombs—COL Lawrence continued, and three flights for three bomb sites. Flight one will be led by me and the primary bomb site is right here—he paused, pointed the twig at a small military compound represented by five to seven square dots colored black.

COL Lawrence togged the twig from left to right, covering all of the black dots. These are expected SAM sites—very active, arduously guarded by battalion size element of North Korean Special Forces soldiers numbering anywhere between seven and nine hundred with well-hidden bunkers and ambuscade all around the vicinity and around its immediate locality. Expect to see some several strings of brilliant orange and black explosions from the detonated SAMs around 5º angle 32. Expect to see flak burst explosion in a symmetrical pattern. And more than likely—COL Lawrence paused, once again, focused intensely over at the A10 pilots, will face tracking Firecan triple-A—and by the way, the SAMs will reach an incredible speed, excess of Mach four and the missiles will be flying in perfect symmetrical echelons.

COL Drake whispered in my left ear. You’re in flight three—are you ready, young pilot?

Always ready, sir, I answered my boss as fast as possible, I did not want to let him know that I was incompetent. In fact, in some respects, I felt jittery about all this.

COL Lawrence tossed the twig to one of the lieutenant colonels, said, Jim, it’s yours!

I’ll take it from here, sir! A young lieutenant colonel ensured.

LTC Jim Lands was a tall and slim black man, with arms and legs longer than his mid-section and he spoke with a Mississippi accent. Evening ladies and gents—fellow pilots, I will be the flight two commander, the happy medium of the three flights that make up Task Force Falcon—flight two’s main objective is to bomb-dive deliver extra bombs that flight one might have missed. LTC Jim folded his arms, then asked, any questions?

Flight three commander was CPT Mike McQuay. Flight three would strike first, ninety seconds ahead of flight one with the primary objective was to lure triple-A, SAMs and even MIGs, so that flight two have less of a heartache with the bombing mission, and then flight one would do the actual bomb-delivery; once the bombs raged upon the Panmunjom region and all of flight one pulled out, flight two would finish up with what flight one might have missed.

After the briefing, we were dismissed to the sleep tents; the bosses implemented the eight-hour sleep plan. Our sleeping tent was nicely built, with the side canvas rolled up for fresh air. The tent consisted of more than twenty cots, and the middle portion was mine, sandwiched between Patricia and Brian, with Leigh’s cot directly across from me. None of us had much, just several flight suits, for us F7 pilots, the kArmSuits and maybe extra pairs of boots.

A team of the 2ID logistic soldiers pulled up close to our tent and started passing out hospital gowns that could serve as our panamas. I grabbed several, and then placed a gown on Brian’s, Leigh’s and Patricia’s cots. Other pilots turned in their flight suits to be washed, I could not take a chance to have mine washed because at first light tomorrow, I would need the only kArmSuits that I have. I did not think my boss would be too thrilled to see me pilot an F7 AeroTactical Fighter Jet in a hospital gown.

At 2300 hours, the passionless Nightfall got colder, the wind chill felt as if an arctic blast rushed through my body. The temperature must have dropped by at least 20º. The moonshine gave us light as Patricia and I walked to the chow tent for some hot cocoa. We sat on the outside, enjoying the hot drink. I looked across the rocky road and focused on the second-rate airfield. The take-off lanes were unbelievably short, at least by a fourth of a mile. Take-off and landing would be tempestuous.

Just beyond that, about a click back and forming an arch around the airfield was the parking house for the fighter jets. There, mechanics were busily working, prepping for the first light to go into afterburners at 0600. The bright light lit up each of the shell-hanger as the avionic cats perform the prefight electronic checks and a wide host of other aeronautical function checks. Some of the avionics cats stood on the ladders with their heads buried within the cockpits, finalizing or fixing or rerouting some complicated aeronautic instruments and gizmos. Several mechanics from among the middle shell-hangers, with their backs bent, laid fresh coating of paints. Each of the fighter jets had a bigger size of an American flag painted on the outside tails. The avionic cats were busily working, they were gainfully employed, and they were framing their thoughts into their works. From afar, I secretly gave them thumbs-up, also admiring them; they were the heroes and heroines of this so-called Korean War2—they were the least seen and least heard about, but yet, they were the ones that keep the fighter jets flying.

All around the perimeter, Patriot Missiles were strategically placed in a staggered arch-formation. Howitzers were hidden from around the valley, woods and bunkers. ROK Special Forces soldiers patrolled the perimeter day and night and GPS—global positioning system, updated the aerial shots of the area uninterruptedly. What happened to Osan will not happen again, ever, guaranteed the ROK president. South Korea activated 600,000 reservists and guards. And each day, both sides of Korea took a high number of casualties, with American soldiers sandwiched in between; we were in too deep, there was no way out. The North Koreans would want to retaliate simply because we were helping out the South Koreans our friend in arms with our defiance attitude against communism, something the North Koreans held high to protect—the North Korean Kim Jong Dynasty’s world communism.

And the communist bastard would do everything to achieve that destination. We stayed outside the chow tent for a few more minutes. We did not have much to say to each other, our minds were zoomed in on the other half of the Rock On Squadron members—where were they? Were they in a satisfactory condition? Or have they gone through a fatigue stage like some of the unlucky pilots have? And how many of the F7 Sonic jets outlived the initial shelling? So many unanswered questions.

Shortly after a quick breakfast, flight three of the Task Force Falcon, the not so better-off and selected pilots rallied around the flight commander, CPT Mike McQuay—seven of us, four A10 Bombers, an F7 Sonic, an E6 Prowler to jam enemies’ radar and an F4 Phantom piloted by the flight commander served as the flight leader, code name Phantom Lead. I would be the F4’s protective covering, protecting Phantom Lead at a higher altitude—about a half click up and back. And of course the hardest strive would be for the bomb-delivery pilots, those brave souls would have to pinpoint targets, bring to destinations the highly explosive bombs, at the same time, they would have to outmanoeuvre triple-As, MIG’s or even a few SAMs—yet, they have to counter-maneuver all of that, and extradite the deadly gift. But flight one would do the actual heavy bombing. We flight three served as forward observers and attention-getters to fool the enemy into thinking that this was a one-time attack. And of course, the other two flight serials would deport the extravaganza.

Phantom Lead faced us with fresh eyes and the once tired eyes no longer attested from last night’s eight-hour plan. At this time, who does not understand the essential deputation—he paused, eyed the small circle of six other pilots, it should be an easy run—scare the living daylight out of the enemy—lure the enemy into chasing after us to leave more open space for Flight One. Prefight checks will be done 7+30 hours. Phantom Lead will go into afterburners at 0800 hours. The Prowler is the last to go into afterburners at N+0.10. We’re staggered echelons until break flanks at until perceived by enemy radars or by sights. Go to it, Godspeed!

We loaded into another wagon, driven by an Ah-ju-ma. At the moment, she was feeding the horse and speaking to the charger as if the beast could understand the human language. A female A10 pilot was the last to load up, CPT Keen made a whistling sound to Ah-ju-ma, let’s go, Ah-ju-ma!

She smiled at us, with a bow down; she got the driver’s seat, applied several whisks to the horse’s back and made an urgent tone of voice to the mute animal to hurry up. After several agitated noises, the horse started pulling the wagon up a small inclined hill, cross an opened field. As we were nearing the ISB—intermediate staging base—the avionic cats put the fighter jets in the sequential order in accordance with the serials and the take-off chronological succession. CPT McQuay sat directly in front of me, from time to time, it seemed as the Phantom Lead was trying to analyse me—or maybe, he had very little confidence in my ability to pilot fighter jet, much less be a protector because his ass would be on the line up there and out of the friendly zone.

To me, CPT McQuay commented, Col Drake speaks highly of you, 1LT Srey, the colonel enunciated that you’re among the best—and earned a Flying Cross coin at Area 51 Weapons School from an outstanding AeroTactical maneuver that you did. If I’m not mistaking, during the live-fire portion of the weapons school, you detonated a live Phoenix Missile—and from what I understood, had you contemplated for another fraction of a second, two fighter jets and two pilots would have perished—am I correct?

I tried not to show any heroically inclined emotion. The Phantom Leader was accurate—comme il faut, about the incident. I got your back, sir, I told the F4 pilot.

He smiled broadly, and then quieted himself.

The wagon came to a precipitated stop. The horse made a discomposed cacophony, crying and occasionally raised up one of its legs. Ah-ju-ma got affected with panic. She yanked and pulled onto the ropes that were used to control the horse, and swore at the beast. CPT Keen and I jumped out of the way on the side, rushed up to the horse, we gently touched the horse and we noticed that its left rear leg stepped onto something that looked like—antipersonnel mine—a Claymore mine! I saw the outer rim, dark-green color. If the horse moved its left rear leg, we all would be blown sky-high. Or maybe the mine was set without the proper denotation, but we cannot take any chance.

CPT Keen approached me from my right, my conspicuous motion over what I found caused a concern, Srey, what’s the problem?

Claymore—I told her, and then pointed to the exposed outer rim. After witnessing the sight; her eyes got bigger, she bit her lips together. Keep Ah-ju-ma calmed, and do not let her move the horse. Tell Ah-ju-ma to stay where she is at and evacuate the pilots—one at a time, slowly.

CPT Keen graciously did what I asked of her. After she left Ah-ju-ma, she approached the wagon and relayed the message, and then I felt the weight decreased as each pilot tactically stepped down from the wagon and headed to hide behind a snaky slope nearby.

CPT McQuay walked over, with worried eyes and concerned facial expression. He asked, Are you alright?

I’ve had better days. Is everyone off?

The wagon is empty, except for Ah-ju-ma who is scared out of her mind.

He looked at his watch, behind schedule, behind the time, we were supposed to perform pre-flight checks. He pulled me away from the site slowly. I was there for security, if the horse moved its left rear leg, I would have to apply pressure on the explosive device—once the weight was off the Claymore, it would detonate. We got to Ah-ju-ma; she tied the ropes to the handlebars to fool the horse that she was still in control. We helped Ah-ju-ma to get down from the wagon very slowly. We walked toward the rear of the wagon so that the horse would not see us.

Once we three got to the outer snaky slope, the other pilots peeked at us, signalled for us to hurry up. Just as soon as we hide within the arciform slope, the Claymore went—Boom! Small debris and twigs flew over us, mushroom black clouds formed. We came out from hiding and witnessed a black spot from the impact that burned the grass. Pieces of the horse were found, small pieces, here and there; red blood covered the morning mist grass. The security force rushed over, in panicky voice, they cleaned up the area. CPT McQuay tagged one of the security vehicles then instructed for the driver to take us to the fighter jets. From the earlier bomb site to the awaiting jets was about a click south. The moment the pickup security truck stopped, we jumped out, then stormed to perform the prefight check. The F7 Sonic was parked about fifty-meters behind the F4 Phantom. There were about two to three avionic cats per jet; they were finalizing the attack aircraft. Those impertinent individuals were there to be sure that the jets were combat ready.

SGT Lowell and Tech Sergeant Spears were verifying the F7 Sonic 20MM Gatling gun that was mounted just under the bottom front portion, about a few inches in front of the nose wheel. They acknowledged me with a salute. I returned their salute, then secretly thanking them for their dedication. On the ladder, laid a blue folder, I opened it and read faults recorded from the earlier flights. No faults found then signed a Chief Warrant Officer 4—CW4—an avionic technician officer. CW4 Michael was a nice guy, old enough to be my granddad, but he was somewhat cocky and emphatic. He did not like to repeat himself, and he did not like to be asked have the faults been fixed? From the earlier fault found.

CW4 Michael’s favourite idiomatic expression was, bring my jets back in one piece—then he would elongate the word sir or ma’am. I closed the blue folder. From the front of the combatant jet plane, SGT Lowell asked with her eyes glued and analysed the right wing rocket pods. What was with the explosion earlier, LT? Carbon builds up at the inner rim the outer left Phoenix Missile pod—was the fault recorded in the blue folder?

At the quadruplet afterburners, I studied the two major, two minor and the warp burners. The silver inner rims still seemed new—incredible, after all of the usage—after hands-on instruction, Q-flight and weapons school, the four afterburners still seemed untouchable, unprocurable—and its inaccessibility for discredit in combat was yet to find out in T-minus13 minutes.

I