After takeoff, I checked my instruments and found that the artificial horizon was not working. Fortunately, the indicator wings were stuck directly on the instrument’s horizon, so I would not intuitively be correcting for a bank that wasn’t there. With all other engine and flight instruments okay, I didn’t feel I should abort. The Eighth Army was pleading for all the air support available. The Chinese were engaged in what would turn out to be their final major offensive. Climbing out, my plane entered the low overcast at three hundred feet, and flying on the needle-ball, airspeed, and altimeter, I popped out at eight hundred feet with clear blue skies above the solid white blanket of stratus. The visibility above the cloud layer was unlimited, and to the west the mountains of Korea rose up, standing out in clear contrast to the bright white layer of clouds covering their bases.
Looking aft through the cockpit mirrors, I could see the rest of the flight breaking out of the clouds behind me. At fifteen hundred feet I leveled off and throttled back to 250 knots for a running rendezvous. Checking plane-side numbers, I could see that the entire flight had gotten off without the need of a spare. We climbed to ten thousand feet and went “feet dry”—crossed the coast line — just north of Wonsan. I was able to recognize the mountains easily by now. After checking out on the radio with commander, TF 77 and reporting to the TACC at Seoul, we switched to the squadron tactical frequency and I took a heading for our target area. We were now only about two to three thousand feet above the mountain tops, and the valleys and low areas were packed solid with a thick layer of fog and clouds. Navigating by dead reckoning, we arrived in the general area of Ipo-ri in about ten minutes, and the only ground visible as far as the eye could see from ten thousand feet was the tops of mountains. Not a chance of getting through this solid overcast.
We turned south, throttling back to conserve fuel, and I again called TACC to ask for an alternative target. The center reported that all of Korea was reported to be socked in and told us to call “Heat Stroke,” the call sign of the Tactical Air Direction Center (TADC) located near Kumhwa, on button (channel) 4. There were two TADCs on the ground in Korea, both located just south of the forward edge of the battle area (FEBA) or front lines, where they had reliable VHF communications with the troops in contact with the enemy and could further assign incoming close-support sorties to the tactical air control parties (TACPs) that were embedded with the ground forces at the battalion level. Then TACP would “hand off” the inbound flight leader to the forward air controller (FAC), in either a spotter aircraft or foxhole, who would have the intended enemy target in visual contact. Surprisingly, there was very little chatter on the VHF, probably because so few tactical aircraft were in the air. I reported in to the TADC with four jets, each with four 250-pound and two 100-pound bombs, and was immediately passed to a TACP, who requested a radar drop under MPQ, a radar-controlled bombing system. The MPQ was a Marine Corps development for using tactical aircraft in controlled radar bombing near the front lines when bad weather obscured visual targets. The procedure was much like ground-controlled approach, or GCA, for an instrument landing. The MPQ takes over control of the flight, which remains in formation, issuing headings, speeds, and altitudes.
We were vectored to an initial point near the front lines and turned to a southerly heading as we set our altimeters to the MPQ’s prescribed barometric pressure. As we were brought north in a 180-degree turn, we tightened up the formation and stabilized our speed at three hundred knots, carefully maintaining an altitude of ten thousand feet. The controller was by now giving almost constant heading changes to keep the formation on a precise radar vector that would head the flight for the target. The run-in course had been adjusted for a the release point to compensate for the prevailing wind at release altitude. Once on the final course, every ten seconds we were given time to go to release. At ten seconds to go, we were told to set up our armament panel. These switches controlled which racks would release their bombs and would select nose or tail fusing. The nose fuses were set for instantaneous, which was most effective against troops, vehicles, and billeting areas. As an alternative, tail fusing was available for a one-second delay, which was more suitable for bunkers, buildings, and artillery emplacements. We were instructed to select instantaneous, and at zero countdown, the four planes released their six bombs simultaneously.
The controller reported that his radar indicated all bombs fell in the target area. This MPQ drop could have been extremely effective. The enemy troops would have had no warning of the attack. With the low ceiling and lack of visible aircraft, they would have been out of their bunkers and foxholes, doing their necessary housekeeping and chores, fully vulnerable and without any apprehension of impending attack. On the other hand, the bombs could have missed the billeting area completely and fallen on the barren slopes of a mountain. For an MPQ drop, there was no way of getting a bomb-damage assessment (BDA), which was a standard requirement in all of our visual missions.
With the MPQ drop accomplished, we checked out with the FAC and turned east. I wanted to get back to the carrier well before scheduled landing time, conserving as much fuel as possible in case the recovery process was protracted due to the bad weather. Both the ship’s captain and the pilots wanted to get the planes on board before the weather really closed in and visibility was reduced to the point where planes had trouble seeing the carrier, and orienting the downwind leg and adjusting the landing approach. Under these conditions the whole operation got very tense and the chance for mishap sharply increased.
I had not yet gotten to the coastline to report “feet wet” and check in with commander, TF 77, when “Jehovah” (the voice call of commander, Seventh Fleet) blared out over guard channel, “All CTF 77 aircraft in the air are instructed to land at any available field in South Korea. All launches and recoveries for TF 77 are cancelled. Ceiling and visibility at the task force is zero-zero in fog. Task Force 77 is departing Point Oboe and heading east.”
I immediately put the flight into a port orbit, throttled back to maximum endurance power, loosened up the formation to reduce the need for throttle jockeying to maintain position, and started calling, first to the Boxer to confirm Jehovah’s instructions. The flight operations officer confirmed the orders emphatically. The carrier did not want any planes to return to the task force in the hope of a break in the weather to get on board. The conditions at the ship were thick fog, and the aerologist expected it would stay that way for the next twenty-four hours, the limit of his ability to forecast.
I next called the TACC at Seoul to get a steer to the nearest available field in Korea for landing. The center responded that all the fields in South Korea were closed. Just to make sure, I requested weather conditions at all of the fields that could handle jets: K-18 at Kangnung, K-2 at Taegu, K-3 at Pohang, and K-16 at Kimpo. All were reported closed due to fog.
When I asked if the TACC had any recommendations, the controller replied they had nothing to offer. All of the Air Force and Marine Corps planes were parked at their home fields. Weather had prevented any air operations from South Korean bases for the past week. When I added that our situation looked pretty grim, he agreed, sounding sympathetic but without any further comment.