Socrates'N Suitcase

….we (fighter pilots) were all brought together with an exact, common function-to destroy the enemy and protect, assist, and deliver, on time, effective air-to-ground support of the troops on the front line. At the same time we were to uphold the pride and glory of the U.S. Air Force. I was determined to change the attending SCREECH and SHRIEKS of bombs smashing into man and machine, into the elegant choral section of Beethoven’s 9^th. It was April 1^st, 1953. I was about to make a fool of myself!

Let no man deceive himself.

If any man among you seemeth

To be wise in this world,

Let him become a fool,

That he may be wise!

I Corinthians 3:18-19

….the Group crossed the convergence of the Han and Pukhan rivers. Jim McDivitt (future astronaut-my flight leader) wagged the tail of him bomb ladened fighter; the signal to spread out.

I continued keeping position on Jim while my head turned as if on a well oiled swivel-from behind my left shoulder my eyes kept making a slow turn to my right shoulder and back. Back and forth-up and down-checking instruments, fuel and my oxygen “blinker”. When I started flying jets I learned always to pick some number in the cockpit-a different number each flight. Every few minutes I focused on that number to make sure it could be clearly read. If it got the least bit hazy, I checked my oxygen system.

I noticed the two flights of four starting to make a shallow turn to the left-adjusting course-they were probably over the eastern end of the Hwachon reservoir where intelligence told us there was heavy fighting. Jim started to make his turn-I was ready. I inched back on the throttle to keep my position during our slow progress toward the emergency of what would soon be a sudden, violent expression of extreme hostility-on both sides.

We had completed our turn and were headed northeast when I started to notice bunches of blackbirds ahead of us. They were at our level at about the two o’clock position. I said to myself, “This is winter; April showers bring flowers, not big migrating birds. Why are there so many damn blackbirds heading south this late in the year. And they keep coming and don’t seem to be bothered by us.”

It was just about that time someone said, “Heads up gang-we got flak-level-two o’clock-and it’s getting heavier.”

“Flak!! Did he say flak?” I nervously said to myself. “They’re not blackbirds?????? My God! Look at ‘em all!”

It was at that second when my life took on a whole-new-catatonic-frightful-dimension. For the first time it was completely and inexorably clear to me that I was in a vicious war of hate where men I couldn’t even see were damn well bent on killing me; and I was sitting there, completely exposed, with the feeling of my rear end hanging out, and the bastards want a piece of it-a big piece!!. I have often heard the expression ‘a piece of ass’ but I never thought of it being considered in this dimension!! If this keeps up, I’ll be considered a candidate for dementia!

And here I am, all by myself, in this little, cramped, fragile jet just waiting to run into one of those big-ass blackbirds. And I could do nothing about it.

Blackbirds….?????

“Suitcase,” I said to myself, “for Chri..sake!! You’ve gone whacko!!! How could you have possibly thought blackbirds-we were briefed on flak-you’re a dumb jerk, you know that??”

All I could say to myself was, “I didn’t think it would be this way”. And I never thought I would be so scared. I sure as hell hunched down in the cockpit; and all of a sudden, I wasn’t looking around so much.

The flight of eight in front of us started to lose altitude-Jim would be giving us the signal soon. And then my attention was riveted. All of a sudden one of the eight started to turn sharply to the left as a trail of orange flame and smoke jetted out of his tailpipe. The pilot said nothing as the plane went inverted and then continued its roll to the left. The bombs and tanks were thrown off by the centrifugal force of the rapidly increasing roll. I did not see the jettisoned canopy or the ejection seat but I did catch a long white scarf-the parachute-I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It stayed long-and white-it had not blossomed open-it was whipping back and forth-slowly-like someone in a white jump suit skipping, side to side, in slow motion, down a long hall knocking on opposite apartment doors-and pleading for someone to “open up and give me some air-please-just enough to get me open!!” But there was no one at home-and the long white scarf disappeared into the hills below just about the same time his jet exploded into a conflagration of orange and black. “Jesus!” I said to myself. “I can’t believe this. I’m sure this has to be the movies. This couldn’t be real!!”

A sharp retort from Jim; “Turkey Trot 2-Formation!! Formation!!” I was so fascinated by the kaleidoscope in front of me I allowed myself to drift to the left and broke the integrity of the formation. I was a dumb shit about the flak, now I’m a double dumb shit and was failing my responsibility as a wing man. You asshole!! You dumb jerk asshole!! I couldn’t protect Jim if I allowed myself to be distracted by something outside of my control. That chute had nothing to do with our squadron, and even if it did, what in the hell could you do about it?? Nothing!!! You’re not acting like a member of the squadron’s famous moniker-Black Panthers. You’re a scared pussy cat!!!

I said to myself as I gained back a little of my composure, “I will never-never-make that mistake again.” I was bitterly angry with myself.

Things were now happening fast-events that you are never really prepared for. At least I wasn’t. The seven planes in front of us were making a steep diving turn to the right and we followed soon after. I just hung on to Jim. My shaky left hand armed my bombs; it looked as if we would not bomb in trail but would make the run in a spread formation. We were now approaching the time to go in on the target. I kept my eye on Jim. When he rolled in I would wait about a second and do the same. What the hell am I doing here? There goes Jim!! Wait for a second! Quit shaking for Christ sake! Hold it! Hoooollld it! OK----GO!! I rolled into a steep dive, flak and tracers everywhere. How did I ever get in this mess? I was sinking in fright. I saw two bombs explode, then four, eight; I stopped counting as blast after blast ripped and slammed into the rail yards, tracks, box cars, locomotives, switching structures, locomotive barns, a water tower-a signalman’s shack. The bombs exploded with enormous, sudden, and violent energy, with extreme harshness and devastation. I had my bomb sight on several box cars near a water tower-I was going down-down-hold it-hold it-now!! I squeezed the bomb release button and started my pull out-and I was hell bent for hauling ‘ass outta’ there.

I leveled out at no more than 100 feet. At about the same time the thirty or forty railroad tracks converged into twenty, then ten-then four-Zip! Zip! I was at the south end of the marshalling yards. A plane to my left-lower than me-a red tail-I think-36^th Squadron-was pouring orange flame and smoke from his right wing root and air intake. I caught him just for a second-he pulled up but at that instant the plane exploded into thousands of pieces. To my right, my peripheral vision caught a tall wooden tower with a gun on top of it spewing flame. Reminded me of a violent flamethrower. God! I was in the middle of a violent succession of fast changing actions and I was just an innate object along for the ride. Men on the ground were running in all directions. Several men were violently lifted and spewed into the air by machine gun bullets as the .50 calibers slammed into their legs and backs and then slapped them to the ground like pancakes on a griddle. I saw another F-86 in front of me catch a shell at the tailpipe. The pilot pulled up but he seemed to be OK.

Where the hell was Jim? “There he is,” I said to myself. He was weaving and changing direction every few seconds-there was flak, and flame, and black smoke everywhere-I was in a deadly game of dodge ball. I added power to catch up with ‘Turkey Trot lead” while flying my own aerodynamic rumba of evasive action. Someone spoke with alacrity. “They’re trackin’ Yah 2.” My God, I’m gonna have a blackbird up my ass. I immediately threw in a little left aileron and kicked right rudder. The bastards will think I’m turning left, but actually I’ll be slipping-straight ahead. The flak bursts moved off to the left-I fooled somebody. I don’t know why but a flash of the beautiful face of Betty Ann Bowers, my Powers model friend from home, went by me. Probably because I thought I was a dead duck and would never see my gorgeous friend from Pittsburgh again. I couldn’t get over the fact that I, Jack Simpson, was surrounded by violent danger and random-that’s what infuriated me-random-death, and at this ##**@*@ damned juncture I couldn’t even shoot back.

I caught up with Jim just as he was making a climbing left turn out of a valley. I saw a shell explode and ducked. I didn’t want him to turn into me so I stayed below and started to slide to his outside when he said, “Turkey Trot 2, you-your bombs are still on board. We’ll have to go back and drop them on the target.”

I was stunned-overcome with paralyzing disbelief. “Wha-what?? What the hell is he saying? How could that be?” I tried to be calm and radioed, ‘Roger on the bombs Turkey Trot.’ But under my breath I said, “In all due respect, Jim, nuts to you!! I’m not going near that target.” I was in complete panic. I immediately leveled out and pushed every button the stick grip, toggled the group of switches on the armament panel and pulled the manual release ‘T’ handles of anything within my range, except the landing gear emergency release. Oh my God!! What have I done??? Damn it!!

I had released my bombs and my tip tanks. Geeezz!!, You dumb, stupid assh--!! How’d you ever do that? But calm down-calm down-however things didn’t improve when ‘Bald Eagle’ lead cracked the silence by telling his flight to watch out for the spinning, tumbling tip tanks. Silence; but he couldn’t help but add-“Who’s the dumb shit--??”

I rolled over and saw my bombs explode, I was so scared during the bomb run, and I pushed the top of the trim tab button rather than the bomb release button. The trim tab button! Can you imagine that!! Now I’m talking to myself. “It doesn’t even push ‘in’ you dumb ass. It goes left or right or up or down. How could you be so dumb?? The Air Force spends over a million dollars training you for war and on your first mission you drop two 1000 lb. bombs on a bush in the middle of a dry riverbed. Nice going,(black) bird brain!”

My one-and only-consolation was the tip tanks were at least empty. I had also reached the ‘Bingo’ stage but I wasn’t about to say anything and remind these men again about my ineptitude.

I joined up with Jim on his left wing and soon thereafter the element slowly joined up on us. They probably held back to see if I was going to be safe to fly with.

Jim, who hadn’t said a word after advising the revisit to the target, headed southwest. He was no dummy; he saw my bombs-and tanks-leave the airplane. In about 20 minutes or so, he checked out with WATCHCASE when we were over what was left of the town named Chorwon; an empty, bomb-cratered tangle of concrete, wire, pipes, bent steel and fractured chimneys. An architectural masterpiece of death and destruction derived from the contents of the thirty-four Canto’s of Hell in Dante’s DIVINE COMEDY, part of the tale being the poet’s journey through hell. The former citizens were finished with their share of hell. They were now burned, wounded, dead-torn to shreds by gunfire and explosives. Those lifeless bodies that were left behind were at one time living, breathing, thinking, loving, and human beings. Now, those who remained alive turned their backs and left them to rot. What a mess war is-it leaves behind, without compunction a mockery to the dignity of man. A chimney, alone, but standing at attention, away from the rubble of the bombed out railroad station, was all that was left of the Kumgangsan electrified railroad. Many twisted rails, seemingly frozen in space while shunning the chaos, cast a spaghetti shadow over the devastation.

War!

War in its fairest form implies a perpetual

violation of humanity and justice.

Gibbon,

Decline and Fall of the

Roman Empire, XXXIII

The two books which look most steadily and searchingly on the face of war-Homer’s The Iliad and Tolstoy’s War and Peace-seem to hold it as a mixed thing. Battle with sword and javelin on the plains of Troy or with musket and howitzer on the Russian steps let loose a fury which sweeps human nature to the extremes of nobility and baseness, to actions of heroic strength and cringing weakness. To both Homer and Tolstoy the whole spectacle is one of agony, pervaded by darkness and dismay, torn bodies, and ruined minds. “Grievous war” is Homer’s repeated epithet. “Pale fear” and “black death” are the colors of battle. Ares (in Greek mythology, Olympian God of war) reigns, “Ares says, ‘man slaughtering,’ ‘blood-stained,’ ‘insatiate of fighting.’”

I often wonder how much perpetual sadness the loss of life brings people and yet war never seems to end.

Anyhow, we crossed the 38^th parallel. A thousand things were going through my mind. First, I let Jim down by drifting from formation. Then I was so caught up living with my own fear, that I pushed the wrong button and then made it worse by panic in the cockpit. “What if one of your tip tanks knocked one of our own men out of the air? How do you write up a combat mission after dropping two bombs on a bush?” I asked myself. All the other pilots, except for the two that were shot down and probably dead, would report hits on box cars, water towers, storage yards, locomotives, tons of supplies, maintenance facilities, etc., etc. Then the de-briefing officer would ask, “What about you, Lt. Simpson?” “Well, Sir, there was this bush-it probably wasn’t even a live bush. But I did hit it right in the center-“

“Will you repeat that, Simpson, What went wrong??”

“The pilot, Sir. The pilot.”