A Faith Renewed
by Shelby M.Forrest

On a bleak day in mid March, 1951, four checkerboard-nosed Corsairs were launched from a United States aircraft carrier cruising along in the yellow Sea, approximately one hundred miles from the western coast town of Haegu, Korea. These were planes from VMF-312, a carrier based Marine Fighter Squadron, stationed aboard the USS Bataan. I was flying one of them. Our mission for this particular flight was considered routine. We were to hit shipping, which usually consisted of small fishing boats, south of Chinnanpo in Northern Korea, and then to fly reconnaissance further up the coast. This was similar to much of the flying the squadron had been doing for the past six months from Kimpo, Wonson, Pusan in Korea and from Bofu in Japan. Our work involved mostly close air support, air strikes on predetermined objectives, and reconnaissance missions.

Contrary to some popular beliefs, there is little glamour associated with this type of flying in wartime. Most of it was routine. There was excitement, of course, and dramatic incidents. Occasionally a plane went down, a pilot was lost. Sometimes it was a daily occurrence, but in wartime, not unexpected. Our purpose was to destroy the enemy targets and to keep from being destroyed in the process. Since a certain amount of attrition was expected, we were able to develop a somewhat fatalistic attitude and generally dismiss such incidents outwardly with a shrug. You could even shrug off your own close ones and attribute them all to luck. Your time just hadn't come, your number wasn't up, or any number of similar rationalizations. There wasn't much time devoted to the luxury of philosophic thinking.

However, now and then a rare experience occurred that was of great enough consequence to penetrate more deeply through the outer shell of callousness, and for some uncanny reason beyond the grasp of human logic, a realization was developed that something or Someone more than luck had a vital part to play in the outcome. My story is concerned with on such experience.

As we proceeded toward our destination, I glanced down occasionally at the blue, peaceful looking water. To me the sight was more ominous than the thought of enemy guns, for even in March, the waters of the Yellow Sea are cold. Cold enough to kill a man if exposed long enough without the protective covering of a rubberized exposure suit, and sometimes even despite this protection.  We reached our objective and carried out the mission , which proved to be uneventful. The boats were hit without incident, and we continued up the coast on our recon schedule.

I do not recall our exact location at the time, except that we were quite a distance inland in northern territory, and an even further distance from the ship, when I noticed a peculiar vibration in my plane's engine. I was just above tree top level, since many recon flights at that time were flown at a fairly low altitude. I immediately started to climb and called the flight leader, "Bill, I've either been hit, or this thing has developed engine trouble of some sort. Come back and take a look."

The other planes joined up and turned toward me. The flight leader called, "Head for the ocean. I'll look you over." By this time my antiquated, bent wing bird was starting to stutter considerably. I leveled off at 2000 feet and throttled back. These Vought Corsairs were old and had seen many an overhaul, but they were rugged and could take a great of punishment. I had flown them in World War II, and had a great deal of confidence in them. However, at this point, I was beginning to realize the extent of their famed durability.

The flight leader joined me and looked the plane over carefully, "Can't see anything wrong. You might have caught some small stuff back over the coast. How does it sound?"

 

"Like hell," I said.

"Think you can make it to the ship?"

"Not a prayer. It's cutting out intermittently, and the RPM is fluctuating like a butterfly. I just hope I can get to the ship before it conks out."

I was not too worried at first, but now portentous thoughts were beginning to loom in my mind. This wasn't an ideal spot to crash land nor to bail out. Pilots weren't exactly accepted as liberators by the people in an area that has been strafed, bombed and it with rockets incessantly for months. And even if the ocean could be reached, it was a long flight by helicopter from the ship Nor was the thought of that cold water encouraging. However, it was less formidable than the idea of my chances for survival in this area.
The faltering engine finally brought me over the coast.

After an eternity of "sweating it out", it now appeared that I would be granted the choice of taking my chances in the water. The alternative now was whether to bail out or ditch the plane--make a water landing. I made a quick decision. A voice came over the radio, "Is your canopy jettisoned yet?"

"Roger," I answered. "It's been long gone. "

"Are you going to bail out or ride it in?"

"She's still kicking. Think I'll hang on until she cuts. Want to get as close to the ship as possible."

"I've alerted the ship. The helicopter is on the way."

I was now over the water, headed in the direction of the ship, holding close to 2,000 feet altitude. The engine was really rough, but despite repeated sputtering and cutting out, it still kept me airborne. Each time it cut out, sometimes as much as 5 to ten seconds, I nosed over and thought, "This is the time." But miraculously, each time it caught again and was able to continue laboriously on course. Normally, I wouldn't be too concerned over a water landing. That wasn't the problem. I knew I could handle that, and I preferred it to bailing out.

I couldn't help thinking about the marine pilot who was recently picked up by helicopter after bailing out over the water. He was found in his life raft- frozen to death. And he was wearing an exposure suit! So I was praying to get closer to the ship--close enough for a safe pick up by helicopter. The helicopter! What a wonderful invention. The lives that might have been saved if we had been able to use that beautiful piece of machinery in WWII. Time crept by slowly, but with each passing second, I was closer to the approaching helicopter.

Suddenly, someone broke the silence, "I see the ship ahead. About fifteen miles. Can you make it?"

"I've made it this far. I'm certainly going to try it." The engine was still coughing. I don't know what kept it going this long. It was impossible, but it was happening. Cutting out, in, out in. Still going. I couldn't receive transmissions from the ship, so I requested the flight leader to contact it for me, "Call for an Easy-Charlie pass. I'm going to try to get aboard." An Easy-Charley pass is an emergency carrier approach, commencing at a higher land  a further distance from the ship than for a normal carrier approach and landing. It is designed for giving the pilot enough altitude to maintain flying speed for a safe water landing in the event of engine failure during the approach.

We were now nearly over the ship, and I started my downwind turn to get into position for my long straight in approach. The deck was clean, and I was cleared for my approach. Old "Monk", the Landing Signal Officer, (LSO), and one of the best in the business, was standing by to bring me in. I heard his slow, Alabama drawl inquiring," Can you take a wave-off?"

"Negative", I replied emphatically. "Don't know if it can make only one pass."

"O.K. Boy, I'll get you in. Keep her coming." I was now turning into the groove and gliding down toward the ship. I was afraid to touch the throttle, but I eased it back slightly. Had to be just right. No wave off was possible, I know. The engine wouldn't take it. I picked up Monk's paddles as he signalled me high and fast. I knew I'd be fast all the way, for I didn't intend to throttle back or jockey that throttle much more.

I was now committed. Had to make it or go into the water. I was still fast over the ramp, but Monk gave me a "cut", and I cut the throttle. The plane dropped, caught the third wire and came to a sudden, pleasant stop. The engine died as the wheels touched the ship's deck, this time for good. The prop was 'frozen'. Couldn't even be turned.  I climbed out shakily, but smiling. The plane was towed forward and taken down to the hanger deck.

I learned later that filings in the carburetor had caused all the trouble.  Hadn't received any hits anywhere on the plane. The engineering officer said he didn't know how it ever got back. By this time, however, I felt I knew. This experience wasn't one to make the headlines. There have been, and will be many more close ones, but it wasn't considered too unusual aboard ship. Most of the comments were to the effect of how lucky I was, and my time just hadn't come yet. Just another close one. But to me, it was a more revelatory experience, for something happened inside. It renewed and activated in me what had been a sporadic, even dormant faith. I've had close ones before, and subsequently, but this particular experience will always stand out in my memory, while others are long forgotten. Here I knew that Something more than luck kept that engine going until the moment it touched down safely aboard the carrier. Anyway, I will always believe that.