The Napalm That Wasn't
by Shelby Forrest

At 3 a.m. On a spring morning in 1951, the forward pilots' ready room aboard the USS Bataan was quite active. It was an unusual hour, but these were unusual times. Marine pilots were gathering for a briefing before their pre-dawn launch against enemy targets along the North Korean coast. They appeared one by one through the open hatch leading from the officers' quarters---still rubbing half-closed eyes as if trying to force them open, blinking defensively from the shock of sudden strong light, the first ones picking softer seats to fall into, leaving the more uncomfortable hardbacks to late-comers. They sat there, zombi-like, sipping coffee, lighting cigarets, yawning , eyes focusing on the surroundings as the transition from privacy of deep sleep--suddenly invaded--to reality wa gradually accomplished.

The first division of four had already donned equipment--flight suit, rubber exposure suit (the Yellow Sea was still cold at this time of year), "Mae-West", leather jackets, shoulder strapped "38's"--and were hurriedly copying the information printed on the blackboard--plane numbers, ordnance loads, target assignments, and target areas.

As soon as the intelligence officer had concluded his briefing, a voice over loudspeaker jolted the pilots from their seats, urgent them into action: "Pilots, man your planes, Pilots, man your planes." The first four pilots scrambled for the ladder leading to the flight deck, pausing to pickup helmets and knee pads--the last man taking a final, deep drag on a freshly lit cigaret--then clambering up the ladder, heavy "boondockers" pounding like rivet hammers on the metal steps.

They filed out onto the swaying flight deck, stiff-legged, bracing themselves against the brisk wind, and with the help of flashlights made their way to the waiting Corsairs and prepared for launching.

As the fourth aircraft was catapulted from the deck of the carrier, the first streaks of light began to appear, and by the time the four planes had rendezvoused and were headed on course, the sun's golden dome had broken above the horizon.

The four planes cruised toward their reporting point, flying in loose formation, the pilots checking radios, switches, land marks, their necks cranking continuously on the alert for any stray enemy aircraft which might be lurking above them.

As they neared their destination, the flight leader called the forward air control unit on the pre-arranged frequency, "Whiskey One, this is Willie Roger one-dash-one. Four F4U aircraft with 16 rockets, two 500 pound bombs, 2 napalm, and 2400 rounds of 50 caliber aboard. What do you have for us?"

"Willie Roger one-dash-one, this is Whiskey One. I have a priority target in coordinates 1041 C3. It's a gun position that's pretty well entrenched in a small ravine at the bottom of a hill. Artillery can't reach it. See what you can do. He's giving us a bad time."

"Roger. We'll look it over."

After calling for a loose column formation, the lead plane commenced a slow left turn, proceeding toward the assigned coordinates, zig-zagging, dipping his wings, attempting to pin-point the small target on the large, wooded area over which they were flying. Spotting what he thought was the target, he ordered the flight to orbit while he made a low pass for identification.

"This is it," he called, passing low over a dense area adjacent to a small knoll. "They're throwing some small stuff up at me. Pretty well protected. Looks like we'll have to burn them out. Who has the napalm?'

The second section leader, after checking his knee pad, spoke up quickly, "I've got it. I have the target in sight, too. Want me to close in?"

"Go to it. I'll join the flight and check your run. Good Luck."

The number three man made a slight "S" turn, maneuvering for position to commence his run. He checked his switches--master armament on, gun sight on, bomb switch on--then nosed over, picking up speed for the low, straight-in approach appropriate for dropping a napalm- sometimes know as a fire bomb--a combination of naphtha and gasoline, which, when detonated, had the effect of a huge flamethrower, furiously burning everything it touched. Eating up oxygen in the air, suffocating any living thing in the immediate vicinity.
He watched the altimeter unwind, slowly at first, saw the speed approach 400 knots, and saw the trees, one solid patch from altitude, begin to show their individual detail, then whiz by in a green blur as he leveled off just above them.

He spotted the gun emplacement directly ahead of him now, saw the green quilted uniforms of the men, some scurrying for cover, some aiming their rifles at his rapidly approaching plane, measured with his eye the slight but ominous cliff directly behind the target, rising vertically to a cleared plateau.

He judged his distance, waiting until the last possible second, just as the large radial nose of his plane covered the target; then, pressing the release button on his stick to pickle off his napalm, he pulled back violently, just clearing the top of the plateau as he leveled off---.

As he reached the plateau, there was a stunning concussion, the plane vibrating as though some great angry hand had grasped and shaken it violently. The pilot, shaken, fighting for control as the plane wavered low to the ground, was held intact in his seat by his shoulder harness and safety belt.

There was a moment of silence; then a calm voice called out over the air, "Well, you got em, but I've got news for you. That was no napalm, bud!"

The pilot sat in is aircraft, perspiration appearing under his goggles, too numbed to answer, well aware of the information just conveyed, the realization of what had actually occurred just began to materialize in his mind. He had dropped a 500 pound bomb--usually released for a pull out altitude of at least 1,000 feet to avoid the shrapnel, which sometimes shot several hundred feet skyward--on a low-flying napalm run! He hadn't checked his ordnance load visually before taking off, and the blackboard had been in error--obviously!

The only reason that he is around today to write this true story is because of a geographical aberration and the benevolence of God. The hillside absorbed the forward moving fragments of the bomb--fragments which would have blown the plane out of the air under different conditions.

The flight suit was damp all over--mostly from perspiration, no doubt. But who can really say??