Socrates'N Suitcase

It was dusk! I was leading a flight of four; my fifth close support mission that day. We were all so busy for five days. Every flyable fighter, and bomber, was made available for action over Korea. We were flaming the whole length of the 38^th parallel. The Navy and Marines were there too! Every leader was expected to be over the target at a particular time. I can still remember the armament office walking along side arming my bombs as I slowly taxied from the revetment to allow my three wingmen time to ‘set up and follow’ for proper position at take off. Sometimes we had 24 planes on the runway at a time.

Everything associated with operations centered around ‘time on target.’ We were to pick up the air-to-ground controller at a known landmark—the south east swing of the bull’s nuts on the Imjin-gang River. I knew exactly where to go—just north west of an area I would categorize as a massive upheaval—the pulverized remains of a small town named Puksam-ni—located at the intersection of a road heading west from a north/south 16 foot wide ‘main artery’. (a black top road)

After take-off we were spread out at about 10,000 ft. over Seoul. As the sun started to settle to the west beyond Inchon, I looked north over the twenty-five miles or so to the target area. Suddenly, in the distance I started to see a few little flickers of light—then more like hundreds—then more like thousands. Fireflies, I thought. How the hell can those winged nocturnal beetles survive in that unbelievable, devil designed, war-torn area?

Another twenty seconds went by as I cranked my head from the 12 o’clock to 5, and then back through 12 again to 8—checking my element lead—wingmen—looking for other aircraft. Then as my eyes went back through the one o’clock position, I stopped—my eyes transfixed on the flickering lights of the fireflies. It was at that second—another damn thunderbolt hit me!! It finally dawned on me; my whole body tensed as I realized I was witnessing something awe-inspiring and startling!! I was flying into another world!! Dante was surreptitiously pulling me, eyes wide open, into a vicarious trip deep into the Inferno of his DIVINE COMEDY. I was overcome with an intense feeling of amazement—frozen in time—and space.

“Holy Good God!!,” I said to myself, as the whole picture started to unfold in front of me, “they’re not thousands of fireflies—they are explosions!” I have an unobstructed view from 10,000 feet of a revolt in hell in every direction. I am a witness, first hand, of two enemies in another devastating battle, with unimaginable suffering, in endless siege warfare. They are dehumanizing and demeaning each other by hurling, with deep vengeance, and in reckless abandon, artillery shells, high explosive shells, phosphorescent shells, mortar rounds, tank fire, ack ack, missiles, and hand grenades by the hundreds. By the thousands! There in front of me were my fire-flies—masquerading as explosions cupped in a ball of red before the violent release of confined energy. Hundreds of thousands of explosions—in a crescendo of powerful, discordant uproars!

And in the cockpit—silence—with the exception of my breathing through the oxygen mask and the ‘fizz’ of the heat, vent, and pressurization system. I checked in with WATCHCASE, had the men change to the combat frequency, check their guns, and report in. I then called my forward air controller.

The guys on the ground were slaughtering each other—on each side—brothers, fathers, uncles, grandfathers, friends, and foe. Thousands and thousands of mind boggling, ear splitting, skin, and bone searing eruptions. They would approach overhead with a whir—a whoosh—a whizzzzz—a whistle—or with a sound like rapidly ripping canvas. What followed in agonized, frozen seconds were thousands of outbursts deemed to pitch, and hurl, with extreme speed, pieces of unrestrained, unguided metal. The sole intent was to cause flesh tearing injury, anguish, suffering, and death. It was purposely intended to kill any and all within range. The pieces of shredded, white-hot steel were shrieking into the soft flesh of thighs, arms, eyes, ears, faces, and throats. The pieces tore through the hard bone of skulls and chest and feet. They shredded sandbags, barbed wire, tin, and timber—all accompanied by searing flame—in the form of fireballs and convulsion. And I’m flying around watching all of this, in awe, with my flight in trail, trying to make some kind of tactical sense by making an effective bomb run. I couldn’t pick up my controller; he had been shot down. It was getting too dark to go north and besides, our collective bombs were needed below me—down there—Now!

I had no idea where the front line was.

I witnessed F-84’s, and B-26’s, and Navy Skyraiders, and Marine Corsairs being shot down in trails of black smoke and orange flame—only to plow into a hillside recklessly unaware of what side of the massacre the doomed plane was on.

I saw two white parachutes—a descent into pure hell.

I continued to watch. I saw a B-26 make a run from northeast to southwest and drop two napalm canisters against the incline of a small hill. “The Hook,” I said to myself. “It’s the same pattern.” The bastards are in trenches down there. I immediately flew northeast and radioed the flight to follow me and arm their bombs as I made my turn from the two o’clock to the eight o’clock position. “Follow me by about four seconds. We don’t have much time,” I said. “Drop your bombs at your discretion following the same path and dive angle as me. I have a target. When you release, break right, fly low, and get the hell out of there; meet you at 15,000 circling left at the ‘M’ in the Imjin (river).”

I don’t know how in the name of almighty God the men down there withstood the noise, let along the bloody slaughter. It looked like a world gone mad!! No. I was witness to a world gone mad! A million fireflies for a yard of blood soaked land!

As I said earlier, I was looking down on Dante’s Inferno—a vivid story of the macabre—the insane—all brought together in a valley of death, by a demented psychopath named War!!

It was the savagery of Gettysburg, the maelstrom of French Flanders in WWI, and the slaughter of Iwo Jima re-lived right in front of me. It had to be the same; it would have been impossible to even bury the dead. Dead bodies, stiffened by rigor mortis, accompanied by the obnoxiously sweet smell of rotting flesh wrapped in bloody bed sacks or ponchos and stacked like cordwood, bound together with Signal Corps wire. The men in the trenches hunkered down, clawing and scratching at the dirt for another half-inch of safety. If the B-26, or my flight, hit a target too close to an accordion like, rapidly changing front line, the men wrapped in Signal Corps or barbed wire would be blown apart or burned. They would disappear into unrecognizable pieces or into ashes only to be blown away by a wind, sucked into the valley by the firestorm. It was another life given in the name of freedom without the benefit of a simple burial. An unknown soldier.

War!

I am extremely distressed by man’s never ending difficult straits of active antagonism.