The USS Pueblo incident near North Korea inspired a show of force requiring many reservists, including Richard Taylor, to drop what they were doing (teaching, in Richard's case) and head off to
Korea. Along the way, he got to do a little bit of flying and practicing water landings with a parachute. Back in the States after a year, Richard went back to the classroom, but also flew the Ohio
Army National Guard's Bird Dog and Beaver.
Click here to read the 15th chapter.
On Jan. 23, 1968, the USS Pueblo, a small, U.S. Navy, intelligence-gathering ship, was sailing off the east coast of North Korea doing her thing, when
she was accosted by several North Korean warships. Our naval authorities and the Pueblo's crew insisted she was well outside the 12-mile international-waters boundary but the bad guys claimed the
Pueblo had violated their 50-mile boundary. After a failed attempt to get away (the best speed the Pueblo could make was about 20 knots), the captain complied with the Koreans' demands; the ship was
subsequently captured and towed into port at Wonsan. (The Pueblo was later moved to Pyonyang and became a tourist attraction, a demeaning exhibition that continues to this day.)
It is easy to imagine the diplomatic measures taken to gain release of the ship, but the Northies were having none of that ... the Pueblo and its crew were valuable political prizes. Long story short,
the crew was bound, blindfolded, beaten, prodded with bayonets and taken to POW camps where they were starved and tortured for the next 11 months.
Shortly after the Pueblo was captured, President Lyndon Johnson put on a show of force by activating 14,700 reservists from all branches of the military. The Ohio Air National Guard's 166th Tactical
Fighter Squadron (F-100s) at Lockbourne Air Force Base in Columbus was federalized on January 25 and was ready to go the next day (98 percent of our personnel reported for duty at 0800 on the 26th).
But where would we be sent? Or when? We had no idea ... it was several months before the dust settled and we were assigned to Kunsan Air Base on the west coast of South Korea. We were to join up there
with a similar F-100 squadron from McConnell AFB in Wichita, Kan., to form the 354th Tactical Fighter Wing.
My faculty status with The Ohio State University Department of Aviation was, of course, suspended until further notice and my position would be held open until I was released from active duty,
whenever that might be.
Once the urgency of the Korean situation dropped a notch or two (the entire Pueblo crew was in jail with no expectation of imminent release and it appeared the incident was not going to incite another
war with North Korea), I didn't need to report every day; that provided some time to get my civilian ducks in a row for whatever was in the immediate future. I spent more than a few hours in the
Cessna 140 with my friends in the Ajax Flying Club and flew with several other aviation students, hoping to complete all that training before I had to relocate, but there just wasn't enough time.
While Uncle Sam was making up his mind what to do with almost 15,000 reservists, I flew the Helio Courier on a much-reduced schedule, participated in an AOPA weekend flight training clinic and spent a
lot of time with my family. On the military side of those several months-in-waiting I logged 60 hours of T-33 time and 32 hours in the C-54.
Flight training for the fighter jocks in the 166th TFS was heavy on aerial combat and weapons delivery -- the F-100 was a formidable war machine that could fight with guns, rockets and bombs. And
there was another area of training -- sea survival -- with life-or-death potential for our pilots who would soon embark on a trans-Pacific flight. The Tactical Air Command had developed a school based
at Turkey Point, Fla, that covered all aspects of water survival. The fighter pilots were required to complete the course but there was room for several others, so those of us who flew the support
airplanes (T-33 and C-54) got a "C'mon along" from the CO and off we went for several days in south Florida.
Classroom sessions were replete with information about survival equipment such as the full-body waterproof garment ("poopy suit" in pilot lingo), the one-man life raft and its emergency kit.
We learned the proper procedure to keep from drowning if the surface wind dragged us across the water before we could release the chute: Wearing a parachute harness, we jumped off the stern of a
remodeled LCI and were dragged behind the boat until we either rolled onto our backs and assumed the proper position ... or swallowed a lot of salt water.
The Air Force has never required pilots to qualify as parachutists, but the pièce de résistance in the sea survival school was pretty close to the real thing. The LCI's deck was a long,
narrow platform with a large-mesh net at the back. Dressed in full survival gear and standing on the deck, we were connected to a towboat with a line about three hundred feet long; the LCI's speed of
about 10 knots inflated the parachute fully against the net, whereupon the towboat driver put the pedal to the metal and with just a couple of steps, voila! ... we were parasailing. The canopy was a
lifter when being towed and when we were almost directly overhead, a crewman on the towboat waved a green flag, our signal to cut loose.
When the forward motion stopped, the canopy became a parachute, giving us just enough time to release and inflate the life raft, deploy the emergency kit and prepare for landing.
Parasailing launches were repeated in quick succession and we finished the exercise floating in a line of one-man rafts, waiting to be picked up by a helicopter. The over-water bailout drill was a
great learning experience that fortunately wasn't needed by any of our F-100 drivers on their long, feet-wet flights to Korea and back home.
The exact date has long since departed my memory, but in late winter 1968 we were advised that Kunsan Air Base would be our military home beginning in June and continuing for a full year ... or two,
if that became necessary. No one was jumping for joy, but volunteers go wherever they're told to go, no questions asked.
Kunsan AB is located on the western shore of the Korean peninsula, 100 miles south of Seoul, the capital city of South Korea. The surrounding landscape is rather bleak, consisting mostly of rice
paddies and mud flats; it has been referred to with tongue in cheek as "Kunsan-by-the-Sea" but in 1968 it was definitely not a resort destination.
The 354th Tactical Fighter Wing was the second USAF unit assigned to Kunsan in response to the Pueblo incident. Col. Chuck Yeager and his F-4 wing launched from Ubon AB in Thailand the day of the
capture, but by the time they arrived in Korea the game was over. In the following six months the miserable quarters and poor airport conditions they endured were vastly improved; instead of tents,
there were real BOQs and most of the support facilities one would expect to find on a permanent air base.
My duty station was in the Wing Command Post, housed in a building commonly referred to as the "Mole Hole" ... it was really a half-buried Quonset hut covered with several feet of concrete.
For all practical purposes, this was the nerve center of the 354th, but some of the electronic nerves were getting a bit frazzled. The telephone system was of antique vintage and breakdowns were
frequent; whenever it rained we knew communications problems would follow shortly thereafter.
There were several pilots (including myself) on the base who were required to fly at least four hours each month to earn flight pay, but because there was no aircraft for us to fly, some kind soul
arranged a waiver of that normally inviolate regulation while we were in Korea. Oh, there was the occasional ride in the Beaver (U-6) owned by Base Ops and a couple of sorties in the back seat of an
F-100F (the training version), but that didn't satisfy the need ... we wanted to fly. The problem was solved in September when a C-47 was acquired by the airbase support people in response to the need
for a larger airplane to provide transportation from Kunsan to a pair of satellite bases that were part of the Wing.
This was one of several Gooney Birds in semi-mothball condition at Osan, a USAF fighter base just north of Kunsan. They had been used by the U.S. diplomatic corps in Korea (I suspect they flew
high-ranking personnel to and from the Korean armistice talks at Panmunjom) and were "VC" airplanes with just fourteen airline-type seats ... no bucket seats for the big shots.
In the nine months from acquisition of the C-47 until we came home in June 1969 I flew 87 hours in the Douglas Racer, including numerous in-country flights to Kwangju, Taegu, and Seoul plus several
round trips to Tachikawa AB on the west side of Tokyo, in the land of the big PX. It probably violated a regulation, but I recall one trip to Tachikawa carrying a briefcase stuffed with paper money
(won -- the local currency) collected by the Korean ladies who worked in the Officers' Club to buy cosmetics and other "girl stuff" that wasn't available on the base or downtown Kunsan.
Speaking of the "O" Club, a bunch of the boys where whooping it up one night when an argument arose about the climb capabilities of the F-100 versus the Kaman HH-43 flown by the Air Rescue detachment
on the base. The HH-43 was a most unusual flying machine, a jet-powered helicopter with two rotors that intermeshed overhead, eliminating torque and the need for a tail rotor.
The argument heated up, bets were placed and a live contest was arranged. The two aircraft -- both with minimum fuel on board -- would line up on the runway side by side and at the starter's signal
both pilots would climb to 3,000 feet as fast as they could and call out over a public address system when they got there.
On the day of the race nearly everyone stopped work and gathered to watch; the Super Sabre was heavily favored. When the pilots signaled they were ready to go, the starter dropped a flag and the race
was on. The F-100 roared out of the gate in full afterburner and the Huskie jumped off the ground, making much less noise -- but it was climbing for 30 seconds or so while the F-100 was still on the
ground accelerating to takeoff speed. I don't remember the exact elapsed time, but not many seconds later there were simultaneous transmissions from the pilots -- it was a dead heat. Oh well, back to
the bar, boys.
In mid-February, I arranged for some leave time and traveled to Hawaii for a mid-tour rendezvous with my wife. I rode on an Air America C-118 from Kunsan to Tokyo then shopped for a ride the rest of
the way. In 1969 you could walk into any USAF Base Operations wearing a flight suit and carrying a B-4 bag and inquire about a ride
sooner or later you'd find someone who was going your way and
you would be welcomed on board. In this case the free ride was a C-124 bound for Honolulu; it was slow, noisy, shook a lot and we had to RON at Wake Island, but the price was right -- and Nancy and I
had a most enjoyable time.
Late in the winter of 1969 we got word that our tour would finish soon and if everything worked as advertised we would be home by the end of May. But on April 15 a pair of North Korean MiG-17s shot
down a U.S. Navy EC-121 in circumstances eerily similar to the USS Pueblo incident -- this time an alleged invasion of North Korean airspace -- and there was probably not a man at Kunsan who didn't
think, "Here we go again." Fortunately, cooler heads in Washington prevailed; instead of launching a military strike and possibly setting the stage for Korean War II, the reconnaissance flights were
resumed within a week to make it clear the United States would not be intimidated by North Korea's action.
With this last-minute scare behind us, the 354th Tactical Fighter Wing finished its work; we departed Kunsan-by-the-Sea near the end of May with no regrets and headed for home. Once again the F-100
troops completed the 9000-mile trip with no hitches and the rest of us returned to Columbus via a contract airline.
Coming home and seeing one's family after a long absence is always a happy event; in my case, our three kids (and a friend) had posted a warm welcome in front of the house.
After a week of re-acclimation to civilian life, I eased back into classroom teaching and flying for the OSU Air Transportation Service (ATS). While I was away, the fleet had been reduced to a pair of
DC-3s and two Piper Aztecs. Even with several other pilots hard at work, we were flying almost every day. (I took advantage of a break in the schedule to acquire an Airline Transport Certificate and a
DC-3 type rating ... a vigorous two-hour workout, with everything except the first takeoff and final landing under a hood.)
In addition to the busy ATS schedule, I was teaching a regular class on campus, working on an MA in journalism, conducting weekend courses for the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association and barely
maintaining currency in the T-33 and C-54. As 1969 ended, I realized something had to give, and after much deliberation I left the Air Guard and returned to the inactive reserve. About six months
later things had eased up a bit and I cut a deal with the Ohio Army National Guard to join up as a warrant officer and fly their fixed-wing aircraft, the Cessna L-19 Bird Dog and the DeHavilland U-6
Beaver. (Their aviation detachment was literally across the street from my office at the OSU Airport and only a mile and a half from home). As a warrant officer, I would not be assigned any duties
other than flying, which released more time to pursue my other interests.
The L-19 had deep civilian airplane roots, having evolved from the Cessna 170. Instead of four seats it had two in tandem configuration and it was flown with a stick; when you sat in the airplane, it
felt like a much larger machine than its Cessna predecessor. With a larger engine (213-hp compared to the civilian version's 145-hp) and much more glass, the Bird Dog was obviously designed to be an
observation platform and more. It was used sparingly during the Korean War but found its niche in Vietnam, where it was flown by USAF fighter pilots trained to fly low and slow, find and mark targets
with white phosphorous rockets, then call in air strikes.
With no worries about bad guys in black pajamas trying to shoot me out of the sky, I had a good time flying the L-19. During the one and only summer camp I attended as an Army aviator, I set out to
land on every unpaved strip in Michigan's Lower Peninsula. (We warrant officers were given a simple order each morning: "Take airplane number so-and-so and be back by dinner time.") I didn't get to
all the grass airports, but I visited most of them.
The legendary DeHavilland Beaver was another story; if the L-19 was a Cessna on steroids the Beaver was the elephant in the single-engine utility airplane room. It was originally designed for bush
pilots and built "hell for stout," as the Pennsylvania Dutch are wont to say. The 450-hp Pratt & Whitney radial engine and a very efficient wing design enabled the airplane to get its 5,100 pound max
weight off the ground in about 1200 feet, with the capability of landing in the same distance; it was truly a STOL airplane. The Beaver didn't fly very fast (maximum airspeed 140 mph) but as one
veteran bush pilot said, "You only need to be faster than a dog sled." There was room for a passenger in the right front seat and six passengers -- or whatever cargo would fit through the doors -- in
the rear compartment.
This warrant-officer arrangement worked well for the next 12 months, until the Army's frequent changes in weekend drill schedules and my commitments elsewhere became incompatible. I resigned from the
Army Guard, rejoined the Air Force inactive reserve and went about my business. It would be another three years before I regained my rank as a major and five years after that to put in enough time
with the AF Reserve to lock up my retirement ... but more about that later.
[Continued next month.]
To send a note to Richard and AVweb about this story, please click here.
More articles, stories and fiction about the joy of aviation are found in AVweb's Skywritings section.