poured into arms, and millions of its young men were forced into hard and painful service they detested.
It was hard for all services. The Navy, forced to blockade and patrol, had lonely, cheerless duty in the China seas, unrelieved by much action. Its carrier pilots flew dangerous patrols, and sometimes its landing parties went ashore on North Korea—but the rest of the time the Navy sowed mines, or harvested them, and merely stood on station in the gray waters off Korea.
Without its utter control of those seas, there would have been no U.N. stand in Korea—but it was made to stand watch only. It was not allowed to blockade the real enemies, nor had it any enemy fleet to engage. Still, despite this frustration, the Navy was fulfilling its primary mission—keeping control of the seas, and holding the sea lanes open.
The Air Force, out of Japan and Korea, flew in support of ground operations of Eighth Army. It bonded, strafed, rocketed, and napalmed, and without it the very presence of the U.N. in Korea would have ended early. Day by day, night by night, over the long months and years, it leveled each city, each shop and factory and mine in North Korea. It had quickly gained its primary goal of air superiority over the skies of Korea, and never lost it.
Yet the Air Force knew frustration, because it could not interdict this kind of battlefront, could not destroy a Chinese ground army that was a lurking phantom, and it could not do what was in so many of its leaders' hearts— strike the enemy where it hurt him.
North Korea it could reduce to rubble, but North Korea did not contain the enemy's war making potential. In this anachronistic type of war, the Air Force had been reduced almost to what it had been in World War I—an adjunct, not the decisive arm.
Except for brief moments, the Korean War had always been old-style, down in the mud. There were only two new developments in this conflict, both of which were in the air: the general use of jet aircraft, and the widespread use of rotary-wing craft for evacuation, transport, and reconnaissance.
In the first days of the war, American Far East Air Force had knocked down the antiquated YAK-9 and YAK —15 fighters of North Korea. It was not until 31 October 1950 that a new phase of air warfare began.
On that date Russian-built MIG-15 jet fighters appeared in strength over North Korea. They raised havoc with the lumbering B-29's bombing the Yalu bridges, and threw a fright into American pilots flying World War II F-51's and Corsairs. On 8 November an American F-80 shot down the first MIG-15, but the Air Force was forced to rush its newest and best fighters, the F-86 Sabrejets, to the Far East.
And here began the incessant air-to-air combats, which without significant change went on until the end of the war. The Communist aircraft, although field after field was constructed in North Korea, and as quickly bombed out, never were based south of the Yalu. They remained, silvery in plain sight on broad airdromes just north of the river, in privileged sanctuary, coming now and again across the river to engage patrolling American aircraft above the Valley of the Yalu—the famous MIG Alley.
American aircraft were never permitted to cross the Chinese or Russian boundary, even in hot pursuit.
On the other hand, although the Communists built up a large numerical superiority, they never attempted to carry the air war to South Korea, or even to the battle lines along the parallel. Both sides enjoyed their 'privileged sanctuary'—and the resulting air combat resembled that of 1916-1918, or even the jousting of the knights of old.
American flights of Sabrejets, day after day, spread contrails high over MIG Alley, watching both sky and ground.
Often, across the river, they could see the MIG pilots leisurely walking to their parked and waiting aircraft.
American pilots talked to each other, as they rode by at great altitude and high mach in the sky.
'Dust at Fen Cheng—the clans are gathering,' from Blue Leader.
'Thirty-six lining up over at Antung,' from Black Leader.
'Hell, only twenty-four coming up here at Tatungkou,' from another flight leader.
'Don't bitch—here come fifty from Takushan. That's at least three for everybody!'
Aided by their close ground control radar, the Communist craft rose high, preferably waiting until American fuel ran low before striking. Then at rates of closure as high as 1,200 MPH, the two formations came together.
Immediately, the formations dissolved into individual dogfights.
It was air war with a code more out of the Middle Ages than of twentieth century combat. Yet day after day, always outnumbered, too far away from their own bases to glide to safety, as could the enemy, American airmen accepted mortal combat.
The MIG-15's flashing upward from Manchurian bases were faster than the Sabrejets, and could out climb them. The Russian-built planes carried twin 20mm cannon and a single 37mm against the .50-caliber machine gun armament of the F-86s. The MIG-15 was a superb aircraft, superior to any U.N. craft except the Sabrejet, which proved to be the only United Nations plane able to live in the air with it.
The appearance of the MIG-15 caused many people deep concern. These men had not accepted the fact that culture and weaponry, or even culture and plumbing are not synonymous, and while a society may lag a hundred years behind in comforts and ethics, it may catch up in hardware in a human lifetime.
But the F-86 that flew daily down MIG Alley was an exceedingly rugged plane, extremely maneuverable, flown by competent pilots sifted for the 'tiger' instinct—the quality that makes a man bore in for the kill—and above all, it carried a radar-ranging gun sight superior to anything owned by the Communists.
Because of that radar sight, as the Air Force admitted, American pilots destroyed enemy jet aircraft at a ratio of 11 to 1. At sonic speeds the human eye and hand were simply not fast enough—but more than 800 MIG-15's were sent spinning down, to crash and burn over North Korea.
The MIG-15's, flown by North Korean and Chinese pilots, were never handled with a skill matching that of American airmen.
Yet, overall, considering the hours of combat, few jets fell. The high altitudes, the high speeds, the toughness of the planes, which almost required a hit on engine or pilot to cripple, combined to keep losses small in comparison with earlier air combats.
This was to be an interim air war, a testing and a learning phase for both American and Communist. Tactics and weaponry could be put to test, and the answers—radar gun controls, air-to-air rocketry, automatic cannon— reserved to the future.
Through it all, American skill, courage, and ingenuity remained preeminent.
And even though the Air Force could not utilize its cherished strategic power in this war, though it fought under a maze of hampering restrictions, it could still fulfill its mission, like the Navy. It held control of the skies, and could work actively at its secondary missions.
It was the Army that knew the worst frustration, from July 1951 to the end of the war. The mission of the Army is to meet the enemy in sustained ground combat, and capture or destroy him.
The Army was indoctrinated that strength lay not in defense but in attack, and that the offensive, as Clausewitz wrote, always wins.
The Army not only could not win; it could not even work at the task. Yet it was locked in a wrestler's grip with the enemy, suffering hardship, taking losses, even after the peace talks began.
It was the first time that American generals, as well as Supreme Court judges, were forced to study the election returns. At home, the people and government, with certain exceptions, wanted peace, not costly victory. Abroad, American generals were closely watched by jittery allied governments who regarded them as irresponsible jingoists, and their every initiative as a reckless provocation that might lead to World War III.
It is understandable that some American Army generals chafed a little at the bit.
While certain units remained on line, the bulk of the U.S. 2nd Infantry Division proceeded to bivouac near Kap'yong on 25 October 1951. Here replacements were fed in; specialists schools set up; a one-week course run for replacement officers. Bloody and Heartbreak ridges had shown that again basic weapons instruction and small-unit tactics—the seemingly eternal weaknesses—were the chief needs of the division, as they were of every United States division manning the Korean battle line.
Training in the Zone of the Interior was just not thorough or tough enough to prepare men for ground combat.
While schools were set up, and battle drills organized, some elements of the division were detached to the south, where guerrilla activities had once again come to the fore.
