363rd Recon Tech Squadron Korea
Part 3

Seoul in Ruins
THE KOREAN ADVENTURE
Part Three: An excerpt from the war diary of Jack Morris, Sgt., AF19328825

This third segment from Morris' diary takes his story deep into 1951. It dates the time when the 363rd RTS became 67th RTS. He provides some insight into what some Airmen called after-hours fun.

Back: Part 2

K-2 - Public Relations Assignment

The winter months hit us hard and by the end of February 1951 we were all wearing everything the Air Force issued plus things that had been sent to us from home. We looked like rag dolls and were unrecognizable until we took off the several layers of soft hats and helmets. Cpl. Jim Welk had a colorful scarf his mother had sent him and it helped me pick him out in the crowd.

On the 25th of February 1951, the 363rd became the 67th Reconnaissance Technical Squadron to make us fit in with other organizational changes in the Wing. It didn't matter to any of us except it proved to be a little confusing for the mail man and was never appreciated when the mail arrived months late. More changes were in store for me when, on the 29th of April, I was reassigned from the 67th RTS photographic lab to the Public Information Office of the wing.

Kimpo Admin Bldg This was an assignment I had long sought and finally an opening appeared. Staff Sergeant Mike Russo and Captain Moats made it happen. It was a good thing for me and it made the rest of my days in Korea much more pleasant. There were now three of us in PIO with me doing the writing and Mike Russo taking the Wing's pictures. Best of all, the 67th RTS was only a hut away which kept me close to my old friends from Fukuoka and Langley Field, Virginia.

Kimpo - A Trench Collapses

The 67th was transferred from Taegu (K2) to Kimpo (K14) on the 15th of September and our duties resumed as in the past. Again we lived in canvas tents strewn along one side of the sprawling base. The base still had its scars of war and the metal hanger was shattered and unusable. Kimpo had been the center of a massive firefight between US Marines and its North Korean defenders and it had been heavily bombed into total submission. Very little had been done to improve conditions on the base when the 67th RTS arrived and set up labs and tents.

Kimpo, in the few weeks between when it was recaptured by the Marines and the arrival of the 67th, had been a drop and pickup point for military aircraft. Large transport planes off-loaded supplies and returned to Japan as hospital aircraft carrying wounded from the front. The ferrying of the wounded from Kimpo was ongoing and continued to be so until my return to the United States in early 1952.

Kimpo Hanger Ruins I remember the base to be little more than several thousand feet of iron grating for a runway and a tattered structure of a hangar. Off to one side perched a large shell of a maintenance building, piles of supplies under wooden roof tops and canvas covers, and hundreds of small and large tents. Here and there, oil drums sat lined up with their stove pipes spewing smoke from oil fuel and men scraped shiny trays and splashed boiling water. Several laundry buildings edged the compound inside which Korean men and women scrubbed, dried, folded and stacked military sheets and clothes.

Beyond the barbed wire fence was the village composed of mud huts and thatched roofs. They, too, added cooking smoke to the already fouled air. People in strange clothes moved about carrying things like wooden back frames, pots, bundles of grass and tiny tree limbs, all the while coaxing their small children to follow with grunts and threats.

Ringing the base and the tiny village were putrid rice paddies, knee deep in mud and gray water, their infant rice sprouts breaking the surface of the murky soup like motionless green needles.

F-80's at K-2 7/50
F-80's at K-2 July 50
RB-26's at K-14
RB-26's of 67th at K-14

Stink as it did, I nevertheless saw it the most exciting and interesting place on earth.While the smells gagged me and the sights turned my stomach, the fact the scene was different from anything I had ever experienced kept me excited and entranced.

My views of Taegu, Kimpo and surroundings, however, were not shared by many of my friends.

Corporal Bill Keeney from San Jose, California had been in Japan and Korea about the same time as me except our paths didn't cross until we were assigned to Kimpo. Bill was a tall, black hair and handsome young man who had a bit of the devil in him in all that he did. It mattered not if he was working or at play when his jokes were played out. It was partly because of this humor and vigorous lifestyle that I was drawn to his friendship.

Bill and I shared a tent with six others. It was next to a wide and deep sewer trench being excavated while we were there. Every day we watched the trench and the Koreans below laboring with shovels and carrying the dirt out in tiny buckets. Bill would laugh at their labors and make comments that one USA backhoe would do the job in one tenth the time. Then we would go to breakfast and disappear into our individual assignments.

One warm September morning, Bill sat and listened to the yells of Koreans running wildly outside our tent. He hollered at me and I dropped my book. We dressed quickly and found ourselves the first Americans to reach the side of the twelve foot deep trench. It had collapsed covering two workers into the hole. Bill and I stared downward for a few seconds and, sensing none of the Koreans were moving to help, I jumped downward.

Bill was aghast and told me to climb out. He had seen a new crack forming on the opposite bank and knew I would be covered next. I must not have heard him for I started clearing dirt away from a tiny air hole I saw in the soft dirt. Below the hole somewhere was the face of a Korean laborer. I dug the soft soil and the man's face appeared. His eyes were open and dirty and his mouth drooled mud. I scooped the dirt out and them slapped the man several times. He blinked and expelled the remaining air in his chest.

A second Korean leaped into the trench and, together, we cleared the man's shoulders and chest. As we dug, I noticed a group of Americans standing on one of the banks watching our work. I remembered Bill's warning of a crack and I ordered everyone to back away. One of the persons above was Warrant Officer Braun of the 67th and he didn't take kindly to my ordering him about.

I paid dearly for this failing to recognize authority in the months to come.

As more help arrived, I took my leave and stood back by the tents to catch my breath. I stayed long enough to see both Korean laborers removed to safety. Bill stood beside me and smiled, rather a wide toothy smile, which told me that while he appreciated my successful life-saving it had been a dumb thing to do.

North Korea - We're Shot At

It seemed that when Bill and I came together the need for adventure dominated our minds. No matter who came up with an idea, we both quickly agreed if the idea meant fun, sport, danger or travel. We were both very bored with the Kimpo assignment by now and well conditioned to the hardships we faced on a daily basis. By this time we were carrying loaded carbines and going into places, such as outlying villages, with reckless abandon. And we were still looking for more things to do. A plus for us over most of the other men in the 67th RTS was the fact I had my own PIO jeep and was authorized to drive on and off base in search of stories...and we used that jeep a lot.

Bill was walking on the tarmac one day when he spotted a C-47 transport being loaded with magnesium flares. He heard someone say they were looking for personnel to help drop the flares over enemy staging areas, bridges, and dams. Bill asked a few questions such as when do you go and how many personnel do you require. He ran across the runway to our tent and announced his "good news." The discovery of adventure had put a smile on his face that told me his dreams of "high adventure" had come true and I knew I was about to have some wild times, too.

That night we were at the side of the C-47 and waiting for the pilots to arrive. They expected us and nodded their greeting as we climbed aboard and took seats.

It was about 10 p.m. and Kimpo was dark in a blackout as we cleared for departure. Minutes later, we were airborne and headed someplace to the North. Ten minutes airborne, we were beyond friendly lines and climbing to what the pilots hoped would be a safe altitude.

This first flight put a wide grin on Bill Keeney's face and I could see he was in Seventh Heaven with all the adventure he imagined would soon be his. Admittedly, I was excited, too, but I remember thinking what I'd do if forced to bail out over cold North Korea. We wore shoulder holsters with loaded handguns and, somehow, their weight gave us both a sense of security. I don't recall what Bill carried but mine was my German Luger I found in Waegwan while riding shot-gun with Charlie Veltsos.

Our long cabin was dark except for a few dim red lights to illuminate the flare load and the drop chutes. It was warm in the bay even though we flew fairly high. Outside, it was probably 30 degrees.

The crew boss signaled us to stand near our individual drop chutes and to insert the magnesium flares for dropping. We responded by standing up and attaching drag lines to our waists. Next, we unstrapped flare containers and freed the top flares. Under our feet, we could feel the aircraft shift direction slightly, drop a little altitude, and assume a steady course. At that point the crew boss signaled to begin the dropping.

Our flares were spaced several seconds apart. This delay allowed the aircraft to cross the target area and make a turn before the first flare parachute opened and the flare ignited.

The first string of flares that evening halted almost as soon as it had begun - - and for good reason. A string of parachute flares not only exposes the enemy below, it also identifies the direction of the aircraft above. Our pilots changed altitudes and directions as soon as the first of series of flares ignited.

There were wide scratches on the painted windows in the bay and Bill and I peered through them to see what our flares illuminated. Suddenly, there was a bright flash off to one side of the aircraft, then a second, a third, and so on and our previous flight pattern was easy to see. Thank heaven we were elsewhere as the flares ignited and dropped to earth for now there was anti-aircraft fire popping ahead of each new flare burst. Bill yelled with delight when he saw the first brief burst of dark red off his side of the aircraft. Then another yell as several more burst beside him.

We took on fire and the people below worked hard to destroy us. I never lost the thought that a lucky stray shot could easily bring us down. I was excited, too, but didn't yell because my face was pressed hard against the scratch in the window paint.

We continued to drop flares in all sorts of crazy patterns and directions. Behind us, the Marine Corsairs and the Air Force F-80 jets criss-crossed our flare patterns in a war frenzy that meant people died below. Over the loud drone of the propeller engines we yelled back and forth until we were hoarse. When the flares were gone, we stood and watched until the sky became dark, lit briefly by distant flashes of anti-aircraft fire.

"We'll have to do this again," Bill yelled across to me as we bounced down at Kimpo, "that's exactly what I like to do." His smile had not diminished one bit from the flight's start and I had the feeling we would be in the sky again - and soon, too.

---------------
Jack Morris

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