18th Fighter-Bomber Wing in Korea

WINTER FERRY FLIGHT * F-80 Jets Needed in Korea

The renewed and increasing combat activities in Korea had been taking a toll of USAF's stock of F-80 jets and, since we at Clark Field, in the Philippines, still had a stockpile of 75 ... left when the two squadrons of the 18th Fighter Bomber Group (12th and 67th) went north to Korea to convert back to F-51s, we in the 44th Sqdn were given the additional task of ferrying many of those aircraft north to Tachikawa, Japan (near the outskirts of Tokyo), for replacement use by those Japan-based F-80 units flying combat over Korea.

I was scheduled to take a flight of four replacement F-80's up, by way of Taipeh, Formosa, then to Naha, Okinawa and on to Itazuke, Japan and thence to Tachikawa, during the last week in January, 1951. However, as my luck would have it, I had a malfunctioning tip tank which refused to feed, making it necessary for me to 'Abort' over the northern tip of Luzon, and sent the flight on without me. I had enough internal fuel remaining, to return to Clark, where I dropped the $800 tip tank, full of jet fuel, before I could go in to land. I was promptly rescheduled to take another flight of three north during the following week.

We made it off on Sunday morning, the 5th of February ... Captain Bill Slater, a Captain Rennie from the Office of Special Investigations (OSI) and me. We made the 600 mile hop to Taipeh, Formosa without incident, but then, because of the long 800-mile over-water leg from Taipeh to Naha, we had to await the belated arrival of an Air Rescue B-17, and give them an hour's head start so that they could get into position about half way to Okinawa... in case any of us had any problems along the way, they could drop a little lifeboat to us.

On the climb out eastward over the wide, deep blue expanse of Pacific Ocean from Formosa, I found by the time that I'd reached 25,000 feet, our planned cruising altitude, that I once again had two non-feeding external tip tanks.

With a few quick calculations on my circular slide rule, I concluded that I was very rapidly approaching my "point-of-no-return" ... the point along my course at which I could no longer make it back to Taipeh with the balance of my internal fuel, and I would be just as well off to drop the heavy tip tanks, gain some altitude and head on toward Okinawa ... hoping for the best.

Praying for an un-predicted tailwind (and advising Slater and Rennie what I was up to), I manually released both external tip tanks simultaneously, and immediately added power to climb quickly to 30,000 feet or above, where I would get the best fuel economy.

I kept a nervous eye on my fuel gauges as I used first one set of tanks, then another, and wasn't very encouraged when we noticed a widespread 'scud' layer... low clouds... extending out a hundred miles or so west from the little island of Okinawa. That made it necessary for me to navigate strictly by radio, since I would not be able to see the island before letting down thru the clouds ... and it also meant that I would have to remain at high altitude until I actually passed over the radio station ... not being able to start an early descent from 50 or more miles out, our usual visual procedure.

When I had to switch to the Fuselage Tank, the last of my fuel tanks, and still could not see the island, I became concerned. However, I knew that by staying at high altitude ... we had gradually cruise-climbed to 34,000 feet, I knew that I had fuel enough for engine power for another twenty minutes or so, then, from that altitude I could glide power-off for another 75 or eighty miles... if only that damned scud layer wasn't there ... life would have been so much simpler if I could have seen down through it and known exactly where that little island of Okinawa was hiding, in the middle of that great big, very wet, Pacific Ocean.

Slater and Rennie were sticking with me, keeping me in sight ... they had plenty of fuel remaining, because their tip tanks had been feeding properly, even though they had to carry higher power settings than I because they were carrying a heavier load.

I kept my eyes anxiously focused on my radio compass needle, waiting for the first indication of a station passage. When it finally started swinging slowly around to the tail, I yelled "Here we go" to the others, chopped my throttle to idle, dropped dive brakes and went into a very steep spiral down to 20,000 feet, from where I could begin my normal instrument approach penetration procedure into Naha. Fortunately for me, the scud layer was thin, less than a thousand feet thick, and there was a good 800 - 1000 feet ceiling below, so I had no trouble lining up and putting it onto the runway in good order.

The engine didn't quit before I could taxi into the parking area, but there was nothing left showing on my fuel gauge ... that was plenty close enough. And, once again, I was very happy to be back on firm ground ... even if it was a cold, blustery February day on 'Okie'.

Arriving at Naha's Air Force base on a Sunday afternoon was not conducive to securing prompt repair service, so I had to wait until the following day to have my tip tanks replaced. Then, because the young airman working the gas truck was inexperienced with jet fighter aircraft refueling, he started filling the right tip tank without putting a second hose into the left tank to balance the heavy-weight (1400 lb) load of 230 gallons of jet fuel.

We promptly found the reason for the two-hose, balanced, filling procedure, because the right landing gear hydraulic strut collapsed from the uneven weight of the fuel.

I couldn't believe my eyes, when I first looked out and saw the poor, sick airplane ... with one wing pointed up at 40 degrees toward the sky, and the other almost resting on the hard pavement.

I went directly to the Base Flight Maintenance Office and insisted that he call the 25th Fighter Squadron and beg, borrow or steal a qualified F-80 mechanic ... someone who knew something about repairing hydraulic struts ... which he did.

For a change, luck was on my side, for no internal damage had been done to the strut; the twisting weight on the strut had allowed air pressure to leak past the seal, and as soon as the weight was balanced again, and the strut was re-pressurized with air, it was 'almost as good as new'. We were all greatly relieved to see that it held it's air pressure.

By the time the repairs were completed on my landing gear strut, it was too late on Monday afternoon to consider taking off for Itazuke, Japan, our next planned stop. Reluctantly we trudged back over to the drab Naha Bachelor Officer's Quarters (BOQ) for another dreary night.

Early the following morning, after a refreshing preflight inspection in the brisk, cold sea wind, we finally climbed into our cockpits, closed the canopies to ward off the chill breeze and, after checking all controls, instruments and switches, started our engines.

My mechanical troubles were not yet over, I found ... for when I looked to check my engine oil pressure, which should have read 70 - 80 psi with the engine running, instead had a big zero under the needle. I knew that I had a sufficient quantity of oil, for I had personally checked the dipstick in the plenum chamber during preflight.

Since the oil pump had been functioning properly on our arrival at Naha, it wasn't likely that it would fail suddenly without any other tell-tale clues ... I surmised that it must be just the cold weather; the thick, tropical oil from Clark wasn't circulating to the gauge in the cold February air of Okinawa. Surely I would have a reading by the time we taxied out to the runway for take-off.

I advised the others of my problem, my conclusion, and said: "Let's taxi out; I'll decide what to do after it's warmed up." However, by the time we'd completed our run-up, I still had no oil pressure indication ... it was "time for decision..."

If the oil pump was malfunctioning, I'd ruin not only the engine if I tried to take off, but that, in turn, would ruin my whole day if I had to drop the airplane into the ocean.

On the other hand, if it was just the cold, sluggish oil in the long line from the engine to the instrument, then the engine should be OK. (When I thought about spending another unexciting night on drab Okinawa, I decided to give it a shot, and to trust my 'thick oil' opinion.)

"Let's go", I called, "this thing will warm up after we get going."

'Crossing my fingers' apprehensively, I lined up on the runway behind Slater and Rennie, waited a few seconds after they began their formation take-off roll, ran my power up to 100% RPM, glanced anxiously at my zero oil pressure readings, then released my brakes. At about 75 mph, just as I was beginning to reach flying speed, I thought I could see a little flicker of movement on the oil pressure needle out of the corner of my eye ... or was it just a bump on the pavement? As I lifted off, then raised my gear handle, I could definitely smell the slightly pungent odor of burning oil coming through the air conditioning system; if any oil at all had been spilled on the engine during filling, it would quickly burn off with the heat of take-off power, and would soon disappear. It was nothing to be concerned about, normally, unless you happened to be having other oil problems, then it became more difficult to dismiss the odor as being "nothing to worry about..."

As I climbed on course out over that cold Pacific Ocean, with six hundred miles of open water and only a very few small islands between me and Itazuke, Japan ... and the oil pressure needle still showing no signs of cooperation, I began to wonder if I had analyzed the problem correctly. But then, the engine sounded OK, and all other engine instruments appeared normal ... the exhaust gas temperature was within limits, and steady; engine RPMs were steady.

I remembered once again, the similar problem I'd had with a coolant gauge in a F-51 Mustang three years previous, when the damned instrument kept showing an over-temp condition, and how I had eventually "solved" the problem by spreading my chewing gum across the face of the instrument so I could no longer see the position of the needle ... and how the 'engine roughness' had immediately smoothed out when I'd quit moving my jaws to chew the Double Mint.

"Well", I thought, "it's time to dig out Biteman's old original instrument repair kit," as I reached into my flight suit pocket for my packet of Double-Mint, and began the long, tedious process of unwrapping a stick while shifting the airplane control stick from one gloved hand to the other. Finally I was able to lift my oxygen mask away from my chin far enough to slip the unwrapped stick of gum into my mouth and start chewing.

After about ten chews ... when the Double-Mint was just beginning to soften, I looked once again at my oil pressure gauge and, lo and behold, the needle had finally climbed to 80 psi ... it's normal reading.

My analysis of the problem had been correct after all, the 'sluggish' thick, cold oil in the line; my heart rate began to normalize for the first time since my wheels had left the ground.

I radioed Slater and Rennie the good news, and we continued on course across the ocean toward Itazuke Air Base, on the lovely Japanese island of Kyushu, where we landed amongst the combat-bound F-80s and F-84s of the 8th and 27th Fighter Groups.

After uneventful landings, securing the aircraft, getting BOQ assignments and cleaning up, we went over to the Officer's Club for a drink or two and some dinner. While there, we talked to some of the pilots who were currently flying their Korean combat sorties. We found that we did not envy them their missions, and we weren't even particularly curious about where they were heading, or how the war was going for them. We'd been out of the War Zone just a couple of months, but the memory of the pain and the weariness was still very fresh ... we wanted no more part of it. Slater and I were in full agreement on that score.

The next morning we had to brush a thin layer of dry, powdery snow off of the airplanes before we could open our canopies. The weather was below freezing, so we weren't much concerned about ice forming on our control hinges, causing them to bind. Our problem, instead, was the fact that our engine oil was so thick with the cold that the engines would not turn over fast enough with the battery-powered starters, to allow ignition with our normal, automatic starting system.

Instead, rather than chance an engine-damaging "hot start" from too much fuel in the ignition chamber, we carefully fed little dribbles of fuel manually with the throttle, just fast enough to keep the engine RPM gradually increasing until, finally, after fifteen minutes of very careful "nursing" of the throttle, we were able to get the engine speed up to the normal 35% idle speed, and could switch over to the automatic fuel control systems. Since we had plenty of fuel for the 600 mile over-land flight to Tachikawa, we allowed lots of time for the engines to come up to normal flight temperatures before moving onto the runway for take-off.

The flight to Tachikawa was uneventful (my oil pressure gauge was operating normally again), except for the speed we achieved along the way.

With 75 knot tailwinds at 30,000 feet, we covered the entire 600 miles ... from take-off to touch-down in just exactly one hour. (We were still not mentally adjusted to achieving ground speeds like that ... we hadn't really been into the "jet age" long enough to realize the amazing things those 'blow jobs' held in store for us.)

After just a few minutes to transfer the airplane paperwork to the FEAMCOM representative, we were in a heated staff car and on our way to the University Club in Tokyo ... our 'old stompin' grounds.

The Tokyo 'U' Club, in addition to being the best Air Force Officer's Club in the Far East, was also the 'Grand Central Station' of the Orient. It was virtually impossible to spend an hour in the U-Club bar without meeting someone out of our dim, distant past.

On this visit I ran into Ken Skeen, a Captain I'd flown with in the 33rd Fighter Group in New Mexico in '48. He told me that most of the old 33rd bunch were flying F-84s out of Taegu. Then I ran into Burke Gray, who I'd been stationed with in China in 1945; he was with the 1st Fighter Group at Johnson AFB, flying the hot new F-86 Sabre interceptors. We ran into a couple of the newer 12th Squadron pilots, over on R & R from Pusan; they told us that Lt. Col. Gloesner ... the fellow who led my last mission up to the Yalu River in November, had been shot down and killed during the past week ... on the same day that his promotion to 'bird' Colonel had come through. What a shame; it was sad, sad news for me ... I really liked the guy.

While in Tokyo, we made a special trip to FEAF Headquarters Personnel Section, trying to glean some shred of information about our prospects for transfer back to the 'States in the foreseeable future. As expected, there was still no 'official policy'; only those pilots with 100 or more combat missions completed were being considered ... on an individual basis. The mere accomplishment of 100 missions was, by itself, no assurance of Rotation; they might still just move the individual into a Tokyo staff position for a few more months, at the whim of a ranking staff person.

It seemed, more and more, that the staff bureaucrats were just playing games with our lives; we were mere numbers to be shuffled about, in and out of combat, with no thought whatsoever being given to our feelings, desires or our past accomplishments.

Our spirits were not lifted an inch by our visit to the Headquarters.

Duane E. 'Bud' Biteman,
Lt. Col, USAF, Ret
‘...One of those Old, Bold Fighter Pilots’
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