Battle Hymn

Col. Dean E. Hess

• Publisher: Borodino Books
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781787207035
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Military & Maritime History
• Index: History

The explosive, true story of a man of God turned fighter pilot who fought and prayed his way through 300 combat missions and two wars.Author Dean E. Hess is the subject of this inspiring autobiography, Battle Hymn, first published in 1956, which tells of his experiences as a U.S. Air Force colonel, including his involvement in the so-called "Kiddy Car Airlift" during the Korean War on December 20, 1950.With the airfield over capacity, Hess sent Korean orphans to an orphanage in Seoul. When the North Korean forces began to capture the city, Hess reportedly organized 15 C-54 Skymaster aircraft to airlift 950 orphans and 80 orphanage staff from the path of the Chinese advance to safety on Jeju Island. When Hess departed Korea in June 1951, a new orphanage on this island held over 1, 000 Korean children.The book later served the basis for the 1957 film of the same name, where he was played by Rock Hudson."Stirring"—San Francisco Chronicle"In his career as a war correspondent Quentin Reynolds has met his share of heroes, but few of them, he says have impressed him as deeply as Col. Dean E. Hess."—Readers Digest"Twentieth century American soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines have enjoyed a warm reputation for caring about the children of the lands they have fought in. Col. Dean E. Hess—Air Force humanitarians—well represents this tradition."—The Times Magazine

XVII

Fall in Korea is beautiful. The days are brisk but dry, the nights cold, the blue skies so clear that visibility is good for miles. At this time of year the “Land of the Morning Calm” was an apt description. Just after sunrise, flying low behind enemy lines, I could easily spot their now-dead fires of the night before: the air was so calm that it still held traces of the smoke.

Our missions were now carrying us deep within enemy territory. We were doing very little close support because the front lines were moving so rapidly that the infantry didn’t need it. Targets of opportunity behind enemy lines were plentiful—Communist vehicles, tanks, and troops.

Then the Far Eastern commander delimited a 20-mile area extending from the Yalu River southward in which aircraft could not operate for fear of violating the boundary between Manchuria and North Korea. Any likelihood of this violation was small because our attacks were made in daylight hours. Though champing at the bit, we abided by this decision—until suddenly an order came through one morning to operate on the highway to Sinuiju—in the privileged sanctuary!

I ordered a flight at once for fear that it was a mistake that would be corrected before we could take-off. I took three different maps to make sure that, no matter what the targets might be, we would not fire at anything next to the Yalu River.

With me were Craigwell and Captain Jackson, who had joined the unit at Seoul. When I think of Jackson, I particularly remember his endearing habit of always folding his hands and bowing his head in a moment of silent prayer before a meal, no matter where we were or what the circumstances.

This particular morning on the highway to Sinuiju we found numerous Communist vehicles, bumper to bumper. We struck them so abruptly that we did not even take time to get altitude to dive-bomb. Within thirty minutes we destroyed around forty vehicles.

The map showed an airfield with two runways on the south side of the Yalu River. I wanted to see if there were any aircraft still there. At 2,500 feet I came over the border of what should have been an airstrip and saw suddenly that it was now merely a grass field. Realizing that I was in a critical position if there were enemy guns about, I banked and started down—only to look into the muzzle of the biggest flak gun I’d ever seen. Then the field defenses opened up with antiaircraft guns from all sides.

Being number-one man, I called, “Macintosh flight—flak!” The number-two man, Jackson, asked, “What’ll we do?” Craigwell spoke up with the only profane word I ever heard him utter in describing what he was doing right then.

Jackson was laughing on the intercom as we zoomed down to grass-top level, where the flak guns couldn’t get at us. We went scooting out of there fast. Still flying a few feet above the ground, I overtook a truck going down a perimeter road alongside the field. As I passed him, the driver was hunched over the steering wheel of the truck, looking up at me with his eyes as big as saucers, expecting to be killed. It was one of those rare times when an airman comes face to face at close quarters with a victim—the kind of personal encounter that can be shattering. Still, I would have pressed the button of my machine gun except that my angle of flight wouldn’t allow me to get the truck in my sights.

Flying northward in the darkness of a predawn flight a few days later, Craigwell, Jackson, and I crossed the enemy’s lines, which could be identified by sporadic flashes of gunfire. (Though the Korean pilots flew with us daily, we weren’t as yet taking them on night flights because of their lack of experience.) Noticing the headlights of a truck coming down the roadway, I called to Craigwell that I was going down after a target. It was a mountainous area, and in the dark it was difficult to distinguish valleys. All I could see was the outline of the mountains in the distance and underneath the white line of a road. But I knew that at a lower altitude I at least wouldn’t suddenly run out of a cloud and into a mountain.

The truck was coming toward us. I turned out all my lights, whirled around, and approached from its rear, firing upon it. It proved to be a gasoline truck, for its explosion lit up the entire countryside. I called to Craigwell, “There’s one that won’t get up to the front lines tonight.”

“And what of the driver,” something in my mind answered, “blown to bits. He won’t be going anywhere tonight either.” It was hard to feel any jubilance over my strike.

But Jackson was glad to hear my voice. He had not seen the truck or anything else in the darkness after we had fled from the ack-ack over the front lines. He had thought the flash of exploding gasoline was my plane crashing into a mountain.

Just after daybreak as we were nearing the lines on our way home, Jackson was hit by flak. He made a 180-degree turn for a glide down toward our lines. I covered him closely, waiting to draw fire, if necessary, from his plane to mine—standard procedure in cases of wounded pilots and damaged aircraft. As Craigwell and I anxiously watched, he lost altitude rapidly but managed to get a couple of hundred yards safe within our territory before making a crash landing. Though his plane did not ignite, he did not get out of it, indicating that he was either dead or badly hurt. Then an ambulance came plunging up, and we knew that, if alive, he still had a chance.

Back at base there was no word on him. I began calling various medical agencies; none had him on record. We eventually found him in a hospital in Pyongyang, severely injured. Unconscious when picked up and so unable to identify himself, he had been turned over to the Koreans; since he had been flying an aircraft with Korean markings, the ambulance driver had thought him a Korean!

As Jackson had bright red hair, I couldn’t for the life of me understand this mistake, until I remembered that Korean and American pilots in our outfit now wore exactly the same uniform without any distinguishing insignia. Later I learned that Jackson had received a wide gash across his face, and this too had tended to obscure his identity.

That one’s friends and associates might die at any time was to be accepted with the equanimity with which one had to face one’s own possible death. To those who were afraid of death I was able at times to bring consolation by explaining that there was nothing to fear. After Jackson went down and before we knew that he was still alive, I found one of his close friends sitting on his cot silently smoking one cigarette after another and staring morosely at the floor between his feet. I sat beside him, and we talked for a long time. I could not assure him that Jackson was alive or, for that matter, that he himself would be alive twenty-four hours hence; I could only try to introduce the idea that death is not something to be feared. I made a simple analogy. Life is like a shadowy room, crowded with people we can’t see quite clearly. Beyond is a door to a lighted room. Occasionally the door opens, and someone from the room of shadows passes into the lighted one. That’s all there is to it—just a step, a change, from darkness to light.

Christ showed us so clearly by example that death and the hereafter are not to be feared. In His last moments on earth in His mortal form He was in a torment of doubt and agony, and He asked from the Cross, “My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” But resurrected and returned to earth after seeing the light of Heaven, He was tranquil and pure in spirit. This glimpse of the Hereafter has proved gloriously reassuring to His followers for centuries.

Jackson lived, I am happy to say, and returned to us before being reassigned elsewhere to ground duty. It was seldom wise to encourage a pilot to fly combat again after such a violent crash as his.

Another afternoon I received a call to an area along the Yalu River. The privileged sanctuary had been countermanded, and aerial reconnaissance had discovered a number of vehicles up there. Craigwell and I went on the search. Coming up a valley, we saw a flight of American F-51s, apparently hunting the same target. Diving and circling but unable to turn it up, they presently moved on. Just to make sure, Craigwell and I decided to scout quickly over the area they had been working. Breaking out of the valley, we examined the flatlands and suddenly picked out fifty camouflaged vehicles.

We began strafing—straw stacks, bogus huts, everything. Having lived with the Koreans, we knew exactly how they stacked straw, and could detect it as camouflage. Craigwell was particularly good with green camouflage, and I could pick up brown. It was quite a day for the Korean air force when we turned in our report for that two-plane mission: we had been able to destroy forty-two vehicles.

For a time the general optimism around the base increased. Sometimes it seemed almost as if we were now engaged in a mopping-up operation. The phrase “It’ll all be over by Christmas” crept into our talk. We were further buoyed up by the arrival one day of General Partridge, now in command of the Far Eastern Air Force, with the news that he was assigning us a C-47 to be used as an administrative aircraft. Since I was a C-47 pilot, I could check out our own flyers in it. Immediately upon delivery we painted our proud Korean insignia on the plane, and Hal Wilson took over as “administrative pilot.” As another sign that we had come of age the big C-47 sitting on our runway made our hearts palpitate with pride.

On that same visit General Partridge, after a lunch of C rations (variations of which almost exclusively comprised our diet), asked how long it had been since we had had any fresh food.

I remembered easily. “We had some lettuce on the Fourth of July,” I told him.

He made no comment, but soon after returning to headquarters he dispatched us a C-47 filled with fruit and vegetables, eggs, and—hallelujah!—fresh meat. For a while we lived mighty high on the hog.

Another general, Glenn Barcus of the Fifth Air Force, came to visit us. An able jet pilot, Barcus also had a reputation for being a stickler for correct military deportment and appearance. He believed that the...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• ILLUSTRATIONS
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI
• XXII
• XXIII
• A FINAL WORD
• REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER