The only difference between a hurricane, a cyclone, and a typhoon is the name. In America, we call them hurricanes. In the western Pacific, they’re called typhoons and a really big nasty one was about to smash into southern Japan. Before it was over, its wide, churning outer arms would reach across the Sea of Japan to Korea where we were going.
It was 1956. I was a 21yo Troop Carrier pilot stationed at Ashiya Air Force Base on the northwestern lip of Kyushu, the southern-most island of Japan. We got orders to evacuate our entire squadron of C-119s to K-14, otherwise known as Kimpo, a U.S. Air Force base in South Korea.
I wouldn’t know who I’d be flying with until we got our flight assignments. The Flight Commander had the last word on that. He considered a number of factors in order to make up well balanced crews for particular types of flights. On a night like this I’m guessing he took some extra time to make his choices.
If one pilot was a little sharper it didn’t mean that someone else was not a good pilot. We had and have the best pilots in the world. The Flight Commander assembled flight crews according to experience and whatever else he thought could influence the mission at hand.
I put on my flight suit, slipped my E-6B calculator and a couple of sharp pencils into one of the big pockets. The E-6B was high-tech back then—long before computers. At the time, it was a state-of-the-art circular slide rule designed specifically for advanced flying in complex aircraft. We used it to calculate ground speed, true airspeed, course corrections, fuel consumption, temperature conversions, and more. All the calculations were done manually with the E-6B. Today, computers do all those things in split seconds.
I hustled over to the flight shack and as I entered, my best bud, Bob Shaw, flashed a big smile and said, “Hey Mac, party time in Korea if we make it.” Outsiders thought that kind of talk was negative, even morbid, but we knew better. A little carefree, disrespectful humor in the face of rational danger helped to keep us where we needed to be mentally and emotionally. We loved to fly, and we loved to be challenged and this night promised to be challenging. Again, we didn’t have all the high-tech equipment that’s common in today’s aviation—no electronic calculators, no GPS, no onboard radar, and we were not able to fly on top of most bad weather. We simply flew into it when flying around it didn’t fit the mission. I said, “The last one there buys the first round. You got enough cash on you?”
We all found seats for the briefing. Major Young, our Flight Commander, had the floor. “Okay gentlemen, we’re evacuating the entire squadron because this bad boy would likely blow our planes all over the flight line and the damage could be catastrophic. As you can see, we are already experiencing some strong winds and heavy precipitation. So, we need to get these birds off the ground ASAP. You won’t be able to fly over the top, so you’ll be in the soup all the way to Kimpo. It’s going to be dark and nasty. There’s gonna’ be a lot of airplanes up there and you’ll be strictly on instruments with no visuals, so you’ll need to be precise. Absolutely maintain your assigned altitude, your true course, and your airspeed. Know where you are and where you’re going at all times.”
“For those of you who have never been to Kimpo, when you study your charts, you’ll see that the airfield sits below some high ridges. You will have to fly below them when you descend for the approach. So, know where those hills are at all times. Kimpo has good radar equipment and their approach guys are excellent. Make sure you have all your radio frequencies tuned in and identified in advance and follow approach control and the GCA operators precisely. That’s all I have. You know how to do it so get your crew assignments and get those birds out of here.”
Getting there would be the easiest part—not easy, easiest. The fun would begin when they stack us up a few levels in holding patterns at Kimpo and then begin to let us down one plane at a time for the approach to the runway. If all goes well, we’ll see the runway in time to make a decent landing.
I was assigned to fly co-pilot for the squadron Safety Officer. I knew of him but didn’t know him and had never flown with him. I was a second lieutenant and he was a first lieutenant, one rank higher. He was at least a few years older than me and had a lot more flying time. I had no reason to doubt his skills or his stability. I don’t remember his name and wouldn’t use it here if I did. I’ll call him Ken.
We went to the weather room for the latest reports. They were ugly but there was nothing we didn’t think we could handle. Well, we didn’t actually discuss it, so I guess I’m speaking for myself. I had flown into and through more than one severe thunderstorm and I assumed Ken had as well. He was quiet but I just figured that was his nature. Frankly, that really didn’t register until after the flight when I had time to review the whole thing.
We went out to the flight line to meet the rest of the crew and to do the walk-around checklist, which Ken and I did together. Because the C-119 was a big troop carrier aircraft it took a while to check everything, especially at night in heavy rain. When we were done, we sloshed our way into the airplane. We checked with the flight engineer to make sure everything was good on his end before we climbed up the short ladder into the cockpit.
We had a full crew of five and each of us had strapped on two parachutes—a main chute and an auxiliary emergency chute in case the main chute failed to deploy properly. The main chute was bigger than the emergency chute and they were assembled so that we could sit on the emergency chute while the main chute became our backrest. The sturdy aluminum pilot and copilot seats had no cushions and were designed to receive the chutes to serve that purpose. It was more comfortable than one might think.
This was going to be an IFR flight from takeoff at Ashiya to touchdown at Kimpo. IFR stands for Instrument Flight Rules. We would not see sky, land, or ocean during the entire flight to Kimpo airfield. We would be flying through a dark, rain and fog-filled night until seconds before landing. In other words, we would not have any outside visual references to tell us whether we were flying straight and level or if we were descending, climbing, or in a turn. All of those flight attitudes would have to be determined strictly by reading and understanding what our flight instruments were telling us. We had been trained to ignore body sensations and to rely solely on what the instruments told us. If body pressure makes you feel like you’re in a turn to the right and your instruments tell you that you are flying straight and level, you’re flying straight and level. Period. There were many instruments, each with a different purpose and story to tell. We had been trained to not only know how each one worked and what it told us, but also how to scan all of them in a particular order and pattern so that, taken all together as one, with practice, we knew immediately, almost without conscious thought, what we needed to know.
Unlike a car, you can’t pull an airplane over to the side of the road to figure things out. An airplane just keeps on flying and good pilots always fly ahead of the airplane in their minds. To this day I can still hear Bruce Watson, my first flight instructor, say, “Stay ahead of the plane; don’t ever let it fly you.”
But knowing whether you’re flying upside down or level is only part of it. You also need to know where you are, where you’re headed, how high you are above the ground, how fast you’re going, how long it will take you to get to your destination, and that you have enough fuel to get there with enough left over in case you need to land somewhere else.
As I said, there was no such thing as GPS back then. But one of the things they had at Kimpo would make it possible for us to land our big airplanes without seeing the runway until about the last fifteen seconds or so. It was called a Ground Controlled Approach system or GCA. It combined ground radar and highly-trained operators to guide pilots to the runway. Today, onboard computers can take an aircraft off, fly it to its destination, and land it—all without a pilot ever touching the controls. I admit that’s pretty cool, but it doesn’t sound nearly as much fun or challenging or rewarding as what we did in 1956.
Our crew was all aboard and at their stations. Ken was in the left pilot seat and I was in the right copilot seat. Again, unlike a car one does not simply get in an airplane, start the engine and drive away. When done right, flying even the simplest most basic airplane involves checklists. In a complex aircraft like the C-119 the checklists are long, and every item is important.
We had already done the checklist I mentioned earlier when we checked items on the outside of the airplane. Now that we were seated in the cockpit, I began reading aloud a pre-engine-start checklist, which reminded us of everything that needed to be set correctly before we started the two powerful engines. At normal full power, each engine produced about 3250 horsepower, and if needed, with water injection, we could push them up to 3500 horsepower each. They were among the most powerful propeller driven engines at that time. Their combined two-engine 7000 horsepower was more than the combined output of the B-17’s four engines.
I won’t bore you with all the finer points of what good piloting entails. I’ll just say that everything went well. The engines were performing perfectly and with not too much delay ground control had us positioned in line with all the other aircraft in the squadron. When our turn came, and the tower gave us permission to takeoff we lined up on the runway. Ken pushed the throttles to full takeoff power and, as always, I was thrilled at the sound of the two powerful engines and the rapid acceleration as we raced down the rain-swept runway. We quickly reached takeoff speed and up we went. Of course, we didn’t climb up into “the wild blue yonder,” we went up into the dark grey soup. We retracted the landing gear and the flaps and cleaned up the big bird for an efficient climb-out to our assigned altitude.
It’s been a very long time since that flight, and I don’t remember our exact flight time to Kimpo. The flight distance was about 300 miles and we cruised at about 200 mph. So, a good guess would be 1½ to 2 hours depending on winds. Kimpo is near Seoul, South Korea, which is only about 30 miles from the North Korean border. Our course took us over the Sea of Japan and up the Korean Peninsula until it was time for me to radio Kimpo Air Control for further instructions. Until then the flight had been a highly focused IFR flight, which means as IFR flights go it was routine.
Kimpo directed us to climb to a specific altitude on a specific heading and to home in on a designated radio beacon. The moment we crossed over the radio beacon we were to set up a two-minute holding pattern anchored on the radio beacon. To understand this, imagine if someone told you to continuously drive around a certain city block in your car until they gave you further instructions. It’s sort of like that except we did it using magnetic headings while making sure we stayed at the assigned altitude. We followed an imaginary rectangle in the sky — a rectangle with a radio beacon signal at one of the four corners. We traced the “road-in-the-sky” in our minds using our instruments. It’s pretty neat, actually.
Since every radio beacon had a three-letter Morse Code identifier, I immediately tuned the Radio Direction Finder (RDF) to the frequency shown on our chart for that beacon and when I heard its Morse Code transmission, I knew I had the right beacon. Following proper procedure, I then tapped on the tuned-in RDF on the instrument panel so Ken would know to follow its needle to the beacon. He acknowledged it and made a heading correction toward the beacon. So far, so good.
Kimpo Air Control had placed us at the top of a vertical three-layer traffic-control scheme. As the planes in our squadron arrived, they were sent one at a time to the top level and as aircraft on the lowest level landed, the higher levels descended a level at a time. As long as everyone followed instructions perfectly it worked perfectly.
I wish there was some way I could put you in the cockpit in real time so you could hear and feel and fully experience a flight like this — or other kinds of flights in powerful, propeller-driven aircraft. For example, try to imagine the noise of two 3250hp engines in a plane with no soundproofing. It’s very loud but to us it was a beautiful sound — powerful, comforting, and exciting. And on this flight, we also heard and saw the rain on our windshield. It smashed against the glass with a force like you have never experienced in a car. It too was powerful, comforting, and exciting — comforting because we were vividly reminded of just how strong and capable was the C-119.
After two or three trips around the top holding pattern we were cleared down to the next level. The procedure was similar. Kimpo Air Control gave us a lower altitude and a new radio beacon on which we set up and held in another holding pattern. Soon, we were instructed to descend to the lowest level, which put us in the landing pattern. A landing pattern has its own characteristics. There are three legs; downwind, base, and final approach. Like birds, airplanes should as much as possible land into the wind. So final approach is when the pilot has the plane lined up into the wind with the runway directly in front. But since we had not seen land for about two hours, including an airfield or a runway, we were wholly dependent on Kimpo’s control people to direct us around the landing pattern and to line us up on the runway so we could land the airplane. I had done it many times before but not with so much traffic in the air. Still, so far everything had gone well so I had no reason think it would change now. In a little while it would.
Kimpo directed us to an altitude and a heading that put us on the downwind leg. At exactly the right location, the controller told us to make a 90º right turn onto the base leg. By then we had lowered the flaps and the landing gear and completed other items on the pre-final-approach checklist. We were almost there. We were ready to land.
The next step was a turn onto final approach and establishing a radio voice connection with a very special controller. He was the Ground Control Approach or GCA controller who I mentioned earlier. He would keep us lined up with a runway we still could not see. By watching his radar monitor he would tell us if we were too high, too low, or on or off course—left or right. If we needed to make corrections, he would tell us which way and exactly how much. He would talk us down until we could see the runway. Our job was to follow his directions and land the airplane.
There was a very simple hard rule about the interaction between the GCA controller and the aircraft being guided to the runway. It was this: If the aircraft lost voice contact with the controller for more than ten seconds, the pilot of the aircraft was to immediately abort the landing and conduct a predetermined missed approach procedure to fly the airplane to a specific radio beacon and altitude and set up another holding pattern. The missed approach procedure was designed to prevent aircraft from running into each other, and at Kimpo, into the high ridges to the west. As with the previous procedures, this one required strict compliance. There was no wiggle room.
We already knew the missed approach procedure for Kimpo. This was not something to be left until you needed it. You set it up in advance in case you needed it later. So long before we turned onto final approach I had already tuned in and confirmed the identity and heading to the go-to beacon. It was my job as co-pilot to do this, and more, while the pilot flew the airplane.
“Air Force six eight seven, turn right to heading three two zero degrees and begin your descent to runway three two romeo.” We were instructed to make another 90º right turn – this time onto final approach – and to begin our descent to runway 32R. Ken made the turn and we immediately heard the calm, soothing voice of the GCA controller.
“Air Force six eight seven this is your final approach controller.”
“You’re looking good. Maintain your current heading and descent rate.”
I was watching the second hand on my instrument panel clock to note exactly where it was at the precise moment the GCA controller ended his transmission. Remember, if we didn’t hear his voice for more than ten seconds, we must immediately abort the landing and initiate the missed approach procedure.
“six eight seven, you’re drifting a little left; turn right three degrees.”
… 3, 4, 5, 6 seconds
“six eight seven, you’re looking good.”
… 3, 4, 5, seconds
“six eight seven, you’re a little high. Please lower your descent path twenty-five feet.”
We were descending toward a still unseen runway.
“You’re looking good, six eight seven. Maintain your heading and descent rate.”
… 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 seconds
He’s gone! We lost voice contact with the GCA controller. After all that time and effort, we were about to do it all over again. We needed to initiate the missed approach procedure for another go around.
I pressed the intercom button on my yoke and said, “We lost GCA. Abort the landing. Go here to set up a two-minute holding pattern.” As I said those words over the intercom, I reached out and repeatedly tapped on the instrument that pointed to the radio beacon. That was the procedure; tell the pilot we need to abort the landing, tell him where to go while tapping on the radio direction finder instrument that is pointing to the radio beacon. It was a procedure all of us had practiced many times. Even more, we had been tested on it during pilot proficiency check rides. It was an important emergency procedure and we all knew it very well, including Ken.
But Ken did nothing. I mean literally nothing. There was no reaction or acknowledgement whatsoever. We continued to descend toward an invisible runway that could have been 100 feet or less below us. We were also on a North by Northwest heading and with some wind drift we could get uncomfortably close to the high ridges we knew were there. Every second mattered. I turned to look at Ken and as I did, I caught the face of our flight engineer who was leaning forward on his jump seat. Ken was staring straight ahead as though in a daze and the flight chief was looking at me with a very concerned expression on his face. He had a set of headphones on, and he knew exactly what was happening. We continued to descend.
Within a few seconds after my instructions to Ken and his inaction, I simultaneously took hold of the yoke, reached out with my left hand and whacked Ken on his right shoulder, shook the yoke, pressed the intercom button, and said, “I have it!” That was the correct procedure when taking control of an airplane from another pilot in an emergency situation. I had never done it before and would never do it again.
Ken released his hands from his yoke and kind of slumped down in his seat. He didn’t look at me or say anything. I reset the props, pushed the throttles forward to full power, retracted the landing gear and flaps, and climbed the plane toward the radio beacon. I’d think about Ken and what just happened later. In the moment, I had a job to do and there was no room in me to think about anything else.
There’s no need to give you another step-by-step account of everything we did before in order to get to final approach and the GCA controller. I simply redid everything while Ken sat still and said nothing. But when we finally entered the landing pattern for the second time, as I turned onto the downwind leg, I struggled with a decision I thought I needed to make. I was concerned about Ken.
The GCA controller instructed us to make a 90º right turn onto the base leg.
Even though I had never flown with him before, I knew that he must be a capable pilot. He had a lot more flying time than me and he was, after all, our squadron safety officer. He had also flown the plane perfectly well up until that strange moment when we needed to do the missed approach procedure. So why did what just happened, happen? I wanted to give him a chance to save at least some face. But what about the safety of the crew? Is Ken having some kind of breakdown? Did he suddenly develop a fear of flying? It’s rare but it happens. Well, I thought, if I give control of the airplane back to him and he isn’t up to it, the worst that can happen is that I’ll take control again and make the landing.
For the second time we heard “Air Force six eight seven, turn right to heading three two zero degrees and begin your descent to runway three two romeo.” I turned onto final approach and immediately made contact with the GCA controller. Then I tapped Ken on his shoulder, shook the yoke, pressed the intercom button and said, “You have it.”
Ken sat up straight and took the controls as I began monitoring the second hand on the clock. All went well. In quick order, out of the dark, rainy, fog-filled night, the runway magically appeared directly in front of us and Ken landed the airplane. As always, the GCA guy had done a great job. Ken followed the directions of ground control and taxied to where they wanted us to park our big bird. We shut down the engines and could now hear the gusting wind and the rain splattering against the outside skin of our big aircraft. We were safely down on terra firma at Kimpo Air Force Base in South Korea. It had been a very interesting flight.
As Ken and I walked toward the operations building to check in we could see other C-119s parked and tied down while others that had just landed were taxiing in. We would soon learn that the entire squadron landed safely. We all made it through some nasty weather and had stayed ahead of the full force of the typhoon. Our squadron was intact.
After we checked in at operations, we made a beeline to the Officer’s Club. It was time for a couple of beers and some food.
The Officer’s Club at Kimpo in 1956 was in a Quonset hut. Our bases in Korea had a MASH attitude about them back then. And why not? Technically North and South Korea were still at war and the ceasefire was not that old.
There’s not much more to tell. I don’t remember whether I or Bob Shaw landed first so I don’t know who bought the drinks. Since we had to abort and fly the entire procedure twice, I’m guessing that Bob landed first, and I paid the tab. That’s the way it goes. There was no fine print about extenuating circumstances.
As to Ken: While I was standing among a bunch of fellow airmen with a beer in my hand, Ken walked over to me and said, “I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what happened.” At that point, he probably didn’t but I’d bet anything that he thought a lot about it long after we landed. I simply said, “No sweat.” And that was that.
I learned later that Ken was married with a couple of kids. I was 21, foot loose and fancy free and the world was my oyster! Sorry for the clichés, but they work. What I am trying to say is that while I was blithely operating under the delusion of youthful immortality, Ken had responsibilities that just maybe triggered a sudden self-awareness of his mortality during our challenging night flight to Kimpo. Who knows?
To be clear, while I think this is a story worth telling, what I did was neither heroic nor remarkable. I simply did what I was trained to do. It was just one of many possible situations for which we had been given specific procedures to use if and when required. It was all about good training and we had the best flight training in the world.