All characters in this story are fictitious and bear no relationship to any person, living or deceased. The setting for the story is based on historical events but no event reported in the story is based on any specific historical occurrence. The activities described in this story are not necessarily either recommended or condoned by the author. With these considerations in mind, enjoy.
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Lieutenant Jeffrey Wilson checked his cockpit one last time before giving the thumbs up, feeling the immediate response as his F2H Banshee was flung off the deck of 'USS Essex', cruising out of missile range off the North Korean coastline. He joined formation with the remainder of his flight and headed inland to the Yalu River. The sortie went normally, with the aircraft encountering a small amount of inaccurate groundfire, which caused little concern.
After fifty minutes the target zone was in sight and each pilot took his turn in dropping his six 500 pound bombs, watching as they hit their targets in support of the South Korean infantry. They then all used their 20mm cannons to strafe enemy positions.
'Poor guys,' thought Jeff as he watched the bombs explode and cannon fire sweep the devastated countryside, 'Pleased I'm up here in the clear air.
He checked behind and did a gentle turn to form up with his flight for the return trip when he felt rather than heard a thump from somewhere below him. Quickly he checked his instruments. Everything seemed normal, engine revs unchanged on his two jet engines. He checked outside, below and behind and noticed a thin trail of white vapor streaming behind him. Fuel, he immediately surmised. He checked his fuel gauges and noticed that the main tank was noticeably lower than a few seconds ago. His wing tanks were empty, not being required for such a short sortie, so he only had the 877 gallons in the main tank. Already he noticed that he was under half full now, although he should have had several hundred in reserve once he returned.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, before thumbing his mike button to report the situation to his flight leader.
Once that was done, he had to work out the best strategy in the hope that he could at least reach the coast, ditch in the sea and be collected by a rescue helo. 'Height,' he thought, 'I need to use my fuel to gain height so I can glide further once the engines cut.' He notified his intentions to his flight leader then broke formation and headed skyward. He noted that he had less than a quarter of a tank of gas left; '200 gallons, only just enough to reach the carrier even without a leak,' he thought.
He climbed at an economical rate, ascending at around 45 degrees until he reached 47,000 feet, just above the plane's normal operational ceiling, when he leveled out. There was little to do now except fly towards the coast and hope.
The port engine stopped first, the whine of the turbines deepening as they slowed, followed a few seconds later by the starboard engine. The sudden relative silence with just the deepening turbine whine was oppressive. Jeff pointed the nose of the Banshee down the minimum amount necessary to allow him to still have sufficient speed for the controls to operate. He moved them the bare minimum but they still felt floppy and unresponsive. He jockeyed the plane along, balancing minimum rate of descent against speed. He saw his flight heading home far below and a long way ahead. The safety of the coastline was just visible in the distance.
Gradually Jeff watched as the coastline became closer and clearer, and the ground rose to meet him. '10000 feet, not enough,' he thought as he worked a few figures on his calculator. He tried to ease the nose up a fraction more, but quickly dropped it again as the stall warning horn sounded in his ear. He might just make it, he might, he had to. His very survival might depend upon it.
The coastline was only a few miles ahead, but the ground was very close and a low range of hills might just prevent him from reaching safety. 'So close,' he thought. 'Well, the next few minutes will tell.'
As the ground seemed to rise quickly to meet him he dropped below the crest of the hills and knew he would have to land on the ground. There were no flat, unwooded areas he could see so he chose a copse of low trees, hoping that the branches would soften his landing. He had a few seconds to think of his gorgeous wife, Marlene, waiting for him at home and then he focussed once again on the landing, timing it perfectly so that he touched the trees as he raised the nose, bleeding off as much speed as possible. The last thing he heard before he passed out was a tearing, screaming crash.
He awoke sometime later, suspended in his harness on his side. He could see the ground a few feet below the torn off wing root. He released his harness, braced himself against the edge of the cockpit, thankful that the canopy had been torn away, then climbed into the low tree, down its branches and dropped the few feet to the ground.
He took stock of his situation, checking himself for injuries; nothing except a bump on the head, presumably when the canopy was torn off. He listened for any sounds. "Damn," muttered again, he heard sounds of people moving quickly through the forest and by the volume of the sounds they were approaching quite rapidly.
He headed off towards the coast, away from the sounds, keeping as close to the trees as possible in the hope of reaching the coast before being captured. He hadn't gone far when he heard similar sounds in front of him. He was surrounded, quickly taken prisoner and marched away.
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"Nana," began Emily, "I've got a class exercise for my journalism class. We have to interview a member of our family and find out as much detail as possible about our family history and ancestors and then write an article about it. It's worth 30% of the marks for the course so they're expecting something quite detailed. I was wondering if I could interview you please."
Marlene looked at Emily's eager shining, smiling face and her mind drifted back to when she also had been 19 and studying at college. She gazed at her for a long while before replying, the years parading behind her eyes, memories as vivid as when she lived them so long ago.
"Yes, of course, sweetheart," she replied. "You'll have a lot of writing to take it all down though because it's a long and complicated story."
"Nana, I don't need to write it down now, I'll simply record what you say on my smart phone and then I can select and write what I need to later."
"Oh I forget you youngsters have all these gadgets. OK, when would you like to start?"
"Well, if you've got time now, so have I."
"OK, sit yourself down and get your smart phone ready. Make yourself comfortable and could you please bring me a glass of water; my throat gets quite dry and husky when I talk a lot, as I will be today."
Emily brought Marlene a glass of water, set up her phone, ensuring it was plugged in to the mains so the battery wouldn't die part way through, then signaled that she was all set.
Marlene went back through her memories, then remembered the stories of other members of the family. Where to start? The years melted away as she thought back . . . . .
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Marlene finished her shift at the hairdressing salon where she worked and caught her usual bus home. She entered her empty house, missing the sound, smell and, yes, mess that were there when Jeff was home with her. After only being married for 16 months, they really hadn't had time to settle down as a married couple before he was posted as a Banshee pilot on the 'USS Essex' stationed off the North Korean coast. 'Oh well,' she thought, yet again, 'The war can't last forever.'
She prepared her dinner, placed it on the range to cook, poured herself a glass of the cream sherry she loved, turned on the television and then heard someone knock on the door. She went to answer it and was concerned to see two naval officers standing there.
