I'd like to think that hidden away in the Pyongyang archives there is a sepia colored "after action" report written over 40 years ago by a sector commander that reads in part "..The night intruder pilots are a strange lot. They are skilled, persistent and will even resort to aerial acrobatics in pressing home an attack against our installations and truck convoys.."

From the winter of 1951 until the early fall of 1952 that section of northwest Korea which became known as "MiG Alley" was our squadron's nocturnal hunting ground. The importance of this area can not be over emphasized. From time immemorial it has always served as the gateway from China and Manchuria to the south; Genghis Khan marched through that region eight hundred years ago and it has been the traditional invasion route to the Korean peninsula ever since that time.

During the Korean War, more than sixty percent of all war material required to support the communist forces fighting in the south passed through there. The eyes of the world were again centered on this region from 1951 to 1953. In the first real cold war encounter, American interceptors clearly exhibited their superiority over the Russian build MiG-15 in air-to-air combat.

In the days of Genghis Khan every inch of ground was bitterly fought over and contested. Change comes slowly to the orient and during the Korean War, every stretch of road and every mile of rail track was defended by the best anti-aircraft soldiers the communists could muster.

We acquired the MiG Alley rail and road routes, generally referred to by Operations as the Purple Sector, in a package deal. Colonel Fortney somehow persuaded Group to assign all hardnose aircraft to us and, as part of the deal, we were given these routes because the terrain there was best suited for low altitude interdiction work.

Shortly after arriving at K-8 in the fall of 1951 I made the usual flight line tour. As I looked down that long row of Invaders parked in front of the estuary, I recognized an old friend from my days with the 452nd Bomb Group. Parked at the end of the line was an olive drab eight gun hardnose bearing the designation of "D" on the vertical stabilizer.

The sight of that aircraft brought back memories. As a 729th Bomb Squadron aircraft it bore the same designation and was affectionately referred to as "D-Dawg". At Miho it was classified as an "ugly duckling" because it just didn't present the proper image of a southern California Air Force unit. With public relations officers, journalists, and photographers running all over the place, it was a second world war reject that did not fit into the scheme of things because it was totally unsuitable for photo opportunities.

The airplane had been badly shot up on one of the last daylight low level missions we had flown out of Miho and had been left behind along with sailboats, surfboards and other stuff that could not be taken with us when we moved to K-9 in April 1951.

As I walked over to look more closely at my old friend, it was obvious that it, like Rodney Dangerfield, was not getting very much respect at its new home. I quietly wondered how an aircraft could go through a depot overhaul and still come out dressed for World War II when all the other aircraft emerged in matte black with Oscars painted on one side and half naked girls on the other.

I asked around and was not surprised to learn that the aircraft had a reputation as a workhorse that enjoyed a good in-comTnission rate. I was told that it was thoroughly reliable, always made the flight schedule and rarely returned early due to mechanical difficulties. Nevertheless, the ravages of time, the cold Korean winter and combat over North Korea had taken its toll. The olive drab paint was badly chipped and it had aluminum patches from one end to the other. I once suggested that we have Brooks, the squadron artist, paint a replica of Walt Disney's "Ole Yellar" on the nose. This suggestion was shouted down by both the conservative squadron members who liked the names of wives, sisters or girl friends on the nose and the "young turks" who preferred scantily clad maidens there.

Enter Major Harold B. Anderson. He had been assigned as the Group Operations Officer in early 1952. A mustang who had risen from an old army sergeant to a field grade officer, he was a stickler for military discipline and protocol. You did not get indecision when dealing with Andy. He was a man of action and everything was black or white. When he knew he was right he could not be intimidated by anyone. That would be his downfall. He was relieved of those duties after locking a couple of wing staff out of the Briefing Room because they had arrived a few minutes late for the afternoon briefing session. This made him a perfect candidate for our squadron. Shortly after his arrival he was appointed Squadron Executive Officer.

Most people gave Andy a very wide berth until they got to know him. In those days I thought that he was about 6 foot 8 inches tall and was rather surprised upon seeing him years later to find out that this was not so. In any case, we started to fly together. We got along well from the start. Beneath that gruff personality, I found a very fine officer who was easy to get along with. He probably averaged smoking at least a dozen Dutch master cigars a day and I heard from reliable sources that he even slept with an unlighted one in his mouth. He was a "Tiger" and impressed me with his ability as a pilot and his burning desire to chase trains and aggressively press home an attack. He had flown with a couple of navigators who failed to impress him. They never got a second chance. That was Andy's style; and the feeling was probably mutual. I am sure that they were delighted to learn that they would not have to fly with either of us again.

One day he greeted me with a broad grin saying that he had finally found a navigator. "And, don't be misled by those tasseled loafers and the way he dresses. This guy's a genius. He's got a set of maps marked up with all the flak and searchlight batteries in North Korea. I don't know why he went to all that trouble, but he's what we need. Now we can go into the locomotive business."

He was a First Lieutenant. His name was Edward Lombard, but no one called him by any name other than "Lombard". He came from New Orleans or somewhere down that way. He was a professional college student whose sole ambition was to complete a tour, get out of uniform and return to UCLA so he could again become a perennial college student. He was a good navigator, personable with a good sense of humor and fun to be around. The three of us made a great team!

It must have been in late April or early May 1952. Andy, Lombard and I were scheduled to fly a special mission into the extreme northwest corner of Purple 11. The target was a warehouse complex located in a shallow valley beside the railroad tracks. The airplane we generally flew in was out of commission so we settled for "D-Dawg". Andy had never flown it before and while waiting for takeoff, he listened with interest as I described a couple of daylight missions I had flown in while with the 452nd. I remember watching Lombard shaking his head and saying that the least someone could do was give the airplane a coat of paint.

Not wishing to get into a violent disagreement (we had another way to say this) with a bunch of pilots, I called Andy recently asking if he still remembered the mission. This was his reply:

"My recollection of that night is hazy because it happened so long ago." he wrote, "We had two warehouses burning in this valley between two ridges of three thousand foot mountains and as we made another pass across the area, I looked over my left shoulder to see if there were any trucks between the buildings. I was climbing at the same time and entered the clouds at about the 1500 foot level. I returned to my instruments."

"I noticed that we were about 2800 feet. The airspeed was dropping off rapidly and the altimeter refused to budge."

"I knew we were stalling so I moved the controls. When this had no effect, I realized we were in a hammerhead stall. I had no idea what position the plane was in so I just sucked the control wheel into my gut and hung on. I was so scared that I had an iron grip on the wheel. It was so tight I was firing the forward guns as we dropped out of the loop."

"Just as we reached the peak of the stall, I felt an awful jolt and figured we'd been hit by something fired from the ground. But, as we pulled out of the dive at 1200 feet I felt the jolt again. I then realized it was the bombs flopping first upside down in the bomb bay and then right side up as we leveled the plane. We leveled out at 1200 feet clear of the clouds and had reversed our direction."

Any gunner looking for a thrill might try sitting upside down in a B-26 gunner's compartment on MiG Alley. I could hear the throb of those big radial engines, the clanking of the bombs as they strained to stay on the bomb shackles, the rattle of ammunition banging around in half empty cans and the creaking of a very tired aircraft doing its utmost to dodge a silver bullet.

For some unaccountable reason I was oblivious to the vibration and hammering of the forward firing guns. Maybe my subconscious mind told me that all of that was no concern of mine. It was something for Andy to worry about. The only thing holding me in my position was a three inch lap belt. The headset had disappeared and I had no contact with anyone. When the bomb run started, I had been firing at a gun emplacement on the side of the road. A millisecond later I found myself staring through an empty gunsight. The G forces pinned me in my seat and I was totally disoriented. For a brief fleeting second I thought that this was the way an air gunner made arrangements to meet his maker.

A deathly silence fell over the aircraft as the G forces diminished. After realizing that we had returned to normal flight, I fished around in the dark until I finally found my headset. In a weak voice, I remember saying; "GOOOOD DAMN. What the hell is going on?" In a subdued voice that I had never heard him use before, Andy said that we had just done a loop.

After an anxious, but uneventful trip back to K-8, I remember Andy laughingly telling me in de- briefing that as he and Lombard were unloading their equipment after landing at K-8, Lombard picked up part of a Dutch Master cigar that had been bitten in two and asked, "Does this belong to you?"

"D-Dawg" never got a name and it never received that long overdue black matte paint job. With its wing spars warped and the fuselage badly twisted, it was classified as beyond repair. It did, however, get the respect it so richly deserved from Andy, Lombard and myself