Unforgotten Hero: Remembering a Fighter Pilot's Life, War and Ultimate Sacrifice

REMEMBERING A FIGHTER PILOT’S LIFE, WAR AND ULTIMATE SACRIFICE

JIM ESCALLE

Copyright © 2013 by Jim Escalle

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher, with the exception of quoting brief passages for the purposes of review.

Published in the United States of America by

Traylor House Publishers

10102 Hurlingham Drive

Bakersfield, CA 93312

www.traylorhousepublishers.com

Maps: Tom Houlihan, www.mapsatwar.us

On the cover: Aviation Cadet Jimmy L. Escalle on the ladder of a T-33 A Shooting Star jet trainer at Webb Air Force Base, Texas, 1952. Hugh Mathis Studio. Photo provided by the author.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Escalle, Jim.

Unforgotten hero : remembering a fighter pilot’s life, war and ultimate sacrifice / Jim Escalle.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN: 978-0-9887851-0-6 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-0-9887851-1-3 (pbk.)

ISBN: 978-0-9887851-3-7 (e-book)

1. Korean War, 1950-1953—Biography. 2. United States. Air Force—Biography. 3. Missing in action. 4. California—Biography. I. Title.

DS921.6 .E83 2013

951.904—dc23

2012956073

First Edition

Designer: Jera Publishing

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the men who fought and died over the skies of Korea

To the missing….and to their families who pray for their return

Contents

Prologue: The Search for a Fighter Pilot’s Life

Country Boy

Girls, Sports, Hot Rods…and Potatoes

Decisions

A Police Action Begins in Korea

Gateway to the Air Force

The Foxes of 52-F

Texas and T-Birds

Every Man a Tiger

Last Visit Home

K-13

Flying Fiends

Fighter-Bomber Missions

Missing in Action

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Notes

Bibliography

PROLOGUE

The Search for a

Fighter Pilot’s Life

On June 25, 1950, the Soviet-equipped armies of North Korea crossed the 38th parallel, invading the nation of South Korea. Condemning this invasion, the United Nations requested the help of its members, including the United States, to counter this onslaught of communist aggression. It had only been five years since the end of the bloodiest war in America’s modern history and now it was being called into another, only this time it wouldn’t be a popular war. In fact, it wasn’t even declared a war by President Harry S. Truman and his administration. According to him, it was only a police action, but to those in the military who fought in Korea it was definitely a war, and one they will never forget.

Over the next three years the two sides fought to an uneasy standoff, ending the war almost where it began, on the 38th parallel. After the armistice was finally signed and put into effect on July 27, 1953, the number of casualties reported was staggering. Approximately 34,000 American soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines had been killed, although this number is still being debated. Another 92,000 servicemen were wounded, and almost 8,000 are still unaccounted for.¹

Taking into account the estimated two million civilians who died, which is a conservative figure, an exceedingly high price was paid in order to retain freedom for a small Asian country that at the time most people had never thought about, or in some cases, even knew existed.

South Korea is still free today, thanks mostly to the numerous sacrifices these American heroes gave defending it, especially the brave men from all branches of the military who gave up their lives. Some of these heroes who paid the ultimate price for freedom proudly wore the blue uniform of the United States Air Force. One of them was my uncle, Second Lieutenant Jimmy L. Escalle, a fighter pilot who disappeared just five weeks before the war ended.

I never had the privilege of knowing my uncle personally; he was listed as missing in action several years before I was born. One day, while rummaging through some old photographs in my parents’ bedroom, I came across a small photo of a man wearing an aviator’s cap and goggles. I asked my mom who he was. She told me that he was my Uncle Jimmy, my dad’s older brother, who had been in the Air Force, but he had never returned from the Korean War. She told me I was named in honor of him.

Jimmy Louis Escalle

Well, that statement sparked my curiosity even brighter. I wanted to know more about my uncle’s life, especially his role with the Air Force. I also wanted to know about the Korean War, so I could understand the environment in which he fought and eventually gave his life. Although I was just eight years old at the time, I thought that maybe someday, somehow, I would know his complete life story, because I didn’t want him, like the Korean War itself, to be forgotten.

When I began my search, the only thing I knew for certain was the fact we shared the same first name. I also knew he flew jets in the Air Force, because my dad showed me a photograph of his older brother next to a jet airplane taken while he was in training. It was a beautiful black-and-white photo showing him standing on a ladder attached to the right side of the aircraft. Jim was wearing a dark, one-piece flight suit with a heavy-looking parachute on his back. He was clutching a rung of the ladder with his gloved right hand and holding his white flight helmet with his left hand.

I was admiring the photo when Dad mentioned that he and Jim took their advanced training in jets at the same base, only eight months apart. After Jim had been accepted into pilot training, Dad had wanted to do the same thing, following in his brother’s footsteps. My dad is a man of few words, so it’s sometimes hard to understand how he feels. But I could tell as he spoke how proud he was of his brother. He missed him deeply when he didn’t return from Korea. They were only 14 months apart in age, almost inseparable while growing up, and had accomplished many things during their time together.

My dad wasn’t the only one in my family who assisted me in my search for information. My grandfather, or Grandpa Frank, as we five grandkids called him, helped by patiently answering the torrent of questions that I bombarded him with almost incessantly. He still lived in the same house where Dad and Jim had grown up, and it was exciting to spend occasional weekends there during the summer months.

The first time I spent a weekend alone with Grandpa Frank was during the summer of 1969. He picked me up from home on a Friday afternoon and brought me to his house. The next day I was supposed to help him with the irrigation work on the farm he managed, about a mile outside of town. He went to bed at about 9:30 that night because he was exhausted from the day’s work. I was nine years old, and at this time in my life I was a night person. I liked to stay up late, especially on weekends. So while he slept, I walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of Pepsi Cola. I looked inside for something to eat, but didn’t see anything except more bottles of Pepsi and Grape Nehi, along with a glass pitcher filled with water. The cupboards were empty as well. I soon found out that Grandpa Frank didn’t like to cook, so he always ate his meals at the local café in town.

After taking a few sips of the soda in the kitchen, I carried the bottle back into the living room and plopped myself down on Grandpa Frank’s favorite recliner to watch television. There was no cable TV back then, at least where he lived, so the programs were limited to only a few local channels. I made sure the volume was turned down, too, because his bedroom was on the other side of the wall and I didn’t want to disturb him.

While sitting in Grandpa’s chair, having finished the Pepsi and bored from having nothing worthwhile to look at except an old Gene Autry western, I couldn’t help but stare at a dark, walnut-stained cabinet sitting in the corner across from the television. Inside this cabinet was one of those old-fashioned radio and record-turntable combination sets. The turntable worked but the radio was broken. When I tried turning the knob it didn’t light up; I think one of the tubes inside was burned out. But it didn’t matter anyway, because what attracted me to the cabinet wasn’t what was on the inside, it was the two large black-and-white photos sitting on top.

Enshrined behind glass in thin, brass-plated metal frames were portraits of Dad and Jim in their Air Force dress uniforms, their pilot wings pinned above the left breast pocket. Dad’s photo was on the left and Jim’s was on the right. When I looked around the room I noticed that these were the only photos Grandpa had on display anywhere in the house.

Looking at Jim’s portrait, I tried to imagine the type of man he was, whether he was like my dad or completely different. What kind of personality did he have? Was he outgoing, or shy? What did his voice sound like? What kind of pilot was he? There were so many questions but still not enough answers. I knew quite a bit from my dad’s time in the Air Force, but while staring at those photos, I just couldn’t get it out of my mind that there must be a way to find more information on my uncle. Even with all the things Dad and Grandpa Frank said about him, he was still a mystery to me.

Early the next morning while it was still dark, I stumbled out of bed when Grandpa Frank bellowed, Jimmy, it’s time to get up! He was standing there next to the bed, dressed and ready to go to work. Me? Well, let’s just say I learned to go to sleep earlier next time. I wasn’t used to getting up before the sun, at least during the summer months. Besides, after that dull western was over, I’d stayed up until after midnight watching the movie Twelve O’Clock High, starring Gregory Peck. I had already watched it about a dozen times before, but it was one of my favorite war movies and I just had to watch it again.

After finding my way into the bathroom, eyes still half shut, I noticed something odd in the sink. There were two separate faucets—one for cold water, and the other for hot. I asked myself, How do I get warm water out of this crazy thing? But Grandpa was in a hurry, so I just splashed some cold water on my face and quickly got dressed in my work clothes.

We then climbed into his old Chevy pickup and headed down the street to the café. On the way, he said I could pull on the leather cord hanging above my head, which would let out a big blast from the air horn that was attached to the top of the cab. Any person in Earlimart who had ever heard that familiar horn knew it wasn’t some disgruntled truck driver in his Kenworth trying to run them down, but was only Frank Escalle getting their undivided attention. He especially enjoyed pulling up behind his friends who didn’t know he was there and giving a quick jerk on the cord, watching them jump like frightened rabbits as the sound rattled their nerves. Many of the kids in town, whenever they saw Grandpa Frank driving down their street, would motion for him to pull the cord. He always obliged, smiling and waving to them as he yanked on it. When he let me pull the cord on the way to the café that morning, I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea, considering it was still dark and people were probably sleeping. But he said, Aw, go ahead. If they’re not up now, they will be soon. He then tugged on the cord himself, holding it down for what seemed like the longest time, amused as I ducked my head down and covered my ears.

Arriving at the café, the first thing I noticed was the large number of pickup trucks parked in front. I figured that at least half the town’s farmers were inside. It seemed like it to me, anyway. As we went inside and started walking toward the stools in front of the counter, Grandpa Frank exchanged greetings with just about everyone in the place, mostly farmers, but also a few men who worked at the local potato shed.

As we sat down, the waitress walked over and gave us two menus. After a few minutes, as I was still looking over the items on mine, Grandpa ordered his standard two cups of coffee and a couple slices of buttered toast. He wasn’t a big breakfast eater as I was, so I guess that I made up for both of us by ordering my normal Saturday morning breakfast: two scrambled eggs, hash browns, and waffles with a ton of maple syrup on top. He offered me some of his coffee to wake myself up, but I said the waffles would do the trick.

As soon as the waitress put the plate down in front of me, I picked up the bottle of syrup and emptied its entire contents onto my plate. I then grabbed my fork and started shoveling big hunks of waffle into my mouth. I must have looked like a chipmunk to Grandpa’s friends with the way my cheeks bulged from both sides, because they kept staring at me with big grins on their faces. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, the waitress, who Grandpa knew personally from his frequent trips to the café, kept patting my head like some old hound dog and saying, Who’s your little helper, Frank? I felt like burying my face in the syrup. Grandpa, though, got a chuckle out of it, as did his buddies sitting nearby.

After finishing my huge breakfast, we got back into his pickup and drove out to the farm. We spent the entire morning, and part of the afternoon, moving irrigation pipes, checking the cotton, and working around the shop. Of course, he did most of the work. He had the reputation of sometimes working up to 12 hours a day, six to seven days a week. Except for us grandkids, whom he constantly spoiled, his work was his life, and he put every ounce of his strength into it.

Being Saturday, and maybe the fact I was with him, we came back to his house earlier than normal. If he was working in the fields by himself, he probably would have stayed a few hours longer. Grandpa Frank liked to watch baseball games on Saturday afternoons whenever he had the opportunity, so he sat down on his favorite chair and let me turn on the television for him. Since I knew it wouldn’t be long before he dozed off, I asked a few more questions about Jim, along with some questions relating to the Korean War. Although I was familiar with a place called Vietnam from the daily TV news, I didn’t know a single thing about Korea. When I returned home the next day, I had to look on a map to find where it was.

Grandpa Frank tried to answer my questions the best he could. Although he didn’t say much, like Dad, I could see the glimmer of pride in his tired and weather-worn face as he spoke highly of the uncle I never knew.

Being the curious one, I asked him if Jim received any medals while he was over there. He hesitated for a few seconds, then without saying a word, pushed himself up from his chair and walked slowly into his bedroom. He started to scrounge through his dresser drawers for a few minutes, going through one, then another. He finally brought out three black, leather-bound, rectangle-shaped cases with gold-stenciled lettering on top. He put them down on the edge of his chair, and then went back into his bedroom to close the drawers and pick up a couple T-shirts that fell on the floor. Because of my eagerness to see what they were, I didn’t wait for Grandpa to return and hand the cases to me. I quickly stood up and took them over to the small couch across the room where I had been sitting. These cases looked like the kind I’d seen Mom keep her jewelry in at one time, only these were longer.

When I opened the first one, stenciled in gold with the words Air Medal on top, I was amazed at what I saw. The bottom of the case was lined with a beautiful, golden-yellow felt where the medal sat, and the inside of the top lid was covered in a shimmering silk of the same color. Attached to the medal was a bright royal-blue ribbon with two burnt-orange vertical stripes going down the ribbon, with one stripe near each edge. The medal itself was a gold-colored 16-pointed star with an eagle in the middle, wings outstretched and clutching two lightning bolts in both its talons. It was breathtaking, to say the least. Even so, I wondered how Jim earned this medal. What kind of air battles was he in? How many airplanes did he shoot down, if any? I sat there trying to imagine the action he must have seen. I thought, wouldn’t it be something to have photos of the plane he flew, and see the place where all this action took place.

But the memories given by Grandpa Frank were limited. Maybe he knew more than what he let on and thought someone as young as me couldn’t understand all the details. But even though I was still young and immature, I knew in my heart that he just wanted to remember the good times and didn’t want to dwell on the bad. Maybe that’s why he liked to watch baseball on Saturdays. Both Dad and Jim played the game while they were growing up, and Grandpa seemed to talk quite a bit about those days.

I reached over to pick up the next leather-bound case. It had the words, Soldiers Medal, stenciled on top. It, too, was a beautiful sight, though the medal inside was tarnished. It was a hexagon-shaped medal with what appeared to be an eagle with its wings stretched over its head, standing on what looked like a rolled-up scroll of some kind. The ribbon was blue with alternating red and white pinstripes going down the center. On the back, I saw the words, For Valor. My head was full of pictures again by this time, now trying to imagine what great heroic deed my uncle did to get this. Just like with the other medal, I wanted to know the details.

The next case had a beautiful heart-shaped medal inside. The ribbon was colored in a dark, majestic purple with white stripes vertically emblazoned on either side. The medal was outlined with gold on the edges and it was purple in the middle. A portrait of President George Washington was attached in the middle, as well. I may not have known where Korea was located, but at least I knew what George Washington looked like. Grandpa said the medal was called the Purple Heart, given to those in the military who were wounded or killed in battle. He said the government gave it to him a year after Jim disappeared, that he had been declared, died while missing, whatever that meant.

I had more questions to ask Grandpa Frank, but after I closed the case and carefully stacked it with the others on the edge of the couch, I looked up and saw him starting to nod his head and drift into sleep. He was tired, so I didn’t push the issue any further that weekend. Nevertheless, I did ponder all this in my heart, and again told myself that somehow I was going to find out everything, if possible, about my uncle. I wanted to piece together the life of someone who was becoming more familiar by the day, yet I still wanted to know it all, from the beginning to the end.

In the succeeding years I enjoyed more wonderful times with Grandpa Frank; but as I grew into my middle and early high school years, I didn’t spend much time at his house anymore. He knew I liked to see military airplanes fly, however, so he would pick me up from my house sometimes, which was only eight miles from his, and take me to air shows and open houses in our area. One summer day only a few years before he passed away he took me to a naval air station about an hour’s drive northwest of where I lived. The U.S. Navy’s Blue Angels were going to be there and it would be my first time seeing them. He was just as excited as I was, thinking about watching them go through their dangerous but exciting maneuvers.

Since the Blue Angels weren’t scheduled to perform until last, Grandpa Frank and I spent the extra time leisurely strolling down the flight line. We looked at the variety of different airplanes on display, calling out their names as we walked past. Aircraft from every period in history seemed to be parked on that hot tarmac. From old Stearman trainers to modern jets, they were all there. I thought so, anyway. Whenever an act of the show took to the air, we stopped and watched the performance, then continued our tour down the flight line.

While we were walking, I told Grandpa that I built plastic model airplanes like the ones on display at the air show. So when we walked past some of the World War II fighters, he asked, What’s this one with the bubble canopy called?

Without hesitating, I replied, That’s a P-51D Mustang.

What’s that big one over there called?

It’s a P-47D Thunderbolt.

Thinking he had me stumped, he asked. What’s that dark blue airplane with the funny-looking wings called?

Oh, that’s simple, it’s an F4U Corsair. It has those inverted gull-shaped wings.

Grandpa gave up quizzing me after that.

As we walked further down the flight line, we saw some modern Navy jets, including an A-4 Skyhawk, A-7 Corsair II, and an A-6 Intruder. Big cargo planes from the Air Force were sitting there as well, along with a couple of Air Force jet fighters. One of the Air Force fighters was a camouflaged-painted F-4 Phantom II, like the ones flown in Vietnam. I had a plastic version sitting on top of my bookcase back home, but this was the real thing and it sure looked awesome.

I noticed that one of the jets, however, stood out from the rest along