Carrier Action

From the aircraft carrier Princeton off Korea's east coast, TIME Correspondent Dwight Martin sent this report:

TASK FORCE 77 steamed northward at 22 knots through the cobalt waters of the Sea of Japan. On the flight deck of the Princeton, men in multicolored jerseys scurried to their positions for "recovery" (taking planes aboard). The "hot papa," in his shroudlike suit of white asbestos, waited too, ready to dash into flames for rescue if there should be a bad crack-up on the deck.

Overhead, under a leaden sky, three flights of F9F Panther jets wheeled around the Princeton in perfect formation. Over bull horns on the flight deck came the air officer's command: "White flag, land planes." The landing signal officer, from his screened perch astern on the flight deck, guided the first plane in with two orange paddles. It sailed in, tailhook down, picked up an arresting wire and stopped. His hook released from the wire by a scurrying, green-jerseyed deck man, the pilot taxied his craft forward, folding its wings as he went. One by one, the blue-black Panthers came in, caught the wire, pulled up like falcons brought to the wrist.

Blue-jerseyed plane-pushers, shouting like stevedores above the clatter of their tractors, hurried to get the planes back to the Princeton's stern for the next launching. Mechanics, refueling and armament men in scarlet worked the planes over for the next strike. In his chart room abaft the flag bridge, handsome, white-haired Rear Admiral George R. Henderson, commander of Task Force 77, listened to his pilots' reports on the results of their strike. One pilot's instruments had been damaged by enemy ground fire; another thought his plane had been hit too. A young ensign with peach-fuzz stubble on his chin indicated an enemy marshaling yard on the admiral's map. "We got a train here, sir, about ten or eleven cars." "Did they all burn?" the admiral asked. "No, sir," the ensign replied. "I think one group of five and another group of four burned." The admiral seemed satisfied.

White Flag: Going. The Princeton and her sister carriers in the task force operate around the clock. Together they can keep Panther jets, gull-winged Corsairs and big Douglas Skyraider attack bombers in the air 24 hours a day. Daylight operations from carriers are delicate enough. Operations at night require a catlike sense of touch and balance, perfectly trained crews and pilots.

One morning before dawn, the Princeton prepared to launch a regular flight of night hecklers--propeller-driven Corsairs and Skyraiders with special radar equipment for night flying. It was supposed to be a routine operation. At 3:30 a.m., under a tomb-black sky, the flight deck throbbed and shuddered as pilots warmed up their engines. From the bull horns came the command: "White flag. Catapult planes." A lighted wand in the catapult officer's hand described a series of red circles in the darkness (the signal to the pilot to turn up his engine), then swooped down. With the roar of two colliding freight trains, the starboard catapult hurled its plane forward. It thundered off the bow and roared upward into the night, trailed by a blue glow from its exhaust stacks.

The plane on the port catapult was ready. Once more the glowing wand circled in the darkness and plunged down. The catapult exploded into action, sent the second plane roaring off. Then, a dreadful sight: the plane was going down, not up. A second later it plunged into the sea and exploded in a great sheet of jagged white fire. Flaming debris smoked and crackled on the black water. While the emergency team went to work, the carrier continued on its course. There was no confusion. From amidships, men threw float lights overboard as the still-blazing crust of the crashed Corsair slid past. On the bridge, Captain William Gallery, the Princeton's commander, swore stoutly.

Orange Cross: Gone. Amazingly, the plane-guard destroyer--following the carrier for just such an emergency--managed to pick up the pilot of the crashed plane alive and not too badly burned. Captain Gallery ordered word of the rescue radioed to the other airmen who, engulfed in darkness, were waiting their turn to be catapulted into the night.

But the weather had closed in. The flight commander, still on board, requested that the remaining missions be canceled--except his own. He wanted to be with the one plane already aloft and to set his pilots an example. Two hours later the flight commander was shot down behind enemy lines.

Below decks, in the air operations office, a young seaman in blue dungarees chalked an orange cross on the status board, to mark another plane that would not return.

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