America’s Strangest Plane Destroys an Entire Army…

June 27, 1950. Seoul has fallen. At Suwon  Airfield, American civilians are trapped   as North Korean fighters strafe the runway,  destroying transports one by one. Enemy armor   is twenty miles away and closing. North Korean radar picks up five   unidentified contacts approaching from the sea. The flight leader squints through his La-7 canopy.

Whatever these Americans are flying doesn’t  match any aircraft silhouette he’s been   trained to recognize. The shape is wrong,  grotesquely wrong. Two of something merged   into one. Double where there should be single. A North Korean squadron that hasn’t lost an   engagement in three days is converging on Suwon  Airfield, where 1,527 lives now depend on these   bizarre American contraptions.

The Peninsula Burns The Korean War began without warning.  At dawn on June 25, 1950, ten divisions of  the North Korean People’s Army launched a   full-scale assault across the 38th Parallel.  Columns of armor rolled south, smashing through   thin South Korean defenses with precision  that spoke of months of careful planning.

T-34 tanks crushed everything in their path  while Soviet artillery pounded South Korean   Army positions that had been pre-positioned  under the cover of diplomatic talks.  Civilians poured out of Seoul in panic,  their belongings scattered across roads   that trembled under the weight of enemy  tanks.

ROK units fell back in disarray,   their rifles useless against the mechanized forces  they had never trained to face. Officers scrambled   for radios that crackled with static and panic. Bridges were blown in desperate attempts   to slow the advance, but it made little  difference—the North Koreans had already   poured through like water through a broken dam. Within 72 hours, Seoul was under enemy control.

Half a world away, the United Nations  moved with unusual speed. On June 27,   just two days after the invasion, the Security  Council authorized military intervention. The   chambers in New York echoed with urgent voices as  diplomats realized this was no border skirmish.  The U.S.

Seventh Fleet began deploying from  Philippine bases, while British Far East Fleet   warships took position off Korean waters.  Both were cleared to engage North Korean   targets without warning. But the war had already   come to South Korea’s skies. As Seoul fell, Suwon Airfield,   twenty miles to the south, became the last  operational airstrip within striking distance.  C-54 Skymasters flew in and out nonstop,  their cargo holds crammed with evacuating   U.S. diplomats, dependents, and contractors.

The tarmac was choked with departing aircraft   and ground crews working under the constant  threat of advancing enemy columns. Mechanics   serviced engines while listening  for the rumble of approaching tanks.  Above this chaos, Soviet-built prop planes  appeared like vultures. Yak-9s, nimble single-seat   fighters armed with 20-millimeter cannon, and  Il-10s, armored ground-attack aircraft bristling   with machine guns and rockets, threatened  evacuation routes and disrupted air operations.

From Japan, American fighter squadrons  launched their first missions almost blind,   rushing into a fast-moving battlefield  where the front lines shifted by the   hour and the skies held no clear master. Pilots  clutched outdated maps while ground controllers   shouted coordinates that were already obsolete. To protect this shrinking patch of ground, U.S.

Far East Air Forces scrambled fighters from Japan:  F-82 fighters, long-range F-80 jet interceptors,   and piston-engine B-26 light bombers. Twin Mustangs Take Flight  The first to arrive were F-82G Twin  Mustangs—long-range, twin-fuselage escort   fighters built for the Pacific but now called  into action over a very different battlefield.

The Twin Mustang represented an unusual solution  to the problem of long-range escort. Two P-51   Mustang fuselages were joined by a central  wing and tail structure, creating a twin-engine   fighter with remarkable endurance. Each fuselage  mounted three .50-caliber machine guns, giving the   aircraft devastating firepower at close range.

With a top speed of 465 miles per hour and a   combat radius of 1,400 miles, it  could reach Korea from Japanese   bases and still have fuel for extended combat. However, the Twin Mustang’s unconventional design   created unique challenges. The twin-fuselage  configuration made it heavier and less   maneuverable than single-engine fighters.

Its large profile presented a bigger target,   and coordination between the pilot and  radar operator required precise teamwork.  Against nimble opponents, these  disadvantages could prove costly.  At first light on June 27, five F-82s lifted  off from Japan, bound for Korean airspace. Their   mission was urgent: escort four unarmed C-54  Sk

ymaster transports evacuating U.S. civilians   from Kimpo Airfield. The Skymasters, crammed  with diplomats, families, and staff, were   flying slow and low—easy prey without protection. Leading the mission was Major James W. Little,   a battle-tested World War 2 ace whose steady  hands had guided bombers through flak-filled   skies over Germany.

His flight entered Korean  airspace under cloud-streaked skies, navigating   through a theater that shifted by the hour. Around noon, five Lavochkin La-7s swept in   from altitude, emerging at 10,000 feet. The  North Korean pilots broke into a shallow dive,   their radial engines screaming as they  targeted the vulnerable Skymasters.  The La-7, a late-war Soviet fighter, packed  a punch with three 20-millimeter cannons   and could reach 415 miles per hour in level  flight.

Though slower than the Twin Mustang,   it was highly maneuverable and  packed heavier firepower per shot.  At least one transport took hits before the  fighters turned their sights to the escort.  Major Little immediately called for return  fire and fired the first burst himself,   his six machine guns spitting tracers that cut  into the formation as the La-7s split into two   attacking elements.

The First Strikes  The first confirmed elimination came  when Lieutenant William G. Hudson,   flying F-82 tail number 46-383, latched  onto a La-7 climbing into a vertical escape.  Hudson had learned his gunnery in the Pacific,  where split-second timing meant the difference   between returning home or becoming another  statistic.

He fired into the fuselage and   right wing, his tracers walking across  the enemy fighter’s vulnerable fuel lines.  The La-7 shuddered, then began trailing smoke.  Its pilot, faced with certain destruction,   chose survival over honor and bailed out. The parachute blossomed white against the   Korean sky—the first North Korean aircraft  destroyed by United Nations forces in the war.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Charles B. Moran,  in F-82 number 46-357, found himself in   serious trouble. His aircraft’s tail section  had taken hits from 20-millimeter cannon fire,   and the Twin Mustang briefly stalled as hydraulic  fluid leaked from severed lines. Warning lights   flashed red across his instrument panel.

He recovered just in time to catch another   La-7 streaking ahead of him, its pilot  apparently unaware of the pursuing American.  Moran steadied his damaged aircraft and fired  a sustained burst that found its mark. The La-7   erupted in flames and spun earthward, becoming  the second victory of the engagement. Black smoke   marked its grave in a rice paddy below.

Major Little, despite smoke beginning to   fill his cockpit from an electrical fire, dove to  assist his wingmen and lined up a third La-7. The   enemy pilot was skilled, attempting a climbing  turn that should have carried him to safety.   But Little had fought over the Reich, where  German aces had tried every trick in the book.  He fired from close range, shredding the target’s  wing and sending it tumbling toward earth.

Of the five North Korean fighters, three  were destroyed in less than ten minutes.   The remaining two broke contact and fled  north, their radio chatter filled with urgent   warnings about American capabilities. No American aircraft were lost, though   damage was sustained across the formation.

For his leadership under extreme pressure,   Major Little received the Silver Star. The first air battle was over, but even   as the Twin Mustangs limped home, radar  screens were lighting up with new contacts.  Jet Age Supremacy News of the morning engagement spread through   American command channels like wildfire.

By early afternoon on June 27,   U.S. air controllers had issued a full  alert over Seoul. North Korean fighters   were still active in the area, and intelligence  suggested they were massing for a major strike.  This time, the response came not from  Twin Mustangs but from jet fighters—the   vanguard of postwar aerial warfare.

Four F-80C Shooting Stars from the   35th Fighter-Bomber Squadron  were scrambled to intercept.  Built by Lockheed, the F-80 was the United  States’ first operational jet fighter,   introduced at the tail end of World War 2  but never tested in major combat until now.  The F-80C variant represented the pinnacle of  first-generation jet technology.

Its single   Allison J33 turbojet could push the aircraft  to 600 miles per hour at sea level—nearly   200 miles per hour faster than any prop-driven  fighter. Six .50-caliber machine guns clustered in   the nose delivered punishing strikes with superior  accuracy compared to wing-mounted weapons.  However, early jets carried significant  disadvantages.

The J33 engine was thirsty,   limiting combat endurance to roughly 45 minutes.  At low speeds, jet engines responded sluggishly,   making the F-80 vulnerable during takeoff  and landing. The aircraft also lacked   the raw power-to-weight ratio of later jets,  requiring careful energy management in combat.  Compared to the Twin Mustang, the F-80 traded  range and loiter time for pure speed and climb   rate.

While the F-82 could escort bombers  for hours, the Shooting Star was designed   for rapid interception and quick strikes. Captain Raymond E. Schillereff led the flight   of jets screaming toward the combat zone. His  formation arrived on station just as another   threat materialized from the north: eight  Ilyushin Il-10s approaching low between Seoul   and Incheon, their wings heavy with ordnance.

The Il-10 represented a different philosophy   entirely. This rugged ground-attack aircraft,  developed in the final year of World War 2,   prioritized survivability over speed. Its heavily  armored cockpit could withstand small-arms fire,   while twin 23-millimeter cannons in the wing roots  provided devastating ground-attack capability.  With a top speed of only 340 miles per hour, the  Il-10 was no match for jets in air-to-air combat,   but its low-level attack capability made it a  serious threat to airfields and ground forces.

Against the F-80, the Il-10’s  disadvantages were glaring. The   Soviet aircraft was 260 miles per hour slower,  climbed poorly, and lacked the maneuverability   to evade high-speed attacks from above. The North Koreans swept in low, attempting to   catch American transports and grounded aircraft  off-guard.

Before the F-80s could intervene,   the Il-10s managed to destroy a parked ROKAF T-6  Texan trainer at Kimpo, sending up a plume of   black smoke that marked their small victory. But the Shooting Stars were already diving.  When Old Met New The engagement that followed marked the   first true doctrinal clash between piston-engine  attackers and jet-powered interceptors.

Captain Schillereff’s F-80s attacked without  needing to dogfight, swooping down in controlled   bursts from 15,000 feet, then climbing back to  altitude using their superior thrust-to-weight   ratio. The tactics were revolutionary—boom and  zoom attacks that the Il-10s had no counter for.  The North Korean pilots, trained in  World War 2-era combat, found themselves   facing a completely new type of warfare. Lieutenant Robert E.

Wayne struck first,   diving on a pair of Il-10s breaking toward the  Han River. His gun camera recorded the entire   engagement: six streams of .50-caliber  fire converging on the first target,   then pivoting to the second as both enemy aircraft  disintegrated under the sustained barrage.  Moments later, Lieutenant Robert H.

Dewald caught  a fleeing attacker in his sights and fired a   sustained burst that sent it into a shallow  dive and terminal impact. The Il-10’s armor,   designed to protect against ground fire,  proved useless against the concentrated   firepower of jet-mounted weapons. Captain Schillereff himself downed   a fourth with a clean, high-angle shot  as it attempted to turn back north.

The   enemy pilot never had a chance to return fire. Four North Korean aircraft were eliminated in   total. The rest fled across the river  and vanished from radar, their radio   transmissions filled with panicked reports about  “silver devils” that struck without warning.  No further enemy air incursions  were reported that day.

With the jets now in the fight, the U.S. had not  just held the line—they had rewritten the rules   of aerial combat entirely. The Sky Wars Begin  More than 2,000 evacuees—1,527 of them  U.S. nationals—escaped Suwon without   injury from enemy aircraft, shielded by  the fast, coordinated response of American   fighters. But the numbers only hinted at  what had shifted in the skies that day.

The engagement marked the U.S. Air Force’s full  entry into the Korean air war—and its first   true test in the Jet Age. The F-80 Shooting Star  proved it could intercept and outfight both air   and ground targets, while the twin-fuselage F-82  showed that piston-engine designs still had value   in the right role.

Together, they formed a layered  defense capable of striking quickly, climbing   fast, and hitting hard across a range of threats. North Korean pilots, stunned by the technological   mismatch, abruptly reduced daylight sorties.  Their Yaks and Il-10s—once the terror of   advancing columns—faded from the skies, unable  to survive more than a few minutes in the open.  With the airfield secured, U.S. and allied forces  began operating with almost unrestricted freedom.

Fighters and bombers hit roads, bridges, and  troop convoys, disrupting logistics and giving   UN ground forces a fighting chance. Suwon  had flipped the equation: air superiority   now belonged to the United Nations. But air dominance didn’t mean safety.  As American pilots celebrated, intelligence  began to paint a darker picture.

North of   the Yalu River, new formations were massing.  Soviet advisors had arrived in theater, bringing   advanced tactics and aircraft that were faster,  stronger, and flown by veterans of World War II.  Suwon bought time—but not certainty. It  exposed both the power and the limits of early   jet warfare. Victory had come through speed and  surprise, but the next phase would demand more.

Behind Enemy Lines Captain Robert E. Wayne had already   made his mark at Suwon Airfield, downing two enemy  Il-10s with surgical precision. But weeks later,   his story would become part of a historic  chapter that would change combat rescue forever.  On September 4, 1950, during a strafing  run near Pohang, Wayne’s F-80 was hit by   a withering barrage of ground fire.

The Communist forces had learned to   concentrate their anti-aircraft weapons,  turning Korean valleys into corridors of   tracers and steel. Flames erupted from Wayne’s  fuselage as hydraulic lines severed and fuel   ignited. Severe burns seared his legs and  arms as the cockpit filled with acrid smoke.  Forced to bail out, he parachuted into a flooded  rice paddy about five miles behind enemy lines.

The impact drove him deep into the muddy water,  and when he surfaced, gasping and wounded, North   Korean infantry were already closing in rapidly.  Their shouts echoed across the paddies as they   coordinated the hunt. Alone, injured, and exposed  in open terrain, Wayne’s chances appeared grim.  Above, the remaining F-51 Mustangs of his flight  circled desperately, trying to keep hostile forces   at bay with low-level strafing runs.

But  fuel was running low, and dusk approached   like a closing door. Time was running out,  and conventional rescue seemed impossible.  Then came 1st Lieutenant Paul W.  van Boven, piloting an unarmed,   unarmored H-5 helicopter dispatched from Pusan. The H-5, built by Sikorsky, was a small utility   helicopter with a three-seat capacity and minimal  armor protection.

Its single Pratt & Whitney R-985   radial engine could push the aircraft to a maximum  speed of only 90 miles per hour—painfully slow by   combat standards. With a service ceiling  of 13,000 feet and a range of 300 miles,   it was designed for medical evacuation and  light transport, not combat rescue missions.  Compared to the high-speed fighters dominating  Korean skies, the H-5 was practically defenseless.

Its slow speed made it vulnerable to ground  fire, while its lack of armor meant that even   small-arms fire could prove fatal. However, the  helicopter’s unique capability—vertical takeoff   and landing—made it the only aircraft capable  of extracting personnel from confined spaces.  Van Boven, a former B-17 pilot who had been  shot down and captured during World War 2,   was determined not to let another pilot share  his fate.

Corporal John Fuentez, the helicopter’s   paramedic, was also onboard, checking his medical  supplies as they approached the danger zone.  The Impossible Rescue: Van Boven flew a cautious,   circuitous route offshore to avoid  the concentrated anti-aircraft fire   that had already claimed one  American aircraft that day.  The small H-5 helicopter hugged the coastline, its  rotor beating steadily as it approached the combat   zone from an unexpected direction.

Over the radio,  van Boven heard the F-51s peeling off to refuel,   leaving just four planes on station. The  window of opportunity was closing rapidly.  Approaching from the sea, the helicopter appeared  like a mechanical dragonfly against the growing   twilight. Wayne, writhing in agonizing pain  from his burns, frantically waved his white   undershirt and began a desperate sprint  toward the hovering aircraft.

His legs,   seared by burning fuel, barely supported him  as he stumbled through the flooded paddy.  Enemy troops opened fire immediately  with machine guns and rifles.  Muzzle flashes erupted from concealed positions as  North Korean soldiers realized what was happening.   Bullets tore into the thin aluminum skin  of the H-5, puncturing fuel lines and   severing control cables.

The helicopter  shuddered under the impact, its engine   coughing as debris struck the rotor system. Without hesitation, Corporal Fuentez reached   out through the open door and pulled the wounded  pilot inside, even as enemy fire intensified   around them. Wayne collapsed onto the cabin floor. Van Boven shoved the cyclic forward and lifted   off, racing back toward the coastline as the  helicopter bucked and vibrated from accumulated   damage.

Though riddled with bullet holes, the  H-5’s critical systems held together long enough   to clear the beach and reach friendly territory. Against overwhelming odds, the rescue succeeded.  This daring extraction was the first time a  helicopter had pulled a downed pilot from behind   enemy lines in combat—a breakthrough that marked  the birth of modern combat search and rescue.   Just as the Battle of Suwon Airfield had signaled  the arrival of jet-powered dominance in the skies,   the rescue of Captain Wayne showed that  survival, too, was entering a new era.