Some Meteor VIIIs mixed it with MiG-15s
Extract from "Escape from North Korea" by Ron Guthrie
Silver trails of vapour in the placid morning sky define the passage of eight Meteor jet fighters along a patrol line adjacent to the Yalu River. This infamous segment of North Korean airspace, so frequently the playground of predatory Russian fighters, has earned the title of 'MiG Alley'. In two flights of four, the RAAF fighters, well-spaced in battle formation, cruise at a steady 39,000 feet. Each pilot's head swivels urgently as he seeks to cover his companions against intruders. The peaceful Korean sky endures its torment from the strident banshee wailings of sixteen Derwent jet engines whilst the contrasting quiet of the cockpits is broken only by occasional business-like commands from the leader.
Five thousand feet below, the second flight of eight Meteors executes a parallel path against a background of deceptively peaceful Korean and Manchurian landscape - sweeping endlessly away to the north. Presiding watchfully over this orderly scenario, the sun's fiery orb glows in high elevation. Suddenly this great orange mass, as though conspiring against the Australian pilots, assumes a sinister visage. Disgorging from its massive furnace there slides an avalanche of silver spears in pairs, belching 37mm and 23mm cannon shells with menacing accuracy.
A fateful date emblazoned forever on Ron Guthrie's memory is 29 August 1951!
Suddenly I am startled by white-hot tracers streaming over and under my left wing like glowing pingpong balls. I throw my Meteor into a hard lefthand turn and press the 'mike' button to call a 'break' to the others in my flight. Too late! I have been hit behind the cockpit and my radio is useless. I am only talking to myself as I call “Anzac Item - break left - tracers!"
Now, two Russian MiG-15 jet fighters shoot past my nose and I instinctively turn back sharply to the right hoping to get one of them in my sights. Through the illuminated graticule of the gunsight, I can see a red star on a silver fuselage and the pilot’s head in the cockpit. I quickly adjust the gunsight control to correct for a retreating target as my finger curls over the trigger of my four 20 mm cannons. The guns rattle. I am gratified and excited as pieces fly off the enemy aircraft which now rolls to the inverted position and dives out of sight.
At this very instant I feel as though a load of bricks has fallen on to the rear end of my aircraft, which now shakes convulsively. Explosive shells from another MiG have destroyed my Meteor’s tail.
My aircraft - at this stage merely an uncontrollable mass of 'MiG meat' - begins to snap roll repeatedly. In shock, I prepare to make my first exit in a Martin Baker ejection-seat - at this great height and over enemy territory! I realise my guns are still firing and release the trigger.
The vibrating instrument panel catches my attention and two facts remain in my memory. The clock is reading six minutes past ten and the Mach meter - my gauge of speed registers 0.84. As the speed of the dive increases beyond eighty-four per cent of the speed of sound the aircraft begins to shudder in compressibility It continues to roll.
Ron urgently grasped and pulled the canopy jettison handle. In an instant, a gigantic roar announced that his private cocoon had become part of the frigid swirling air mass into which he was about to plunge. Taking a two-handed grip on the ejection-seat loop handle above his head, he waited for the aircraft to finish its roll and on reaching the upright position pulled firmly on the control in order to fire himself out of the cockpit. Nothing happened! Distressing thoughts added their burden to the alarming cacophony of the 600 miles per hour air blast as he awaited the completion of another rotation. Surely the ejection-seat firing mechanism was not going to malfunction in this moment of desperate need. He repeated the process and was shocked as the mechanism failed once again! Then he discovered that his arms were being obstructed in their downward motion by the pistol holster under his right elbow and a Red Cross pack on his left side. Obviously this had to explain the dilemma. The third time around, with arms spread wide he made a final frantic effort. The altimeter needles were unwinding below 39,000 feet as a startling explosion produced an immense upward thrust out of the cockpit. The experience seemed momentary as he now lost consciousness.
Part 2 tomorrow.