There were things to be accomplished by aircraft in this stalemate, other than dropping bombs, observing enemy activities, or shooting down fighters. There were leaflets to be dropped. Naturally these missions were dubbed “flying the paper route” and this particular paper route consisted of six cities near the river separating North Korea from Red China.

The news we were delivering to the people below was simply that, in the near future, these cities would be bombed and it would be wise for the populace to head for the hills. The cities had attained military significance because of material stockpiles, troop concentrations, or their industrial nature.

I said we were wandering around in the “dark”, but that is not quite accurate in any sense of the word. We did know what we were about, and the sky hadn't been dark for some time. Before the MiGs arrived, what seems like dozens of searchlights had locked onto us. Unfortunately, weather conditions at our briefed altitude made it possible for us to leave vapor trails behind each engine, which we were doing. The trails, and the fact that they were radar-directed, made it a snap for the searchlights to pick us up, which they were doing. We were “on-stage” with no “offstage” in which to hide.

We not only had fighters but flak as well.

It was a matter of only a few minutes until Captain Vaadi decided that circumstances, as they now were, made the aircraft a highly questionable residence. It had become warm to the point of being less preferred than the subzero temperatures of the outside January night. A common response to the ringing of the alarm bell was, “Let's get the hell out of here!”

“Did having to bail out bother you?” This is a question that has been asked several times and the answer is that my mind simply began ticking off the rehearsed procedure (rehearsed at least to the point of jumping). I didn't think about the hole I was about to dive into; I didn't think about the fire I would leave behind; I just knew I was supposed to go.

However, something happened which slowed my progress a bit. Just before preparing for departure, I was struck in the left leg, midway between ankle and knee, by a projectile from some unknown source. There was no pain; but because of the force of the blow, I very abruptly found myself sitting on my butt. I guess the lack of pain made it sort of matter-of-fact.

I mentioned to Airman Steve Kiba, the radio operator who was at his post nearby, that I'd been hit. He looked at me but returned to his task of sending emergency messages. Naturally his headset had prevented him from hearing me. Even if he had heard me, his current duties were of greater importance.

Getting up I took a few, somehow still painless, steps in my heavy flying boots. I could now feel the left one filling with blood.

There was not time to attend to this matter. In cases of emergency the “excess baggage” goes out first, so I had been assigned a spot in the bailout order second to Colonel Jack Arnold who was riding as observer. He had gone and number three, Lt. John Buck, the bombardier, was about to depart. Further delay on my part would cause confusion.

I knelt at the open nosewheel hatch and ripped my oxygen mask from my helmet so the metal connector on the end of the short flexible hose would not flail about and strike my eye. Lack of oxygen would be no problem since we had descended a few thousand feet to escape the vapor trails. After three unsuccessful attempts to fasten the helmet chin strap, I bent double and rolled through the hatch.

Hitting the slipstream resulted in the immediate removal of my flight helmet. I counted to three — well maybe two and a half — and pulled the ripcord d-ring.

The ripcord extended about six inches, taking up slack, and stopped.

Within the space of exactly one thousandth of a second I commented about the canine ancestry of this contraption, placed both thumbs through the d-ring and most energetically straightened my arms.

The d-ring, with the short cable attached, shot off into space.

Another fraction of a second later I heard the popping sound made by the deployment of the pilot chute. Thankfully, this was followed by the fluttering of the main canopy as it faultlessly unfurled.

I was jerked upright and began floating through the darkness in a direction which, I hoped, would lead me to firm ground. I had successfully gotten myself from mild chaos and much racket to the quiet descent in my parachute.

It's been bandied about that a good chutist arrives on the ground with his d-ring in his hand. Well, I suppose that makes me a poor chutist. Somehow I didn't give a damn. I must confess that I have often hoped the d-ring didn't hit the wrong person on the head — the right person being anyone in the uniform of the other side.

As my orderly descent began, I looked up and saw the B-29 fly off, trailing white smoke in at least three streams. Looking down, I saw a white chute which also evaporated. Then I saw nothing.

Landing procedure dictated that I should flex my knees when I saw the earth approaching, or as I approached the earth, whichever. As I hit I should roll to one side. All this was predicated upon first seeing the earth. I repeat, I saw nothing! I recall the passing thought, “I hope I don't straddle a fence.”

I crumbled to the ground with surprisingly little shock. Heavy flying clothing and numbness cushioned the impact.

Before even trying to ascertain the nature of the terrain, I felt the first order of business was to gather my chute and bury it. I struggled out of my harness and, on my knees, began to tug at the shroud lines. I met with zero success because the chute was tangled in some dimly visible bushes. I rose to my feet to disentangle the mess, but a shade dropped rapidly over my eyes and I oozed to the ground in a near-faint. I guess I was low on blood.

I immediately discarded task number one which would have failed miserable because the ground was too hard to bury anything. After the fog lifted from my brain, I set out to implement task number two. I must build a fire to create some warmth and to provide some light to enable me to perform first-aid.