That morning, I was scheduled to tow the aerial gunnery target for the first mission of the day. As I left my tent and headed toward the operations shack, I could see that there weren't any holes in the cloud deck, and I knew that we would be sitting around waiting for the weather to lift. After some unremembered time lapse, a few holes began to appear in the clouds, and I was finally given the OK to go.

Everything was normal on the start-up, so I taxied out to the end of the runway where the armament crew attached the target to my F-86. I had my ADF tuned in to the home field frequency (subsequent events cause me to wonder whether I really did have the proper frequency tuned in), but I deliberately did not have it on the "auto" mode since it was believed that the target could lead to false indications.

Run-up at 90% was normal with all the gauges in the proper range, so I released the brakes, pushed the throttle to 100% and started my take-off roll. I pulled the plane off at approximately 130 knots and tried to climb at an angle that would maintain my airspeed just above 130 knots to prevent the target from rotating or tearing loose. I immediately began searching for holes in the cloud deck to minimize the turbulence since I was dragging that target just above stall speed.

As I weaved my way up through various openings, I concentrated solely on finding the next opening, being aware that I could get a fix on my position once I cleared the cloud deck. My concentration was interrupted, however, by a horrific bang in the aft fuselage that felt as if some jolly green giant had wielded one hellacious blow with his sledgehammer. (Subsequent investigation revealed that a section of the compressor ring with five compressor blades failed and penetrated the engine housing.) Almost simultaneously, both the forward and the aft fire warning lights glared at me with a bright red intensity . . and the entire plane began vibrating so severely that it felt as if it was going to shake itself apart.

I had always heard that old adage that flying was hours of sheer boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror. It wasn't terror in my case, but I certainly experienced those seconds of helplessness when I wondered just what the hell was going on. After the initial shock of the event, I started to talk myself: "No need for panic, just go through the emergency procedures.

"Get rid of the target." However, as I made a move to jettison the target, I realized that the target was already gone -- I had automatically pipped it off without realizing it. "Pull the throttle back to idle." Here again, as I made an effort to come back to idle, I found the throttle already in the idle position - another automatic reaction.

Unfortunately, neither of those actions seemed to help a bit - the fire warning lights were still glowing, and the vibration was still rattling me around in the cockpit. There was no other choice except to stopcock the throttle and shut down the engine. That helped ease the vibration. But those damn fire-warning lights kept staring at me with that ominous red glare. They almost seemed to be reminding me that I had approximately twenty seconds before the compressor section would blow - if the forward warning light wasn't a malfunction. I had every reason to believe that the warning was real.

I finally made the decision to bail out, so I started through the bail out procedure of lowering my head prior to jettisoning the canopy. However, I must have been mesmerized by those warning lights because I never took my eyes off of them even as I lowered my head; and just as I was about to lift the handle to send the canopy on its merry way, the fire warning lights went out. I blinked my eyes and took a second look to be certain that I wasn't seeing what I wanted to see, but sure enough, the lights were out. With the lights out and the vibration gone, I decided that I had better reassess my situation rather than doing something foolish like bailing out-at least not just yet.

My altitude was just over 3,000 feet, and my airspeed was about 135 knots; so I lowered the nose to gain the optimum glide speed of 185 knots, and I flipped the ADF control to automatic. The ADF needle pointed to my two o'clock position, so I eased the plane to the right to position the needle on my nose. I decided that I would ride it down to 1500 feet; and if I didn't have a runway in sight by then, I would go ahead and bail out.

About that time, with everything in some semblance of control, I felt that I had time to declare a Mayday to make Mobile Control aware of my situation:

"Mobile, this is Punchbowl White Tow, I have a Mayday." "Roger, White Tow, what's your problem?"

"Mobile, I've had an explosion in the aft section . . and both fire warning lights were on. I have stopcocked the throttle . . the lights are out." " White Tow, drop the target and jettison your tanks." Almost simultaneous with that last communication, I broke below the cloud deck and spotted a runway at my one o'clock position.

Now I had made a number of simulated flame-out approaches, but they were always the "standard" approach of being over the field at 6,000 feet and then "playing" a 360 turn into a landing at the end of the runway. As low as I was, I knew it was going to be a straight-in approach, but it appeared that I was going to be too high when I reached the end of the runway; so not only did I not drop the tanks, I also lowered the landing gear.

"Mobile, the target is already gone, but I need the tanks to lose some altitude." "Roger, White Tow, where are you?"

"Mobile, I'm north of the field about five miles out." "Roger, White Tow. We don't have you in sight. Keep us advised." "Roger, Mobile."

Suddenly, I realized that I was losing altitude much faster than I had anticipated. I had not taken into account that every time I had made a simulated flame out approach, I had done so at the end of a mission when I was very light on fuel. Here I had almost a full fuel load, and it was making a very big difference.

I immediately dropped the fuel tanks and flipped the gear lever into the "up" position, but the gear did not retract. . "Oh, sh__," I exclaimed, realizing that with a dead engine, I had no hydraulic pressure. There was nothing to do except to flip the gear lever back into the down position and hope like hell that gravity would work its magic and ease the gear into the locked position. I breathed a sigh of relief when the panel showed a "down and locked" condition on the landing gear.

As I continued my approach to the field, I began checking the landscape for some of the landmarks that were north of Tao-Yuan Air Base; but nothing looked familiar. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was not coming into Tao-Yuan, but to some other field, and that caused me some concern: I did not have an open runway being held for me. That meant that I might be faced with dodging some other aircraft that were trying to land or take off. Fortunately, I could not see any activity, so it appeared that I would not have to wrestle with any Chinese planes for the runway. (I later learned that the Chinese squadrons were standing down until the weather cleared a little more.)

I was about to advise Mobile about the situation when I spotted some high tension electrical lines blocking my approach to the field. I immediately abandoned any thoughts about making any position advisory - I had more important matters to consider.

I really had very little choice on what I was going to do. I sure as hell wasn't about to give up any altitude by trying to go under the lines, and I certainly wasn't about to try "stretching" my glide and risking a stall by trying to pull up and over. So it was strictly a case of gritting the teeth and boring on through. I was totally surprised at how easily that F-86 went through those wires. There was never a jolt or any other disruption to a very smooth glide - nothing more than a few "pings" as the wires broke and a couple of sparks as the ends of the wires brushed along the fuselage.

From there on, it was strictly a matter of trying to coax the plane down to a hard surface. It was obvious that I couldn't make the runway, but I could see that I was going to make it to the overrun. As I flared out, however, I recognized another problem: the crash barrier was set up for landing in the opposite direction. But again, there was no decision to make - just get the nose gear on the ground and plow ahead. Fortunately, that F-86 snapped the cable without so much as a jerk and rolled on down the runway.

I turned off on a taxiway and brought the plane to a halt. I opened the canopy and was in the process of unstrapping myself from the cockpit when a jeep with two Chinese soldiers drove up.

"Flame-out," I announced to them, hoping that those words would be understood. They looked at each other and then back at me, and one finally muttered something that sounded like, "Whey." With that, they started to drive off.

"HALT," I shouted as I was crawling out of the cockpit. When the jeep stopped, I tried some new words, "Mayday, Mayday!"

That had almost the same effect as my first effort: a puzzling look back at me and then another, "Whey," and then they started to drive off again.

"HALT," I shouted again. They seemed to understand that word because they stopped a third time. By this time, I was on the ground and running toward the jeep. They looked a little surprised as I jumped into the back seat and said, "Take me to someone who speaks English." I am certain that they didn't understand a word that I said; but I am just as certain that they came to the conclusion that they should take me to someone who spoke English because they looked at each other with that same puzzling manner, muttered something in Chinese and then drove directly to the operations building of one of the Chinese fighter squadrons.

I was ushered in to a Chinese Major who spoke fairly good English. I explained the situation to him and told him that I needed to contact the 44th at Tao-Yuan to advise them that I was safely on the ground and exactly where I was. He said that he would have someone try to "get through" for me (communications at that time were not nearly so sophisticated as they are today) and invited me to sit down and relax in the meantime. "Would you like some cookies and milk while you are waiting?" he asked.

I really wasn't in the mood for cookies and milk (a double scotch would have been more in order), but we had been briefed on Chinese etiquette during a previous exercise in Formosa, and I knew that it was impolite to refuse an offer such as this; so I said "Yes, sir, that would be very nice." In short order, he was back with the cookies and milk; but the second that I took the glass from him, I knew that I had a real problem because it was hot milk - and if there's anything that I can't stand, it's hot milk.

I knew that I had to find a way to get that milk down, so I decided that I had to handle it as if it were some foul-tasting medicine. I ended up taking a large gulp, swallowing it quickly and then shoving cookies into my mouth. After a short respite, I would follow the same procedure: large gulp, swallow, shove cookies into my mouth. Finally, after a torturous number of repetitions, I had an empty glass and was feeling proud of the fact that, at great sacrifice, I had managed to preserve good Chinese-American relations.

About that time, the major advised me that the phone connection to the 44th had been successfully completed, and he pointed me to the phone. As I arose, he noticed my empty glass and asked me how I liked the cookies and milk. " It was very good," I lied. "Thank you very much."

" Good," he said, "I will get you some more."

"No," I almost shouted. The major looked at me in a rather startled manner, and I realized that I had some fast talking to do. " It was very good," I explained, "but I am very full and really shouldn't eat any more right now. Perhaps later." He seemed to accept my explanation and led me on to the phone.

My telephone conversation was rather short: a quick summary of what happened and where I was, followed by instructions to stay put until a helicopter arrived to take me back to Tao-Yuan.

I returned to my seat and advised the major that a helicopter would be coming for me. He nodded acknowledgment, and we continued to make small talk for a short while. Before long, a command car pulled up in front of the building, and a rotund general emerged, followed by several others. As they approached the door, the entire room snapped to attention, and I followed suit. I had no idea who this person was, but he certainly appeared to be someone to be treated with respect, and I did my best to do so.

As we all stood at attention, the General looked around the room and then walked directly toward me. When he reached me, he put his hand on my arm, felt my chest, reached up and felt my neck, all the while saying something in Chinese. My imagination was running wild: was this some type of Chinese foreplay, God forbid, or the preliminary to a condemnation proceeding? My apprehension was relieved, however, when the major interpreted, " General wants to know if you are hurt."

"No, sir," I responded, "I'm fine."

More words from the general, interpreted by the major, "General says you should not worry about knocking out the power in this northern section of Formosa." I can't remember exactly what I said, but it was some sort of apology for whatever damage I had caused. My comment was followed by more words between the major and the general and then interpreted, "You should not worry. We are just happy that you were not injured."

"Thank you, sir."

With that, the general and his entourage completed their inspection and departed; and it was only a short wait after that before the helicopter arrived and whisked me back to Tao-Yuan. Life was back to normal.

Bob Matasick joined the 44th Fighter Bomber Squadron in May of 1954 at Clark Field in the Philippine Islands. The 44th was transferred to Kadena Air Base on Okinawa in July of 1955. He was reassigned to the States in December of 1955.