The Last Cossack Duel

(Author’s note: The Korean War saw the first jet-to-jet air battles, as pilots of the United Nations forces (mostly Americans) and their Communist counterparts clashed in deadly contests of courage and skill. Some of the clashes led to amazing adventures that survivors were reluctant to talk about. So, remembering that truth is stranger than fiction, I offer this fictitious story and leave the reader to surmise how many even stranger actual events occurred in that strange war.)

November 18, 1952

United States Navy Lieutenant (junior grade) Jordan “Rusky” Ruskosky leveled off his Grumman F9F-2 Panther jet at fifteen thousand feet and checked his instrument panel, as the voice of his wingman Ensign Ed Tiburn crackled in his earphones.

“Bogies at ten o’clock high.”

Rusky looked up through his Plexiglas canopy and saw four white streaks of condensation trails approaching in the clear afternoon sky.

“Roger. Looks like the Intelligence guys got something right after all.”

“Do you think your Commie cousins will greet us with vodka and caviar?”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Rusky said. “Just cover mine.”

“I’m on you tighter than Jane Russell’s push-up bra.”

Rusky set course to intercept the tiny silver glints that quickly became recognizable as Russian-built MiG-15s. He and Ed were a good team. In aerial combat the lead pilot playing offense needed to have full confidence in a defensive wingman’s ability to keep hostiles off his tail. With that secured, his mind could shift into the separate dimension of combat readiness, making their take-off from the aircraft carrier Oriskany seem ages ago, although it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes.

The Seventh Fleet’s Task Force 77, sailing in the Sea of Japan, had launched an air strike against Hoenyong, a North Korean town near the Soviet Union. That was a risky move because while most of North Korea abutted Manchuria across the Yalu River, twelve miles of the Tumen River marked its border with Siberia. The U.S.S.R. seaport of Vladivostok, bristling with military installations, lay a short distance further north.

Communist China had entered the war two years earlier, so U.N. troops were accustomed to fighting Chicoms and Korcoms openly. And it was a poorly-kept secret that Moscow was helping its fellow Marxists with weapons, supplies and even manpower. But Washington chose to pretend that wasn‘t happening. President Truman clung to Roosevelt’s belief that World War Two ally “Uncle Joe” Stalin wasn’t really a worse dictator than Hitler, and he could be won over with patience and appeasement. So efforts were made not to stir up the Soviets, for fear of touching off WWIII.

In spite of that, the U.N. High Command had decided that the assault on Hoenyong was necessary. It was hardly surprising when the bombing brought a swarm of Soviet jet fighters from Vladivostok. Rusky and Ed had been sent up to meet them, with the rest of their squadron to follow.

Rusky envied the Air Force pilots who had F-86 Sabre jets. They were bigger and faster than Panthers and their swept wing design, like the MiGs, made them more maneuverable. There was a joke going around that a Sabre pilot had to slow down when he fired his six .50 caliber machine guns, or he might outrun the bullets and shoot himself in the back. Be that as it may, the Air Force guys were racking up an impressive score of MiG kills, with the Sabre’s maximum speed of 693 miles per hour equal to the MiG‘s.

The Panther’s top speed was only 526 mph, but it could make tighter turns than a MiG. Rusky was counting on that to give him an edge, as the two opposing flights roared toward each other at a combined speed of over a thousand miles an hour. The MiGs still had altitude advantage and Rusky considered giving them a burst from his four 20 millimeter cannons as he dropped his wingtip fuel tanks and climbed to meet them. But that was unlikely to have any effect as the planes zipped past. Better to save his ammo until he could get on their tails.

He started his turn even before their courses intersected, laying the straight-wing Panther over on her side and bringing her nose around so sharply that the G-forces squeezed him down in his seat. He came out of his 180 degree turn pleased to see that the MiGs had to make a wider curve, slowing them enough for him and Ed to jockey into favorable positions behind them.

“The one on the extreme right seems closest,” he said. “I’ll take him first.”

“Go get him, Tiger!”

Rusky gave his plane full throttle and closed steadily on his target. When he came within range he squeezed the trigger. The automatic cannons barked a brief burst and Rusky saw his tracers streak by the MiG’s right wing. He adjusted his aim and fired again, smiling with satisfaction at the sight of a small bright flash in the MiG’s exhaust opening. Another burst brought a trail of smoke and the enemy started to lose speed. Rusky was about to finish him off when it occurred to him that this might be his only opportunity to study a MiG up close. Curiosity overcame caution and he started to draw nearer to the crippled aircraft.

“WHAT THE HELL!”

Suddenly he was tumbling through space, his oxygen mask blown away by the cold wind that stung his face and made his eyes water. He had no clear memory of the past several moments, but quickly concluded that another MiG must have gotten past Ed and blasted him. With his mind blank from shock, his well-trained reflexes had taken control, jettisoning the canopy and pulling the ejection lever. His seat had shot out of the plane with him still strapped to it. He quickly unbuckled the seatbelt and yanked his parachute ripcord.

The released nylon spread into a white umbrella that slowed his descent enough for him to observe the flaming wreckage of his plane plunging earthward. He looked around, wondering in which country he would land. Northeast Korea was mountainously rugged, not easily distinguished from nearby Soviet territory. The first winter storms had visited the area and snowdrifts nestled in hillside gullies. Rusky shivered, wishing he had thought to put on his long underwear before leaving the carrier. His coverall flying suit, khaki uniform, light flight jacket and Mae West life vest offered little weatherproofing and he suspected he would get very chilly very soon.

He glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head to see a MiG approaching. Probably the one that had shot his Panther out from under him. He watched it warily, thinking it wouldn’t be very pleasant if the enemy pilot decided to finish him off with more gunfire. But the MiG only made a lazy circle around him, red stars flashing on its wings, then flew off northward.

“Thanks for nothing, you dirty son of a Bolshevik,” Rusky muttered with grudging respect. He was tempted to curse himself for being so careless, but that wouldn’t help. The ground was coming up fast and the sky above was empty. What had happened to Ed? Maybe he had been shot down, too.

He saw some scrubby brush and trees on a rocky hillside before he hit with a sharp impact that made him think he might have a broken leg. But after lying still to catch his breath, he tried moving his arms and legs and decided he had only suffered some painful cuts and bruises. Getting to his feet, he saw that he was alone. He hurriedly gathered up his parachute and put it under some rocks to prevent it from being seen by enemy troops who might come searching for him.

With that taken care of, he checked his equipment. He still had his shoulder holstered .45 automatic, emergency knife, first aid kit and pocket compass. Glancing at his watch and the sky, he guessed it was about an hour before sunset. Too late for a rescue helicopter to reach him. Darkness would make it easier for him to evade pursuit, but harder to find his way. He started picking his way downhill, thinking that his only chance was to try to make it to the coast. If he got that far, he might be able to steal a boat and reach one of the tiny offshore islands where South Korean espionage agents operated.

He had little confidence in the plan, and even that vanished when he came to a dirt road and heard the sound of an approaching motor. Before he could even look for concealment, a truck came around a bend and braked to a halt. Rusky’s right hand started to his .45, but he dropped it to his side when several armed soldiers stood up in the bed of the truck. A man sitting beside the driver leaped out and approached Rusky with a drawn pistol. The Soviet uniform and Caucasian features made it clear to Rusky in which country he had landed.

The man shouted loudly as the soldiers hurried to join him. Rusky remembered enough Russian from his childhood to know that he was being ordered to surrender. He handed over his gun and knife and allowed himself to be frisked, glad that he had left his personal papers on the ship and his maps had gone down with his plane. The soldiers seemed so disappointed that one of them took his watch. Rusky hated to lose that. It had been Terry’s last gift to him.

Rusky gave his name, rank and serial number, as required by the Geneva Convention code, but no one seemed to care about that. He was herded around to the rear of the truck and ordered to climb aboard. Forced down on the floor, his wrists and ankles were bound and a foul-smelling rag was used as a blindfold. The truck started up for a rough bone-rattling ride that seemed to last forever.

Rusky tried to take his mind off of his discomfort by thinking about the possibilities before him. They didn’t seem very promising. If he had dropped into North Korea it would have been hard enough surviving the harsh conditions of a Prisoner Of War camp. As a captive in a supposedly neutral country, he might be disavowed by his own government. Torture could be expected, and if he withstood that, probably execution and an unmarked grave. Or, perhaps worse, a life sentence in the Gulag -- a series of slave labor camps where millions of unfortunate victims were worked to death in mines or on construction projects for the further glorification of Great Stalin. Rusky had read a magazine article by a Polish survivor of both Nazi and Communist camps, and he couldn’t say which was worse.

The dismal prospects were made worse by thoughts of those he would be leaving behind. His parents and brother and sister would suffer the most. Terry was young and vital enough to get over it. He had been right in deciding not to ask her to marry him before he left for Korea. But that didn’t make it any easier to face the end of his life a month before his twenty-fourth birthday. He would attempt escape, of course, however futile it seemed. As a last resort, there was suicide. He wondered if he had the courage for that.

Finally the truck stopped and Rusky was dragged out and untied. His hands and feet were so numb that he had to be half-carried between two soldiers. The colder temperature indicated it was well after dark and familiar sounds made it easy for him to guess that he was at an airfield. Soon he heard a door close behind him and his blindfold was removed. They were in a narrow hallway and Rusky was guided to a door that opened into a well-lit room.

The soldiers left him and he rubbed the blood circulation back into his hands. Across the room a tall slim man who appeared to be a few years older than him stood up from behind a desk flanked by two guards holding submachine guns. At a nearby small table sat a young woman of striking beauty with raven hair and large brown eyes. Like the guards, she regarded the newcomer with a stony-faced stare.

“Welcome to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,” the tall man said in fair English. “I am Captain Mikhail Kamanov, of the Red Air Force. And this is Sergeant Olga Luskovich. It was I who shot down your aircraft.”

“Congratulations,” Rusky said sarcastically, wondering why Kamanov seemed strangely familiar. He noticed that the girl held a pencil and scribbled on a note pad as he again gave his name, rank and serial number.

“Ruskosky?” the Captain smiled in surprise. “You are of Russian ancestry?”

“My grandparents emigrated from the Don River area in 1900,” Rusky said, and could have bitten his tongue for having broken the first rule of POWs -- never volunteer information about yourself.

“Ah, Don Cossacks,” Kamanov said thoughtfully. “How interesting.”

Rusky said nothing, although he knew about the Cossacks. As far back as the Fifteenth Century restless peasants and runaway serfs had settled on the Russian Empire’s wild frontier lands. Fiercely independent, they had fought off Turks, Mongols and other savage raiders to win the title Kazaks -- Free People. The Moscow government, finding it difficult to subdue them, had granted them autonomy on condition that they serve the Czar in wars and putting down rebellions. They had earned the reputation of being among the world’s best -- and most brutal -- cavalrymen.

“A pity that the Don Cossacks chose the wrong side after the People’s Revolution of 1917,” Kamanov said, as if following the thread of Rusky’s thoughts. “During the following Civil War, they joined the royalist White Army in its attempt to restore the monarchy. My father commanded a Red Army regiment against them, until they all were defeated or driven into exile. Perhaps he fought some of your relatives.”

“So what do you want to do?” Rusky asked. “Start a hillbilly feud over it?”

“Hillbilly feud?” Kamanov looked puzzled, then brightened. “Ah, yes, I have heard of that quaint American custom. Like the widespread lynching of poor Negro workers by you mercenaries of Wall Street capitalists.”

“You’ve been reading too much of your own propaganda,” Rusky said.

Kamanov was silent for several moments, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with his right hand. Finally he spoke to one of the guards in Russian too swift for Rusky to follow. The soldier quietly left the room.

“I have sometimes felt that I was born in the wrong century,” Kamanov confided to Rusky. “How much more exciting to have lived in the Age of Chivalry, when knights boldly jousted on a field of honor. Not like the mass slaughter by impersonal armies of today. That was a major reason why I became a fighter pilot. You and I could be considered knights of the sky, as we battled one-to-one in thin air.”

“I guess you could look at it that way.” Rusky was reminded of his own boyhood games of Western lawman in showdowns with bad guys. But men were supposed to have outgrown that stuff.

The absent soldier returned carrying a long object wrapped in a blanket which he placed on the desk, then resumed his post.

Kamanov slowly unrolled the blanket. “You and I had an excellent duel up there. It is only appropriate that we finish it here on more intimate terms.”

The last blanket fold was laid back and Rusky saw two long, keen-edged swords.

“Cossack sabers,” Kamanov explained. “My father captured them and passed them on to me. I’ve often practiced with them, without knowing I was preparing for this encounter.”

He walked around the desk carrying both swords and offered one to Rusky. “You fought for you life once today. Now you will have a more sporting chance.”

Rusky’s right hand automatically closed around the saber hilt as he stared at Kamanov in astonished disbelief. “You must be crazy! Men haven’t fought with swords since…I don’t know how long ago.”

“Then you and I will have the distinction of reviving an ancient honorable tradition.” He raised his sword and struck a dueling stance. “En garde!”

“Go to hell!” Rusky wanted to drop his saber, but he wasn’t sure how Kamanov would react.

“Perhaps you require further incentive? Very well.” Kamanov spoke to the guards, who snapped to attention and saluted. “I have given orders that if you win, you are to be set free. You will be escorted to the docks and given a small boat with enough fuel to reach the ships of your fleet.”

“You’re lying,” Rusky said.

“Maybe. But it hardly matters, as I am almost certain to kill you. Now defend yourself as a warrior, or die like dog!”

Rusky stood with his arms at his side.

Kamanov scowled. “How tiresome! See if this will enliven you.”

His blade flashed and Rusky felt a sting on his left cheek, followed by a warm trickle.

Furiously he lunged forward, slashing wildly. Kamanov easily fended off the blow and laughed tauntingly.

“That’s better! Show us the famous American fighting spirit!”

Rusky got a grip on his temper and tried to make a more cautiously controlled attack. But it was quickly apparent that he was hopelessly out-classed in this game. Kamanov played with him, seemingly effortlessly blocking him at every turn and keeping him on the defensive.

“You are too tall, my friend,” Kamanov smiled. “I think you will look better a head shorter.”

His blade swung in a swift arc at Rusky’s neck. Rusky got his saber up just in time, but the impact tore it from his grasp and it fell on the floor at Olga’s feet.

“Pick it up and return it to him, Sergeant,” Kamanov ordered. “Such bravery deserves a few more moments of life.”

Olga brought the sword to Rusky and pressed the hilt into his hand. Leaning close, she whispered: “Please kill him and take me with you! I’ve wanted to escape to America all of my life!”

Rusky used the brief pause to remember his boxing training. His coach had told him that there were similarities between fencing and boxing. Both sports could employ the feint -- distract your opponent by pretending to hit him in one place, then clobber him in a different spot. He raised his sword as if to slash again, then as Kamanov brought his blade up to parry, he thrust hard into the middle of the Russian’s body.

Blood gushed and Kamanov went down shouting: “Kill him!”

“No! You promised!” Olga screamed, throwing herself in front of Rusky as the guns roared. He just had time to hold her in his arms before everything went black…

“Rusky! Can you hear me? Talk to me, God damn it!”

Ed Tiburn’s voice in his earphones seemed to come through a thick fog. Rusky focused his blurred vision enough to see that his Panther was in a steep dive, and hauled back on the stick.

“Good boy! Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I must’ve blacked out. What happened?”

“The wounded MiG exploded when you were over it. You were blown several thousand feet higher and went into a nose dive. I thought you’d had it.”

I did, Rusky thought. But I’m not sure what I had. He checked out his instruments and controls. “Everything seems okay. What happened to the other MiGs”

“They hightailed it north. We’d better do the same thing south. I’m near Bingo fuel.”

That was slang for being so low on fuel that there was risk of not making it back to base.

“Me, too. Let’s bug out for friendlier skies.”

On their way home, Rusky tried to make sense of his hallucination, or whatever it was. He had been thinking about Sabre jets just before encountering the MiGs. That could explain the sword fight. And Olga’s presence was understandable. Many lonely men at war thought of romance with exotic beauties. What about the rest of it? His family’s Cossack background was an obvious influence. But why had Kamanov seemed so familiar? Of course! He resembled an actor in an old movie, The Most Dangerous Game. It was about a wealthy Russian count who had grown bored with stalking wild animals, so he hunted men for sport.

Rusky marveled at the power of the subconscious mind to create elaborate illusions and make them seem vividly real. And the entire lurid melodrama had played out in the brief time that he had been unconscious. Incredible!

His left cheek itched. When he scratched it, his fingers came away blood-smeared. He noticed that his altimeter’s glass cover was broken and assumed that his face had been slammed into it by the force of the MiG’s explosion. He fumbled in his first aid kit for a field dressing and held it to his face with his left hand and thought no more about it.

When they reached the carrier Rusky was still so shaken that he made a rough landing. But his tail hook snagged the cable and the Panther was jerked to an abrupt halt. He was taken to Sick Bay to have his injury treated while Ed went to be debriefed by the Flight Operations Officer. Dr. James Norton, the ship’s surgeon, used a local anesthetic on his face and went to work carefully sewing up the gash. He was nearly finished when Rusky’s squadron leader Lt. Commander Lloyd Fischer arrived.

“Well, we got the word from the Big Brass,” Fischer said. “The incident has been classified Top Secret and we’re all ordered not to talk about it from now until Hell freezes over. Sorry you won’t be given credit for your MiG kill, Rusky.”

“How could I?” Rusky asked innocently. “When it never happened?”

Fischer grinned. “Right. That’s your story, so stick to it.” He joked with Dr. Norton about fixing up Rusky’s face to make him a handsome lady-killer, then left.

The surgeon finished and stepped back to appraise his work. “That’s an odd injury. Very neat. As if it had been cut by a sharp knife.”

“Or a saber?” Rusky suggested.

Dr. Norton gave him a quizzical look.

The End