22 l Ⅲ. Korea 1950 its own little Pearl Harbor and everyone seemed to forget that Korea was no longer Japanese domain, that its defenders were but recently the enemy, and that its outcome might easily repeat the ravages from which they only now were recovering. That first Sunday night another plane was scheduled to carry correspondents into Seoul. I had returned from the beach too late to be included so settled for the second-best solution, MacArthur’s headquarters’ offer to fly down to Kyushu where the U.S. Air Force was preparing to launch fighter strikes against the invaders. That was my first lucky break, for just after midnight GHQ announced that the Seoul plane had been indefinitely canceled. My second-best deal suddenly produced the hottest card in the deck. Even so, it was midmorning Tuesday before four other correspondents and I finally boarded a headquarters’ plane headed for Fukuoka and its adjacent Itazuke airfield. While watching the gleaming rice paddies below, I found myself thinking of islands in the South Pacific; of the pilot who was killed by antiaircraft fire as I shot pictures from his window while his shoulder was touching my chest. I remembered the wondrous butterflies of Guadalcanal; the three years as a Marine; the mildew which ruined equipment; the crud which cut like acid into our flesh and stank like death. I remembered Japan and the Japanese and the little chunk of war that had been me for longer than years usually last. Looking down from the place I found that I could not forget, but I did accept it. Japan was home, as before those other islands had been home, and the five between-years of my life had vanished. We roared in to land at Itazuke with two F-80 jet pilots screaming in behind us before their fuel was gone. As we stepped off the plane I saw a couple of soldiers digging-in a fifty-caliber antiaircraft piece right next to the runway. I had just shot my first pictures of this new war when two more F-80’s whistled down from nowhere, then flashed over in double rolls, symbolic of aerial victories. I turned to Associated Press’s Tom Lambert only to find him looking at me with the same This is War!
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