Our Hero--Ensign Glen H. Rickelton, USNR

The Korean War was a two and a half year war the U.S. participated in as part of a general military engagement with other U.N. countries.  Their mission was to force the North Koreans back across an invisible line that is currently called the “DMZ” or the “Demilitarized Zone.”  Generally, historians and movie makers casually skip over this military engagement so often that this “police action” is called the “Forgotten War.”

I know about this war because I watched “M.A.S.H.” as a youngster and my Uncle Jimmy flew fighter jets during this conflict—and so did Ensign Glen Howard “Rick” Rickleton, USNR.

                                                                    

                                                                                                Ensign Glen H. “Rick” Rickelton,
                                                                                                USNR, age 23 at time of death

Usually, I change the names of the people I write about, but Rick is pretty famous here in Farmington—one of 592 New Mexico residences who died in this small engagement, most Americans do not know happened.  He’s one of my neighbors.  Liz told me about him, since he was honored last Memorial Day; and, of course, I had to find him.

Looking for Rick was easy.  He actually has several listings on Google and his military record is pretty complete on Ancestry.com.  What surprised me was the lack of details about his life and death.  There is a published diary he wrote, but I’m too poor to order it.  Besides, he wouldn’t have written about the details of his death.

 The USS Essex CVS-9 1951

I started doing some general research, and as I learned about his ship, the USS Essex, about his bunkmate, a little known astronaut named Neil Armstrong, and the fighter squadron he flew with—51 aka “The Screaming Eagles,” I started to see what happened in my mind.  Perhaps it was because I’d seen the movie “The Bridges at Toko Ri” starring William Holden, and/or my imagination got carried away.  I could clearly see the jet’s instrument panel—Holden flew a Banshee (I think), and not a Panther, which was what Rick flew.

I saw a tan colored gloved-hand on a stick, a hose of the air mask, and dials moving as if I was flying the jet—as if seeing out of Rick’s eyes.  When this happens—and I’ve experienced such p-o-v visions a handful of times—it really shakes me up, because I actually feel as if I’m going through the person’s experience—the sensations are eerie and long lasting.

The terrain around the blue painted aircraft seemed desolate, white with thick snow, the trees barren of foliage which could be surprisingly dense in the humid heat of summer.  I got a good view of the target—a rail-line that slithered like a constrictor through the bleak contours of low lying hills, pockmarked with muddied boils from previous bombing runs.  At 25,000 feet I heard a male voice order the other members of the mission to drop to a lower altitude, to keep an eye out for MIGs and strafe the hell out of the railroad tracks which were resupplying Chinese infantry harassing U.S. Marines a mile away at a forward operating base.

 

The run went well at first, bombs were dropped, as tracers from Double A from the ground streak white-hot passed the aircraft going over 450 mph.  As Rick seemed to pull up and bank left I heard tiny sounds—thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk as they hit the aircraft, causing it to shimmy.  The projectiles moved from the nose back along the sleek fuselage.  One large chunk of metal ripped a large hole on Rick’s port side and cut a bloody line under his arm, through his chest, exiting at the top of his right shoulder.  He died instantly, and was why he didn’t eject from the plane after his squadron mates saw the left engine burst into flames.  A half a second later, the jet seemed to roll over like a dead sea lion on the surface of the ocean.  The calls of his friends reverberated in the smoke-filled cockpit.

 

The jet crashed into a hillside; fire and smoke of the explosion created a mini-mushroom-shaped cloud which rose as if to greet the other Panthers who flew cover, raking the enemy’s anti-aircraft gun placements with deadly 50 caliber bullets which are as long as a man’s hand and as thick as a finger. 

The Navy pilots mark the downed plane’s location, but that is all they can do—reinforcing gunfire from the ground and the arrival of four MIGs shoo the jets from the burning carcass that was once a F9F-2 Panther fighter jet.

Only after the cessation of hostilities did those pilots who had survived into the summer of ’53 remembered where their fallen shipmate had died.  His skeletal remains, badly charred but still wearing a flight suit, were recovered and sent home to find a place of prominence in Farmington’s Memory Gardens Endowment Cemetery.  There he was honored, cried over by friends and family as the wailing of a single trumpet sounding “Taps” resounded through the newly laid lawn of the gardens which had recently opened for permanent residence in 1954.

In one of the sites, I found this tribute letter from one of his former shipmates who served aboard the USS Essex. 

To Ensign Glen Howard Rickelton, USNR October 24, 2006 Dear Glen, This letter is 54 years late, but it's my way of reminding myself how fortunate I've been since the 6th of January 1952 when your plane was hit by anti- aircraft fire and you crashed and burned over Korea. You were a very likable person to have worked for; you treated your subordinates as friends. You were easy going and it was a pleasure to have you as my boss. You've missed so much by being one of the pilots that didn't return. We were all very young and secure in that nothing could happen to us. But as the air group's losses increased I'm sure that your initial cockiness became wariness. You were our 13th pilot to be lost, with 5 more to follow before the Essex returned to the States. Were you with us now you'd be amazed how life has changed technologically over the 54 years. You'd likely be a husband and Grandfather, retired and living a wonderful life. You'd be showing your grandkids photos of yourself as a skinny Ensign all decked out in your flying gear, standing by your fighter plane. But unfortunately that wasn't to be. In 1952 I was discharged. I returned home and got my first car and a job at Sperry Gyroscope Company, working nights in a very boring job. By 1953 I'd found employment as a Field Engineer for IBM. The job entailed servicing Data Processing machines in customer's offices. There I met my wife and married in 1961, we raised 3 wonderful children. I retired after 39 years of a job I loved. I prospered and now own a home in New Jersey and a summer home at the shore in New York. Our health is good and we're looking forward to many enjoyable years ahead. As a historian I've been able to retrieve all the reports our air group filed with the Navy Department while we were deployed with the carrier Essex off Korea. From the reports, I compiled a list of the 50 planes and the 18 pilots lost. Your whole life was reduced to 3 lines on 6 January 1952. Quote: "Ensign RICKELTON of VF-51 flying a Panther on a rail cut rec-con mission when hit by flak, went into a shallow glide from which he never recovered, and crashed into a hillside." One of your Plane Captains Bill Curtis ( William J. Curtis )