Fire-Streaked Miracle at K-13

The Moment Everything Went Wrong

Williams' F9F-5 Panther (Bureau Number 126109) had been in Korea for only 36 days when it absorbed devastating ground fire during the low-level bombing run. The damage was catastrophic: hydraulic lines severed, radio systems destroyed, and most critically, fire erupting in the engine compartment.

Larry Hawkins, flying alongside Williams, watched in horror as the situation deteriorated:

"I moved up on Williams on his starboard wing. He never did look right and see me. I wanted him to eject and save his life, because his landing gear was not down, but I still couldn't grab his attention." — Larry Hawkins, 2004

The technical cascade of failures was swift and merciless. The J48 turbojet engine, already compromised by battle damage, began trailing what witnesses described as a 30-foot ribbon of fire. The hydraulic system, operating at 1,500-2,000 PSI, rapidly lost pressure as red MIL-H-5606 fluid hemorrhaged from severed lines. Without hydraulics, Williams lost control of his landing gear, flaps, and speed brakes. The AN/ARC radio system went completely dead.

John Glenn, flying nearby and serving as VMF-311's operations officer, immediately recognized the gravity of the situation:

"Ted got hit on one of his first missions. He was streaming smoke and fire from around the engine, which in a Panther usually signaled an explosion that would blow the tail off." — John Glenn, John Glenn: A Memoir (1999)

Racing Death Back to K-13

With no radio communication possible, Williams faced a terrifying choice: eject over enemy territory or attempt an impossible landing. Fellow pilots flew dangerously close, using hand signals to guide him toward K-13 airfield.

Williams later described his desperate thoughts in that moment:

"I said well if there's a goddam Christ, this is the time ol' Teddy Ballgame needs ya. If you're up there, now would be a good time to help me." — Ted Williams

The approach to K-13 presented its own challenges. Without flaps, Williams would have to land at approximately 150-200 miles per hour—far above normal landing speed. The February cold in Korea, with temperatures hovering around 38°F, meant the 6,000-foot runway of pierced steel planking would offer little forgiveness.

Ground crews at Suwon spotted the incoming emergency. Warren Thompson documented that they "knew there was going to be trouble when they noticed the crash, fire and rescue crews hastily manning their vehicles."

Tower operators desperately tried to warn the approaching Panther: "Your landing gear is not down, your landing gear is not down!" But Williams, sealed in his cockpit with a dead radio, heard nothing.

Thirty Seconds of Controlled Chaos

Williams brought the burning Panther down onto K-13's steel planking at over 150 miles per hour:

"For more than a mile I skidded, ripping and tearing up the runway, sparks flying. I pressed the brakes so hard I almost broke my ankle." — Ted Williams, My Turn at Bat (1969)

For 1,500 to 2,000 feet, the F9F-5 screamed down the runway in a shower of sparks and debris. The aircraft's strong construction, a testament to Grumman's engineering, held together despite the tremendous stresses. When the Panther finally ground to a halt at the runway's end, Williams faced one final obstacle—the canopy wouldn't open normally. He hit the emergency ejector and scrambled from the cockpit, running clear just before the aircraft exploded in flames.

Glenn witnessed the entire sequence:

"He bellied in at 150 miles an hour or more, slid up the runway for two thousand feet, came to a stop, jumped out of the cockpit and off the wing, and ran until he was out of danger. Then he turned around and stood there watching the plane burn on the runway." — John Glenn, John Glenn: A Memoir (1999)

The Aftermath

The day after his near-death experience, Williams wrote to his mistress Evelyn Turner with remarkable understatement:

"I had holes all over the plane and I was riding on all the prayers people say for me 'cause I was awfully lucky. My plane was burning like hell when I crash landed. Everybody around here now is calling me lucky. Anyway, I'm missing you." — Ted Williams, personal letter (February 17, 1953)

These 38 letters, auctioned in 2018, provide an intimate window into Williams' state of mind during his combat service.

Military records classify the incident as a total loss of aircraft with only minor injuries to the pilot—Williams' sprained ankle from pressing the brakes so hard. VMF-311's after-action reports noted that Williams was commended for his piloting skill in bringing the damaged aircraft back rather than ejecting over enemy territory.

The very next day, February 17, Williams climbed into another Panther and flew his next combat mission.

Fellow Marine pilot Jerry Coleman, also a professional baseball player, couldn't resist some dark humor when he saw Williams after the crash:

"Hey Ted, that's a lot faster than you ever ran around the bases." — Jerry Coleman

Williams shot back: "What the hell do you know? You never got on base."

Primary Sources

Glenn's Final Word

"Much as I appreciate baseball, Ted to me will always be a Marine fighter pilot." — John Glenn

Williams himself remained characteristically modest:

"I was no hero. There were maybe 75 pilots in our two squadrons and 99% of them did a better job than I did." — Ted Williams

Yet his successful handling of a catastrophic emergency on his first combat mission stands as a testament to the skill and courage of Korean War aviators who faced death daily in defense of freedom.