Bellevue "dead" man having time of his life with new book

Having been declared dead keeps coming back to haunt Edwin "Nick" Nixon. More than a half-century after his jet was shot down over Korea, the former prisoner of war still has to prove to the U.S. government that he's alive.

He still gets periodic letters from the IRS and Social Security questioning his existence, and his name remains on the killed-in-action list at the Garden of Remembrance outside Seattle's Benaroya Hall.

The longtime Bellevue resident recently published a book to set the record straight once and for all: "Killed in Action — Dead ... Wrong!"

Nixon, now 79, was 24 when he supposedly died March 1, 1953. An obituary said he was a man who had everything to live for. His plane was shot down on his final mission before a leave, and his first child was due in six months.

Anti-aircraft fire crippled his F9F Panther jet as he was returning from a bombing run to the USS Philippine Sea, an aircraft carrier. He debated about bailing out from 5,000 feet, but instead executed a controlled crash landing rather than risk becoming a target in his parachute.

On the ground he escaped the burning plane and waved at the other planes with his bright-yellow life vest. No one saw him.

"My colleagues never came down close, but they claimed to have seen my body slumped in the plane," Nixon said.

The 1950 University of Washington graduate and Navy ensign was stranded behind enemy lines, with burns on his face and a broken back.

A commanding officer wrote: "With deepest regrets and sympathy I close out the flight log of this outstanding Naval officer and aviator."

The log, along with Nixon's personal effects and uniforms, was mailed to his parents and wife in Seattle. Memorial services were held aboard ship and at a Seattle church.

Nixon endured six months of prison camps, physical abuse, brainwashing and starvation before being released Aug. 30, 1953.

News media broadcast names of those released, but Nixon's father, a prominent Seattle physician, waited until the Navy verified the report to tell his daughter-in-law Marianne, who was giving birth to a daughter.

"To this day I can remember my father-in-law with tears streaming down his face," said Marianne. "I knew right away. There could be only one wonderful news."

The military rushed Nixon home, where the family briefly enjoyed celebrity status, including being honored guests in a parade. Military honchos put Nixon on the speaking circuit with Bryce Lilly, a survivor of the World War II Bataan Death March who happened to be Nixon's fraternity brother.

"Bryce's story was more compelling, so I learned to go first when we were speaking," Nixon said.

He finished his Navy gig at Sand Point Naval Air Station. Although he had planned to be a doctor like his dad, he went into the insurance business to support his family. He doesn't regret the choice. He and his wife have two sons in addition to the daughter born as he was being released from POW camp.

"My son told me to write the book so they'd have the story," said the flannel-shirted Nixon, a passionate Republican.

Strangers as well as friends ask for copies, but the 79-year-old Nixon probably should mail one to the head of Social Security, which periodically questions his existence. He had a similar problem with the IRS in the 1970s.

"Now I've got the name and phone number of a woman at Social Security who fixes it," said the soft-spoken Nixon. "I used to have to write letters and go to the local office to prove I was alive."

Although he's been moved to the POW section on many Korean War lists, his full name — Edwin Allen Nixon Jr. — remains listed in the Garden of Remembrance outside Seattle's Benaroya Hall with those killed in action.

On his home desk is a model of a Panther, the plane he was flying when he crashed. He keeps his Purple Heart, Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal and POW medal in boxes in the desk drawer. His other souvenirs are his leather flight jacket and the residual aches and pains from his war wounds. Considered disabled, he's supposed to use a cane but usually leaves it leaning against the wall.

Periodically, he runs into someone who attended one of his funerals.

"At least they all seemed glad to see me," Nixon said.

Sherry Grindeland: 206-515-5633 or sgrindeland@seattletimes.com