But when the Mayday came in a few minutes later, all hands scrambled for their stations. "Put that on our high-power radio and relay it to San Francisco," barked the CIC officer. Then he dialed the Captain's sea cabin and said, "Just got a Mayday from an airliner, inbound 150 miles west of us, Cap'n. I'm relaying it to San Francisco."
"Very well," came the reply. "Get the operations officer and Air Group commander up to CIC. I'll be right down."
In a minute CIC was fully manned and the senior officers of the Guadalcanal were gathered around the Air Situation Board to see what could be done to help the distressed plane. The sailor behind the big plastic display board marked in the Guadalcanal's position 200 miles west of San Francisco, and the plane's reported position 150 miles west of that, writing backwards on his side of the board so it would read properly on the other. Radar operators hunched over their while the big dishes on the mast probed the sky to the west searching for the liner. But the thunderstorm area returned so much spinach that they couldn't find the blip from the liner.
"He's in a bad jam," said the Captain, scanning the Mayday message. "There isn't an airport this side of the Rocky Mountains he can get into without radio."
"Right," agreed the ops officer. "If we could get him to ditch anywhere near us we could probably save them all."
"But we can't," said the Captain. "We can't talk to him. And ditching in this fog would be tough anyway."
Here the loudspeaker cut in: "Flight 132 to any station. Mayday. I'm going to let down while I'm still over water and see if I can get under this stuff. I will broadcast every few minutes and let you know how I'm doing. Flight 132 starting descent from 20,000. Estimated position 350 miles west of Golden Gate. Mayday. Out."
"He won't get under it," said the Captain; "it's right down on the water everywhere," and all heads around the circle nodded grave agreement.
"You're relaying all this to San Francisco, aren't you?" asked the operations officer of the radioman.
"Affirmative," said radio.
In the next five minutes Flight 132 let down to 1000 feet broadcasting as he passed through each thousand-foot level on the way down. At 1000 he said, "I'm going to feel my way down slowly from here and see if I can get under it. If I can't, I'll go back up to 20,000 till I think I'm over the coast. Then I'll head south until I have to ditch. I will broadcast estimated position every five minutes. Flight 132 now starting descent from 1000."
"Have you got him on radar yet?" asked the Captain.
"Nossir," said the CIC officer. "We would have by now if he had stayed at 20,000. He's too low now. But I figure he is about 130 miles west of us."
All this time Curly Cue had been on the outskirts of the crowd around the plot board saying nothing but thinking hard. At this point he said, "Cap'n, if he doesn't smack the water trying to get under this stuff and goes back up again, I can get him down safely."
All heads snapped around and the Captain said, "How?"
"As soon as he goes back up again we'll have him on radar. Launch me now and orbit me over the ship at about 20,000 feet. As soon as you pick him up on radar, run a controlled intercept on him. With my radar gunsight I can come right up alongside where he will see me. Then I will lead him in for a GCA at Moffet Field. Nothin' to it."
"Hmmm..." said the Captain. "Maybe you could... Anybody see any bugs in it?" he asked, glancing around the circle.
Nobody did. But the ops officer had to get in his two cents' worth, so he said, "Of course if anything goes wrong it's your funeral too. We can't get you back aboard in this stuff."
"That's okay by me," said Curly. "Nothing will go wrong."
"Let's go," said the Captain. "Tell San Francisco what we are doing. Sound Flight Quarters."
Ten minutes later the Guadalcanal blasted Curly off the catapult into the soup. He roared off wide open with the stick hauled back and climbed out of sight in the fog. Holding her in a stiff climb, he soon passed 1000 feet, giving him enough elbow room to be comfortable, and then went into a climbing spiral around the ship following orders from CIC.
As he was climbing through 6000 the ship said, "Guadalcanal to Flight Able. We have bogey bearing 270 distance 100 miles. We think it is TransPac Flight 132."
"Flight Able to Guadalcanal. Rajah. I'm climbing through 6000. Still orbiting. Out."
A minute later, "Guadalcanal to Flight Able. We have a good plot on TransPac 132 now. He is climbing back to 20,000. Steer 280 and climb to 20,000. Over."
"Guadalcanal from Flight Able. Steer 280 and climb to 20,000. Rajah. Out."
A few minutes later Curly reported, "Flight Able at 20,000, steering 280. How much farther to go?"
Answer: "About twenty miles. Start a standard rate turn to the left. Over."
"Wilco. Twenty miles to go. Starting standard rate turn to the left."
For the next five minutes CIC kept plotting the two blips to the west and turning Curly more and more to the left to bring him in astern of the airliner. Then the fighter director said, "Guadalcanal to Flight Able. You are now five miles astern of airliner. His course is 090. He is cruising at 20,000. You should overtake him soon."
"Flight Able to Guadalcanal. Rajah. I am at 20,000. My course 090. I am turning on radar gunsight."
A few minutes later when the two blips had merged and were nearly over the ship, a crisp 'Tallyho" came out of the loudspeaker and cheers went up from the crowd in CIC.
Up in the air, Curly throttled back a bit so as not to barge in on the airliner too suddenly and startle him. Keeping the blip centered in his gunsight, he closed the range slowly, darting a glance into the fog ahead every few seconds. Soon a dark area in the cloud took shape and there she was, 100 yards ahead. Curly eased over to the left, passed just over her left wingtip, and dropped into position a wing span away from the airliner on its port bow.
Meantime, in the cockpit of the airliner, the two pilots had their eyes glued on the instrument board, scanning methodically and thinking about the things pilots think about at a time like this.
"Have you ever ditched one of these ships before, Cap'n?" asked the copilot.
"No-o-o," said the captain. "But I had to put a B-29 in the drink on the way back from Tokyo to Saipan during the war. We all got out of it okay. A lifeguard submarine picked us up."
The navigator was standing between them peering grimly out into the soup ahead. Suddenly he gasped, "Gawdal-mighty!" Then he tapped the captain gently on the shoulder, pointed out to the left, and said, "Don't look now, Cap'n, but we got company."
"Well, I'm a son of a bitch," breathed the pilot as he looked up and saw Curly. He relaxed back in his seat and added, "Good old Navy! This is the second time they've bailed me out, God bless 'em." Then he grasped one hand in the other, held them up over his head, looked over at Curly and shook hands with himself in the traditional gesture of a fighter greeting his fans.
Aviators the world over are adept at talking to each other in pantomime. Curly pointed at the airliner, patted himself on the head, crooked his finger in a beckoning gesture and then pointed ahead toward the Golden Gate. Any pilot would immediately translate this as meaning "Follow me and you'll live happily ever after."
The airline captain made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, held it up in front of his face, then made a fist and stuck his thumb up, nodding his head. To aviators of all nationalities this means "I understand, approve, and will do."
Then he turned to the navigator and said, "Get the name of that padre back aft. I'm going to join his church as soon we land."
Curly squeezed his mike button and S&id, "Guadalcanal from Flight Able. Have airliner in-tow at 20,000, course 090. Air speed 400. Everything lovely. Over."
Soon a jubilant "Roger" came back from the ship, followed by "Hold your present course and speed. San Francisco early warning radars have been alerted to pick 'you up. When they do, we will turn you over to West Coast Fighter Defense Command."
"Guadalcanal from Flight Able - rajah - standing by for Fig
hter Defense Command controller."
Curly put his plane on autopilot and the airliner settled down flying a tight formation on him.
Meantime things were happening in San Francisco. Air Traffic Control relayed all messages from Guadalcanal to Fighter Defense HQ. Fighter defense aimed their radars at the spot where Flight 132 should come over the horizon, tuned their voice radios to the Navy fighter band, and the controller sat with his pencil poised over his scope, ready to take over. ATC got on the hot-line to Naval Air Station Oakland, briefed them on the trouble, and asked, "Can you bring them in at Oakland by ground-controlled approach?"
"Can do," said NAS Oakland. 'Turn them over to our GCA controller at 5,000 feet over Golden Gate."
Up in the airliner a stewardess explained to the passengers that the pilot had changed his mind and was going to land at the Naval Air Station in Oakland.
"Well, I should think he would change it!" said a little old lady sitting in one of the front seats.
"You mean we won't have to get in those rubber things?" asked her companion.
"Not this time," said the stewardess.
The padre, who didn't want the Lord to get the impression that he took things for granted, started saying his rosary all over again. This time it was in thanks for blessings received.
At 150 miles out, Fighter Defense controller came on the air. "San Francisco Air Defense controller to Navy fighter. We think we have you on our scope now. How do you hear? Over."
"Loud and clear," said Curly. "I am at 20,000, on course 090, air speed 400."
A few minutes later ADC said, "We have a good solid blip now and we think it's you. Change course to the left ninety degrees for a check."
"Roger. Wilco," said Curly, banking into a gentle left turn and beckoning the airliner to follow. The beckoning was really unnecessary. He couldn't shake that airliner off now except by blasting off at war emergency power and running away!
Soon ADC said, "Okay. We have identified you. Come back to course 095 and descend to 5000 feet."
"Flight Able to ADC. Come right to 095 and descend to 5000 feet. Flight Able and TransPac 132 now leaving 20,000."
Of course, with all the electronic aids he had on his dashboard, Curly didn't need any help from the ground to find his way to the Golden Gate. He knew at all times which way it was and how far. As his distance indicator was turning up to zero, the FDO said "Nice work, Navy, you are over the Golden Gate. Switch to button three for your GCA controller."
Curly punched button No. 3 on his console, called Oakland, and a clear confident voice from the ground went into the familiar pattern. "This is your GCA controller. We have you now at 5000 feet four miles south of the station. Perform your landing checkoff list and report when completed."
Curly looked back over his right shoulder and made a series of gestures which to any ordinary observer might have indicated he was trying to show how to grind hamburger and catch flies. But to Joe Tinker it was, of course, obvious that he meant to lower flaps and wheels. They did this together, throttled back to approach speed, and Curly reported, "GCA, this is Flight Able. Checkoff list completed. Airliner has gear and flaps down too. Over."
Then the GCA ritual began:
"This is your final approach controller... Do not acknowledge my transmissions from now on... If you lose communication and do not hear me for ten seconds, pull up and go to 10,000 feet until communication is restored... Come left to zero one zero... we will land you on runway ten... runway ten is 8000 feet long and the wind is zero... Start your standard rate of descent... you are on glide path and starting in nicely."
Curly was all wrapped up in his instrument board now, holding his course, speed, and rate of descent exactly where GCA called for them. The chips were down and this was for keeps from here on in. The airliner stayed with him like a hip pocket.
"Going a little below glide path...bring her up... twenty feet below glide path... pull up... [Curly goosed his jets]... coming up nicely now... on glide path... the field is one half mile ahead of you... you are lined up with the runway and on glide path... one quarter mile to go... you are on glide path... you will break out soon... WE HAVE YOU IN SIGHT... take over and land visually."
Curly came up off the gauges and found he had just broken through a ragged 70-foot ceiling with the long runway looming up out of the fog dead ahead and nicely lined up. The airliner was breathing down his neck. Coming up on the runway, Curly eased his throttle forward to hold her off, then gave her the gun and took a wave-off, circling out over the bay and giving the airliner the whole runway to himself. As he swung around, lined up again, and plopped down on the runway, the airliner was just turning onto the taxi strip and heading for the control tower.
When he taxied up to the line Curly was greeted by all the operations personnel of the air station, the crew and passengers of the airliner, as well as Admiral Bugler Bates and most of his staff. When Admiral Bates saw Curly climb out of the cockpit he blurted, "Well, I'll be damned."
The airline captain made a little speech thanking Curly and the Navy on behalf of the company, crew, and passengers. Curly hemmed and hawed and said "Aw... it wasn't much." As the passengers all crowded around to shake his hand, Admiral Bates was one of the first to get to him. "Well done, m'lad," he said. "But if I had known it was you up there I'd have suspected there was a trick to it."
Chapter Six
ENSIGN WILLY WIGGLESWORTH
A week later, as the ship was leaving San Francisco, Curly's executive officer said to him, "A new pilot reported to us yesterday. An Ensign William Wigglesworth."
"Good God," said Curly, "what a name for a fighter pilot. Willy Wigglesworth! Sounds more like a piccolo player or a ballet dancer than a jet pilot. Can he fly?"
"I suppose so," said the exec. "His log books shows he is checked out in everything, including night intercepts."
"Willy Wigglesworth," said Curly, shaking his head sadly; "what sort of a looking guy is he?"
"Just about what you would expect. Like a whiz kid or a choirboy."
"Where did we get him from?" asked Curly.
"From Naval Air Station Columbus. And there's something funny about that. He just finished a tour of sea duty in the Med on the Coral Sea and he went to Columbus for shore duty. He was there only about a month and now he comes back to sea again with us."
"Hunh," said Curly, "that's strange. I wonder why?"
"So did I," said the exec. "But I couldn't get much out of him about it. He's not a very gabby guy."
"Send him around to see me," said Curly.
Later that morning a baby-faced ensign approached Curly timidly and saluted. He looked as though he would be more comfortable if his mother were holding his hand. "Ensign Wigglesworth reporting for duty, sir," he said.
"Haryah, Wigglesworth?" said Curly, shoving his hand out. "Glad to have you on board."
"Glad to be aboard, sir," said Willy, wincing a little from the iron grip Curly gave him.
"I hear you're all checked out in these planes and ready to go," said Curly.
"Yes, sir. I flew them for a year in VF 102 in the Med."
"You didn't stay long on short duty in Columbus after that, did you? Just a month."
"Yessir," said Willy.
"How come?"
"Well, sir, I received orders to come here and so I carried them out," said Willy.
"Well, now, that's fine," said Curly, nodding his head in mock approval. "I'm always glad to see young officers carry out their orders. That's the way to get ahead in this Navy... Now let's cut out the horse crap... wha' hoppen? How come you got the bum's rush out of Columbus?"
"Well, you see, sir, the Pennsylvania Railroad runs right by there and I didn't get along very well with them."
"Oh-h-h, I see," said Curly. "But not very much. How does the railroad come into this thing?"
"The railroad owed me money and they wouldn't pay it to me," said Willy.
"Well," said Curly tolerantly, "it's always hard to get money
out of a big corporation - lots of red tape and all that. You just have to be patient."
"I was patient," said Willy. "I wrote letters back and forth to their lawyers all the time I was in the Med. But finally I got fed up with their release forms and vouchers."
"So then what?"
"I wrote to the president of the railroad about it. I advised him to make his people pay up or it would cost him a lot more in the long run."
"I see... you threatened to sue the railroad?"
"No, sir. I didn't have the time or the money to do that, I just gave him some friendly advice about how he could save the railroad a lot of money by paying me promptly. But he didn't follow it."
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