Sketches of a Black Cat - Full Color Collector's Edition: Story of a night flying WWII pilot and artist

by Miner, Ron

  In truth, our armament was rather minimal. While we could shoot back, we felt fairly naked in the presence of the Japanese Zero fighters. Consequently, our tactics were primarily hit and run. Thanks to the modest cruising airspeed (much slower than conventional fighters) and darkened appearance, our Catalinas were all the more elusive and difficult to locate for the anti-aircraft gunners. We would normally skulk around in the dark, sometimes just above sea level where our black profiles would be undetectable from above. PBY altimeters were an improved radar version, allowing us when discovered to very nearly skim the surface of the sea, presenting a dangerous target for a diving enemy aircraft. If we were spotted when cruising or by day, we would dive for the nearest cloud.

  By and large, on these all-night search missions we felt fairly secure. It seemed that the Japanese ships assumed they had not been spotted as long as we did not attack them, so we found ourselves flying around without much interference, even directly above them.

  My first search patrol, while exciting, had been a long, tedious thirteen-hour affair all around the Solomon Islands. For many of us in the crew, we had spent months preparing and we were eager to put our training to the test. Our third night out we were off Vella Lavella, a northern island of the New Georgia group, and spotted two destroyers (DDs) and three heavy cruisers (CAs). As dawn approached we made a dive bombing run and things became less simple. The PBYs were frequently used as a glide bomber, swooping down at low power, almost silently out of the darkness in steep dives to present less of a target. The plane could reach nearly 200 knots in one of these dives, far more that the designer of the plane ever intended. Once the missiles whined down, all hell broke loose. We carried 10 million-candlepower bombardment flares that a crewman could heave out the tunnel hatch, effectively blinding the anti-aircraft gunners, as we quickly wrapped the plane into a steeply banked turn and hauled ass while the flak banged all around us.

  Then it was homeward bound, back down the Slot, watching the now familiar shapes of the Solomon Islands come to life in the early light of dawn. As the red sun broke the horizon, we slid in low across the shore line of Guadalcanal and down onto the mat, clacking as we rolled over the perforated, heavy duty metal plates that formed our landing strip. Sleepy, but safely back at Black Cat Base, there was nothing like the bite of a very cold beer before bed.

  The average duration of one of those flights was ten to twelve hours, but we could stay out fourteen hours or longer. We’d even heard that the Limies down in the Australia-New Zealand area were flying the seaplane versions thirty hours at a time. It seems Australia had lost its connection with Great Britain after the war began so a new route was required. Since Japan controlled the seas between Australia and the mainland, an idea was developed to strip down a Catalina, removing weapons, armor, and any excess weight to make it light enough to handle the additional fuel and three or four passengers. They operated five of these defenseless PBYs, taking a route across the Indian Ocean to Sri Lanka at night and navigating by the stars, some 3,500 miles. The crew and passengers saw the sun rise twice and the formidable flight was dubbed the “Double Sunrise Service.” *

  Our nights were long enough and once VP-12, the squadron we were replacing, left for the states, we flew every other day or so for a while.

  But we did have down time. At first, too much of it. We had to stick close to the tents since the island had only been recently secured, and there were rumors of guerrillas and snipers about, so we practiced our jungle know-how, carving and weaving palm fronds and such. I grew a beard, not too common in those days, but they eventually made me shave it off because they felt an oxygen mask might not fit properly. There was plenty of time for some sketching, mostly pictures of camp life and scenes of planes in action and on Henderson Field.

  Eventually, we moved camp closer to the Henderson airstrip after the Secretary of the Navy made a surprise visit to camp after a heavy rain. He came away convinced something should be done and had a group of Quonset huts built providing much improved living conditions. It was a relief to be out of the “Swamp” where we had wallowed for almost four months. Now, there was even a mess hall, and we soon went to work constructing a screened clubhouse.

  Del Fager

  Our group of younger guys was rather athletically inclined. Del Fager, soft spoken and instantly likable, was a good 6 feet, 3 inches and had been an accomplished athlete at Illinois State in baseball and basketball. He was a gentle giant until he got in a game. Pete Maravich was an expro ball player — big and powerfully built with a booming voice. His son, “Pistol Pete,” became a well-known college and pro player. With credentials like this, it didn’t take long for us to erect a basketball backboard, and we had many a frantic scrimmage around that net. I was a little shorter than some of the others, but since there were no referees, I compensated a bit and maybe bent the rules, just a little. It seemed only fair. I found I was able to more than make up for my “shortcomings” on the court by luring a few of the guys over to the “pit.” Horseshoes was a passion dating back to my childhood, spawned out of my love of cowboy stories and horses, and the competitions that our family enjoyed at “Woodlands,” the family house in northern Georgia. There, the uncles would battle it out at gatherings, playing golf, tennis, and horseshoes on makeshift venues carved out of the fields and woods. So I kind of had a leg up, and the hapless, novice shoe throwers around camp were generally easy prey.

  In college, I had barely scratched the surface of some gymnastic activity — a few basics like shoulder stands and “kick-ups” on the parallel bars. That, it seemed, qualified me to try to build a set. With much filing and carving to smooth out a pair of two-by-fours, I mounted them on some supports and gave them a whirl. I quickly regained what little expertise I had in school and polished my routine daily, which soon aroused some curiosity around the camp. Del took a shot, but was taller and gave up in frustration since the bars were not adjustable, “Howie, let’s build a higher one. I’ve always wanted to try ‘giants’ on the horizontal bar.” So we set about rigging up a length of pipe atop a couple of coconut logs. Before long we were a circus act. Del had figured out how to do sensational giants (swings) and nearby I labored along with my meager kick-ups, now looking every bit the straight man.

  Even with “all this,” time did drag between combat missions, and I found myself searching for entertainment. I always tended toward creative pastimes. Maybe it was a slight artistic bent, or perhaps it was a desire to leave a tiny mark on a world gone mad. Along with the sketching and painting of jungle and battle scenes, I found myself writing, at first taking notes about what we were seeing and learning, and then compiling a ledger and some anecdotes that seemed like they would be of interest some day.

  Of course, mail call was the highlight of every serviceman’s day. There were frequent letters from my family back in Indianapolis. My folks and I even numbered our letters in an attempt to better track the time and success of any mail exchange. Dad was meticulous in his correspondence, and of course my mom, unbeknownst to me, was continuing to carefully fashion a scrapbook of all greeting cards, photos, letters, and newspaper clippings that involved me. As time passed, I began composing poems and longer narratives of our actions in the South Pacific.

  The Fourth of July was nearing, and unless the Japanese provided them, we weren’t expecting to be seeing any fireworks this year. It was just about a year ago, I was passing my “D” check which meant I’d actually have a chance to fly one of those beautiful low wing planes I’d found so captivating. That was probably my greatest ambition — even if it was a single flight and I washed out the next day. What a complicated affair that little SNV* seemed back then!

  It was a day or two before being called out for a mission, so I began a letter to my mom and dad. There were so many things I wanted to share with them:

  “Dear Folks,

  Thank you for your recent letter, it took it a while to catch up with us. There is much to tell about our new work environment an
d the changes the missions are going through. But to answer your question, for some reason the flying has not yet become work — maybe it never does. It is always a kick to climb into your plane and begin the procedure of checking everything to prepare for takeoff. Then when you’re all set, you energize the engine, and as you engage it, holler ‘contact’ and flip the switch. As the big prop starts to rotate, the engine whimpers, coughs a bit, and then roars in your ears while you throttle back to a moderate RPM. If it’s a multi-engine plane, you then take each engine in turn the same way. Next you begin checking instruments once more — oil pressure up, cylinder head temperature, such and such, and after a few minutes warming up, the engines are ready for a test. That procedure is in itself fascinating, changing the propeller pitch to check its operation, and then as you hold down the brakes, racing the engine while flipping the magneto switches back and forth, and the whole ship quivers. Now a last look around and you taxi toward the takeoff position, in the meantime contacting the tower over your radio for permission to take off. You are at the end of the runway, the tower tells you to stand by as a couple of other planes make landings, then you are cleared, move into position, and pause a moment. Yes, everything is ready. Throttle forward gradually, a little right brake to hold you straight at first until you have enough air speed for the rudder to have effect. You glance at the manifold pressure gauge to see that you are not exceeding the maximum for takeoff.

  After that you concentrate between the strip ahead and the airspeed indicator. When the latter rotates to the proper place, you ease back on the stick a bit, and suddenly all tenseness is gone — in its place a sensation of riding on air behind thousands of horses. Then you hit the landing gear control, and up come the wheels to nestle snugly into the smooth lines of a 1944 airplane.

  You climb and climb, a watchful eye on that airspeed and swing away into a long arc up into the endless blue. Then the sky is yours from sea level to 29,000 or 30,000 ft. or more and as many hundred or even thousand miles away as your gas will carry you. It’s interesting to compare a few hours flight here any day in the week to the days of auto travel we used to put in for a summer vacation. Just think, I can wander out to the plane after breakfast, during the next few hours make the trip we used to drive from Indianapolis to 270 E. Main in North Adams, Mass., eat lunch there, pay a couple of visits, and leave in time to get back for dinner. I only wish I were in a position to actually make the trip.

  All this time you’ve been zooming across the skies, hopping around rain storms like they were mud puddles in the road. If you have gotten away from familiar territory, you’ve been tracking yourself on your navigation board, estimating the velocity of the wind from the appearance of the white caps and figuring how much that wind will blow you off course. So finally when you are ready to start home, a few quick calculations will give you the proper heading and even your time of arrival. It’s a great pleasure to have flown from dawn till dusk all day long out of sight of land, then to return, figuring ahead when you should arrive, and to find the field lying dead ahead and your arrival time correct within a minute — it has happened.

  You start circling the field, adjusting your transmitter to the proper frequency, contact the tower and ask permission to land. They give you landing instructions and you start your approach from perhaps a thousand feet. You go down the check list, letting down your wheels and flaps, making the other precautionary adjustments. There is the strip ahead, you’re coming down, take off a little more power, sailing over the tree tops, the end of the runway is within reach, you turn into the wind a little more to correct drift, then square away, leveling off with wheels just inches above the ground. You feel them touch and skid and start carrying you down the runway, trees and trucks and men flashing past — the men always stand watching as if they’d never seen a plane before. Then, as you slow down, you begin easing on the brakes alternately and finally turnoff into the taxiway. You cut the engine and the old props come to a standstill —you can’t help but think to yourself, ‘What a beautiful little gadget that is!’ And as you walk away with ringing still in your ears, the old question comes to mind, ‘If someone had told me, would I have ever believed it?’ Can you imagine what the Wright Brothers would think...” There was a sudden interruption — it was chow call and enough for tonight.

  * * *

  *Jack Beuttler, Pete Maravich, Del Fager, Gewin McCracken, Art Bonnet, Ray Peckham, Willie Sneed, Bob Pinckney, John Love, Mel Goers, and Jim Hanson.

  *The Major is better known as Colonel Roosevelt. He was promoted to Colonel in 1944.

  *Engineer/ Plane Captain also has aircraft maintenance responsibilities

  *Dad’s story with a few specific details Courtesy of the Library of Australia. Qantas Empire Airways operated the PBYs until July of 1945

  *SNV was a WWII era trainer built by Vultee. The Navy used these faster, single wing planes for student pilots as they became more advanced.

  Fantasy Islands

  July was shaping up to be an active month for our Black Cat crews, kicking off what was to be a busy winter for those of us in the southern hemisphere. Weather was generally more pleasant this time of year, slightly cooler and drier than when we had first arrived. It was strange to think of the folks back home just hitting the dog days of summer about now.

  The islands of the South Pacific were filled with curiosities for an Indiana boy. No matter where I went, there was some aspect of it that was new to me, sometimes puzzling or intriguing, sometimes unexpected or even distressing. Our island of Guadalcanal, for instance, was loaded with land crabs, a creature given to rambling the roadways at night. Unfortunately for them, it was a time when Navy jeeps were also wont to roam, resulting in countless smashed carcasses along the dirt thoroughfares. It made a peculiar contrast to the now rusting hulks of beached Japanese ships, monuments to the American conquest of the island.

  The indigenous people were fascinating to learn about and mingle with. Our crew was assigned a flight up to Rennell Island to check on a lost plane and crew. Back in January toward the end of the Guadalcanal campaign, we had retaken Rennell from the Japanese. The island had a rather large inland lake that made a good place for landing Catalinas, but on this trip we chose a beautiful little lagoon and were immediately surrounded by a horde of native outriggers. It was a friendly group, a bit primitive looking with dark black but diseased looking skins, not at all what you are led to believe from Hollywood. The women were mostly clothed in G.I. T-shirts. While we couldn’t really understand them, it was obvious that they had items to trade. One fellow showed me a beautiful pogi stick and once again I found myself unprepared. Then I recalled, in my flight bag, an old pair of rather loud South Sea Island swim trunks. A friend had given them to me while I was at Williams College, and the gaudy print, supposedly characteristic of Hawaii where they were purchased, was produced in some Massachusetts cotton mill, sent back and forth before following me again through Hawaii on my way to a real South Sea island. Now this chap was altogether taken with the trunks and I was about to outfit him with them and the irony was complete.

  After this initial “getting to know you” episode concluded, we were gratified to find there were also eight airmen there to recover, all in relatively good condition, and after shuttling them aboard, John got us airborne and safely back to base.

  And when some natives up on Sikaiana Island in the Stewarts (island chain) needed medical supplies, once again “Black Magic” was dispatched to deliver them to this tiny island north and east of us. Our flight took us over a towering range of mountains shrouded in a heavy blanket of clouds, creating the illusion of an endless snowfield stretching out as far as the eye could see. Occasionally, the clouds parted revealing craggy green mountaintops. As we broke through the cover, a tiny group of islands appeared in the distance. I was in the copilot seat and could soon see the atoll below, an arrowhead shaped perimeter of coral surrounded by a deep cobalt central lagoon that gradually became reddish brown where the various color
ed coral rose toward the surface, and jade near the edges in areas that sand had collected over it. A garland of foam surrounded the outside fringe of the island where the incoming waves were split by the jagged reefs. As we drew closer, villagers appeared on the beach, among them, groups of young women prancing about topless, somewhat of a new experience for most of us on board. To our disappointment, by the time the outriggers arrived, the ladies were discreetly re-clad in white blouses and there was nothing more to do than drop anchor and set about unloading the cargo. These were a handsome people with strong physiques, somewhat lighter skinned and with smooth complexions. It seemed the men did not readily mark their bodies or paint their hair, and women were shy and attractive with flowers adorning their long hair and sometimes their necks. Most spoke broken English. They escorted us to the beach in canoes through spectacular coral beds. I would have loved to have shared this experience with my Zoology group at Woods Hole — intriguing masses of red pipe and blue and yellow star coral, white brain coral, sea urchins, giant sea squirts, and colorful protochordates of every kind. This was truly a paradise.