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

by Miner, Ron

  Night bombing and strafing runs were carried out

  against the Tokyo Express, as depicted in this 1943 Look

  Magazine Military Ad and the photo to the right.

  Howard pictured with “Belt of 1000 Stitches”

  Interestingly, during the attack on Pearl Harbor, a Japanese fighter was shot down at Kaneohe (where I was based) and the pilot was found to be wearing one of the belts. He was very, very dead. A Lt. Commander who was investigating the wreckage found this intriguing. He mentioned the incident to his wife when he returned home and his Korean housemaid, Mai Su, overheard the conversation and interrupted with an explanation.

  Mai-Su had lived in Korea as a young girl. Early in the war with China, her mother told her about the story of the famous “Belts of a Thousand Stitches” and the powerful “juju” that would turn back bullets better than armor and always worked. All the Japanese women in Japan and Korea were making the belts for the army, but they needed more, so the Korean women were ordered into factories to make them. These women resented the work and had no interest in saving these pilots, but were severely punished if they refused — until one of them realized they didn’t have to sew stitches that represented the wishes that were written for them. As Mai Su put it, “May the dog that wears this go down out of the sky in flames, and may other dogs refuse to eat him! Now the belts are all mixed up and no one knows why the juju is failing, except the Korean women. It is powerful talisman and always works!”

  It seems my belt must have included that Korean touch.

  Bombing a ship, sub, or other target from a PBY was challenging. Generally, the Nordon bombsight wasn’t practical when making a glide run. In fact, when it was possible, we preferred dropping our 500 pounders by eye in a timed series from around 1,000 feet. Much lower than that at our airspeed and we risked damage to our own plane from the blast of the bombs we were dropping. Earlier in the campaign, a Cat using instantaneous fuse bombs scored hits on a cruiser from extremely low altitude, blowing it up and shredding itself with shrapnel holes. The tunnel gun hatch, which was manned, was sloshed with salt water.

  Sometimes things that could go wrong went wrong. Back in August, we were north of Black Cat Base off the Island of Tulagi and the Florida Islands on a night search. We did everything by the book, started our run, descended to the proper altitude, and timed the release. John called for the drop — nothing happened. The micro switch had malfunctioned and we went sailing over our suddenly reprieved target, clearly in view below. What a feeling of frustration. By the time we circled back, the sub had disappeared beneath the waves.

  On another occasion while on patrol, we happened upon a rather large Japanese task force. After looking over the situation, we selected the largest vessel as our target and made a diagonal run across it. Our four 500 pound bombs were armed to explode on contact, but only after falling 4,000 feet. John leveled off at 4,000 feet and we let them go. The first and last bombs exploded on either side of the cruiser, but the middle two did not go off. Could it be that they had landed on the deck before falling quite the full 4,000 feet?

  More recently, a Sea Cat was flying over Palau during a night raid and found the clouds so thick his bombardier couldn’t see anything. After struggling with the conditions for an hour or so it appeared hopeless, so they dropped their eggs and left for home. The next morning, reconnaissance photos showed that a Japanese freighter had been sunk in the harbor — in this case, something that could go wrong went right.

  Then at times the missions seemed to border on the ridiculous. We had been ordered to drop thousands of leaflets over Jap positions and had composed a propaganda message translated into Japanese. On the back of some of the sheets, we added our own thoughts in English. To heighten the impact, we still liked to include a few empty beer bottles, which supposedly created a loud, creepy whining noise as they spun in, a little like a bomb that never went off.

  Much of the year had come and gone and once again morale was becoming a problem. The last few months had been tough on personnel and planes. Now, Bill Anderson, a PPC from Georgia, had an engine catch fire and they were forced to crash land at sea. They managed to get everyone out of the burning plane and secured two life rafts, putting some distance between them and the sinking plane before an enemy vessel arrived. They made their way to shore, narrowly avoiding discovery, and eventually managed to escape with the assistance of the friendly “coast watchers.” Their Plane Captain became separated from the group and was captured and killed just a short distance away from the rest of the fleeing crew.

  So I was not surprised to find the bunch of them at the airport as we landed the following afternoon, each with a fancy Australian girl on his arm.

  The war seemed endless and we had now been overseas for nine months and counting, nearly twice the typical tour of our Navy crews. Somehow, another shot of R&R was arranged, this time in Sydney. An R4D * transport took the first group of fliers down, including most of my close friends. I was assigned to the second plane a day later, in charge of a large group of enlisted personnel. Jack and another buddy, Dick, had said as they left, “Don’t worry, Howie, we’ll have you all fixed up with a hot date when you get in!”

  So I was not surprised to find the bunch of them at the airport as we landed the following afternoon, each with a fancy Australian gal on his arm. “Let’s phone your date,” they said, and one of the girls and I squeezed into the phone booth. She dialed up her roommate and in a moment, announced, “I am so sorry, she was thinking it was tomorrow night and can’t make it this evening.” The whole episode had taken maybe thirty-seconds and I was already shot down.

  I decided to have a good time in Sydney anyhow. For some reason, it reminded me of San Francisco, perhaps just the buildings, taxis, and crowds. Of course, traffic was now on the left, catching me by surprise more than once as we stepped down off a curb. You do everything you can to survive for months in enemy territory, only to get mowed down by a cabbie on your first day of R&R. But there was so much to see. Some of the vehicles were outfitted with giant charcoal burners attached to the rear of them, and here and there were delivery vehicles with large, ungainly gas filled balloons strapped to their tops. “No petrol, mate? How about some coal?”

  After exchanging our money for pounds, florins, shillings, and pence, Jack, Dick, and I grabbed a cab and set about finding our appointed flat. It was a wild ride.

  “This is it. On the right,” Jack gestured at the two story brick building. “It looks swell! Whose got the fare?”

  We settled up and the cab drove away. “Hey, I’m two Bob short!”

  “Too late now. He’s already halfway to Rushcutters Bay by now. Let’s get cleaned up and look around.”

  Yes, it was a wonderful city. The folks were friendly, the food good, a great zoo, high surf, and plenty of booze. Beer was served warm and stout and was a strong, midday libation. Oyster bars were everywhere, and I found after a few Scotch and sodas, that I could learn to love the things. And to my surprise, I quickly forgot about the unfortunate outcome of my first attempt at a date in Australia, thanks to one beautiful and enticing lady named Nadia.

  It is a great thrill to meet a new girl and say to yourself, “This may be the one,” especially if, as you get acquainted, you begin to see her personality assume the very lines you had always imagined as your ideal, with an occasional novel “twist” that you would never have seen coming, just for spice. It then becomes tragic when, all along, you know that due to impractical circumstances for both of you, this “relationship” will never really be able to take root.

  On my second night “down under,” I had survived a long and uneventful date, so the next morning when Dick suggested I come along on a double with him, my enthusiasm really wasn’t there. I had a change of heart after he reminded me of our vow, made back in the Solomons where it seemed you were either bored to tears or scared to death, that we would never waste a day. So it was off to the races, literally. He had planned a day for us at th
e track.

  My first glimpse of her was beyond reassuring. Her eyes were large and sort of a mixture of colors, her hair shining blonde and turned under at the ends. Her simple cotton frock accented her figure beautifully and her smile was warm. In a word, she was stunning. “And this is Nadia,” I heard him saying, and I thought, “Nadia — how pretty.”

  “So you are the artist,” she said, smiling. I clumsily answered, “Huh?” This is where it often went wrong for me, during that initial introduction I either forgot names or just blurted out nervous nonsense. But this time it was different. Gathering myself, I said, “Oh, Dick probably told you that. I’m really no artist. He’s just fascinated when I hold pencils and things.” Dick again seized the opportunity to elaborate, building a resume I didn’t deserve, but entertaining her and his date as we quickly became more comfortable together. We decided to hail a cab, crowded in, and I was impressed by how at ease this girl was on a blind date with a military guy. She told me she was eighteen and lived with her mother who was otherwise alone. She loved art and dabbled a bit.

  It was a marvelous afternoon at the races. I let Nadia make all the picks and then would quite naturally agree with her selections. She managed to nab winners in several races, then after losing a couple, was considerate of my pocketbook and quit while we were still ahead. Of course, we needed to celebrate and left in search of shakes and sundaes. The afternoon wound down and to my disappointment, I discovered she already had a birthday party commitment for the evening. However, she quickly suggested we meet again the following day for a trip to the zoo, and so our date was set.

  The zoo was fun, but it didn’t even matter. We were enjoying every moment together and watching her as she walked along in the brilliant sunshine, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have reconsidered that first double date. After lunch at Oriano’s, she cuddled up to me in the cool breezes on the ferry as we headed back to King’s Cross, where I dropped her at her flat for an hour while I scurried home to get cleaned up for the evening.

  Over on Elizabeth Bay Road there was an Officer’s Club, and I was surprised to see a large gathering and a dance in progress. Moving onto the floor for our first dance together, we were actually both trembling. I drew her closer, and it seemed we fit together perfectly and the floor just dropped away, like we had been dancing our whole lives together. The piece ended and we lingered together for a long while, now both knowing we were in love. “L-let’s go for a drink,” she said.

  We sipped our cocktails slowly and conversed easily. After about an hour I suggested, “Would you like to take a walk?”

  “Yes, let’s do,” she replied and quickly took my arm.

  “Well, you’ll have to lead me around,” I said, “after all, I’m pretty new here.”

  “Let’s go sit in the park.”

  Our walk took us through an alley, darker than any place I had ever walked with a girl. It finally opened up into the park and a variety of small benches lay ahead. I quickly made for the darkest one, way over by an air raid shelter. We sat down and she looked at me, and then surprised me by saying, “If you’re going to kiss me, let me take off some lipstick first.” That first kiss was the biggest thrill of all. I remember thinking, “This is worth spending eight years, much less eight months in Guadalcanal. Think about it; remember every detail, Howie. In a week, that’s all you’ll have.” Her lips were soft, cool, and sweet, and the kiss sent chills up my spine. I didn’t want it to end. Finally separating, she said, “I hoped it would be like that.” I couldn’t help thinking of the boys in the outfit who had wives they loved back home, that this is what they must feel like. I was sure we both knew that we would never be married. Assuming I lived through the war, she knew I would have to return to America, my home — that Australia could never replace it. And I saw that she would never leave her mother alone. They were closer than sisters, and her mom would never leave Australia for the states. Yet, we were not afraid of love. We were content to live out this dream, even knowing it would before long vanish, leaving us with only the memories of our short time together.

  We spent another two days enjoying everything this Australian town had to offer, the sights by day, the dancing at night. We now had pet names. She called me “Happy” and I surely was, and to me, she was “Lucky” from our glorious afternoon at the races. Our final time together needed to be special, and we spent it at the beach on that lovely sunny day. She had a perfect complexion, smooth skin that had not yet seen much sun, contrasting to my ruddier tanned body from months in and around a tropical jungle. I gave her two yellow roses for her hair, and we sat and talked and enjoyed a picnic lunch. I shall always think of her when I smell a yellow rose. Our final day was drawing to a close. It was one of those times when she caught me looking that she quickly said, “Happy, you love me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Lucky, I guess it’s no secret to you. I love you and I’m glad I do.”

  “I love you too, darling,” she said sweetly as she leaned over. “You Yanks seem so much more well mannered than Australian fellows. I wish I could visit America and see what it’s like. I’d probably love it and want to live there. But you see how it is now. Tomorrow you go back to the Islands and I’ll probably never see you again. Why is it that someone I love has to go up there where they could be killed or injured, when they could have jobs right here?”

  “I don’t know, Lucky. I’d give anything to trade with one of these guys, but that’s just the way it is,” I said helplessly.

  “Do take care of yourself and think of me — and I promise I’ll write every week. Just now it’s ten minutes to eleven. Every Thursday at ten till eleven, I’ll throw you a kiss.”

  Our final embrace was tender, loving, and final. Some five years later I received a letter from Nadia. She had not forgotten me and was planning a trip to the states and wanted very much to get together. As luck would have it, a week earlier I had met my future wife-to-be, Dorothy Dale, and we were about to embark on a new adventure of our own. I chose not to answer the letter, and Nadia and I never saw each other again.

  * * *

  *This became known as the Tokyo Express. Usually completing an entire resupply run at night, the Japanese were proficient in the use of this tactic and found their movements nearly undetectable in the darkness until the Black Cat squadrons began their own night missions.

  *R4D was the Navy’s version of a DC-3 similar those used for passengers on commercial airlines throughout the US. The army designation was C-47.

  First at something

  We all flew back, sorrowfully, to the combat zone, wondering what surprises might be in store for us. I didn’t have long to wait. Within another few days, I developed a severe sore throat and my neck began to swell. I felt awful. The doctor sent me over to the MOB-8 Naval Hospital where my condition was diagnosed. “You have made history, Ensign,” he said. “You have the only case of mumps on record on the island of Guadalcanal! Where the Hell did you get it?”

  “We don’t have an isolation ward here,” the pharmacist’s mate explained to me. “We are confining you to this end of the Quonset hut, and will put a screen across here. You keep your ass away from those other 26 patients. You’re here for three weeks, not a day less!”

  Later, a couple of my buddies from the “Black Cats” showed up with a watermelon. (Seemingly, they had already dealt with mumps as kids). According to them, Del’s girl in Sydney, the one I had squeezed into the phone booth with, had written him that she was laid up with mumps. “What the Christ did you do to her in there, you hard up shit-head?”

  “Hell, I was only in there thirty-seconds. Never even touched her!” I never was able to convince them.

  The days dragged on. Fortunately for me, it was a “light” case, with no “serious” repercussions. Unfortunately for me, I was startled awake in the morning by aloud crackling sound, like small arms fire. Already a bit cranky and totally tired of the whole thing, I bellowed for someone on duty. In situations like this, it is not u
ncommon for an “officer” to search for an appropriate pejorative when addressing an enlisted man.

  “So I’ve got two questions for you, you sorry son of a bitch!” I announced when the corpsman looked in on me. “First, don’t you have any female nurses around here? And second, have the Marines landed again out there?”

  “And I’ve got two answers for you, SIR!” he sarcastically drawled. “First, what are female nurses? And second, that’s an ammo dump blowing up out there and I’m betting we’re all going to be hitting the dugouts!”

  When he returned a short time later, he was carrying a helmet and gas mask. “You’ll note the conflagration has now progressed into the artillery shells. Next it will be the ‘big stuff’! The Old Man has ordered us all into the bomb shelters — that is, all except you. You are in isolation!” His drawl couldn’t conceal his wry smile.

  At that moment, a huge explosion occurred and I was literally knocked off the bed, and he simultaneously disappeared, doing some kind of crouching “duck run.” I picked myself up, closed the screen door that had been blown open, rehung the fire extinguisher that had been dislodged from the wall, and climbed back into the sack. On the one hand, I felt I had been unfairly discriminated against: I was sure I was well past any infectious stage of this disease. On the other hand, the rest of the hospital was crowded into a dark, smelly, underground shelter sweating it out. I was reclining, nice ocean breeze, white sheets, not so bad.

  Wham! Another thunderous concussion and again I was on the floor along with the fire extinguisher, looking through the screen-less door, as bits and pieces of something rained down all around. Once more I secured the area and returned to my bed, much less confident now. I began to think things were really going south. I guess you hope that when your time finally comes, you go out in some glorious way and are not found under a pile of debris from explosions your own side had set off, sporting a case of the mumps. The chaos continued throughout most of the afternoon, and then, thankfully, subsided, as it had apparently used up all of the “big stuff.”