by Miner, Ron
Most of our group had made the trip —Jack, Mac, Del, Pete, Bonnie, and I — and it was the first time we had been able to work together, several of us taking planes out and sometimes flying in formation. We were becoming more excited about “54” and the possibilities. A cross country run took us, one at a time, on a circuit of four towns — Indio, Blythe, Yuma (Arizona), and El Centro — flying blind on radio beams the entire way. I had gone first and now watched with the group as each of the others took their turn.
“So how did it go, Howie?” Mac asked curiously. He hadn’t been up yet.
“Smooth air most of the way, a few bounces between Blythe and Yuma. But you know how it is, kind of a scavenger hunt. I wasn’t sure about the Yuma leg, but we hit it on the money.”
Del changed the subject. “Bonnet wants to head into Palm Springs tonight after we all finish our hops. Ever been before? He says there’s a barn dance at one of the ranches and they love having Navy guys stop by.”
“Nope. Sounds swell, though.”
“Count me in,” Pete added. He had heard there were even costumes at some of these places and everything from ten-gallon hats to bathing suits. We watched as Bonnie touched down smoothly, sending plumes of white spray up and onto the fuselage where it was quickly scattered by the props. “Jack, you’ve been there. I hear the houses are amazing!”
“A lot of them are built around swimming pools — beautiful lawns, big driveways. But I don’t know about this ranch,” he replied.
“Simple folks, scrimping and doing without. It’s a war you know.”
“You’d switch places in a second. So whose up next?” I asked.
“That would be me.” Pete checked his charts again.
Before long he had completed his loop and we could see him making his approach, when Del and I had an idea that we thought might make this more interesting. To aid in getting a PBY out of the water, there were ramps constructed and, in many locations, a crew member or two would hop up on the opposite wing causing it to tip enough for the other wing to clear the ramp as it swung around in a 180-degree spin. A line could then be attached to the tail and the plane would be hauled up the ramp. Here, the ramp was shallow enough that one of the field personnel guided the pilot, nose first, carefully up it and onto dry land.
As Pete approached, looking for instructions, that individual was nowhere to be seen, and Del seized the opportunity and pulled his knit cap down low, largely concealing his face. He then proceeded to wave wildly but convincingly at the ever approaching PBY. Once Pete started up the slope, he could no longer see anything in front of him other than Del’s flailing arms and he was slowly but deliberately directed to one side of the ramp and into the ditch along its edge. As the starboard wheel started to sink into the mud and bog down, Pete added power, Del waved more furiously and the plane buried itself deeper and deeper. The “Black Swan” was at nearly full throttle and not moving when Del popped off his cap, revealing his true identity. With the duty officer now speeding toward us in his jeep and Pete cussing loudly enough that we could still hear him over the roar of 3,000 RPMs, Del and I decided it was about time to slowly fade out of there and leave it to the “Swan’s” crew to explain how they managed to get stuck in the mud. I’d have to say it took several days for them to forgive us for this indiscretion.
Maybe I was just in a good mood from completing a successful flight, watching Del toy with Pete, or even just giddy about seeing Palm Springs and the dance later. “You know, these old PBYs really aren’t so bad. I guess they’re growing on me.”
The week ended and we were ready to get out of San Diego again and see what L.A. had to offer. Gas was rationed, but getting chits (tokens) was no problem, so we headed out, eventually arriving in Beverly Hills. It seems we raised the appropriate amount of cane, then filled up and headed for home, driving in shifts to allow enough time to make it for Gewin’s 8:00 a.m. link trainer period. All of a sudden, the water pump began to howl and we limped along into the morning fog, not arriving until after 10:00 a.m. Missing training periods hadn’t been a big deal in the past, but they had decided to clamp down on missed appointments, so it was a shock to find that we were to report to the executive officer. He read us the riot act. “Your skipper is away on a cross-country flight for a few days and left word that you should all be thrown in the hack until he returns.” In our case, this meant being confined to the hangar and then marched to and from mess under armed guard. Pete responded, “You can’t do that!” to which the exec replied, “Of course I can, and as a matter of fact, YOU will be the armed guard.” So Pete reluctantly marched us at gunpoint to mess and back, and in four days, when the skipper returned, we were lined up for a good tongue lashing.
“I suppose you have all learned your lesson,” he said. I sensed Gewin was having blood pressure problems and was about to “blow his cool,” and quickly chimed in, “Yes, sir. I’m sure we have.” We only had two days left and didn’t want to spend them marching at gunpoint.
“Then you are returned to duty.” Actually, it was Friday, so we returned to San Diego.
Two days later, May 20, the squadron received orders to fly out and the entire group was packed aboard our new flock of PBY-5As, flying in small groups of three. Each plane, with some eleven personnel and all their gear and equipment, was loaded to more than maximum gross. In addition, the planes had landing gear weight to bear (all previous flights arranged to have the gear shipped over), some 1,100 pounds or more on its own. A couple of hundred people — family, wives, girlfriends, and members of other outfits — were on hand for an unforgettable send off. Crying, waving, whooping, and the suspense that comes with watching an overloaded aircraft takeoff surrounded our planes as they warmed up. We revved the engines and rolled down the west runway of North Island, clodhopping our way off the end of it and out across the water with fingers crossed that we could stay in the air. The first half hour was touch and go, as we played with METO (maximum except takeoff power) and climb power trying to inch up to some sort of cruising altitude. What a long night. Early on, the drop-off fuel pods were jettisoned into the ocean, and as the plane slowly burned fuel, we became lighter, ultimately managing a climb to 10,000 feet. I was an occasional smoker in those days and had supplied myself with cigars to help keep me awake. About that time, a little front persuaded us to take it up another 3,000 feet to get over it and between the cigars and the unpressurized cabin, I started to get woozy and nearly blacked out. My copilot, Bob, quickly grabbed the controls and yelled over the engine roar, “Howard! You there?” I came back around and we quickly lowered our altitude for the balance of the trip. Weather and winds became more of a factor as the flight continued and staying on course became a continual challenge, so I had Roger take star sightings all night long. As dawn finally broke, I was thinking we must almost be there, but the morning plodded along unendingly. Then, thank God, Land! Roger had guided us right into the Hawaiian chain. Twenty hours had come and gone before our plane finally made landfall, and when we set her down at Kaneohe, we were on fumes.
Here, VPB-54 set up housekeeping. The officers moved into a cluster of small apartments on the base and soon received our new assignments, primarily patrol and more training. Jack and I sat in his apartment enjoying a Coke and listening to the radio with the latest news from Rome and New Guinea, when an announcer read a flash that was handed to him. His manner was so casual that the two of us didn’t immediately grasp the importance of the actual text he was reading from. For the next several hours, we tried not to allow ourselves to get too excited as brief reports on the events in Normandy continued to be broadcast. The morning papers confirmed the rumors, and it seemed these opening hours of the invasion were very encouraging. It was a hugely critical day of the century, and the men out here in this theater were as anxious for the latest developments as the folks back in the states.
The squadron had grown to fifteen planes and eighteen crews. Kaneohe boasted a considerable history with PBYs, dating back even befo
re the Dec. 7 attack where thirty-three were hit and destroyed here by bombs and fire. But seaplanes attacked on land were a different matter than those in the water, where almost any damage to the fuselage could quickly send them to the bottom. Those thirty-three planes were salvaged and stripped of parts and in just ten days fashioned into another ten flyable aircraft. The repair crews were truly remarkable.
Compared to the hard push of the training in San Diego, this phase involved longer hours and fewer sessions. We still did our share of flying, but it was far less taxing than it had been a month ago. Someone came up with the idea that our Catalinas were suitable for carrier duty, and soon we found ourselves practicing takeoffs and landings on a small, carefully marked landing strip that was supposed to represent a carrier deck. We labored through a few training sessions but, of course, patrol continued to be the norm, as it was during the first tour. The many hours of searching limited our usefulness in other ways, but there was no questioning the level of security it had provided in the Solomons. It was essential to anticipate and observe enemy movements over a huge area.
Our patrols now required us to cover a triangular segment of however many hundred miles out, then across, and return. This patrol tactic was common for PBYs and was already used a little northwest of here before the battle of Midway as our intelligence people were frantically trying to figure out the “where and when” of the attack they knew was coming. The Cats fanned out daily and finally sighted part of the transport group. Ensign Jack Reid of VP-44 quickly sent a message that prompted a B-17 attack, the first of the encounter. Early the following morning, Howard Ady from VP-23 spotted the main carrier group and a short time later, another PBY flying closer to Midway, reported carrier aircraft heading toward the island. Because of the sightings, our planes were able to get in the air and four Japanese carriers were sunk along with the loss of hundreds of planes and thousands of Japanese military personnel. It was the turning point that American forces had been waiting for.
Frequently, this pattern would involve a little piece of Pacific rock called French Frigate. Nearby were some reefs, and we could see the Seabees scooping up the coral into an airstrip that had the look of an elongated carrier deck. Apparently, it was going to be used as a refueling stop for fighter aircraft being ferried out to the war zone. Whenever passing over this white rectangle, we made an effort to drop a bundle or two of current newspapers, cigarettes, and chocolate into the waiting arms of the construction guys below. Some time later, I was checking the operations board for my assignment and saw the chalked inscription:
“Land French Frigate Shoals with supplies.” We were to be the first aircraft to land on the new man-made island. It was kind of exciting as we swooped in, dodging a couple of cranes and touching down on the not-too-long runway. I braked to stop in the middle of a swarm of cheering Seabees, and it was great to finally get to shake the hands of some of the men we had only known before as unreadable pinpoints. I happened to look around as several of them were already busy loading a huge crate marked, “To VPB-54.” It was crammed full of fresh fish that they had caught that morning. Back at the base, we distributed the bounty to all our personnel, and for weeks we had the fridge stocked with seafood.
An SBD went into a dive and the unsuspecting rear gunner found himself being launched out of the cockpit.
We had managed to sell the Studebaker for $250 more than we paid for it right before we left the mainland, thinking that would give us a little cash to spread around on the islands, but most of our down time was spent entertaining ourselves with tennis and sometimes golf. Unlike San Diego, the women were relatively scarce anywhere around the base, so we made do with Navy-type parties and enjoying the food and drink between missions. Those missions began changing as well. A task force of several planes, including ours, was now dispatched out to Midway for a brief tour, and we were again back in Quonset huts, this time near the beach. The schedule was supposed to be a three day turn — one day off, one day standby, and one day patrol. So sometimes we would have two days to kill. We would break it up with long junkets along the beaches getting acquainted with the multitude of native birds. The scruffy young gooney birds, rocking on their elbows on the sand dunes where they had just hatched, were hilarious. The adults were marvelous, soaring with grace and flicking the waves with their wing tips. The lovely terns were fast learners, and we found we could teach them to eat from our hands. There were thousands of these ocean birds to mingle with by day and gently croon us to sleep by night.
During one of these lulls, I was walking toward the pier contemplating the curious way things often play out in wartime and I found myself imagining the raging Battle of Midway. It had included the loss of Torpedo Eight and Bob Evans, the saluting soldier that had so inspired me during that football game at Wabash.
And would things have gone differently if VP-44’s Jack Reid and his PBY crew hadn’t discovered the approaching fleet? Our own Elliot Schreider, now flying Liberators with VP-116, was originally with VP-44 when he first arrived in Hawaii before our first tour and was briefly acquainted with Reid. Reid’s crew flew some 650 miles daily for several days searching for the battle group and each day just at the turn around point, a pesky and persistent Nell 96 (Mitsubishi bomber) would open up on them, putting a few holes in their PBY. They fired back from the blisters, but were unable to damage the attacker enough to deter it. When they returned to Midway, Reid’s Plane Captain, R.J. Deroin, managed to rustle up a few rounds of a new type of .50 caliber bullet used in the Army B-17s stationed there. It was specifically designed to explode on impact causing more damage than conventional ammo. They divided these cartridges between their blister guns and felt ready to take some measure of revenge on the Nell 96.
DeRoin had a wife and two children. On this particular day, he loaded an additional 50 gallons of fuel for each of them for luck, and with that extra 150 gallons the PBY lifted off and again began its routine. However, when they reached the appointed turn around, there was no sign of the Japanese aircraft. Disappointed, copilot Bob Swan persuaded Reid to continue on a few minutes more, and with DeRoin’s assurances about the extra fuel in reserve, he agreed. Another ten minutes and below them, visible on the horizon, were the first of the Japanese attacking forces. With this fortunate sighting, Reid’s crew had more than evened the score with the Japanese Nell 96.*
As I continued toward the pier, I noticed a submarine tied up to a massive piling and intrigued, ambled over for a look. There was a navy chief on deck. I struck up a conversation, and he soon invited me aboard for the cook’s tour of the ship.
Somewhere down in the bilges, we were both startled to hear the engines fire. “We better get topside,” he shouted as he hurried up the ladders with me in hot pursuit. We burst out on deck just as the gangplank was lifted aboard and I made for the beach. He had told me the sub was sailing under sealed orders for who knows where. I wondered what the ramifications would have been had I not made it off her. I presumed I would’ve been AWOL, but was it really my fault? Would I have gotten any pay? Flight or Sub? Court-marshaled?
While at Midway Airfield, an interesting piece of good fortune occurred. An SBD went into a dive and the unsuspecting rear gunner found himself being launched out of the cockpit. He somehow caught the edge of one foot and hung on that way all through the dive. The pullout reinserted him back into the cockpit, leaving the poor gunner unable to talk or even walk when they safely got him back down. He made a reasonably full recovery and when we returned to Hawaii, we all had a top notch story to tell over drinks.
Military map of Kavieng (on left)
Our new skipper continued to feel like a bad fit. A few members of the squadron were still suspicious of his motives and most of his approach to training continued to fly in the face of the reason and expertise we felt we had secured during the first tour. Everything he did since arriving at North Island just rankled us, so much so, that several of us arranged an audience with the base commander. He listened to our story and
explained in detail the precarious steps we would have to undertake to accomplish a change. After mulling it over a few days, we had just about decided to take the shot when we were, perhaps mercifully, ordered back to combat. It was July of ‘44 and the squadron was heading south.
Our path from Kaneohe through Espiritu Santo to Guadalcanal included Funafuti instead of Samoa and Fiji this time around. After a few days, we returned to Espiritu and made camp in a huge grove of palms, holed up in the Quonsets near the Buttons airstrip. We began regular search patrols from here, sometimes for enemy activity, once unsuccessfully over the mountains for several hours in hopes of locating a downed plane. In between flights, I set up a drawing board and fiddled with artwork, eventually christening my plane “Frisco Gal,” with paintings of a startling, negatively clad blonde on either side of the bow, including front and backside views. Off-duty afternoons were usually spent at the ‘O’ Club, taking advantage of the facilities and singing a few profane bars of “The Long, the Short, and the Tall.”
There was now another story making the rounds down at the club. Earlier in the year, one of the squads working a little north of us had sent a Cat along with an army bomber group for an attack of Kavieng, a Japanese stronghold on the Island of North Ireland. The pilot, an Arkansas boy, was making his way down the elongated coastline when he received word that a plane was down and fliers were in the water. It was apparently one of those days when seas were uncooperative, swells too large for a safe landing, and tough choices would have to be made. When they arrived at the designated location, a B-25 passing by radioed that a plane was spotted down nearer Kavieng and led them toward the harbor. In they went, popping rivets and shaking the old girl violently. But things were so rough that they couldn’t bring the raft alongside with the engines running, so he gave orders to shut them down and hoped they would restart again in the splash and spray. The good news was the rough sea was making them a difficult target. They got the six airmen aboard and the engines restarted just as enemy fire, which had been a little short up until then, began straddling the plane. Once airborne, his escort radioed that more fliers were in the drink. They climbed and headed about, this time closer to Kavieng. The landing was good, but the Japanese were watching and had their guns trained by now. Again he had to kill the engines to load the three survivors, and on restart, the port engine flooded. They circled with one engine to create a moving target until it had a few minutes to dry out. Mercifully, the engine kicked and they were quickly in the sky.
