by Miner, Ron
At least long enough to get a new call that there was yet another one down much closer to shore. Against his better judgment, the pilot continued on and again landed where an oil and dye sheen were visible. Here the plane and raft were already gone and there were no survivors in sight, and they immediately got out of there just as another message came across the radio. A fourth raft! Actually two. He wondered if it would be possible to land a fourth time with the PBY’s weakened hull in seas that really weren’t safe for a single landing. He tried not to think about it as they went in yet again, this time flying over gun positions and taking heavy fire. They landed barely a quarter mile from shore and of course the engines had to be shut down. The strafing was all around them now. It must have seemed a lifetime as they watched each of the six crewmen slowly hauled on board. The engines caught and the overloaded PBY climbed as the tracers pummeled the very water they had been sitting in. They got all the injured back safely, all survived, and Lt. (jg) Gordon was later awarded a Medal of Honor.*
Espiritu continued to be our primary base for a few months. The flying in and around the Solomons and the New Hebrides was a far cry from the stateside work we had been accustomed to and it began to look like our focus would involve much more daytime flying. Patrols often included searching for lost planes as well as subs and shipping. During the first tour, we would typically meet in a tent before missions. I always found it strange that as I looked around that tent, I was surrounded by not just Navy guys, but teachers, salesmen, lawyers, store owners, even students, and all of us were sitting there discussing how to inflict the most damage and kill the most people. There was never a doubt in any of our minds who the enemy was and that they needed to be stopped, but there was a certain relief for some of us seeing action for the second time to find more of our effort would be spent on rescue work. Saving lives, our own countrymen’s lives, was a hugely satisfying experience.
Not only were rescue missions becoming more common, the chances of successfully locating a downed flier were becoming more promising. Information came in from coast watchers and as the war pushed northward, friendlies among the islanders and guerrilla fighters were increasingly helpful. Searches began more quickly and rafts were better equipped with markers. Some even had broadcast transmitters with a small hydrogen filled balloon attached to antenna wire to enhance the chances of being spotted by one of our planes.** Dumbos were now used routinely as escorts during attack missions, greatly reducing the size of search areas. We had just returned from a search involving six of our planes, but in this case we were unsuccessful. Downed airmen still found themselves in a perilous situation, although compared to the first tour, that situation was much improved.
Flying by day could provide as much drama as our night time missions. For instance, during one of the frequent shuttles between Espiritu and Guadalcanal, our flight path took us near an awe inspiring sight — a very active volcano. Taking care not to fly directly over the pit of the volcano itself and steer clear of the scorching temperatures and volatile air currents, we skirted around its flanks to what appeared to be a more stable situation. The slopes turned out to be newly created lava beds producing much the same conditions we had tried to avoid. At that moment, my first thought was that one of our crewmen had been taking pictures from the port side waist blister through the open slide and might still have it open. The plane hit a monster updraft and was lurched some 500 hundred feet upward in an instant. I struggled to regain control and shouted into the intercom as we reached a safe distance. The crewman had apparently closed the slide moments before we bounced in the rough air and received a nasty thump on the noggin to remember the volcano by.
Although night flights were less typical than during the first tour, routine night patrols still occurred and were not always routine. We had an evening encounter with a Japanese task force, which surprised us by sending a blistering hail of anti-aircraft fire our way. Roger, our navigator, was cooped up in the center of the plane and unable to see what was going on, but heard the gunfire over the engine noise.
“Navigator to pilot, what are we shooting at?”
I hesitated a moment, trying to figure out the right words to explain our situation, and before I could answer several crew members took the lead.
“Waist gunner to Navigator, I’m not shooting.”
Then another voice, “This is Combs, I haven’t fired a round.”
“Nose gunner, I’m not shooting either.” With all the gunners accounted for, Roger paused then replied somewhat timidly over the intercom, “Navigator to pilot — Well then, why aren’t we?”
“Frisco Gal” and her crew touched down at Buttons after a long flight and we suddenly found we had several days off. Mail back and forth to the states was now happening in remarkable time. Some of the guys even held competitions and reported getting letters from as far away as New Jersey in a matter of a few days, a huge change from the early days of the war. There were rumors circulating that something big was brewing, and the group was killing time at home in the Quonset until we could learn a little more about it. I was writing a letter thanking my folks for a package they had sent. In the attached note, they wrote that during a family trip to Georgia, they had passed through Atlanta and had seen one of the new B-29s, America’s Superfortress high altitude bomber. They couldn’t wait to tell me about it.
I paused a moment to look around the hut at the cast of characters I had fallen in with. Pete was a Serbian fellow, a Pittsburg native who had earned All-American honors playing basketball at a small West Virginia college. He loved his cigars and could frequently be seen chewing them down to stubs. Pete dated quite a number of girls back in San Diego and Hawaii and, somewhere along the way, had gone out with Miss Hawaii. They hit it off and she decided to make him a present of a small German Shepherd puppy, Chet. When we headed overseas, Chet went with us and the two of them were constant companions.
Pete had a passion for the news and I had suggested the idea of posting a big chart on the wall and coloring in the daily progress of the allies as they advanced across Europe. He was excited at the prospect and was now hovering over the map, filling us all in on the latest developments. He’d come a long way since our first tour days when he could be found banging his head on the wall in frustration over the early, sweeping successes the Japanese enjoyed around these islands.
Jack, on the other hand, had struggled for three hours with a wringer-less washing machine, and swore he would run around naked from now on. There was now an enlisted gent, who for a few cents per item, would do the wash. This fellow made a little money and remained valuable enough around the camp to manage to get out of most of his other work, and that suited him fine. Jack had an opportunity to use our “laundry service,” but wouldn’t part with the money. Instead, he has decided to invest it and is playing poker with Gewin McCracken.
Mac, a pretty fair poker player, managed to fall on his face yesterday and now looks like he fell asleep in the sun for an afternoon with all the merthiolate he has spread around on it. You would have expected better from an Alabama farm boy, and we’d been giving him a hard time. He joined the Navy right out of Jackson State Teachers College.
Del and Art Bonnet have taken to playing duets on clarinet and sax and sound good together. The trouble is that Del only knows one song and we’ve heard it now a thousand times! Sometimes he’d practice while we were all airborne, piping it between us through the intercoms, until we threatened to throw him out and leave him to the Japanese. The two of them dated a couple of girls a week or two ago when we were back in Guadalcanal. Henderson had become a big and very busy place and there was even a donut shop down near the strip. They were heading out for a hop at about the same time and while looking around to find where the ground crews put their planes, they wandered over for a bite. Bonnie was from Evanston, Ill., and it turned out one of the girls behind the counter was, too. She had a friend, both staying at the nurse’s compound, and the four of them went out for the evening, barely
managing to get the girls back before it was locked up for the night.
We all loved Bonnie. Back in San Francisco, when we all first arrived at our hotel to get cleaned up, they didn’t have our reservation. His mother had owned a string of hotels in Evanston, and after a few minutes of small talk with the manager, he walked over to us and announced, “We’ll have a room in an hour!” Somehow he had gotten them to take a conference room and outfit it with extra beds and wall dividers so we could all share it. He was our hero.
The whole group of them had joined in on the poker game by now, and I couldn’t help thinking to myself what a remarkable bunch this was. We came from all over the country and from all walks of life. Here we were, each of us gathered for this common purpose, doing things in an aircraft invented a dozen years ago and before most of us had entered high school that would have surprised even its designers.
About this time, someone laid down a beer and Chet knocked it over and lapped up the puddle. Poor Chet loved beer, but Pete’s convinced it’s stunted his growth. He’s only about the size of a beagle.
“That’s the last beer anyone gives that dog!” And with that, there was never another beer on the floor of the Quonset.
Ray Peckham? He’s asleep. Again.
* * *
*Two Ball runway allows landing from east to west. One Ball from west to east — Dad’s flight notebook
* Nell 96 was a Japanese bomber made by Mitsubishi
* This account differs from the contemporary account and Lt. Gordon’s own retelling of the story of the rescues. It was reported in an interview with Gordon by Charles Rawlins in the Saturday Evening Post in Dec of 1944 and corroborated in an article by Don Wharton, Look Magazine, (Feb 1945). Both of these articles were part of my father’s collection of memorabilia.
** Gibson Girl hand cranked transmitters involved an H2 generator, a metal cylinder containing granular material that when mixed with sea water would produce hydrogen gas. It was part of a kit that included a box kite, the hydrogen generator, and even a small light that was strapped to either the kite or balloon. The gas was used to pressurize the balloon if there wasn’t enough wind to fly the box kite. courtesy Henry Rogers - WHRM
A Special Task
It had been about seven weeks since D-Day on the opposite side of the world. Germany had lost at Normandy and 9,000 brave servicemen gave their lives to make it happen. It was an effort made all the more remarkable by an unspeakable and lesser known tragedy that occurred about six weeks earlier during training exercises for the invasion. Some 30,000 troops and a host of vessels conducting mock beach landings in British waters were victims of a surprise attack during their training, causing another nearly 1,000 men to lose their lives. Although there was to be much finger pointing, the entire episode needed to remain secret so as not to jeopardize the pending invasion, and the fate of those unfortunate servicemen was not revealed until much later.
Over here, we were getting ready to move north toward Guam and Saipan. Our speculation about “something brewing” turned out to be correct as a sizable task force was being organized in an attempt to move a great number of Marine single-engine fighter planes over several successive days to a forward area across some 3,500 miles of water. For us this was a special mission, and while we had a potentially grim part in it, it was certainly a determined and vital part. It was to be a history making operation. The move would only make four stops, and some doubted whether it was possible to safely move such a large number of small aircraft under their own power over that great expanse of ocean. Since our more primitive “Dumbos” worked quite well in both fluids, our primary mission was to bolster the confidence of members of this “wagon train” by being a constant presence in the event of a mishap.
Our part of the flight was to consist of two waves on two consecutive days. Each wave would consist of nine transports, twenty-two of the small planes, and three PBYs. Since we were much slower, we took off in intervals ahead of the other aircraft so as to be dispersed along the route as the speedier fighters caught up. Should any go down, the nearest PBY would be directed to the scene to attempt a rescue.
The crews were selected over a week before our departure. Our skipper was to go on the first day, and Ray Peckham and I were to accompany him. In the second section were John Love, Harry Shaw, and Ralph Badge. Our squadron had acquired several of the purely seaplane type of PBY that could only land on water. These “sea cats” were lighter and considered somewhat better for open sea rescue work, and it was decided to have one sea cat in each section. Peck and I were relieved that the skipper had selected the Seacat for himself, as we much preferred landing on the strips than in the bays.
Our buddies took it upon themselves to prepare our souls for the trek into the forward territory, recounting tales of unfortunates who had confronted every kind of wind and swell condition with unspeakable outcomes. In turn, we promised to arrange for the entire squadron to be transferred up there for permanent duty and boasted that we expected to return laden with Jap souvenirs — especially since we were taking all our liquor for trading purposes.
Day after day, the seventy or so pilots were briefed on flight plans, weather, ranges, and other navigational aids. Each day we expected to head out, but a streak of very bad weather persisted. Finally, I awoke before daylight to peer out into more heavy rains, and learned I had drawn the early hop and needed to takeoff an hour ahead of the others so I would arrive into the last third of the journey as the others passed. My crew and I gathered at the mess hall for early chow served by sleepy eyed stewards. To his credit, the skipper had somehow lined up several dozen fresh eggs for us to cook en route, so with my poncho over my head, I joined the others and we all made way to the waiting truck and headed for the mat.
Aerology had predicted a weak front stretching all along our flight path, and we ran into heavy overcast at about 800 feet. We held at 500 feet for about fifty miles, dodging a few lofty islands along the way, but then it became obvious a greater intensity front and a line of squalls would force us up or around to avoid flying into the monsoon on instruments. Clouds were an interesting contradiction. They represented turbulence and poor or worse visibility and sometimes could pose a real threat to a plane, but they were also our preferred hiding place when we were unfortunate enough to stumble upon an enemy fighter, a rabbit buried in the briar patch. After poking around at 9,000 feet, we judged the buildups too high and too solid ahead, so we decided to instead head left and around for some sixty miles off course.
We made good time at that altitude and listened in as the other planes took off and joined in. As the hours passed, the group closed in — until there was a sudden report of engine trouble, an oil leak. After some debate, the pilot decided to remain on course and I wondered if we would get our first taste of the conditions down below. Our last good look at the sea told us there was a moderate swell with at least a fifteen knot wind, about the roughest conditions that would allow a rescue attempt. We sweated a little, but I’m sure the pilot was far more uneasy. He surely knew what a rough sea meant, and he had no power of decision, the plane either stayed up or it didn’t. The burden of determining whether to leave that man floating in the foam or attempt a rough landing — and conceivably an impossible takeoff risking nine more lives — was left to us. So, yes, we sweated. And listened to the radio.
Another hour passed, then another, and finally we were starting letdown toward our destination. The plane picked up speed, hitting the stratus layer where we went on instruments for about ten minutes, then popped out at 2,000 feet where dead ahead was the broken silhouette of an atoll. On flights over the Pacific, it could be hours between any glimpses of land or even the tiniest speck of an island. There was so much vast, sheer blue openness, sometimes at least partially obscured by thick clouds, that locating that particular “speck” you were looking for was a remarkable feat in itself. Roger, our navigator, had led us straight and true above the clouds and we were about to split our target. An experienc
e like that was always gratifying for me, but for a navigator it’s a moment of indescribable pride.
The sun was shining ahead and the shallow waters of brilliant blues and greens were dappled with the white rolling coils of spray across the reef. These tiny green isles were separated by small interludes of water forming almost an unbroken chain around the lagoon. On the far side, a number of ships were anchored and beyond we could now distinguish the coral mat and taxi-ways of the air base against the trees.
Bob still could not raise the tower on voice, so we “broadcast blind” that we were coming in for a “one ball” landing. There are only two choices on a single strip, and there was a thirty-knot wind nearly abeam of the runway. To make matters worse, communication between an approaching aircraft and someone down below gave us assurance that we were recognized as “friendly” and would not end up in tatters before we could make our way down — so there was a sense that gun sights might be trained on us if we were in truth arriving unannounced. I circled in a right hand turn, dropped wheels and watched for the green light from the tower as we came in. It was on. This was the worst crosswind I’d ever experienced and it quickly became necessary to crab into the wind nearly forty-five degrees to keep from being blown off the strip. We came in over the beach between some coconut trees lining the mat and eased back the throttle. The ship settled near the deck, still in a nearly sideways, violent crab. As we skimmed over the surface, her nose swung back and the wheels touched and clung. “Frisco Gal” was down at Funifuti, and there, we were greeted by a group of brown-skinned natives and sun tanned island personnel.
