by Miner, Ron
Our course led us between two Japanese-held islands and I dreaded to think of having to make a rescue near one of them. It was now common knowledge that all the islands along the route were unfriendly, allegedly because the Japs had been talking up head hunting with the natives. If you went down in sight of land, the natives would paddle out and get you. It brought to mind those pictures of hapless adventurers sitting up to the neck in great cauldrons over ceremonial fires. I had Roger plot a course to a point midway between the islands and then figure a new heading from the other side. I wasn’t ready to be soup.
As it turned out, the flight was uneventful. Even the weather was cooperative, some occasional weaving around buildups and some thicker cloud cover, especially around the islands (we were happy about that), and things improved as destination three came into view. The other planes had already arrived and, as we circled, our tally again looked good. The skipper was letting down into the seaplane area and I hung in formation with Peck while waiting a turn at the traffic circle. This strip was much like the last, showing signs of scarring and damage, disfiguring a once beautiful South Sea isle. Other than the scores of planes on and around the landing site, it seemed that endless rows of barracks covered most of the rest of the island. Finally, Peck gave the “kiss off” and dove into the 1,000 foot circle, lowering his wheels as he went in. We followed.
Things were bustling. A strike was about to begin with some dozen or more B-24s loaded and taxiing into position. I asked one of the army guys on a fuel truck about it, and he said they were headed out to bomb the islands we had just passed. I wondered aloud if they knew about the weather out there around most of those islands. “We lose a seaplane now and then,” he went on, his voice nearly screaming over the aircraft clamor.
“Japs still have some ack-ack. They hit two P-38s yesterday, got ‘em with .50 caliber stuff, too. They were going in low for photographs, one was shot down, the other came in on one engine.”
A truck gathered us up as I asked the plane captain to look at our starboard engine. One of the crew had noticed a light oil leak. The shuttle scurried up a slight hill to the GroPac (Navy base) duty office and the crew unloaded, signed in, and hurried off to chow.
We didn’t like Kwajalein, or “Point D,” from the first. It was torrid and dirty, and so closely packed that it felt like the industrial section of a large city. There wasn’t a tree in sight; the island was another victim of fierce fighting six months earlier.
The chow had returned to normal, dehydrated potatoes and beans. Afterward, they sent our group off to some abandoned barracks with an assortment of folded cots, six of us sharing the very crowded lower deck while the others went upstairs. It was hot and sticky, and the movement by the men upstairs created a dust cloud that persuaded the rest of us to head back and check on the plane.
It appeared the army mechanics there had never worked on a PBY before and weren’t fond of the idea. An hour or so of seeming to make things worse persuaded us to ask that they just let it go. The barracks were no more inviting than before, so we headed in search of an ‘O’ club. Of course, there would be no club, but we were grateful to be allowed one bottle of beer each after chow that night.
The barracks had now been invaded by another fifty or so Marines and was crowded to overflowing, so the best option seemed to be staying outside to keep cool and count the minutes until dinner. After chow, all fingers were crossed on the way to the movie venue. About this time, we thought there was nothing about this place to like, but were pleasantly surprised to find Point D had what might be the greatest concentration of movie titles short of Times Square, multiple movie sites, and a bulletin board with fifteen or twenty choices — the ones within walking distance highlighted in red. Red Skelton filled the screen as the rain started to come down; it felt great and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to use my poncho. It was just what everyone needed.
After the movie, we walked a short distance before stumbling across an old abandoned Negro mess hall. Rather than dealing with the mob back at the barracks, the hall appeared to be a better option, and we hastily shifted our cots into our new digs. Most of us were still fairly wet, but slept in our clothes anyway. Some time before dawn I was startled by the bugler from the Negro camp blowing reveille. He wasn’t satisfied until he’d blown it at least a dozen times, as he marched closer and closer until I expected him to stick his bugle in the window. Breakfast was prunes or something, and we soon had our gear loaded and were headed to operations. The crew was only too glad to make the early takeoff and I wondered if GroPac would ever find those six missing cots.
As the image became more distinct, we were startled to see the silhouettes break up into hundreds of independent pieces.
This time we headed along the reef to depart from the northern tip and over the seaplane base of Ebeye Island, but it was impossible to determine whether the skipper’s plane was still among those on the water. At the farthest tip of the atoll, there was another airstrip called Roi, and there I swung around to the west and took up a heading for Eniwetok.
For some reason, the progress on this leg seemed rapid, the weather hazy but good, with ample tail wind. There were several checkpoints along the first part of this route and, as we left the last of them, there were already visual indications of our next stop on the horizon ahead. As the image became more distinct, we were startled to see the silhouettes break up into hundreds of independent pieces. I now figured this must be a pool base for the small landing craft that were being used for all the beach approaches. Another few miles and the “landing craft” grew in size, becoming battleships, carriers, and an entire fleet of warships anchored within the atoll’s barriers! It was a breathtaking and most astounding sight! Here was a battle fleet so huge it must certainly be invincible, something I had never seen before or expected to see again.
The Eniwetok landing strip was on the far left, with many of our transports circling overhead and formations of fighters taking off and landing, acting as the CAP (Combat Air Patrol) for the fleet. I explained to the tower that since we were in ahead of the Marine boys it was important to hang around up here a while until they arrived, and then headed off to get a closer look at the flotilla.
Heading down the coastline to review the fleet, it became even more apparent how huge and forbidding it was. There were seven large carriers and as many CVE’s (escort carriers), six battleships, twenty light cruisers, scores of DD’s and DE’s (destroyers and escorts), along with tenders, tankers, and supply and troop ships. There were over 400, not counting the tinier craft buzzing around between them. A couple of OS2Us from one of the cruisers quickly popped into formation with us to look us over, much as a vigilant watch dog would sniff at a passing neighbor before losing interest and moving on.
The huge circle of the fleet brought us nearly back to Stickell Field where our sections were now arriving. Peckham pulled into the landing circle ahead of us and the other members of the “Skytrain”, while the transports were landing. John was bringing up the rear. Peck was waved off for some reason, so I went in next. The strip was lined on each side with Liberators, transports, and fighters, mostly P-38s and F-6s, so much so that there was no parking. Eventually there was a place big enough to shoehorn ourselves in along one of the back taxiways and, finally, it was time to step out into the heat, dust, and chaos.
A messenger intercepted us with word that the majors had discovered we shouldn’t even be here and, in fact, there was a dispatch ordering us to return to Kwajalein immediately, or in other words, Point D. There was no room for us up the line and, tired and hungry as we were, the whole thing would need to be repeated again in due course returning us to that gem of the Pacific and its cozy mess hall. So we hung around about an hour to get a confirmation, ranting all the while, until one of the majors approached in person and said, to our considerable relief, that they had gotten it worked out. Engebi Atoll, a little further up the chain, would now be our home for the evening.
The gang of us scramble
d our planes before anyone could change their minds, and followed the R4Ds down the strip. By the time the ships again passed below us it was obvious that, even using excessive power, there was no staying with these guys and, slowly, the Skytrain passed us by.
After we braked to a stop on Engebi’s short runway, our escort jeep signaled for us to follow them down the taxiway. I was intent on staying with the jeep and barely noticed some telephone lines stretching across in front of them. Just as we passed under the lines, it hit me that the props might be high enough above the wing to nick them. Needless to say, I cut the throttle a moment too late and clipped them cleanly. Fortunately, the wires hadn’t fouled us and, after giving a shrug, the escort motioned us on ahead. I judged we were the first PBY they had ever had on that strip — at least now, the way was cleared for the others.
This was a rather pleasant place with Seabee written all over it. The tents were situated right on the beach, looking out onto the deep blue of the water and the white, clean coral. It was peaceful, save an occasional plane passing overhead, and the water was inviting. We lost no time getting out of needless clothes, lighting up a couple of cigars, snacking on peanuts, and with Point D still a vivid memory, counting our blessings. After an afternoon and evening of relative luxury, it was quite agreeable to spend a little time at their rather sophisticated club before retiring for the night. The last thing I remembered before drifting off was the sound of the CB’s holding a “smoker” nearby, and the applause after someone had recited what seemed to be a pointless joke.
Ray had “first” this day, as we prepared to make our way to the Marianas. The forecast was promising and everyone seemed eager to be on the last leg of the trip, especially the boys in the transports who had to sit, parachutes strapped to their backs, for these five- and six-hour stretches. Even on this short runway “Frisco Gal” made it off in two-thirds the distance and circled around over the still waiting fighters before striking out to the northwest. Within minutes, I could see the dim line of the reefs withdraw into the haze on our port beam.
All was going well. Behind us, the others were gaining and beginning to join up while we broke out and test fired the guns and all maintained careful watch. Just south of us lay the mainspring of the Japanese installations in the Carolines. They were operating patrols out of Truk, a large base, and several “Bettys” (Japanese bombers) had been spotted in the area. Our orders were to take no chances, so we hung near the broken layer of clouds and tried to remain inconspicuous.
As the last of the formation caught us and again disappeared into the distance, it seemed our job was done — in all likelihood it would be solo flying from here. Then we began picking up fragments of a conversation that sounded as if someone might be in a little trouble. It became clear it was the skipper, and he was giving his position to someone, probably Peck. Apparently by now, they had made visual contact and were limping home O.K. and, a couple of hours later, the outline of the first island of the Mariana group, Guam, was visible up ahead. The sheer, rising cliffs profiling the shoreline were a sharp contrast to the low-lying atolls with which we had become accustomed, and the spit of land at the southern tip was peculiar to Guam. The strip came into view from behind a shower. Numerous ships were anchored nearby with several destroyers plowing back and forth, covering them from hostile subs.
It was clear the shoreline had undergone a ferocious bombardment in recent days. The wreckage of landing craft, trucks, and tanks was strewn everywhere. In one or two locations, there was evidence of what might once have been small towns, now crumbled foundations and twisted, corrugated metal roofing.
The peninsula itself was some hundred feet above the water, with abrupt cliffs forming its edge. Caves dotted the volcanic rock and, flying above the surface, you could see it was pitted with bomb and shell craters. The airstrip ran down the center and, instead of the white of the coral strips, this was the reddish color of the soil in the area, almost symbolic of the recent bloody strife here. Each side of the strip was lined with planes and, as yet, there was no dispersal area. Curiously, the runway had a slight bend in it about halfway down. It had me wondering if I was seeing things.
Peck was still circling as he waited for some homecoming fighter sections to pancake. We made one pass at the field and got a red light and zoomed out low over the cliffs to re-enter the circle. The tower finally saw fit to bring us in, and I made a careful approach. The strip was quite narrow, so much so that it seemed that our wing tip would surely come in contact with the parked planes. The surface was anything but smooth. Puddles of water stood here and there, and soft spots indicated recently filled bomb craters. The tower was part of an old reclaimed Japanese building, and we taxied alongside and parked across from the wreckage of some Jap planes.
When the skipper arrived a little later, he explained that his port engine had begun vibrating so badly that he had to feather it and throw much of the gear overboard, including his guns, to stay airborne. He came nearly 200 miles that way on one engine and landed in the harbor at a seaplane tender where the crew was to spend the night. This sounded good to us, as we had expected to sleep under the planes.
A jeep came by to shuttle us over to the tender. The driver indicated that while the Japanese had been driven back into the hills, a half hour ago one of them had blown up a Corsair right on the field. According to the report, an enemy infantryman climbed into the baggage compartment with his confidential papers and a helmet full of hand grenades, intending to blow up the plane in the air. The pilot was later sitting in the cockpit writing a letter to his wife when he heard a disturbance and spotted the soldier in the back of the plane. He scrambled out as the intruder pulled a grenade, killing himself and blowing a hole in the Corsair. I decided to post a double armed guard by the “Frisco Gal” that night.
On board the tender we were treated to a great meal of sardines, cheese, and spaghetti, all served on white linens with real silverware. Later, over cigars, the crew gave us the detailed account of the ongoing campaign. They spoke of the three-week long bloody battle with over 7,000 American casualties. Some of the Marines encountered heavy surf around the reefs and weren’t able to navigate transports any closer. They had to nearly swim the remaining distance, scrambling through heavy fire, before reaching whatever cover they could on the beach. Like most of the island conflicts, the Japanese never seemed willing to surrender, preferring to continue fighting in the jungles to the last man. A Navy radioman hiding out on Guam throughout the war had been pulled out only a couple of days ago. It was humbling.
The following day, we found the mechanics had scratched up enough parts to get the skipper’s plane airworthy. Our time as escorts for the Marine boys was over, and we would continue on to Saipan in the morning without them. A few of us decided to nose around a little. The road was soupy after the morning downpour, and we gingerly walked along, testing every few steps so as not to sink entirely. There were signs of a normal civilization here. It was the first real “on foot” contact I’d had with a Pacific battleground. Up on the hill, there was the grim wreckage of the old Marine barracks and the Pan American Hotel, once famous landmarks. The barracks were already being repaired to house advancing American forces. Walking along through some fields, past junk piles of Japanese aircraft already searched and stripped by souvenir hunters or intelligence, we weaved around numerous craters, some used as machine gun nests and still containing ammunition or wrecked guns. Everywhere were heavy fragments of bombs and shells, torn rusty hunks of twisted steel. I shuddered to think of those things flying around down here.
The skipper happened along and indicated our flight in the morning had been postponed. Our small collection of artifacts piqued his interest, and we all set out, still armed to the teeth in anticipation of a chance run-in with a Jap sniper. Ahead were several gun emplacements that bore the signs of a frantic last stand. Empty shell casings were strewn about, as well as grenades and machine gun belts, used and unused. An assortment of battered tanks and trucks
and several dugouts, some with dead enemy soldiers lying in them, covered the entire area. In an old shack, perhaps some sort of headquarters, I picked up some interesting pamphlets and documents. I also decided on a rifle with bayonet and a helmet, while the others looked around for whatever articles they found intriguing.
On the way back we stopped at operations to file a new flight plan. They immediately jumped down our throats because they thought we had already taken off and had not arrived at Saipan. Worse yet, they had us so far overdue that they had already initiated a search with a couple of planes and a destroyer. I quickly held up my hands, exclaiming that not only had we sent word to them that our flight was postponed, canceling the morning flight plan, but, “Hell, do you know what a PBY looks like?” Our two planes were still sitting down there, big as life, and the only two aircraft on the field painted a dark shade of black.
Before long, the skipper’s plane passed overhead and we too hurried to get airborne. Heading up the coast of Guam, I swung clear of the enemy-held island of Rota, then made a beeline for Saipan and Isley Field. This was a brief stop before traveling the final twenty minutes to Tinian, our eventual turn-around point. While fighting was still in progress on Tinian, two airstrips were being put into shape and one was now serviceable. I found myself considering the long climb back down the rungs of the ladder toward Santos base again. Upon our return, the jaunt would have lasted two weeks, and while it had been an adventure, we felt pleased with the outcome. I could sense the growing confidence driving the war effort. Our Dumbos would now regain focus on making sure that we gave our downed pilots every chance of finding their way home.
