by Miner, Ron
After an hour or more, the squall drifted west and we started following the southern profile of the island. A group of natives caught our interest ahead about the same time as a brilliant red flash from a long arching trail of smoke popped right in our faces. There was something yellow, perhaps a raft, in front of them and as we drew closer, someone was distinctly waving what appeared to be a life jacket. I made another low pass thinking surely this must be our crew, but it was impossible to clearly distinguish any American airmen anywhere among the group. We decided to go for it.
Naturally, the natives couldn’t be expected to select a pickup spot out in the deep water off the point, and instead had taken the crew to a beach location surrounded by shallow water and reefs. After one low pass to size it up, we headed in, landing in a power stall and taking a few good smacks before settling. It was a long way to taxi, down and around the point, and catching sight of the breakers across the coral well ahead, we stopped, dropped our sea anchors, and circled. The B-25s and fighters cavorted overhead like interested parents and made occasional passes at the group on the beach.
In the distance was what seemed to be a tiny yellow raft bobbing violently up and down in the breakers, slowly making its way toward us. We chose not to cut our engines and continued to circle as waves dashed over the bow, also standing ready at the guns until we had some kind of confirmation. Looking through the binoculars, there still wasn’t any sign of an airman in the raft. It was now quite close and at that moment, one of the group leapt up and waved. He was wearing the unmistakable tapering hat of a Japanese soldier! We hit full throttle, sending spray and having every intention of getting into the air, anchors and all, but as I swung her away from the raft, several of our crew caught sight of another man, distinctly American, with a very puzzled look on his face.
Slightly embarrassed, we quickly headed back, confident that, although we weren’t particularly well armed, there should be enough firepower to overwhelm a rubber raft.
The gap between us grew smaller and as they pulled alongside the blister, a crewman threw out a line and pulled them in, including the bedraggled B-25 copilot, Army Lt. Charles Yackiw.
The challenge now was to get us all back into the air, and in these swells, it would be a bouncy, rivet straining try. I decided to taxi around the point to the more sheltered side, which in itself was about two miles and a little tricky heading downwind. It was a good call, and after cooling down a short while, we took off easily and acknowledged the “Nice work” message from the fighters and bombers on radio as they headed for home. Unfortunately, our radio reply also informed them that we had only one of the crew, and that the others had been in another raft and had become separated. It was too late to look any more this time, fuel was getting low and Roger would already need to find a shorter way back. The objective was to beat nightfall and avoid a landing on the water and in the dark.
Roger gave us a heading straight for the narrow neck of Luzon Bay, swinging clear of several Jap towns along the way. Before long “Beware Red,” freshly refueled, came into view and completed our entourage for the balance of the trip.
The sun had set as “Frisco Gal” touched the water beside her tender. It had been a long day and a cold beer would taste good. Two bombers flew above us as we tied up. I thought to myself, if one of you should happen to stay overnight up there somewhere, we’ll be up in a few days to bring you back.
Two days after picking up Lt. Yackiw, headquarters received a call from the Guerrilla Army about a pilot at the Port of Borangan on the east coast of Samar. Our crew was to arrive there at 10:00 a.m. and look for two signal fires on the beach. Roger again went to work, plotting a course directly across the island, crossing its mountains and then winding down a valley where we leveled off at 800 feet. Up ahead was a bay with two islands protecting the entrance and inside would be a small peninsula splitting the back-end in two sections. We expected the fires to be on that peninsula.
I took her into a sweeping arc, crossing the bay just above the groups of coconut plantations, rice paddies, and huts, several with tin roofs. Some natives were plowing with water buffalo, others were fishing with great heart-shaped traps built out from the shore. Shortly, the peninsula was in sight and there were, indeed, the two fires being tended by locals, but we had not, as yet, seen any sign of our pilot. Another pass revealed nothing new. Then as we crossed a pier, there it was, a small launch tied up and a small group of people. Walking down the pier with a bundle in one arm and waving his other was a figure that seemed likely. I could see his wide brimmed straw hat, and he seemed to be making signs with his arms rather than just waving.
The landing would be easy enough, now we just needed to find the best way back out, noting the fairly heavy swells despite the protection of the islands. A takeoff along the shelter of the island with, hopefully, enough space to get off before the reefs came into play, seemed to be the best choice.
We power stalled in and taxied on the swells toward the pier. The launch was already heading our way, trailing a heavy stream of black smoke from her stubby stack and enjoying a large escort of native canoes. They pulled alongside with a number of armed guerrillas and an American, who looked every bit the Texan fresh off the plains, with his broad brimmed hat and his gun belt. The launch had a high pole with, unbelievably, an American flag in plain sight on it, but even after dropping the pole, the risk of a swell against the fuselage dashing the launch seemed too great. He finally hopped in a canoe and shuttled in close enough to get him aboard in one piece.
The pilot, Lt. Ellensberger, was a red haired P-47 man and quite a character. He even came bearing gifts! First he passed around some fresh bananas, then proudly unwrapped the yellow cellophane around a small package and displayed what appeared to be grayish dough. “Guerrilla Goo,” he explained. It tasted a lot like Ralston.
The lieutenant went down on Dec. 26 after being sent out to strafe what he thought was a battleship in a Jap task force coming down to bombard Mindoro. He had only had an hour of night flying in a Thunderbolt, and the idea of strafing this ship hardly appealed to his largely pacifistic nature. He went ahead and made a couple of passes through the wall of tracer fire, then headed for Leyte. The strip at Mindoro was now under siege. During all the intense activity, his chart blew away and he had to guess at the heading. He came surprisingly close, but became lost enough to miss Leyte and run out of fuel over the mountains of Samar. He hit the silk in total darkness and came down in the top of a big tree. Peering down, he thought he was close to some tallish bushes, but being fairly tangled up, decided to hang there all night and cut himself loose in the morning. After sun up, he looked down at what he had thought was the ground and realized it was really the tops of smaller trees.
“So I managed to climb down a vine and through the underbrush, finally reaching a stream. Damn likely it would head to the beach sooner or later, so I followed it for six days. Nothing to eat besides a li’l bird that I shot and ate it raw. Well, it may have started as a stream,” he said, “ but by God, it ended up a full blown river. Big ‘un, too. Finally found a small empty hut and bedded down for the night. Spent the whole next morning dryin’ clothes. A young native kid walked up and wanted to get acquainted, said he would take me to his village. When we found it, they all thought I was a Jap and lit out of there. Finally, I guess they got curious and came back.” He paused long enough to savor a bit of the Guerrilla Goo, “Anyways, I figgered one of you boys would be out this way before too long to see how the fishin’ was.”
Our takeoff was a bit more exciting than I’d hoped. I had taxied well out into the bay and rougher water, needing to put some distance between ourselves and the reefs upwind. As we neared the reefs, there would be a point where a decision had to be made to stop or go. We charged into the swell, climbing onto it and pushing through the bounces, finally gaining the shelter of the island again and calmer water. Our speed was now increasing rapidly, but I eased off the throttle slightly to leave a little in reserve for w
hen she bounced. She bounced one more time and was over the reefs in good shape. We climbed up the foothills and headed for home. Bob asked Lt. Ellenberger, “What in the hell were they burning in that motor launch to create so much black smoke?” He replied, “Coconut oil.”
Our crew had moved back to the “Tangiers” at Leyte after a couple of nights on the “Half Moon” and “San Pablo” in Mindoro. The Tangiers, a much larger vessel than Orca, included an on-deck hangar where cranes would hoist our planes for servicing. December had been a busy month and much of our time was spent bounding around between a variety of islands like Palau, Owi, or Biak. Now, sometimes we would work right in the bay.
Many of the flight crews stayed aboard the Tangiers. Art Bonnet and his copilot, Alex Catlow, had just returned from a short hop and told me it included a side trip to a party with, of all people, the governor of Leyte. Now that the Japanese had left the area, the locals were very appreciative and were in a celebrating mood. Many of them were guerrilla fighters and they had developed a fearsome shotgun-like weapon made out of a larger and smaller pipe, some sulfur (derived from match-heads) or gunpowder, a nail, and everything from rusty metal fragments to urine and feces stuffed into the barrel. The Japs hated it, and Alex guessed they were more than happy to give back the property.
Pete and I never met the governor, but we both had brief but entertaining episodes with admiralty while flying in the Philippines. One morning poor Pete found himself saddled with the awesome responsibility of transporting Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser, the British Fleet Commander, on a longish jaunt from Lingayen, north of Manila, down here to Leyte. No matter how he tried, he just couldn’t relax during the first hours of the flight. He was sure Japanese fighters would hit them and he would go down in history for all the wrong reasons. The admiral’s friendly, calming demeanor must have finally won him over, and as it turned out, the flight was relatively routine. Pete said he was quite impressed with Fraser, especially after the admiral promised to look him up after the war, or if Pete ever found himself in London, he shouldn’t hesitate to do the same.
Navigator Salley, Art Bonnett, and Alex Catlow
A brief time later, I was up at Kossel Passage on Palau Island to pick up two-star Admiral Oglesby along with a captain. It was a bouncy, rough day and we nearly dropped the admiral into the sea just getting him from his barge into the blister. He was dressed sharp and immediately stuck his head into the cockpit and introduced himself to me. As expected, the takeoff was a bouncy, turbulent affair, with swells breaking over the whole plane and leaking into the compartment and onto them both, thoroughly soaking each. He was very good natured about it, and later came up and spent the rest of the flight in the copilot seat. As we were chatting, a voice came over the intercom asking if I’d checked out the “old man” yet. Much embarrassed, thinking it was a careless member of my crew, I asked, “Uh, would you repeat that statement? WE couldn’t make it out?”
“I said, have you checked out the ‘old man’ yet?” the voice repeated.
I asked him, “Who is this speaking?”
“Captain (so and so).” I was very relieved that it was his own captain and wasn’t part of our crew. And the admiral was having a good laugh about it. As we approached Peleliu strip for a mat landing, I lowered the wheels from their rest position alongside the fuselage and started a glide in toward the runway. I couldn’t help seeing the admiral squirming and looking increasingly uncomfortable in the copilot’s seat, so as we started in I asked if he was O.K. He fired back, “Are you crazy? It’s a runway!” I pointed to the wheels and chuckled carefully. He was still glowing red, but now it was more because he was somewhat mortified to admit he hadn’t realized there were wheels on a PBY seaplane.
The natives here were an interesting group. Every morning they would paddle and sail for miles down the channels and out to the ships to trade and visit with us. There was a real need for clothing among them and a torn shirt or trousers was valuable enough to warrant anything from bananas to a monkey. The outriggers, some with large triangular sails, were frequently large enough to carry entire clans with men paddling, women under umbrellas, and half a dozen youngsters clinging to the structure. With a closer look you might see chickens roosting on the bamboo cross pieces, or a squealing pig somewhere on the deck, even monkeys dangling with arms wrapped around the mast. Eggs were plentiful. They were a congenial people, every one of them wishing us “Merry Christmas” on Christmas Day.
As the New Year began we maintained our hectic pace. For weeks, we had been in the air more days than not and welcomed a day off. It was a gray day today, a welcome break with the intense heat aboard ship. There was certainly an improvement in meals and living conditions while on board, but no shorts or shirtless flyboys were allowed. So while high temperatures hadn’t changed much, clothing had. For the first time in several days, I slept well having snagged a vacated bunk just beneath a ceiling fan and was now on deck catching up on some letter writing as small boats purred by and planes circled overhead. I had been so involved that I felt that I had neglected my family and wanted to write to thank them again for making our Christmas out here so special. It was the fourth time in five years we had been apart on the holiday, and friends and family had spoiled me.
“Dear Family,
As I began my letter, I wished I could tell them more about where I was and what I was doing. Much about life in the tropics had improved, but the Navy censors, unlike the Army, were vigilant in their prohibition of any suggestion of location or assignments. Once the Army is established at any particular location, it is quickly common knowledge and the enemy is aware of what units they are encountering. The Navy ships seek to travel incognito and movements are cloaked in secrecy and that included us. It was still up to my alter-ego, John Caldow, to reveal clues to my situation. Today he was in San Francisco (Leyte), fondly recalling a day leading up to Christmas back in Indianapolis (Espiritu):
“OK, Miner, when are you going to open it?” Pete bellowed. “It’s practically Christmas, let’s see what’s in there!”
A second package from home had arrived unscathed, and I had been debating whether or not to hold out until the actual day — my plan for package one. The guys were having no part of it. Christmas was barely a week away and our Quonset hut was decked out with two red paper bells and a twelve-inch imitation Christmas tree that Bonnie had lavished with candy and tinsel for decoration. Candy, we found, didn’t hold up well in packages or anywhere around here. It too readily absorbed moisture. But it looked good on a tree.
The squadron had been swamped with packages, in surprisingly good shape. Since we really weren’t sure at this point where we would be spending Christmas, most of the gang had already torn into them. It now looked like my number was up.
“Fruitcake over here please, while Howard opens this up!” Bonnie and Del each had mouthfuls as I slid the wrapping away. “He got a tie!” Peckham blurted. “And look at that cocky little cap! You’ll be the cutest one at dinner!”
There was more. We always enjoyed the small pleasures, a corkscrew and can opener, tape. Sardines made great hors d’oeuvres. Pete had gotten some cheeses and crabmeat, someone else the fruitcake.
By Christmas Day, we were aboard the Orca in Leyte. Del and I had saved two Christmas packages each and brought them along. Right after breakfast, we climbed up on his top bunk and opened our presents — we were kids again! Inside my first box were two layers of individually wrapped gifts. There was stationary, soap (monogrammed so it wouldn’t get stolen), camera film, peanut butter, and photos from home. The other box from Georgia was stuffed full of more snacks, fruit cake, and playing cards — and finally, drawing pencils, colored chalks, a sketchpad, and erasers! We were set!
Our ship served a first class dinner that evening of olives, tomato juice, rolls and butter, sweet potatoes, potato salad, peas, walnut ice cream, fruit cake with flaming brandy, nuts, and cigars! Afterwards, several of us gathered on deck and sang carols.
“
...So our Christmas was far from sad thanks to the efforts of the people back home. We all wish to thank them for their kind thoughts.
Hoping yours was joyful as ours and wishing you the Happiest of New Years. Perhaps we will be together again soon.
Love, Howie”
There was an abundance of time for reading and writing while based on these seaplane tenders, since we were a little short on land to move around on. Catching up on mail from home was a favorite pastime. Sometimes I would be surprised to find prints from camera film I continued to send home or newspaper clippings about activities in our area. Although it was January, it seemed strange to read about getting the car started in the cold weather, or Marian ice skating, or how good the Australian rugs I had sent home felt on those chilly, zero degree Indiana mornings. I found myself writing home every day or so, hinting that our stint over here might finally be winding down, but afraid to really say anything in writing to jinx it. Our mail service was great aboard ship, and we had a variety of periodicals to read and fill in the gaps about what else was happening that we couldn’t see from our vantage point. One article caught my eye. Dave Crockett, a friend and another Wabash guy, lived not in Tennessee but nearby in Indianapolis and got his Navy wings about the time I entered training. He was apparently a German prisoner somewhere in France. Things were going badly for the Germans, too, and many of them were seeing their situation as increasingly hopeless. The commanding officer just walked up and surrendered to Dave, giving him his gun! Dave gladly obliged and marched them all off at gunpoint to the American lines.
