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

by Miner, Ron

  Mac showed me around the camp and we talked a while about his life here in the jungle. He worked in the major surgery tent and told me of the struggles of practicing medicine in this primitive place. The weather was a constant challenge, the frequent rain storms kept things muddy, and twenty-four hours later, the mud would all turn to dust. Then another two nights of three inches of rain each would return the camp to a mucky swamp. The wind blew over the surgery tent one night, creating a mess that was days straightening out. The native Filipinos were always eager helpers, especially if they were given food, and they thoroughly hated the Japs. They were always exchanging Japanese souvenirs with the camp population.

  As we compared notes, I told him about the marathon trip that landed us in Hawaii last year. It was like I’d let the genie out of the bottle. “At least you got to fly over here,” he began. “Here was our average day on one of YOUR Navy transports. You are sleeping on deck because it is too hot below. Beneath you is one army multipurpose poncho and one army blanket that you crawl under if it ever got cold. Under that are solid steel deck plates, a comfortable enough bed, I suppose, until they blow soot out of the stacks and you are dusted black. Just as you get in a good position, the loud speaker blares out, ‘Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave out and lash up!’ It’s black dark, but you get up because people will step on you if you don’t, especially since you’re now all sooty black. You grab a towel before your eyes are open and get in line to shave in fresh water, which they turn on only once in a while. About this time you remember you forgot your razor, run back into your compartment knocking people down all along the way, climb up to the fifth bunk right smack against the overhead, and spend fifteen minutes looking for the damn thing. About then, a voice bellows down that the water is now cut off.

  “You grab your canteen, cup, and fork and spoon and run up the companionway/stairs just as the PA announces, ‘All troops in D compartment pipe to breakfast.’ You run out to the fantail and go down the chow line hoping to see somebody you know in the line, but no such luck. So you head to the rear of the now 300 yard long line that circles the deck once or twice.

  “You eat breakfast, which actually wasn’t that bad, I’ll give you that, only the mess hall is way too hot to enjoy your food. Back up on the deck you find a swell place in the shade to play cards with three of your buddies, who you couldn’t find in the chow line, and as you deal, the ship changes course and now you’re in the sun full blast. It can knock you over. Then the PA again, ‘Sweepers, start your brooms! Clean sweep down fore and aft. Hose down all weather decks.’ So you stand up for another hour while they shoot hoses all around everywhere.

  “They order you aft for physical exercise consisting mostly of push-ups on a deck that is so hot you can’t touch it. That over, you spread your poncho out again in a decent spot, play some cards again and just about forget about the heat when the PA says, ‘Now hear this. All troops, lay below to your compartments immediately and stand by for debarkation drill.’ You go below, get into full fatigues instead of the shorts you had on, and put on steel helmet, pistol belt, canteens, trench knife, jungle aid kit, life belt, and even the damn carbine. You stand by your bunk, sweating, and wait to be called. The temperature is, conservative now, 110 degrees.

  “Finally you get called to your stations. It’s over and you can strip the wet clothes off again and once more try to play cards. Then it is already 11:15, time for chow again. And you thought the mess hall was hot last time. It is a real pleasure enjoying that bowl of hot soup, hot potatoes, and hot tea.

  “The afternoon is interrupted by an abandon ship drill and a stimulating bout of target practice by the Navy gunners.

  “Come evening, the ship is blacked out and you find a spot on the deck to sleep ... just as it starts to rain. You pull on your poncho, muttering all kinds of words to yourself, and await reveille.

  “Yes, I’m quite sure that life aboard a transport is what makes you glad to climb into the landing boats and hit the beach. Part of the strategy that’s getting these islands back from the Japs.”

  His rant completed, I asked if there was any chance he might return with me to our ship. He talked with his base commander and, it not being an every day occurrence to run into one’s brother out here, was given not one, but four days leave. Once we were back aboard the Currituck, I realized Mac’s enlisted rank would be somewhat of a problem for us, so I promptly promoted him to line officer, giving him one of my tans and some J.G. bars. Now we had run of the ship, took in a movie, and spent considerable time just swapping stories. Tokyo Rose was on the air again, always an interesting listen, proclaiming the extent of our great military defeat in the Philippines. For most of us, it really was having quite the opposite of the intended effect. Mac chimed in, “They sink an average of about one battleship, three cruisers, and eight destroyers every day. At that rate, I guess they’ll be invading California before long, since we have no Navy or Air Force left to protect it.”

  The next morning, we had fresh eggs, courtesy of John (Love). John hailed from Colorado Springs, was a University of Denver grad, and was well on his way to becoming a lawyer when the war interrupted things. He was a very sharp fellow, articulate, handsome, and well liked. He was married on the same day he received his Navy wings and popped a champagne cork back in December when he got news of the birth of his son, Andy. About a week ago, his plane had been forced down and he and his crew lived with some natives for a few days while it was being repaired. They then gave him a fine send off, loading him up before he left with some local eggs. After breakfast, Mac and I sat down to write the folks a “joint” letter.

  About an hour later down at operations, we ran into Pete who was just finishing up his turn as duty officer. He looked a little blurry to both of us and proceeded to explain that Art Bonnet was flying a radar mission from Tacloban yesterday in their countermeasure plane. It was equipped with a spool of metallic material that would be released from the rear of the plane like a long coiled hundred-foot tail. When it was extended, it interfered with radar detection and theoretically made the plane hard to see. Bonnie had been taxiing out and a few minutes later came roaring back into the operations office “Shaking like a hula girl,” saying one of his engines had conked out on takeoff. Pete told him to cool down. “Let’s go have a quick shot, it’ll calm your nerves.” Twenty minutes later, they were both plastered.

  We had a good chuckle and I looked over the mission board to see what was in store for me today. I discovered I was assigned to fly medical supplies into a leper colony on the westernmost island of Culion. The colony had been established to isolate the incurable disease from the Philippines at large and, periodically, planes or boats were dispatched with provisions and sometimes additional “patients.” This seemed irresistible enough, so Mac joined the crew. It was a good three hours out and, after landing, a small sailing vessel promptly headed over for the pickup. One of the party graciously invited us to come ashore for lunch, but under the circumstances, we declined. A few moments later, there was a close call as the bobbing boat struck the underside of our engine mount with neither vehicle suffering any damage. It was time to bid our new friends goodbye.

  Winging our way home, Mac was really enjoying the aerial view of the Philippines and he even logged a couple of hours as “copilot.” We touched down and made fast to our buoy but, oddly enough, the launch to the ship was very slow in coming. Poor brother Mac, his face now a lovely green, had yet to gain his sea legs and made his way very cautiously up the gangway. Otherwise, it had been a refreshing visit!

  The news came suddenly. I somehow expected it to feel different, more like a rite of passage or a “graduation” from combat. But this was like becoming a surprise contest winner. We had received new orders. We were going home! The next few days were filled with anticipation. Our remaining shifts seemed uninteresting, presenting needless obstacles to our desire to ready ourselves and do a little proper celebrating. I had one more flight to make, down the line to
a remote island called Woendi. The assignment was to swap one of our black amphibious planes for a Catalina seaplane version with heavy sophisticated radar gear. The camp down there included a group of tents in a palm grove. A particularly large tree was leaning rakishly over my quarters and, naturally, during the night we had a violent storm. I was startled awake by the familiar swish of a falling tree and dove for the deck. It was an adjacent tree, and concluding that it was unlikely that two side-by-side trees would fall in the same storm, I managed to sleep through the night.

  The new plane was not only a Seacat, but came complete with its own crew of radar specialists. The lieutenant of the group, some kind of electronic wizard, was fond of spouting symbols and model numbers: “Yes we should use the R4-66B, but a 1032 model 6 Mark VIII will do,” or something like that. As we began preparing for takeoff, it was plain to see that finding a path through the anchored ships and floating debris was a ticklish prospect. We considered a circular takeoff, but Bob and I agreed on a channel past the bow of a tanker. Glancing back, we saw the six radar men were busy studying their scopes and the Lieutenant circulated and continued spewing statistics.

  Our checklist completed, it was time to head out. As we were nearing takeoff speed, the “ship’s boat” started moving out from behind the tanker and into our path, its coxswain waving to someone back on board and oblivious to what was unfolding. The plane was now going too fast to abort and was unable to turn left because we had not yet passed the towering prow of the tanker. My copilot caught his first glimpse over our bow gun turret of the launch crossing left to right in front of us and began yelling and gesticulating wildly, at one point nearly seizing the controls. I was frantically yelling back, “I know! I know!” over the blare of the engines behind us, as scores of scenarios flashed through my mind. As the plane cleared the arching bow of the tanker, I pulled as hard as I could, virtually begging us off of the waves and then immediately kicked rudder. Peering over at the wing tip float, I cranked in the left aileron, turning us on edge, just enough to avoid dragging it in the water and prayed the right float would be high enough to miss the boat. By now the coxswain saw us and stood there, frozen, as we thundered over him and into the clear. After we had collected ourselves, Bob and I looked at one another, then began laughing hysterically over what we supposed was now the condition of his jeans. The lieutenant was mysteriously quiet for the balance of the return trip.

  A big empty Navy troop ship called the “Wharton” was anchored in the harbor, our transportation home in the morning, and we busied ourselves packing and negotiating with the stay behinds over our liquor library. For some reason, Art’s orders were not yet cut and he inherited the lieutenant and his electronic operation. This new officer was a very “gung-ho” character intent on ending the war single handedly. He worked out all sorts of elaborate missions with flight operations including a venture into the China Sea to flirt with the Japanese Navy. Bonnie wasn’t willing to risk his crews so recklessly when their orders were perhaps hours away. For the next couple of evenings, as they taxied out into the darkness, he would discover that the “mags” didn’t check out properly or something and then ground the aircraft, to the intense frustration of the lieutenant. Thankfully, Art got his orders in a couple of days.

  The morning we thought would never come had finally arrived, and excitement was running high as we assembled at the gangway. Slowly each of us filed down into the launch and took a seat for the short run over to the troopship. Behind us were the islands that represented our world for the last two years — the crews that would continue the work, the forests and ships that had served as our encampments, our trusty Catalinas. It would all be a distant memory. Our weary Dumbos remained by the wayside, parked here and there where some were stripped for parts and steel for manufacturing, and others would blend into the jungle and likely never be seen again. Slow but sturdy, they had plodded ahead doing their level best to keep ahead of the smaller, swifter, and more dangerous predators that lurked throughout these islands. Much was asked of them and they bore their wounds without complaint. Our episode was now coming to a conclusion, and the entire parade of fifteen PBYs that carried us from Hawaii in June had miraculously endured, only to suffer the indignity of abandonment as their usefulness in the tropics ended. These noble creatures deserved a better fate.

  For twenty-seven days, the ship meandered in a serpentine antisubmarine pattern across the Pacific and past a huge task force assembling at Ulithi Atoll that was preparing for the planned attack of Japan. Of course, it never occurred.

  Our route wound eastward, making a brief stop at Pearl Harbor where all this mess began. On deck, our daily ritual was a study in monotony, but who cared? Life was growing sweeter by the mile. Three times a day the canteen opened for business, and most of us went for Cokes and ice cream cups, two of each, and enjoyed them on deck amid the salt spray and the sounds of the ship’s band. It represented simple pleasures rediscovered, heralding the return to times that we could understand, family and familiar surroundings. For the second time I looked up from beneath the Golden Gate, this time with tears, and shared the moment with my “two-tour” friends as our time together grew shorter.

  We headed straight for the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. Our old buddy, Jack, was waiting for us, eager to rejoin the group and swap sea stories again. It had been some time since his discharge for medical reasons and he was now employed by General Foods in the Frisco area. We booked rooms, gathering in one to get decked out for the evening’s adventures and spinning yarns about the events of the Pacific tour. I completed my uniform, and while the others were dragging their collective feet, I was eager to get going. I told them I’d meet them in the Orchid Bar, but by now they were busy taunting Jack about his tendency to pick up much “older” women. What delicious luxury. Quickly locating just the right bar stool, I ordered a Scotch and soda. As I tipped the glass to my lips, I heard a female voice behind me, “There’s one now ...” It seemed odd, and as I tried to make some sense out of the comment, an elderly lady seated herself on a stool beside me. “Please forgive me for intruding,” she began, “ but you see, my son was a Navy pilot, too. He was killed in action just about a month ago.”

  “I’m so sorry ...” I whispered back sympathetically.

  “It kind of helps to talk to one of you, if you don’t mind, of course.”

  “Not at all,” I replied honestly. “Where was he stationed?” We chatted together intently, my hand on her arm. Slowly she gave me more of the details. It could have been my own mom. I couldn’t imagine what she must be going through. Glancing up at the smoky glass behind the bar, I could see the image of the near half dozen leering faces — Del, Gewin, Pete, Ray, and Jack — with their eyes all on me.

  They closed in, grinning and remarked coyly, “So aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

  The initial flush of embarrassment quickly left me, and after a moment, I slowly responded, “This is Mrs. Williamson. I think we weren’t able to find her son last month, only the plane.”

  Over the course of the evening, the awkwardness of the moment subsided, and we were soon again entertaining ourselves with stories, drink, and humor. These were, after all, my friends for life.

  This time, I flew home to Indianapolis, about a hundred dollar fare for 2,000 miles. It was an old DC-3, a midnight flight that made at least six stops. I drank hot chocolate the entire night. My several weeks of leave were welcome indeed and seeing my folks and friends again — what a feeling. I was relaxed and finally got a car, used because the automakers were still emphasizing weaponry and machines and weren’t making anything I wanted. But times were good.

  My new orders were for instructor’s training back at Pensacola, about a 700 mile drive. I was back in the air again — still in PBYs — and guessed I would never get a crack at one of those hot shot fighters, but that was OK. Flying these big planes through the skies, hobnobbing with clouds, rainbows, gorgeous sunsets, even occasional frightening weather pr
obably brought me as close to God as a person can get. You come to feel at home in the Cats, and I found there was a lot more to learn.

  The war had taken its toll on him just as surely as if he’d been in combat.

  The instructor was an old friend from my first squadron who had been teaching here a year and a half. He had incredible skills and taught me finesse and how to make a Catalina do things they shouldn’t be able to do. I learned a “full slip,” a maneuver that had us flying over a landing spot on the water at 1,000 feet. As it disappeared under the nose, he cranked the plane up on its side with crossed controls until we were again staring at the target, then suddenly dropped like a rock. At the last minute, he gently rolled out into a nose high full stall landing attitude and set her down right on the mark. Subsequently, I probably demonstrated the same feat a hundred times. Stateside duty was a different animal, indeed, and it was starting to agree with me. And Pensacola was not a seaplane tender! I was a twenty-six year old Navy bachelor in a place swarming with women. By late July, a few of us had set up a bachelor bungalow off base and even started looking for beach front property. The work days were spent enjoying stress-free flying, something for which I had developed affection. Some of our trips would take us to destinations like New York for overnighters, and sometimes those finicky planes would develop a little problem that would keep us up there an extra day.

  On Aug. 6, there was an explosion unlike anything the world had ever seen. Two days later, it happened again. It was stunning. We weren’t yet sure what it would mean. Then suddenly it was V-J Day and everyone poured into downtown Pensacola and danced in the streets, a wild celebration that continued through the night. The war was finally over!