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

by Miner, Ron

  Things changed fast around the base. Many put in for discharges and the daily instruction and workload dwindled. I decided to hang in there a while longer and put in for my discharge, effective for Jan. 29, exactly four years after my induction.

  My remaining time turned more administrative and the idiosyncrasies of military regulation and discipline became increasingly more stifling and unnecessary. It was becoming clearer with each passing day that military life, at least for the long haul, was not for me.

  I received an emergency call from my high school principal. He was a close friend of my father, who was still a teacher, and the news wasn’t good. My dad had passed away. The war had taken its toll on him just as surely as if he’d been in combat. With two sons overseas and so many of his beloved ex-students killed in action, he had suffered from his own form of battle fatigue. I flew home for the funeral.

  Four years to the day that I first put on my Navy uniform, I took it off again and dressed in civilian clothes. I arose that memorable morning with my bags already packed and considered the future with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

  What would I do next? Where would I go to work? Who would I marry and would I have kids?

  I didn’t yet know that I would take a trip to California in a few months, passing through Salt Lake City. There I would have dinner with the parents of one of the rescued fliers who died in that unfortunate accident right on the runway. I would tell them about the last hours I had spent with their precious son, and later we would drive up to a ridge above the city and be witness to a spectacular meteor shower, a fitting tribute to a fine young man who died much too young.

  I didn’t know that I would finish college and become interested in oceanography, or that I would continue flying for another thirty plus years, some as a small flying school owner and most of them with Eastern Airlines as a pilot.

  I would indeed get married and have four wonderful children, and one day I would even fulfill a childhood ambition of “piloting” a train as its engineer.

  I was waiting, still lost in my reverie, when the yeoman opened the office. He went right to work processing the discharge papers. It seemed appropriate to experience, one last time, the process — the countless duplicates and filling out of redundant forms, the military way that was now so familiar. When the completed packet in its manila envelope was ready, right on top was a rather artistically impressive document, and I proudly saw the words “Honorable Discharge.”

  I drove out of Pensacola a free man, thankful for each breath I was taking. I cruised along the high bluffs just on the edge of the city and cast one last look over my shoulder. The waters of Pensacola Bay were lovely, ripples forming tiny whitecaps. “About twelve knots of wind, I should say.” And I drove home.

  Epilogue

  “When I had the pleasure of addressing a word to you just before we left the states, I told you that I had not the slightest doubt as to how your men would acquit themselves in battle. How right I was!

  “They have met a skilled and battle-wise enemy, and they have beaten him. They have met mud and rain that are beyond my power to describe and they have conquered it. I cannot begin to express my admiration for them. To them, and to you who are giving them strength by your faith, I offer a soldier’s salute.

  “Inevitably, we have lost some of our comrades. Others have been hurt. To those of you whose men have made the ultimate sacrifice, nothing I can say can make up to you your sad loss. I know they would want you to carry on in the same way they gave their lives - bravely and proudly. I am sure you will.

  “Our men - yours and mine - now are seasoned soldiers, poised and confident. Nothing can stop them, for they know they are on the road to Tokyo, and beyond Tokyo, lies home.”

  J. L. Bradley

  Major General, U.S.A.

  The above quotation was included in a 1944 letter from my Uncle Mac to my grandfather. He felt it might be included in the local papers in Indianapolis, and whether or not it made it into print then, I thought it should now. The war effort indeed required unimaginable sacrifices on so many levels. We would do well today to remember that. We live in a world where the everyday drone of the current news cycle minimizes the conflicts that our military men and women are involved in through saturation, political spin, statistics, and posturing. Often that misses the realities that members of the armed forces and their families face daily. At home, very little is asked of us in support — no draft or rationing, no war bonds or tax increases, no victory gardens or laws against profiteering, or any of the other characteristics that were part of everyday life during World War II. Times are very different, to be sure, but the toll of a war effort on troops is still very much the same.

  When VPB-54 folded up tents in 1945, the conflict was in its final phase. The Dumbos were tired, full of holes, and generally beaten up, but proud nonetheless. They had operated largely without fanfare, slinking around the seas disrupting supply lines, bringing home survivors, and aiding other air force efforts. VPB-54 rescued 225 men and assisted on thirteen more during their second tour alone. This was accomplished without the loss of a single plane. Sadly, by war’s end most were so worn down they were simply left by the wayside because they were no longer flyable.

  Dad celebrated with the squadron at reunions until at least the year 2000 and other members continued the traditional until 2006. When he passed away in September 2015 at 96, Del Fager became the last surviving member of “the Seven” to do so.

  Since the publication of the first book, I have had the pleasure of sitting down and talking with quite a number of Dad’s Squadron mates. Their contributions have helped fill many voids and further immersed me into the story. They have allowed us to save their interviews on camera and all have become good friends. We are well on our way to compiling what promises to be a new short documentary film about the Black Cats of the South Pacific, perhaps the first since the old Navy black-and-white newsreel film made back in the forties. The completed project will be available to the public and have a place in the Library of Congress archives.

  I’ve also spent some time reading a number of issues of the “Black Cat Prowl,” a hand drawn newsletter Dad developed in hopes of beginning a conversation in 1946 about staging a reunion of the Seven and any other squadron members who wanted to join them. Four issues (at least) were produced over six years or so with a different PBY cartoon on the cover of each. Dad would get it started in his finest “pilot-speak” and then mail it on to the next of the Seven buddies. Each would add their thoughts, family news, humor, and try to develop it a bit further.

  Eventually, over several months, it would travel around the country and return to Dad with a sample of writing from each of them. It was, in effect, a journal of the changes in their lives over those years. This gave me a synopsis of things as they were up until the early 50’s.

  By 1947, Dad was the only unmarried member of the group. The rest were already well on their way to starting families. Del and Shirley Fager lived in the Orinda area of California and had two children. Initially, he worked as wholesaler of fruit and produce. He later remarried and moved to San Francisco with his new wife, Bebe and enjoyed a career marketing and selling fitness equipment and saunas. He wouldn’t fly again after the war. While visiting with Del and Bebe in 2014, he told me a dramatic tale of a time, aboard one of the tenders in Leyte Gulf, when he watched as a row of allied ships stretching out on both sides of him were pounding away during the assault of the island. Kamikaze fighters suddenly appeared and began their diving runs at the ships as they fired back wildly. An Australian cruiser alongside the tender was miraculously able to shoot down nearly all of these planes before they struck anything on either ship, and when the smoke cleared, their were four large holes in the cruiser but the tender was intact. “We were sitting there, almost helpless and nothing but gas! If anything had hit our ship it was over. I’ve never been so scared.”

  And from The Prowl: “Howie, are you still in as good a shape as
you used to pretend to be? Chasing those crates of oranges around has left me in pretty good condition. You’ll have to watch that waistline since you’re pushing a pencil instead of a yoke!”

  While Gewin McCracken wasn’t thrilled with his government job, after he and Francis were married they entered a government sponsored lottery that awarded eighty-six homesteads in Oregon and Northern California to lucky WWII veterans. Gewin’s was the second name selected. They packed up their truck like a prairie schooner and with their new son, headed west to Tule Lake, Calif., amazing the rest of group by trying to make a living off the land. They planted nearly eighty acres of barley and potatoes, and he proudly raised his family on the farm, thrilled with this change in lifestyle. Tragically, he was killed in his car at a traffic light when it was struck by another vehicle.

  “Pete, I could bust your punkin head for not looking us up when you were in Washington playing ball. Marguerite found us. You should have been able to!”

  Art Bonnet and his wife Ginny had two girls and lived in Glenview, Illinois. He and Dad flew a PBY-5A onto Lake Michigan together in 1947. He spent much of his working life as a sales manager in real estate. The guys continued to remind him of his receding hairline, which was in full retreat by the first reunion. Alex Catlow, his copilot, had a close relationship with Bonnie, and spent many hours telling me about his mischievous ways during the second tour. Art had beautiful handwriting.

  “If any of you fellows stop through Chicago, we’ll have a room for you— that is if you promise to give Susie her bottle and change her when she needs it. You’re right, Peck, she already has more hair than I have.”

  Ray Peckham lived in Arcadia California before enlisting and was always a musician at heart. He helped organize a twenty-two piece band that played at clubs and various locations where people enjoyed dancing. Ray was a kind and thoughtful man. After completing his Navy service, he had attended an Army-Navy event and entered a drawing, winning a new car. He promptly gave it to his mother.

  When Ray met Virginia in a music shop, she was already a war widow. Her husband completed his flight training and had just entered the conflict when his plane struck a mountain, killing him and his entire crew. She was still deeply in love with him as she and her young son, Tim, struggled to make it on their own.

  For Ray, it was love at first sight, and he finally persuaded her to go out with him. Unfortunately, he had to borrow a car...from his mother.

  Virginia wanted to have a man in Tim’s life and was honest with Ray about her feelings. Soon they were married and had a second son, Jerry. Ray worked in the lumber business in Arcadia for years and proved to be a wonderful father and talented artist in wood and stone. Virginia played saxophone and sometimes joined Ray in the band. Tim went on to become a State Senator in California. I briefly spoke with Virginia in May 2015. She and Ray had been married sixty years when he died in 2008.

  “Glad to hear Press is doing so well in basketball. You must have improved since you left the Canal, Pete, or else you had tougher competition then. Hi fella ...”

  Jack Beuttler also continued to live in the Bay area with his wife, Sybil, and they had two boys, John and Doug. Although he had learned to fly before the war began, his days in the cockpit were behind him. Or so the family thought. It turned out Jack learned to fly a glider, a hobby that was as secret as it was silent.

  For a while after the war, he sold a variety of products and lotions to an assortment of resorts in California. Later, he began a long career with General Mills and, after the boys were grown and away at school, he and Sybil sold the house and moved to a condominium in Saratoga, near San Jose. Jack was a regular at reunions. He and Dad remained close friends and stayed in contact for many years until his unexpected death at the age of 60.

  “Beuttler Tower reporting to all Black Cats. It is sure good to hear from you guys again ... I’m now selling for General Mills, so don’t forget to eat your Wheaties!”

  Pete (Petar) Maravich remained a basketball bachelor for a few years after the war. He played professionally with several clubs, notably Youngstown and Pittsburg, before beginning his college coaching career. He finally found the right girl, Helen, a war widow herself with a young son, Ronnie. Pete surprised the group with both the announcement of his marriage to her, and soon after, the birth of their first child together, Pete. During the war years, the Seven knew their buddy as “Pete,” although Maravich was christened at an early age with the more familiar “Press,” a name he inherited not because he or his teams played great defense, but due to his characteristic banter. Depending on the story’s version, he probably gained the nickname as a child who had more to say than the Pittsburg Press or from simply peddling the papers and yelling his employer’s name at the top of his lungs.

  When I was twelve or thirteen, I remember Dad joining me on the driveway while I was shooting baskets. He had invited an old friend of his to our house for dinner in a few weeks, someone who had a son around my age who was a pretty fair player. This throw down was a huge motivator, and I intently went to work sharpening my skills. Turns out the dinner date was cancelled and it took several more years before I realized how lucky I was.

  Of course, Pete Jr. grew up to eclipse his father’s career as a player, becoming an NBA All Star and Hall of Fame member. The two of them would struggle unsuccessfully to find a cure for the older Maravich’s prostate cancer and he passed away in 1988.

  “As you know, I saw Bonnie quite a few times this past season. Lo and behold, guess what he did. He bought a house for 11 g’s, and I don’t mean gravity either. Heard via the grapevine that the location of the house is atop quicksand, so if you pay Bonnie a visit and see a chimney sticking out a little, you’ll know you’ve found the place. ”

  John “Dugie” Doyle sported a “fine Abraham Lincoln beard” when Dad first laid eyes on him in Nasaza Bay. He was one of the two surviving airmen afflicted with malaria and avoided the fateful flight that killed three of his fellow fliers. He went on to graduate from the University of Nebraska and was awarded the Navy Cross at a “Navy Day” ceremony at the university in 1945. He also competed for the Cornhusker football team, and after completing law school, became a successful attorney in his father’s law firm. He and his wife, Barbara, settled in the Lincoln area and had two children, Timothy and Louis. His brother, David Doyle, was a familiar face in television and movies throughout the 70s and 80s. Dugie was active in many local, state, and national organizations, including the National Council on Alcoholism, and stayed in touch with his squadron mates for the remainder of his life. He died in 2013.

  Mac (Macarten Miner, Dad’s brother) joined the Army and a hospital unit after just a single semester of college, served three years, and returned to DePauw University where he graduated in 1949. He went on to med school at Northwestern, where he met and married his wife, Carolyn. They lived in the Chicago area. He completed his studies and, for a time, went to work as a prison doctor. He did his residency at Charity Hospital in New Orleans and later worked in a clinic in Lynch, Ky., treating coal miners. These early influences likely inspired his deep-seated, compassionate approach to medicine.

  The two of them moved to Carlsbad, N.M., and he set up a practice in 1954. They raised three children — Alan, Shelli, and Laura — and he continued to serve his community as a family doctor, making house calls as routinely in the 1990s as he did in the 1950s. To Mac, medicine was never a business, but rather a way to care for people in need. Even a cancer diagnosis and chemotherapy didn’t deter him from continuing to see patients with a smile, finally succumbing in 1997 at age 73. From a letter sent to the authentic John Caldow, Jan. 27, 1945:

  “I believe it rained more in the month of November than it does in a year back home. When we reached our final position where we knew we would stay for some time, we dug a well for our water supply, and most of the time, the water level was only four feet below the surface.”

  I attended a service for Del Fager in San Francisco in October 2
015. He was 96. His ashes were scattered over the bay from a seaplane.

  My father’s artwork and photos have graced the walls of university art galleries, finally finding their way into the Evergreen Aviation and Space Museum in Oregon and the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas, for three months in 2014. I look forward to continuing that journey with other national museums around the country. Who would have ever thought?

  Dad went on to start a small flying school, marry Mom and raise a family. He hired on with Eastern Airlines, but for a time he hesitated to fly, suffering from a self described “burn out,” and it cost him valuable seniority that hounded him through much of his early career before becoming captain. He never touched another coconut. And his retirement in 1979, after thirty years, came disappointingly soon. He felt he was at the top of his game when the FAA told him he was “too old” at 60.

  Too old? Dad continued skiing until nearly 90, made a couple of trips from Florida to Massachusetts each year while actively landscaping his properties in both states, and he was thrilled to be a part-time railroad engineer for most of that span.

  The Black Cats are fading now, but they and all the World War II veterans deserve our respect and attention. As for Dad, I’ll be forever grateful for his sketches, his words, and for giving me these insights into his past. It is a lesson for all of us in leaving a legacy of family history to those who will survive us.

  Dad would want to be sure I acknowledged, again, the fine crew of the “Frisco Gal.” He was very proud of them:

  Ens. Robert White - copilot

  Ens. Roger George - Navigator

  ARM3/c Robert Synan - 2nd Radioman

  AOM3/c Roswell Combs - 1st Gunner and Bombardier

  AMM2/c Billy Keene - 2nd Mechanic

  ARM1/c Duane Lambert - 1st Radioman

  AMM1/c Norris Townsley - Plane captain and 1st mechanic