My Carrier War (14 page)

As soon as the target left the runway, it rolled into vertical position, and I began a steady climb out over the ocean on a heading for the gunnery area. The four TBFs joined me, staying well clear of the towline. The gunnery practice area was an air space over the Atlantic Ocean about 50 miles from N.A.S. Norfolk The shipping charts designated it as an area closed to ship navigation. The air space set aside for gunnery training was 50 miles long and 20 miles wide. My first task was to keep the tow plane within the perimeters of the gunnery air space. After reaching 8,000 feet of altitude and checking my navigation to be sure I was in the assigned area, I would call the lead plane and clear the flight to commence gunnery runs. I also warned all pilots at that time.

“Stop firing if you drift behind the target. Remember, I’m not the target!”

The four TBFs were in a position ahead of the tow plane, to my right and at an altitude above my plane. Each plane would commence a diving turn towards the tow plane, fly past the tow plane and then turn again toward the target and begin firing. The flight path of the aircraft would look like the letter "S". The top of the S was where the plane would start the diving turn. The bottom of the S was where the target was located. After completing a firing run, each plane would recover by flying under the tow target and climbing back above the tow plane for another gunnery run. After the fourth pilot completed his run, I would reverse course with the tow plane and again tell the pilots to commence the gunnery runs. This would continue until all ammunition in each plane was gone.

Like Canada, Africa, the United Kingdom, the United States, and several other countries, New Zealand relied heavily on the Harvard (the British designation of the North American T-6 Texan, aka to U.S. naval aviators as the SNJ) as an advanced pilot training and basic air weapons training aircraft from March 1941 until it was finally phased out in 1977.

The TBFs would then join up and head for the base. The SNJ was much slower, so by the time I arrived over the field, the TBF pilots would have landed and would be standing by the aircraft parking ramp waiting for me to drop the target. I would fly slowly over a grassy area between the cement runways and release the towline and target. A truck would be waiting to pick up the target and towline. The truck would drop the target off by the pilots.

All of us would be like a bunch of kids after the gunnery flight—counting bullet holes. Hits on the target were important—low man bought the beer at the club. Scoring was still done as it had been in training at Corpus—the bullets were pained with different colors that left a mark on the target. Hits were few, though. The TBF in 1942 had only one .30-caliber machine synchronized to fire through the propeller. Plus, a pilot only had about eight to ten seconds of actual firing time against the target. Pilots kidded one another about feeling like being in WWI and flying against the Red Baron. The training was important, though. We were all learning the necessary skills to fly the TBF under combat conditions.
A Night to Forget!
That evening after dinner at the officers’ club, Jean and I, along with five of our bachelor friends, decided to go to a nightclub that had a dance band. The club we found also had a bar. When the club closed at one o’clock, Jean and I, along with George Hartman, one of the bachelors, were the only ones left of the original group of pilots. George and I were both pretty mellow; in fact, we were both quite drunk. So the three of us got a cab, and when we arrived at our rooming house, we all piled out of the cab busy talking about the evening. I paid the cabby, but forgot about George. The cab left and there stood all three of us. I insisted that it was too far for George to walk to the base. In a moment of drunken clarity, I suggested George stay with us. Why not? There were two twin beds in our rented room. He could have one and Jean and I would use the other one. We tiptoed very quietly to our room. Jean undressed in the bathroom and quickly got into bed. George and I stripped to our skivvies and I joined Jean as George got into the other bed.

The next morning, George and I were up early. It was a workday and we had to get to the squadron. I got into my robe and used the bathroom first. I noticed that the landlady was having her morning coffee sitting in the kitchen. She sure was nosy, I thought—always up early checking on Jean and me. Back in the room, George was up and dressed. Before I could say anything about the landlady, he said, “I’m leaving, Norm, but I’ve got to go to the head (Navy word for bathroom) first. I’ll see you later at the squadron.” I knew the landlady would see him.

I got dressed and tried to sneak out of the room. She was waiting for me.

“Mr. Berg, who was that man who just left your room?”

“A friend, Ma’am, just a good friend.”

“Is your wife with you in the room?”

“Yes, Ma’am, but...” She interrupted me. “Mr. Berg, I want you and your wife out of my house by tonight. I won’t tolerate such behavior!”

I woke Jean before leaving. She was still half-asleep, but she awakened quickly when I said, “Honey, please see the landlady. She’s really upset about George staying with us. She’s kicking us out as of tonight. I’ve got to get to the base. Will you call Betty Austin and see if there’s room in the boarding house where they stay? Sorry about George staying, honey. Call me at the squadron if we get a room at the boarding house. I’ll meet you and help with the move.”

She just sat there in bed, her hair tousled from sleep. Then, as I left the room she replied, “OK, I’ll call Betty. Go fly your stupid airplanes—and will you please grow up! Stop acting like a high school kid!”
Field Carrier Landing Practice
I left the room quietly, avoiding our irate landlady, and started walking down the street towards the base. I had left Jean—my very unhappy wife—sitting in bed.

God! You are a master at doing dumb things. Having George stay with us was so stupid! I hope Jean can find a room for us in that boarding house with the Austins. That would be better for her since Betty’s her friend. I should’ve taken some extra aspirins; got to quit partying on work nights. No fun flying with a hangover. No sweat though, it should be an easy day. I’ll get a strong cup of coffee at the squadron and then check the flight schedule.

I walked into the squadron ready room, poured myself a cup of black coffee and saw a message written in chalk on the blackboard. “Mr. Berg, report to Lieutenant Malanosky.” Malanosky was the squadron’s landing signal officer (LSO). It wasn’t going to be an easy day.

Every carrier squadron, while preparing for deployment, was assigned an LSO. I’d met the lieutenant before. He was an older man with plenty of experience flying off carriers. I’d also talked to other squadron pilots about him and about FCLP, field carrier landing practice.

As I walked down the passageway to his office, I knew what was coming— my training was starting—learning to land aboard Chenango, our carrier. I entered his office, saluted, and said, “Ensign Berg reporting as ordered, Sir!”

He acknowledged my salute and told me to sit down as he continued going through some papers.

Suddenly, I knew that this man would control my future as a carrier pilot.

This was
déjà vu
—just like primary training when I got those down checks. I had to get the lieutenant’s OK in the field carrier landing training before he would approve me for actual landings on the carrier. Without his approval, I’d be transferred out of the squadron.

What if I failed and couldn’t qualify for carrier duty? What if I am transferred out of the squadron? Maybe Jean and I would be together. No, that wouldn’t happen. I’d probably go to a noncarrier squadron. Hell, I’ve got to make it!

I heard the lieutenant ask, “Is this your first FCLP training flight?”

When I responded it was, he stood up and moved out away from his desk. He picked up two paddles—each about twelve inches in diameter—looking like large ping-pong paddles. Attached to wires on the interior of the paddles were strips of bright pink cloth that fluttered as he moved the paddles back and forth.

“Mr. Berg,” he paused, looking into my eyes. “These little paddles are your lifeline. They will get you back aboard the carrier. You let me help you, and I’ll get you back home to your pretty, young wife. Ignore my signals and you’ll end up a dead naval aviator.”

He paused, still looking at me, then he reached across the desk and handed me the two paddles. “Do you know the signals I will be giving you as you make your approach to the carrier?” I indicated that I did. My fellow pilots had demonstrated the signals to me at the bar often enough. Damn! After what he just said I’d better know the signals.

“OK. You’re too high on your approach. What’s the signal?”

I raised both paddles over my head in the shape of a V.

“You’re fast. Reduce air speed.”

I held one paddle in my right hand straight out from my shoulder. The paddle in my left hand was moving up and down between my waist and the floor.

“You’re too slow. Add power.”

I held both paddles waist high and moved them both forward and then back again—like swimming the breaststroke, I thought.

“You’re OK. Good approach!”

I held both paddles straight out from my shoulders. This was the semaphore signal for alphabet letter R. A perfect approach was known as a “Roger Pass.” I knew I would need plenty of these to satisfy the LSO officer.

“Now show me the two mandatory signals—the ones you must obey.”

I raised both paddles above my head moving them rapidly back and forth. This was the signal for “wave off,” add power and gain altitude, and most of all, “Do Not Land!”

The final signal was a “cut.” The paddle in my left hand was pointing down to the floor. The paddle in my right hand made a swift motion across in front of my face—cut the throttle and land the plane.

“OK, Norm. It’s Norm, isn’t it?” He had a slight smile on his face as he looked at me.

“That was real good. You know your signals. I’ve got your pilot log book here. With the amount of flight time you have in the TBF you should have no trouble.” I could feel a wide grin splitting my face. But then he continued. “I know you’re scheduled for a FCLP training flight this morning. Since this is your first experience with field carrier landing practice, here’s what I want you to do. Take off 30 minutes ahead of the rest of the flight. Fly out to Rogers Field, a satellite field to N.A.S. Norfolk. When you see the field, you’ll notice a large white square painted on the end of the runway. It’s 85 feet wide and 150 feet long. That represents the size of the flight deck you will have for landing on Chenango. Any questions?”

Damn! The wing span on the TBF is 54 feet! Not much room for error...and speed control. It’s critical. Don’t be too fast or too high. Just hope you walk away from a crash, or swim away if you go over the side. Jesus! He’s right; he’s going to save my ass. I need him. Pay attention to those paddles!

“No questions, Sir. Anything else, Sir?”

“Yes, Norm, just a couple of more things. I don’t want you to make any landings today. Before you practice your first landings with me, I want you to practice some slow flight. Climb to 3,000 feet, put your wheels and flaps down. You’ll be in a landing configuration. Then reduce power until you’re flying about five knots above stalling speed. What will that be for the TBF?”

“Sir, depending on the weight of the plane, it should be about 73 to 75 knots.”

“OK, Norm. I want you to spend about 30 minutes practicing slow flight.
Make some turns—control your air speed and altitude. Get the feel of the airplane. Think about the signals you’ll be getting from me on an actual approach. How will you respond to the various signals? OK? I’ll see you after the flight.”

I got into my flight gear, climbed into my assigned aircraft, and taxied out to the duty runway. I was cleared for takeoff by the tower, and about 20 minutes later, I saw the white painted outline of the landing area on the runway as I flew over Rogers Field. I was at 3,000 feet.

Sure is small. At least it’s not moving. The carrier sure as hell will be. Now, landing gear and flaps down; reduce power; control stick back; get the nose a little higher; watch the air speed...80...75...add some power! Steady. Hold it right there. Now an easy turn. Add power! Air speed is dropping below 70. There, back to 75. Damn! The plane is almost ready to quit flying. Ready to stall. Settle down, Norm, remember you’re going to be flying only 50 feet above the ground on your approach to the landing area. Come on, the LSO said practice for 30 minutes. Come on, you can fly the damn box this plane came in!

I finished practicing slow flight procedure and started back to the Norfolk Air Station. I was a little disappointed that the LSO had not let me make some landings, but I figured he knew best. I was wondering, too, if Jean had found us a place to live.

Hell, I wonder if she’s even talking to me! I hope there’s a message from her at the squadron. There’s the field. Better call the tower for landing clearance. I’ll call her when I get back to the squadron. Am I letting my fear of failure interfere with my feelings for her? I do want her with me. I need her. Got to do something to show her I love her. Come on, do something!