My Carrier War (21 page)

We all looked at him. He had a big smile on his face.

“Gentlemen, I’m your friendly cat officer, and you pilots are about to meet my favorite toy, my catapult. It’s only about 80 feet long, but it will give you a real kick in the butt! As you might guess, there’s insufficient wind to launch you with a deck take off. With the ship’s top speed of 18 knots, we’d only get a max of 22 knots over the deck. That’s not enough for the TBF, especially when each of your planes has four depth charges hanging in the bomb bays. You know, you just might see a sub!”

I sat there a bit stunned—a catapult shot! What next? Well, I was a carrier pilot! No choice but to get on with it!

He continued. “Here’s how it’s going to work. After you man your aircraft and get your engines started, you’ll be passed to my control. I’ll direct you to taxi your plane into position on the cat. Then one of my crew will attach a small copper ring to the back of your plane and to a hold-down bar on the deck of the carrier. Another man will attach the catapult harness to brackets on the inside of both your landing gear struts. Now we’re ready. I’ll be standing to your right where I can see you. I’ll give you a two-finger turn up.” He stopped to be sure he had our attention. He sure did!

“I want to hear your engine at full power. Go over your check-off list. Be sure all engine instruments are normal. Now, be sure your feet are off the top of your rudder pedals. You don’t want your brakes on! That little copper clamp will hold your plane from moving, believe me. There’s a headrest behind you. Pull it out until you feel the back of your head resting against it. Now, when you’re ready, toss me a salute, and I’ll give you the ride of your life!”

The next thing we heard was the order: “Pilots, man your planes.”

I got my plane started and quickly received the signal to taxi to the catapult area.

Goddamn it! Don’t hurry me! I’m getting frantic signals to get in place on the cat. There’s the signal that I’m in place and hooked up. There’s the two finger signal from the cat officer...OK...go to full power...feet off the brakes. Everything looks good. Hope that little brass ring holds. Take-off checklist completed. Go ahead...give him a salute. Let’s go flying!

When I gave the catapult office my salute, he began the action to fire the catapult. This was a hydraulic catapult. Hydraulic pressure forced a piston forward. Attached to the piston were the cables that were hooked to my landing gear struts. I was airborne in about ten seconds! It worked just like a kid’s sling-shot!

What a ride! Get the nose down. The plane wants to climb. Gear up...reduce power...milk the flaps up slowly. Damn, that cat shot really jerked my head back. Next time, I’ll rest my head against it before the shot. I really hit the back of my head on that head rest. Everything seems fine. What’s that heading for the first leg? Might as well shut off the radio; got to do it alone. Engine sounds fine. Just pay attention to the navigation; remember you want to get home to Jean. Better check the YE. Wonder if I’ll find a sub. Where are the switches for arming those depth charges?

I had two crewmen aboard the plane. I met them at the plane and briefed them on the flight. I told them I would give a warning on the intercom reminding them to brace themselves for the cat shot. I reminded them, too, that their job during the flight was to keep a sharp lookout for any evidence of a sub. Smitty, who was in the ball turret with the .50-caliber machine gun, and McElroy, who was in the radio compartment, both had windows, so they could observe the ocean as the flight progressed. I also reminded them about radio silence. I told them both that I would talk with them throughout the flight. I felt that at least I had someone to talk to even if I couldn’t call the carrier.

Once we were airborne, the flying time was totally uneventful. In fact, it was quite boring. Weather was perfect. The engine was operating smoothly. My navigation was accurate. I saw the carrier exactly at the time and place planned by the navigation calculations. Within about five minutes, the other three planes arrived. Since I was already orbiting the carrier, the other planes quickly joined me, one on my left, the other two on my right. I noticed that the wind speed had increased. I could see wind streaks on the surface of the water and a few white caps. I knew that the carrier would turn into the wind to recover the four airplanes. I checked my altimeter; we were at 1,000 feet. Then I saw the “Charlie flag” stream from the signal mast on the ship’s bridge. It was a large red flag and it was my signal that the ship was preparing to recover us. The ship began its turn into the wind, and I led the flight down to 300 feet.

When the carrier steadied on its new course into the wind, I had the four of us flying past the carrier on its starboard side in a right echelon formation. Five seconds after I flew past the bow of the carrier, I gave a hand signal to my wingman, by touching my hand to my mouth and throwing him a good-bye kiss. I made a diving turn to my left and set up the approach pattern for the carrier landing. It was just like carrier quals. I turned into position just astern of the ship, saw the LSO, got a cut signal, caught a wire and was aboard. I taxied forward and by the time I was out of my plane and in the ready room, I heard the fourth plane land. I sat, calming down with a cigarette and cup of coffee, when the ready room intercom squawked, “This is the captain. All aircraft were aboard in under two minutes. Well done. Out.”

I heard someone in the back of the ready room yell out, “Pretty hot stuff, Norm. I’ll fly wing on you any time.” I know I had a big grin—I couldn’t hide it!

On December 24, 1942, our maintenance people discovered that a few of our aircraft had suffered some minor damage on landings. Some wrinkles had appeared in the skin of the fuselage where it joined the tail assembly. Our people believed the damage was caused when the aircraft landed with the depth charges aboard. The extra weight was causing the damage. Our skipper decided to fly all our TBFs to the Naval Air Station at Coco Solo, Panama, to repair the damage. The ship was only about 100 miles from the air station and there were facilities there to do a quick repair on our planes.

Following lunch, nine of us packed an extra uniform and shaving gear in our travel bags. We were all in the ready room waiting for the call of “Pilots, man your aircraft.” All the squadron pilots were going with us, so one of the pilots with his spare gear flew as my passenger in the radio compartment of the plane. When the call did come on the intercom, we all rushed pell-mell to our assigned aircraft. I was spotted number three on the deck with two planes ahead and the rest behind me.

My passenger got into the radio compartment with our travel bags. I climbed into the plane’s cockpit and got ready to start my engine.

Then I heard, “Pilots, start your engines.” Quickly, props were turning and exhaust smoke from the engines drifted across the flight deck as all nine planes got their engines started. I sat there, my parachute tight on my shoulders, my safety belt snug across my lap.

Not a bad dea...the officers’ club at the air station for Christmas Eve...a nice Christmas dinner. Wonder what Jean is doing? Those were wonderful times with her Norwegian grandparents for Christmas. How they would tease me by speaking Norwegian and then looking at me, laughing. Jean would tell me later, though, that only nice things were being said. Jean and I were still in high school. There goes plane number two. I’m next. Take-off checklist; engine instruments look OK; there’s the three-finger turn up. Brakes off...nice and smooth...stick back a little...let it fly off. I’m clear of the deck. What’s wrong? I’m losing power—settling toward the water. Get the gear up! Try to ease this bird to the right. Get clear of the ship! It’ll run right over us if we go in...milk up the damn flaps slowly! There, engine sounds better, engine rpms are back to normal...God! It seemed it took forever to get full power from the engine...I’m going to make it! That was too damn close!

I heard a frantic call from my passenger, “Norm, what the hell are you doing? I thought you could fly this bird!”

After all planes were airborne, we joined on the first plane, which was the skipper’s, and we headed for the Coco Solo air station. After landing and delivering the planes for repair, everyone checked into the BOQ and headed for the officers’ club. Although we had a good Christmas, we all felt the distance from our loved ones.

The author skimming the water on take-off in a TBF from the light carrier USS
Chenango
, which after leaving Norfolk in December 1942 was headed for Panama.

On December 26, two days after we had arrived, with each aircraft repaired over the Christmas holiday, all nine of us flew across the Isthmus of Panama using the Panama Canal as our map.
Chenango
had transited the canal while we were at the air station. Radio silence was still in effect, but the ship’s YE led us right to her.

The nine TBFs orbited the carrier waiting for the red “Fox” flag to signal that the ship was ready to take us aboard. As we circled, I thought about the strange Christmas we had experienced at the officers’ club in Panama. There was a lot of drinking and the dinner was good, but it wasn’t Christmas. Maybe next year I would be with Jean and our new baby.

As we approached the ship for landing, we were in a nine-plane division of three, three-plane sections. As we flew past the starboard side of the carrier, the first three-plane section moved into an echelon to the right. Then each plane made a diving turn to the left, entered the downwind leg and prepared to land on the carrier. The two remaining sections made one circle of the ship and then the second section followed the first three planes into the landing pattern. I was leading the third three-plane section. I quickly made one circle of the ship, got into position on the starboard side of the carrier and followed the second three-plane section into the landing pattern. I only saw one wave off, as eight of us got aboard on the first pass.

We were all together that night for dinner in the ward room. We were still talking about the great job we had done getting aboard the ship. We were in our only home—USS
Chenango
. We were on our way to the war and finally in the Pacific.

It was a long trip from Panama to our initial destination. Again, bad weather limited flight operations during the transit of the Pacific, but it also protected us from submarine attack. Bad weather, especially rain squalls and low clouds, would hide the task force from a sub trying to find our ship.

We finally arrived and anchored in the harbor of Noumea on the island of New Caledonia on January 7, 1943. The island of New Caledonia was a major outpost in support of the action on Guadalcanal. It was also the headquarters of the South Pacific Naval Command. Geographically, New Caledonia was located about 800 miles northeast of Brisbane, Australia.

From 26 December 1942 when we left Panama, until our arrival at Noumea, my flying time was very limited. The daily flight schedule consisted of three, two-plane antisub searches. These searches were designed to protect the carrier from enemy sub attacks. An enemy sub had to use its periscope to locate a target. If a plane spotted the periscope, the sub was highly vulnerable to attack.

To meet this daily flight schedule, only six pilots each day were required. Since our squadron shared the flights with the dive-bombing squadron pilots, that meant 24 pilots were available for flights; 12 from each squadron. We also faced possible flight cancellations due to weather. The result was that I didn’t fly very often. It was January before I was on the flight schedule. My log book entry for 2 January 1943 reads, “TBF 2.5 hrs. dusk patrol.” That was my first flight since landing on the carrier on December 26.

The dusk patrol consisted of one aircraft circling our task force at a range of five to ten miles. Our task force consisted of
Chenango
, four destroyers and one light cruiser. The greatest concern of the task group commander,
Chenango
’s Captain Ben Wyatt, was the threat of Japanese subs. The aim was to keep an enemy sub from attacking the carrier or any of the rest of the ships. The thinking was that dusk would be the ideal time for the Japanese to attack. For me, flying the patrol was complete boredom. The only real concern I had was to get back aboard the carrier before dark.

While in Noumea, we ensigns received some good news. Among all the messages the ship picked up at Navy Headquarters, there was a promotion list. All of us had been promoted to lieutenant, junior grade. My title was now Lieutenant (jg.) Berg.

The news we were really waiting for though, was mail from home. No such luck. Our mail hadn’t caught up with us yet, although I did manage to mail three letters to Jean. My mailing address was “Ensign Norman Berg, USS
Chenango
, c/o Fleet Post Office, San Francisco.” We all thought it was rather vague. We were over 2,000 miles and 13 days from Panama. Brisbane, AUSTRALIA We were even farther from the United States and home.

New Caledonia and New Hebrides.