My Carrier War (29 page)

God! Another tour at Henderson. Hope the living is better. Those damn tents were pretty bad and the malaria too. I’ve got to lead the TBF guys. Hope we all make it. Wonder when we’ll get home. More combat...I’ll make it. Got to...Jean and Donnie are back in Bremerton.

Bill continued. “Our maintenance people will remain on the ship. Only our crewmen will accompany us to Guadalcanal. A Navy combat aircraft service unit (CASU) is now based on the Canal, and they will maintain our aircraft. One more thing. Living conditions have improved. There are now Quonset huts and a new mess hall. You’ll even have hot water, just like Efate.” He looked around. “Guys, we’re ready for this. The extra training we’ve had this past six weeks has sharpened our skills. I’ll be leading the dive-bombers, and Norm will lead the torpedo squadron. I know we’ll do the job were trained for.”

We stood as Bill left the ready room. A couple of the guys asked me if I knew when we might leave for the States. Another asked if I knew whether or not we would be flying night attacks again. I told them I just didn’t know. As I left the ready room, it was obvious the guys were affected by the skipper’s news. There was only the quiet murmur of conversation. There was certainly no excitement nor any sign of eagerness to go back into combat. We’d survived this far. I wasn’t sure that everyone was capable of flying more combat missions. Maybe we’d been shot at too many times.

That evening, Bill and I and the squadron flight surgeon met in Bill’s and my room. I expressed my thoughts about some of the comments by the pilots and about the overall morale of the group. Our flight surgeon agreed. He had also noticed some of the pilots’ concerns. Bill’s solution was clear. First, he and I would lead every mission. The other pilots would rotate. Only the two of us would fly every mission. He also asked the flight surgeon to spend time with the pilots, observing and talking with them.

I lay in my upper bunk that night thinking about Shyrock’s plan.

God! Every flight! Got to do it. No choice. None. Quit? Can’t quit.
God, please help me make it. Please...I’ve so much to live for. Help
me do my job...help me get all the guys home.
Return to Henderson Field
The torpedo squadron arrived at Henderson Field on June 27. The old Pagoda was gone, replaced by a bunch of Quonset huts that served as the operations area. We all met there on the 28th for our briefing. Navy Commander Johnson welcomed us back to the Cactus Air Force. There were no surprises in the briefing. We would be in support of the Army landing on New Georgia Island. Our combat mission would include bombing attacks on the airfield, ship searches to prevent the Japanese from bringing additional troops to the island, and bombing attacks to support the Army landings on Japanese troop positions. Someone in the back of the room asked about enemy anti-aircraft fire. “Light to moderate” was Johnson’s reply.

We settled into our living area: Quonset huts, a shower house with hot water, and a new mess hall. There was also a great improvement in the food. I thought these new living conditions would certainly help the squadron’s morale. As I talked with my fellow pilots, a change in attitude was apparent. There was more joking and a greater sense of comradeship between the men.

I led my first flight with six aircraft on June 30, 1943. It was an attack on the airfield at New Georgia. This time, we cratered the runway with 500-pound bombs. The AA fire was light, and none of our planes were hit. After that, we waited for the invasion to begin. I was the leader on just two flights between July 1 and 8. The one on the first was another bombing mission on the airfield at New Georgia. The general’s staff there at Henderson Field was determined to keep the Japanese airfield unusable for enemy aircraft. The flight on the eighth was an antishipping search. The staff was aware that the Japanese were using small boats to move troops to New Georgia from Bougainville. I led four planes to search an area northwest of New Georgia. We split up into two-plane sections, and my wingman and I searched the area around the island of Kolombangara. The other two aircraft searched the area around the island of Vella Lavella. My wingman and I were flying at about 500 feet and paying special attention to any small coves or harbors that might conceal small Japanese boats. We were not finding any targets when suddenly my gunner called me on the intercom. “Sir, I think there’s a boat under those trees in that little cove right at our three o’clock position.”

I called my wingman. “Orbit your position. Possible target three o’clock. I’m taking a look. Out.”

I rolled into a left turn and headed toward the suspected target.

Jesus. I hope there’s nothing there. Too many men are dying. Damn war.
Just like before, I saw those red and yellow flashes arching toward our plane. AA fire!

“Target sighted! I’m receiving fire!”

I called my wingman and ordered him to start firing at the area with his .50-caliber turret gun as I dove low over the trees. My gunner began firing our turret gun as I turned back and began circling the target.

I called my wingman. “Maintain 700 feet.” I could see the outline of a small vessel hidden under the trees. I could see our tracer bullets hitting the boat.

Suddenly, there was an explosion, and I saw fire and a column of smoke rising from the target area. We circled the area, watching the fire and the continuing small explosions. We didn’t see any Japanese soldiers escaping from the burning target.

I called my wingman and gunner. “Good shooting, guys. We got him! Join on me. We’ll keep looking. Maybe there are others. Out.”

Goddammit! That Jap almost got us! That was close. Jesus, I wish this
would end. It’s just too much. I’m so scared. I must believe I’ll make it
home.
New Georgia Invasion
Beginning July 12, up through the 25th, I led eleven flights against the enemy. The invasion of New Georgia was underway. One flight, in particular, remains very vivid in my memory.

On July 14, 1943, I led a six-plane flight on a bombing mission against New Georgia. U.S. Army troops were advancing against the Japanese defenders. Again, our target was the airfield. We were at 9,000 feet, in a loose formation of two three-plane sections. Suddenly, my radio crackled. I heard my wingman’s voice, saying, “Four bogies! Nine o’clock high!” I looked up and to my left. There they were, four Japanese fighters—Zeros—in formation.

Goddammit! Where are our fighters? Looks like they’re turning towards us…got to get ready for possible Jap fighter attacks on us!

I went on the radio. “Cactus flight, this is the Bull. Bogies sighted. Close on me now! Close up!” The five other planes quickly closed on me, forming a very tight formation. Another radio call. “Turret gunners commence tracking those Japs!” I could see all six gun turrets moving as they swung the .50-caliber machine guns toward the enemy fighters.

I called, “Gunners, on my signal, all guns fire a burst. Set your aiming point well below the enemy fighters. I want them to see our fire power. I don’t want them to attack!”

I ordered, “Fire now!” A stream of bullets from the six turrets arched out from our formation.

What are those bastards going to do? They’re still circling. Maybe I should take the flight down. Get low over the water. Can’t let them get below us. Still got the bombing mission. Wait a minute. They’re getting out of here; they’re turning away! Damn! We were lucky. At this altitude, they would have massacred us...we would have had to dive and get low over the water to have a chance against those fighters.

I called the flight, “Nice work, guys. Great formation flying, and gunners—you scared the bastards off. Let’s head for the airstrip. Got to drop these bombs.”

We made the return trip to Henderson Field with no problems. I led another six-plane flight on July 25, another bombing attack against targets on New Georgia in direct support of advancing American troops. Each of our planes was carrying one 2,000-pound bomb with a fuse designed to explode just before hitting the ground. By exploding before hitting the ground, they were very effective in killing personnel. There was no AA fire. We all made it back to Henderson Field. That evening, the skipper called a meeting at the mess hall. All pilots and crewmen were present and wondering—why a meeting? As usual, we all stood as the skipper entered the room.

“OK, guys. Please sit down.” There was a shifting of benches as everyone took seats. Shyrock looked around. “Gentlemen, please note that I’m using the word 'gentlemen'. A word always used by Commander Butts when he was our skipper. I do wish he were here to make this announcement. Gentlemen, today was our last mission. We’ve all survived, and I suspect many of you thank God that we all made it.” The cheers started all over the room, guys hugging one another, shaking hands, pounding each others’ backs. Shyrock continued, as we quieted down. “On the 27th, a Navy transport plane will fly us back to Efate. We will leave our aircraft here at Henderson. At Efate, we will board
Chenango
and depart for San Francisco. Gentlemen, we’re going home!”

It’s over! I’m going home to Jean...to our baby too. We’ve been so blessed; we’re all safe. Not a single person wounded or killed. Some of it was tough, like that flight I aborted. God! I was so scared. Those night flights, so lonely. It’s over; I made it and I get some leave. Wonder what’s next? Don’t think about it; just get home to Jean. Get home.

The Navy transport aircraft was waiting for us at the Henderson Field operations building. It was August 5, 1943. We were on our way home. The pilots from the fighter squadron, the dive-bombing pilots and their crews, and our TBF pilots along with our crewmen climbed aboard the transport plane with no regrets. We left our aircraft parked at Henderson Field. We were going home in style aboard
Chenango
. There would be no flight operations during the ten-day trip back to the States.

The same day, we flew from Henderson Field to Efate—the small island in the central New Hebrides where we had been based before. Trucks were waiting to take us to the harbor where we boarded small boats for the ten-minute trip out to the anchored ship. By the time we got settled and ate dinner, the carrier was underway.
The trip back to the States was just what we needed. Good food, plenty of rest and, most importantly, a chance for exercise. With the ship’s hangar deck empty, there was room for volleyball and basketball. We had a series of tournaments in both sports among the ship’s officers, among the squadron officers, and between the officers and the enlisted personnel.

In addition, all squadron members were inducted into the “Shellback Club” when we crossed the equator. A senior member of the ship’s crew served as King Neptune, who controlled the ceremony. Each candidate had to crawl through a canvas gunnery target filled with the ship’s garbage, then “kiss the baby’s belly.” The “baby” was the fattest sailor aboard, and his belly was smeared with black grease! Candidates were all equal in the eyes of King Neptune. After this rite of passage, we each received a Shellback membership card from
Chenango
’s commander, Captain Ben Wyatt.

We first saw the Golden Gate Bridge on August 15. What a sight! The fog was lifting and the tops of the steel pillars supporting the bridge were visible. The morning sun was breaking through the fog, bathing the bridge in hazy sunlight. It was truly golden. Chenango moved slowly across San Francisco Bay until she reached her mooring alongside the dock at the Alameda Naval Air Station. We could see the skyline of San Francisco from the flight deck of the ship.

That day, all the squadron officers and enlisted personnel were transferred to the Commander Fleet Air (COMFAIR) Alameda for temporary duty awaiting assignment. Following dinner at the officers’ club, I spent the early evening in a BOQ room at the air station wondering when my leave would start. As soon as I disembarked from the ship, I was able to find a pay phone on the dock and call Jean, collect. When the call went through, she told me she was staying with my folks in the small basement apartment in their house. “We have a place of our own, darling,” she said. She sounded so happy. She continued, telling me that Donnie was fine, and that she could hardly wait until I got home to her and the baby.

A baby...he’s about three months old. Wonder if he sleeps all night. Bet we have to be quiet so we don’t wake him. What about us? Our love making? Maybe Mom will take the baby for a few days…Jean and I could go away...just for a few days....

A knock at my door—it swung open. “Hey, Norm!” Three of my squadron buddies were standing there. “Come on, Norm! We’re heading for Frisco and “The Mark.” We’ve reserved two double rooms for the next week. Come on, it’s time for a party.”

We took a cab to the ferry landing, caught the ferry to Frisco, hailed a cab to the Mark Hopkins Hotel, checked into our rooms, ordered a couple bottles of whiskey, rum and mixers from room service, and started the party. Ours was just one of three or four other groups from the fighter and dive-bombing squadrons that had rooms at The Mark.

Our three squadrons received some publicity in the San Francisco papers because of our experiences flying out of Guadalcanal. A couple of the local pilots had even been interviewed. The Top of The Mark—top floor of the hotel—had a panoramic view of all San Francisco. It was the most popular nightclub in the city. It was filled every evening with attractive young women who wanted to dance and drink with naval aviators back from the war. We certainly gave them the chance. For me, the booze and the dancing were enough. Just holding a woman—her perfume, her soft hair alongside my face, her slim body pressed against me as we danced—that was all I allowed myself. The memories of my fear, of the flashing AA fire all faded away in the arms of those beautiful women at the Top of The Mark.

The party ended when we received a phone call at the hotel from our air station’s duty officer. An awards ceremony was scheduled with the admiral. Following that, we were free to commence our 30-day leave. Even though I had a bad hangover on August 29, I appeared in my dress blue uniform and was decorated with my first air medal for “Meritorious Service Under Combat Conditions.”