My Carrier War (8 page)

The Navy used a letter coding system to enter the type of flight in our log books. All my flights during this period were either K (tactical) or L (navigation). The K flights were much more complicated than the simple formation flying I’d done before. The flight controls of the SNC airplane were much faster and more sensitive, making formation flying much more of a challenge.

A typical tactical flight usually involved six aircraft. In particular, I remember one flight on February 6. Our instructor assigned me as the flight leader, so I was responsible for briefing the other pilots on the flight. The assignment took me by surprise. God, so much to remember, and the instructor would be in the briefing room with us. I’d better do it right.

I started. “Listen up, guys. After I take off, I’ll climb to 1,000 feet on a 090 degree heading. I want a 20-second interval between your takeoffs—just as if we were on a carrier. I’ll start a turn to the port two minutes after my takeoff.” I pointed, “You’re the  number two man and you,” I pointed again, “You’re number three. Join on me in a V-formation—number two on my right—number three on my left. You other two join on the number four man.” Again I pointed. “Join up in a V-formation. Don’t waste time joining up—in the fleet you can’t afford to use extra fuel because of a sloppy join up. Watch me as you make your turn to join me. If my aircraft appears to be ahead of you, you’re going to end up chasing me. If I appear to be behind you, you’re going to end up ahead of me. What you want is my plane not to appear to be moving—it’s a relative motion problem guys, so let’s do it right.

“On our return from the training mission, I will call the tower requesting a low pass at an altitude of 500 feet. I want us to fly an approach to the field as if we were going to land aboard a carrier. We need to practice this maneuver. Remember the skipper of that carrier wants to get the aircraft aboard as quickly as possible. He has to have the carrier moving into the wind to recover aircraft, and he doesn’t like staying on a steady course. That makes the carrier vulnerable to a submarine attack.

“After I call the control tower for the low pass, I want you guys to take up an echelon formation to my right. I want to look out to my right and see all of you stacked up tight, flying with your left wing tight alongside the plane on your left. I’ll lead the formation past the right side of the runway—the up-wind side. As we fly by the end of the duty runway, I will fly 30 seconds more, then on the radio I’ll call, ‘Break!’ I’ll make a shallow, diving 180-degree turn to the left, descending to 300 feet. I will then be on the down-wind leg, parallel to the runway. Each of you will wait a few seconds before you break. As you turn to the down-wind leg, get your approach interval on the plane ahead by controlling your air speed. Go over your check-off lists. Don’t forget, wheels down.

Make your approach to the runway. Guys, when I turn off the runway after my landing, I want to see the last plane touching down on the runway. Let’s do it right. Any questions?”

The six of us grabbed our parachutes hanging on a rack in the briefing room and headed for our aircraft. The instructor stopping me at the doorway, said, “Good briefing, Cadet Berg. You’re going to do fine in the fleet. Congratulations on doing a good job.” I remember smiling to myself, as I walked out to the sleek, beautiful airplane that I was going to fly. I was so proud of being a Naval Aviation Cadet.

Several days later, there is another important entry in my log book: “Date: 24 February. Type of aircraft, SNC-1. Duration of flight, 2 hrs. Type of flight, K-navigation.” Of all the entries in my log book, this one is easy to remember. It was a navigation (nav) training flight all right, but it was different. All my previous nav flights were from point to point over land. This flight would be over water—take off from Corpus and fly out over the Gulf of Mexico. There were six of us in the briefing room. Believe me, we were concerned about going out over water in a single engine aircraft. The instructor entered the room. We jumped to attention.

“At ease, Cadets. Take your seats.” We all settled down, waiting. The instructor looked us over. “All right, listen up. This is an over-water nav flight. Do you all have your navigation plotting boards?” We all nodded our affirmative. Then he continued, “You all know from your ground school that this type of navigation is called dead reckoning navigation, DR for short. Want to know how it got its name?” We all waited for the answer. “Well, guys, if you don’t ‘reckon right’ out there over the water, you’re going to be ‘dead.’” He just looked at all of us. I wondered if he was trying to be funny. He continued, “OK, let’s get busy with our plotting boards and this dead reckoning nav problem.”

My plotting board had a 15 by 15 inch metal frame. It was designed to fit under the instrument panel in the cockpit of the aircraft. In flight, I could pull it out to check my navigation. The plotting board looked like a commercial aircraft meal tray, only you pulled it out from under the instrument panel.

The instructor turned to the blackboard and addressed us, “Here are your latitude and longitude numbers, starting here at Corpus. Please plot them on your navigation boards.”

I looked at the nav board and began plotting the numbers on the plexiglas covering the plotting board. I could see black lines through the plexiglas that represented the lines of latitude and longitude for the Corpus Christi area. When the last cadet finished plotting the numbers, the instructor continued the briefing.

“OK, now plot your compass headings and miles to each of the latitude and longitude points.” He also gave us weather conditions and wind direction and velocity for the Gulf area.

It didn’t take me long to determine that I was going to fly from the airfield at Corpus, out over the Gulf for 75 miles on a compass heading of 140 degrees. I would then make a turn to port (left) to a heading of 030 degrees for 30 miles. I would turn again to port to a heading of 320 degrees for 80 miles. This heading, hopefully would take me back to Corpus. As I plotted my compass headings, I considered the wind direction and velocity. I knew the wind would affect my actual flight path over the water, and I computed my flight time for each leg based on my air speed over the water and miles to be flown. Again I had to consider the wind direction because wind direction and velocity affects actual speed over the water.

“Everyone done plotting?” the instructor asked. He waited a few minutes and then continued telling us that we would be flying in two-plane formations. He wanted us to take off 15 minutes apart and told us that there would be an air/sea rescue aircraft tracking our flight. He told us to maintain radio contact with the rescue aircraft. I still remember his closing remarks.

“Just two things—you’re going to be carrier pilots. Get used to navigating over water. There are no railroad tracks to follow out there. No towns with airports. Your only landing field is that carrier. And finally, watch that wind direction and velocity. You’re at the mercy of the wind, guys. Keep track of it. OK, Cadets. Man your aircraft.”

My wingman and I manned our airplane and were first to take off. We took off in formation. I turned to the outbound heading of 140 degrees and leveled off at 1,000 feet altitude. After about ten minutes, I looked back behind us. There was no land in sight. Suddenly, the sound of the airplane’s engine and the movement of the instruments, all seemed different.

Was the fuel pressure gauge moving? It should be steady. Is the engine missing? Sounds different. Engine rpms look all right. Is my radio working? Maybe I’d better call the air/sea rescue plane. Wait a minute, all the instruments are normal.

I realized that nothing was wrong with the airplane. It was me. I was flying in a different environment and out of sight of land, with none of the visual landmarks I was used to. It was my fear of this new environment that had me hearing and seeing things that didn’t exist. I took a deep breath.

Start concentrating on your navigation, Norm. The plane is performing OK. Here’s the plotting board. What time are we due at the turning point? Let’s see. It’s 75 miles from Corpus. I’ll estimate actual speed over the water at 140 knots because I have a slight head wind.

I looked down from the plane’s cockpit, checking the sea conditions. I spied only an occasional white cap. The ocean appeared quite calm, with no wind streaks visible. Good, the estimate wind velocity and direction we got at the briefing are holding. I remembered my ground school nav lesson: occasional white caps and no wind streaks...estimated wind speed eight to ten knots.

I checked my watch. We took off from Corpus at 0935. My estimated speed over the water is 140 knots. Using a small plastic calculator attached to the plotting board called an E6B, I lined up the 140 speed number with the number 75, the miles to be flown, and read off the flight time as 32 minutes. I was due at the first turning point at 1005. I called my wingman to verify my navigation. We agreed on the turning time at the first latitude and longitude point I plotted. At 1005, I made the turn to the new heading of 030.

I recall the feeling I had when I made that first turn—we were no longer flying further away from Corpus. Now we were only 30 miles away from the final checkpoint when we would turn toward home. I began to relax—all the instruments were normal—I was heading back to Corpus.

The remainder of the flight was uneventful. The wind held steady and we were over the field at Corpus on time. I knew though, that flying off the carrier would be different. I wouldn’t be returning to an airport in Texas. Soon, the “airport” would be a small carrier in a big ocean. It would be moving. I would be alone with my plotting board and the ocean. It was going to be a challenge.
Gunnery and Dive-Bomber Training
On March 10, 1942, I flew my first flight in a Navy dive-bomber, the SBC-4. I had seen the plane flying in the area while I was flying the SNC on navigation and tactical missions. This was a aircraft that was still in use in the fleet. I had been told that Navy Bombing Squadron Eight was flying the SBC-4, nicknamed, “the Helldiver,” from the flight deck of the aircraft carrier USS
Hornet
in the Pacific. Since the war with Japan was only three months old, I was sure that Bombing Squadron Eight and the SBC-4 would probably see some action against the Japanese Fleet.

Wouldn’t it be great if I would get orders to Bombing Eight on Hornet? I’d get to fly the SBC-4 in combat—get to land it aboard a carrier. I better do real good with the gunnery and bombing training just in case I do get orders to Bombing Eight. I’m sure going to try.

The SBC-4 was a bi-plane with two cockpits, one for the pilot and the rear cockpit for a gunner/radio operator. It was designed as a dive-bomber built by the Curtis Aircraft Company. It had a top speed of 237 mph at 15,300 feet. It was by far the largest plane I’d ever flown. Fully loaded with a 1,000-pound bomb, it weighed over 7,000 pounds. I was very familiar with the cockpit having studied the handbook for at least a week before my first flight. I think the first cockpit items I touched when I climbed into the cockpit were the gun-charging controls and the bomb release switches. I was going to learn how to use these weapons to attack enemy ships if and when I got to the fleet. The sight of those weapon controls brought the war right into the cockpit of that dive-bomber. I remember thinking, “Boy, I hope I get a chance to attack the enemy.”

My first few indoctrination flights in the SBC-4 went very well, probably because the training program had gradually taught me to fly different aircraft: first the N2S and then bigger and heavier aircraft, such as the SNV, the OS-2U, and then the SNC. These flight experiences made the transition to the SBC-4 quite easy. The remaining training experiences in the aircraft were not so easy.

An SBC-4 dive-bomber (note the gunsight).

Two days later, on March 12, I flew my first gunnery flight. This was getting real now. I was going to fire my plane’s machine gun with live ammunition against a moving target. There were four of us scheduled each in our own plane. Flying with me in the rear seat of my plane was our gunnery instructor. He was with us only as an observer, but I knew he would critique our flight after we returned to the base. Our mission was to join another plane out over the Gulf of Mexico in the designated gunnery area. This plane was towing a target banner. The target banner was made of heavy canvas and was about five feet wide and, as I remember, about twenty feet long. It was designed to be towed into the air behind an aircraft. Once it was off the ground, it turned to a horizontal position behind the tow plane. We had to fly our plane to a position relative to the target so the bullets from our gun would strike the target. We were firing live ammunition from a gun that was mounted on our plane in front of the pilot’s cockpit.

I was leading the flight, and after about a 20-minute flight, my wingman called that he had spotted the tow plane in the assigned area. We were flying at our assigned altitude of 6,000 feet and the tow plane was below us at 5,000 feet. The tow target was visible about 500 feet behind the tow plane.