"We came to feel more at home in the air than on the ground."
Chapter 28
The “Black Days”
Of the
War in the Pacific
Early 1942
When
we brought in battered old 71-P-7 on January 6, 1942, every VP-11 and VP-71 man
aboard the station had gathered on the ramp.
When I climbed down the ladder I looked around for my brother but he was
nowhere to be seen. Glover came pushing
through the crowd to greet me.
Glover
said something like, “Jeez, we sure are glad to see you back, boy! They had written you off when they didn’t
find you yesterday. They figured secured
the search except for that JRS sent out from Pearl this morning to fly out the
last bearing they took. Why the hell
didn’t Clark radio where you really were?”
I
shook my head ruefully. “Long story,
Glover. I’ll tell it over a beer this
evening. Where the hell is Dick?”
“Glover
chuckled. “Don’t think he doesn’t care,
Con. Soon as the word got out that your
crew was overdue, he hit the radio room and stayed there all night. They kept trying to call after that broken
transmission at midnight. Bet you slept
more than he did.
“The
next morning he was supernumerary on one of the crews that flew the
search. When they didn’t find anything,
old Frieze got ready to go ashore and get drunk, but he was too damn
bushed. Fell asleep in his whites mumbling,
“What the hell am I going to tell the folks?”
As
I have said before, the Friezes are not particularly demonstrative. When I saw Dick the next day he just grinned
and said, “Glad to see you back, nipple noggin.
Geez, how’d you guys get so screwed up?!”
For
the next month we flew those long patrols—scanning square mile after square
mile of empty blue ocean. We saw neither
Japanese ships or submarines. Neither
did we see the huge relief convoy from the mainland that we desperately needed.
I
recall no incident of note except one occasion early in February when everyone
in Hawaii were still tense and a bit “trigger-happy”. We were flying an airplane from another
squadron and it had one new feature with which we were not familiar. It was a black box called an “IFF”
(Identification, Friend or Foe). It was supposed
to transmit a recognition code.
When
we approached Oahu from patrol, it was urgent that we be identified as friendly
because rumor had it that the Japanese on Wake Island had captured some PBYs
and were using them for reconnaissance over the islands. Our old system to identify ourselves to the
coastal anti-aircraft batteries was to make a circle one mile out either to the
right or the left depending on if it was an odd or even day. The new IFF was supposed to transmit the code
of the day continuously.
On
this particular day, when we had once more been on patrol out toward Midway and
Wake, we came in near sunset approaching Kaena Point from the west
northwest. At the pilot’s request, I
checked the IFF black box in the tail of the fuselage and the little red light
was on indicating that it was operating.
Either
the IFF was not working or else the Army anti-aircraft battery on Kaena Point
was not receiving the signal. As we
neared the beach there was a sudden puff of greasy black smoke off our wingtip
and the airplane was rocked by a concussion.
Before we could react another anti-aircraft shell burst off the other
wingtip and the PBY bucked again.
Willis
was flying the airplane. I heard Clark
yelling at him, “TURN—MAKE A TURN, DAMMIT!”
Clark
seized the controls and rolled the PBY into a steep turn to the left, holding
it until we had made a 360-degree turn.
Apparently he guessed right as there was only one more burst well behind
us. When we landed we found only two
small shrapnel holes in one wingtip. We
had come that close to becoming a “lost in friendly fire” statistic.
The
first week in February, we got a new 11-P-11.
It was a used plane out of some stateside squadron, but it was fully
ready for combat patrols.
We
kept on flying those patrols every second or third day. We paid little heed to the long hours that
were accumulating in our log books. We
simply concentrated on finding anything Japanese on which we could vent our
anger and strike a blow of retaliation.
We
came to feel more at home in the air than on the ground. My memories of those interminable flights are
primarily of two things—the long, long hours spent on watch at my gun station
in the port waist blister and the additional long hours at the engine
instrument panel in the tower. From the
tower I would sometimes slide down, keeping my earphones in place on a long
cord, pour a cup of coffee from the galley hot plate, and stand for a bit in
the hatch leading forward.
The
droning of the big engines was lulling and I did not consciously hear it unless
the sound changed which would bring me instantly alert. The duty navigator (not Ensign Douglas—he had
transferred to a utility squadron on Maui flying Grumman “Duck” immediately
upon return on the Hulbert from the episode in 71-P-7) was usually bent over
his chart and the radioman sitting quietly in front of his set since we were
always on radio silence except for contact reports. If I held my coffee cup still, engine
vibration would make little standing waves on the surface of the black
liquid. It was my world. I was content up there.
On
February 7th, 11-P-11 was ordered to Hilo for a week of advanced
base operations from a tender. A tug
towing a lumber barge had been torpedoed not far off the entrance to Hilo
Harbor. Our mission was to fly a daily
round-the-island anti-submarine patrol.
We were to watch for anything suspicious along the coast because there
were still rumors that Jap subs or more of the midget subs might be getting
supplies from shore. Even with the
inconvenience of operating from the tender and having to spend long hours on
ready watch in the airplane moored to a buoy, it was a welcome change in
routine.
The
advanced base operation provided a couple of memory highlights for me. One afternoon when we had returned from our
island circuit and were on ready watch at the mooring buoy, I wandered aft and
opened the tunnel hatch in the bottom of the tail. Below in the crystal clear water I could see
a coral head surrounded by some fairly large fish. I quickly got the fishing line from the
emergency kit and lowered the lure slowly down among the fish. One of them seized the feather lure.
After
a short tussle I hand-lined in the fish.
It would have weighed four or five pounds, had beautiful silvery scales,
and had the slim tail of the tuna family.
I proudly showed it to Lt. Clark and proposed the I fillet the fish and
fry it for supper. He agreed and the
fish provided two large fillets.
When
I saw the chow boat leave the tender to bring out our supper, I fired up the putt-putt
and put our small skillet on the hot plane.
The only grease in the airplane was butter so I put two small pieces of
fish to fry in that.
Supper
that evening was pork chops and mashed potatoes with mixed peas and
carrots. When the boat crew handed in
the containers, the first pieces of fish were ready. The white fish had fried golden brown. It looked and smelled delicious.
Lt.
Clark (the PCC always got the first plate) was seated at the navigator’s
table. I prepared him a plate, but
substituted a piece of fish for the two pork chops. When I placed it in front of him he rubbed
his hands and smacked his lips, and dug into the fish. I watched for his reaction. He put a piece of fish in his mouth, chewed
once, then the smile on his face died and he very carefully spit the mouthful
of fish back onto his plate, he pitched it out the open hatch over his head and
into the water and simply said, Bring me some pork chops!”
I
fixed Clark a fresh plate, the sampled the fish myself. One taste was more than enough. I never found out what kind of fish it was,
but the only way to describe it is that it tasted exactly the way a country
outhouse smells on a hot summer day.
That
was only the beginning of an eventful evening.
Just as we all had dished up our supper and settled down to eat, the
radio came alive. A coast watcher
reported a submarine just off the entrance to Hilo Harbor. The pork chops were promptly set aside and we
got underway in a hurry because it was nearly sunset. In response to Davenport’s signals, I shot
into the tower as the pilots scrambled into their seats. Herrin dived out the bow turret hatch,
released the mooring line, and stowed the mooring post while Dave went aft and
secured the hatches for takeoff.
We
had both engines running in less than one minute. Under the circumstances Clark did not wait
for the oil to warm up, but simply made a circle takeoff from the buoy. The “Floats UP” light came on even before the
hull cleared the water and in two minutes flat we were climbing out toward the
harbor entrance. Our third pilot and
bombardier at that time was, I believe, Ensign Joe Deodati. He cranked up the bomb window shield in the
nose, armed our bombs and depth charges, and got the Norden bombsight ready.
Sure
enough, at the spot reported about a mile off the harbor entrance the fading
daylight revealed a long, dark, slim shape under the surface. Davenport pitched out a smoke bomb as we went
over, then Clark banked around and made a run on the shape. Deodati had been practicing—on that first run
he dropped both big depth charges squarely on top of the supposed enemy
submarine. Twin concussion domes bulged
the surface then white water geysered upward.
Two
PC boats (we called the harbor patrol small craft “the spider fleet”) were speeding
out of the harbor. We orbited the area
and marked what appeared to be a spreading oil slick with another smoke
bomb. We were gleeful, surmising that we
had got the sub that had sunk a tug in this position a few days before.
As
the PC boats came into the slick, Clark contacted the lead boat on the VHF
radio and said, “You should be right in the middle of an oil slick—we made a
direct hit on the bastard!”
The
drawling voice of the CPO skippering the lead boat came back loud and clear,
“Well, suh, I don’t know about oil slicks, but I am passing through the
awfullest mess of blood and blubber you ever did see!”
We
had obviously depth-charged a large whale.
It was chagrining, to say the least, and we flew back and landed in
silence. Our pork chops were greasy and cold.
Now
we conferred as to how we could keep the embarrassing incident secret. Whiskey Willis, ever resourceful, allowed as
how he would go ashore and dispense some good cotch among the PC boat crews
before they wrote up their action reports.
While he was gone Clark wrote up our won report to explain the use of ordnance. He wound up with: “Dropped two depth charges
on suspected Japanese submarine; however, there was no evidence of damage to
the enemy.” (We thought we had our
tracks covered; nonetheless, it would turn out that the scuttlebutt on the “Navy
grapevine” was, as usual, very efficient.)
Two
days later we were relieved by a VP-12 airplane and, our misspent depth charges
having been replace from the tender, headed home to Kaneohe. We flew at patrol altitude of 750 feet
automatically making a sweep and watching for possible submarines in the shallow
waters around the islands.
We
flew west, then turned and crossed Maui through the valley between Haleakala
and the north Maui mountains, crossed Lahaina Roads, and proceeded toward
Molokai. I was relaxing in the waist
compartment with Herrin and Ensign Deodati.
Staring out of the gun blister, we had just remarked on how flat calm
and clear the water was on that day when suddenly Deodati stiffened and said, “Look
down there—is that a sub or a while?!”
Below
us there was calm water over a sandy bottom studded here and there with the
dark masses of rocky areas. One of the
dark masses, however, was long and slim, definitely not rocks. Deodati pitched out a smoke bomb and called
Clark on the interphone.
We
banked around and came back over the area at low altitude, the pilots scanning
with their binoculars. It was a real
thrill to hear Clark say, “Fellow, if that is a whale, it’s the only one in
existence with a conning-tower and something painted on it! That
is a genuine submarine!!”
It
was a Hawaiian Defense Area where no American submarine would be operating,
much less hiding below the surface.
While Willis called in the contact report, we circled and came back on a
bombing run. Once more Deodati got the
shape in the Norden bombsight. Once
more he straddled the shape with two depth charges.
A
destroyer rounded the west tip of Maui.
When we came back over the area there was a definite oil slick trailing
on the surface as the dark shape moved slowly toward an area of deeper
water. We had apparently crippled
it. We also advised the destroyer and
kept dropping smoke bombs to mark its location until the skipper of the
destroyer told us they had contact on sonar.
While
we circled, the destroyer made a high speed pass over the submarine and dropped
a full pattern of depth charges. We
watched as the sleek warship slowed, came back across the area, then came to a
dead stop amidst what appeared to be oil and pieces of wreckage. After a while the destroyer came back on the radio,
“Okay, Dumbo—well done. We have oil and
debris including life jacket with Japanese markings. Scratch one Nip sub! Again I say—well done!”
We
flew back to Kaneohe in high spirits.
Once more most of the squadron personnel, including our skipper, were on
the ramp when the beach crew hauled us out of the water. When we deplaned to the congratulations of
our shipmates, I noted that the squadron painter disappeared behind the nose of
11-P-11 with a stepladder. When he reappeared,
the skipper motioned for us to follow him to that side of the airplane. There, up beneath the cockpit side window,
the painter had stenciled in red the silhouette of half a submarine, but above
that, the outline of a whale! Willis’
scotch had obviously not done the job with the PC crews.
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