Above the Thunder (18 page)

Colonel Carlson usually gave his orders to Don Vineyard, although he and I were then of identical rank and time in grade. “Uncle Bud” had to put one of us in charge, and he selected Vineyard—undoubtedly because Vin was a little older, more impressive in appearance and manner, and much more self-assertive than I was. And so Vin selected a site only about two hundred yards from the CP. The place would have been fine but for the fact that it would require a sizeable fill across a small ravine and the fill would require a culvert for drainage. This raised two problems: first the Lihue Plantation Company, which owned the land, was hesitant to permit the construction; and, second, the division's supporting engineer unit could not immediately get to the job.

My opinion was that the convenience of the strip would not be worth the effort required. Vin (who much later in his career would transfer to the Engineer Corps) was fond of planning big projects and seeing them carried out, while I was more inclined to the proverbial operation on a shoestring. And so when Vin left for Oahu and a school for jungle-warfare instructors, I immediately asked our S-2 to get permission from Lihue Plantation Company for us to use a field on a ridge about a half mile from the CP. I said that we would do no damage whatsoever, land and take off on the existing truck trail through the field, and keep vehicular traffic on the existing ranch road into the area. We asked only that they graze no cattle in that field while we were there, since they might damage our ships. The company granted permission that same day, and on the next I moved the air section up there. There was nothing to do but fly in the two planes and tie them down under the trees at the edge of the field, haul our gear up in our weapons carrier, set up our tents
under the trees, and dig a latrine. We remained there in happiness for the remainder of our time in Hawaii. We had done exactly as we were supposed to do: use existing facilities, be as inconspicuous as possible, cause no avoidable problems, and keep out of sight on the ground. If Vin was a bit unhappy, he quickly forgave me.

The TOE in those days authorized the air section only one enlisted man, an airplane mechanic, but we soon realized that we needed more men and a vehicle of our own. Uncle Bud Carlson came through for us with a three-quarter-ton weapons carrier with driver and a mechanic helper. Our mechanic was T/3 Kennis Allen (we always addressed him as “Sergeant” Allen), a steady, quiet, Kentuckian from Manchester. His helper was T/4 Wendell Young, a young married man from Chicago; and the driver was Ted Kinsch, who was also a Chicagoan, I believe. Young and Kinsch eventually became just about as good mechanics as Allen himself, as did Eddie Janes, a Pennsylvania fireman who joined us much later, in New Guinea. Allen trained them all. I can't say too much in praise of these men. They were the very salt of the earth.

Not long after we moved up to the hill strip, the S-3 called me late one afternoon and said that an exercise was in progress and I would have to displace the air section to some location in an area he defined for me, and I'd have to displace them that night. I immediately told him I'd have to leave Vineyard's plane behind, because there wouldn't be time to return for it and get it into an emergency landing place before dark. He accepted that. I left Young to guard Vin's plane, and away we went, me in the air, Allen and Kinsch in the truck.

I searched the entire area assigned to me, but there simply was no suitable place for landing an airplane. At last, in desperation as darkness closed in, I decided to set down on a stretch of narrow, rutted dirt road between a field of tall cane and a graded-up cane field railroad. I knew that my left wing would be riding in the top of the cane, and I feared that the ruts might throw my right wing down onto the railroad track. But with extreme difficulty I got the plane down without damage, and the boys soon joined me. We remained there until daylight, at which time the exercise ended and I managed barely to waddle out of the place and go home.

Seems as if I always come up with these anticlimaxes, doesn't it? Maybe it's because I was a very good pilot. Or maybe it was just because I always had a lot of outside help. Regardless, these are the kinds of things that cost a pilot a lot of anxious perspiration. That wasn't always understood by the nonflyers who were our associates in the battalion. They picked up the current joke aimed at us “fair-haired boys,” which was to ask, “We know what you do for flying pay, but what do you do for base?” We took it in good humor—the flying pay, that is.

General Paxton suddenly came to the realization that he had ten aviators in his Div Arty, of whom eight were of the same grade and date of rank. Except for Fred Hoffman, still a first lieutenant, and our new Div Arty air officer, Maj. Dick Bortz, we were all second lieutenants commissioned on 24 December 1942. And so it was announced that there would be a flying and shooting contest among the pilots, and the second lieutenant with the highest overall score would be the first promoted to first lieutenant, the others following at weekly intervals.

The contest was pretty much a hasty review of our training at Fort Sill, with flying and shooting scored separately. Overall, I came out on top of the pile, having a high score in flying and much the best score in shooting. Vin came in second, outscoring me in flying but not being able to overcome the advantage of my luck in shooting.

I never insisted on pulling my seven days of seniority in rank to take over responsibility for the air section from Vin. I don't think either of us, in those days, was at all concerned about such matters as experience in positions of responsibility or any other factor bearing upon career advancement other than doing our duty well, whatever it might be. But Vin was naturally inclined to take charge, while I tended to be a solitary individual, doing my flying and shooting and not worrying much about other matters. However, Vin never took advantage of his position to order me around; in fact, when decisions were to be made, we usually talked them over and reached agreement. We had no serious troubles, although Vin used to say, “Crash, ten years after this war is over I'll be able to buy and sell you.”

And I'd reply, “Vin, there's not enough money on earth for you to buy me.” (Today I might offer him a bargain price.)

Lt. Gen. Robert C. Richardson then commanded the Hawaiian Department and, I believe, all Army forces in the Central Pacific area. When he came to Kauai on an inspection tour, the 122d was selected to demonstrate its fire support capabilities for him. Vin and I supposed that our having won the promotion contest had something to do with that, but that may be slighting the rest of the battalion, which, as I have said, was the best of its kind that I have ever known.

For the demonstration, we flew from the paved highway just at the eastern edge of a small town—Makaweli, I think—and fired on targets designated for us by map coordinates or transfers from previously fired concentrations in the nearby hills. We were timed from the start of our takeoff roll until we touched down again after each fire mission. Of course, times varied considerably by mission type, target location, and difficulty, and, to some extent, the pilot's luck. On my last mission, I copied the target data as I climbed out under an electric power line that crossed the road. As soon as I got high enough to see the target, I called my mission to the FDC. The first rounds were very close, and I turned for home even as I called in a correction. As soon as those rounds burst, I gave a sensing that split the bracket I had achieved, and, putting all my trust in the accuracy of my sensing, I ducked for the road without even waiting to see the fire for effect. I touched down four minutes and eleven seconds after takeoff. General Richardson may have been impressed, but it was not at all realistic, and I knew that even then. Maybe he did, too. Still—I got the fire on the target.

In the very early days of our flying on Kauai, I set out one afternoon to see how high my L-4 would go. The service ceiling was supposed to be 12,500 feet above sea level, but I had never been that high in my life. I started climbing and just kept going. I passed 12,500 and kept climbing, but the altimeter kept moving more and more slowly. Finally, it seemed as if I were picking up altitude only as my fuel supply was consumed and the aircraft thereby lightened. I was over 15,000 feet by then. The sun was getting low, and in the breaks between the towers of pinkish cumulus below, I could see only darkness. But I felt great. I laughed and sang and carried on like a happy drunk—a common effect of oxygen deprivation at high altitude.
¹
But the plane hung at 15,300 feet and
showed no inclination to go higher, so I finally pulled on the carburetor heat, reduced power, and started down, threading my way among the clouds, which had thickened somewhat since I came up. I was surprised at how long it took to get the kitelike plane down without exceeding the redline airspeed. It was just about totally dark when I landed.

About twenty miles south of Kauai is the little island of Niihau, which in 1943 was just one big cattle ranch owned by a family named Robinson, I think.
²
The only exception to the ranch was a small village that was the only community of pure-blooded ethnic Hawaiians left in the islands. The village was the home of Benjamin Kanahele, who had become a national hero shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack when, with his wife's help but without a gun, he killed a Japanese officer who had crash-landed his damaged plane on Niihau and, aided by a Japanese American ranch employee, had seized control of the island.
³
Although unauthorized visitors to Niihau were prohibited, Vineyard and I decided to go calling.

One Sunday, without a word to anyone, we flew to Niihau and landed our planes on a rocky little space near the village, far from the ranch landing strip. The Hawaiians came out of the village en masse and greeted us with bright, friendly smiles and handshakes, exemplifying traditional island hospitality. We spent about an hour with them but didn't get to see Benjamin Kanahele, who was away somewhere, although we did meet some of his relatives. We each bought twisted strands of tiny white shells as souvenirs. On the way home, flying low across the water, we passed over two whales swimming together, the first whales I ever saw.

Before the war, it had been a practice of the manager of the Lihue Plantation Company to make occasional aerial inspections of his domain, but private flying had been essentially at a halt on Kauai since the war began, and it had been quite a while since Burns had been able to make his flyovers. Uncle Bud Carlson had become good friends with Mr. and Mrs. Burns, who lived in an impressive white mansion on the slopes behind Lihue. They spent much time fishing together in Burns's boat, and Colonel Carlson caught a fish of some large variety that was of record size. Out of this relationship came an agreement by Uncle Bud
to let Vin and me fly the Burnses on an aerial tour of their realm. And so it was done, without incident. I flew Mrs. Burns.

In gratitude, the Burnses invited Vineyard and me, with Colonel Carlson, to dinner at their home. Of course, there were hors d'oeuvres and cocktails for some time before dinner. Vin partook quite freely of the latter, and there was a bit of concern on his part as to whether he could successfully conceal the fact that he'd had a couple too many. I was my usual conservative self but was so afraid of doing something wrong that I could not fully enjoy the wonderful meal brought in by a Chinese servant. Never before or since have I had a steak to compare with the one I had there.

Our L-4s were not the only airplanes around Kauai, of course. The Navy had some Grumman F4F Wildcats stationed at Barking Sands, and Army Curtiss P-40 Warhawks showed up from somewhere. Some of the P-40 pilots got a kick out of diving from behind and passing at high speed just in front of an unsuspecting L-4, which would then fly into the turbulent wake and just about flip.

I suppose these were the same planes that flew the security checks we tracked in the filter center at Lihue, where I pulled a couple of weeks' duty as liaison for the 33d Division. My job was to sit up on a balcony that ran all around a pit where several girls, supervised by officers, shoved markers around on a big map table to show the movements of aircraft in the area. If something of importance came up, I was supposed to notice it and make the proper report to Division G-2 on my hotline. During my two weeks, I had no occasion to make anything but communications checks and negative reports.

One aspect of duty at the filter center was really much less appealing than it sounds, although not actually unpleasant. The civilian girls who worked there were very carefully screened, and their activities were controlled for security reasons. One security measure was that if a girl left the compound she had to be accompanied by at least two other girls and a male officer of those on duty in the compound. Volunteers for escort duty were not accepted—officers were detailed to the duty. I was once detailed to escort three girls to the local movie theater and return. Two of the girls were sisters, Linda and Peggy Christian, from
Samoa, descendants of Fletcher Christian, the leader of the storied mutiny on the British ship
Bounty
that resulted in the abandonment at sea of Capt. William Bligh and his loyal crewmen. They were, of course, of mixed Caucasian and Polynesian ancestry and were very attractive and intelligent young ladies.

One Sunday, having nothing better to do, I flew alone over to Barking Sands and was hanging around the operations building with a few others watching some P-40s going through a mock dogfight two or three miles offshore, when two of the planes collided in midair and went their separate ways down into the glare and shadows of the ocean. We saw one parachute open and drift toward the sea.

The Navy operations officer immediately called for pilots and planes to search for survivors. I could have gone in my L-4, but the only other pilot available was a Navy lieutenant junior grade whose airplane was a twin-engine C-45, which I think the Navy called an SNJ. He was not permitted to fly without a copilot, so the operations officer asked me to go with him.