My Carrier War (13 page)

My thoughts were interrupted as a group of pilots walked into the ready room. “You’re Berg, aren’t you? We’re going to the officers’ club and since you’re the newest ensign in the squadron, you get to buy the first round.” My squadron life started—at the bar.

I’m the “Bull Ensign”
The next morning, I walked the short distance from the bachelor officer quarters (BOQ) where I was staying to the squadron’s hangar. I wasn’t exactly a bachelor, but I was an officer and eligible to stay in the BOQ until Jean arrived. Walking along, I realized that I’d learned a great deal about the squadron last night at the bar. VGS-28 was designated as a composite squadron. In addition to the torpedo plane squadron where I was assigned, there was a dive-bombing squadron and a fighter squadron. The aircraft complement for the three squadrons was nine TBFs for my squadron; nine SBD dive-bombers; and twelve F4Fs in the fighter squadron. My squadron had a complement of 12 pilots as did the dive-bombing squadron. The fighter squadron had 15 pilots. This total of 39 pilots was small compared with the larger, faster fleet carriers like
Enterprise
. The limiting factor was the number of aircrafts our ship could operate. The larger fleet carriers could carry more than twice the number of aircraft as
Chenango
.

As I approached the squadron’s hangar, I felt that this assignment was certainly going to be an exciting experience. It was already apparent that a sense of togetherness and bonding was occurring between the pilots. It had been obvious last night at the officers’ club. All the junior torpedo squadron pilots were at the club. We were all ensigns and, with the exception of myself, all the pilots had just graduated from flight training. The only exceptions were two lieutenants who were also in the squadron. I learned later that they were married, so they didn’t usually show up at the club with ensigns.

I remember, though, that I was welcomed into the group. In fact, as I recall, I took a good deal of friendly razzing. First of all, I was the new pilot and I had to buy the first round of beers. But then there was the issue of seniority. One of the pilots asked me what my date of rank was. When I told him that I’d been commissioned an ensign on December 10, 1941, the entire group lined up in front of me, came to attention and, raising their beer bottles, saluted me as the “Bull Ensign.” I had no idea what bull ensign meant. All I knew I was the senior ensign by date of rank. I soon learned that, although the title didn’t bring me any power, it did put me into a leadership position with the senior officers in the squadron—the lieutenants, the XO and the CO, Lieutenant Commander Spence Butts. They saw me as the leader of the rest of the ensigns. Little did I know that those leadership demands would occur much more rapidly than I was prepared for.

I arrived at the squadron hangar and headed for the ready room to check the flight schedule. There were six of us scheduled for a practice bombing flight in the TBF that morning. Lieutenant Olsen, one of the lieutenants assigned to the squadron, was scheduled to lead the flight. I had already met the XO, Lieutenant Poutant, so I introduced myself to Lieutenant Olsen.

“So, Mr. Berg, I hear you’re the bull ensign. You’re also the pilot who’s been in the ferry command. How much flight time do you have in the TBF?”

“Sir, I have about 50 hours—all of it flying the plane either locally at Floyd Bennett Field or cross-country from New York to San Diego.”

“Ever put the bird into a dive to see what it felt like—a big airplane like the TBF?” I acknowledged that I had. “Well, Mr. Berg, with 50 hours in the TBF, you’re the most experienced TBF pilot in the outfit. We’re still taking delivery of the TBFs, so until we have our full complement of TBFs, flying time for some of the pilots has been limited. Now, I’ll lead this flight to the practice bombing target. Then I’ll move into the tail-end Charlie position—the number six position—and you take over.”

Damn it! Take over the lead at the target area? I haven’t done this since flight training. It can’t be dive-bombing. The TBF won’t take a vertical dive. No dive brakes. The wings would probably come off. What’s the lieutenant saying? Glide bombing? OK, some of the guys at the bar told me of the commanding officer’s plan to develop a glide bomb technique to make the TBF more than just a torpedo plane. OK, what’s that? Altitude 8,000 to 1,000 feet, 40–45 degree dive; landing gear extended to slow the plane down; reduce the throttle; damn! With power off, the bird will be gliding. It sure as hell won’t be flying! Don’t exceed 250 knots on the pullout. Be out of the dive by 1,000 feet. Release the bomb on pull out from the dive. This will insure that the bombs will fall clear of the bomb bay. Hell! It’s just like dive-bombing, except not so steep. You can do it. Just like in training. Do it!

The six of us took off, joined up on the lieutenant and headed out over the ocean from the air station. We were in a steady climb, leveling off at 9,000 feet. As we leveled off, I received a radio call from the lieutenant ordering me to take the lead. He moved to the back of the formation and I assumed the lead. I spotted the practice bombing target, a barge anchored off the coast from Norfolk. The barge appeared to be about 100 feet long and had a white bulls-eye painted in the center of the deck.

We were using practice bombs made of metal, the same size as a regular 500-pound bomb, except these were filled with water. This was done to approximate the weight and give the practice bomb almost the same aerodynamic behavior through the air as a bomb filled with explosives. Pilots wanted to be sure, too, that the practice bombs would drop clear of the bomb bay, even though the plane was not in level flight. The TBF carried four bombs in a bomb bay in the lower part of the fuselage. We each made four runs. I remember I got one hit, but the others hit close to the barge. It was very easy to see the misses when the practice bomb hit the water. Since it was my first time, I wasn’t both-ered—none of us did very well. At the debriefing back in the ready room, the lieutenant agreed that we needed more experience with the bombing technique, but we were relieved. By releasing the bombs on pull out from the dive, all practice bombs dropped clear of our aircraft when released. As we all changed from our flight gear to our uniforms and got ready to leave for lunch, the squadron duty officer called to me.

“Hey, Norm. A telegram came for you this morning right after you took off on your flight. Here it is.” I ripped open the yellow envelope and read:

ENSIGN NORMAN BERG VGS-28 N.A.S. NORFOLK VIRGINIA. ARRIVING NORFOLK BY TRAIN TWO PM 30 AUGUST. STOP. HAVEN’T HEARD FROM YOU. STOP. PLEASE MEET ME. STOP. LOVE YOU. STOP. JEAN.

Damn! I forgot to write her to tell her about the housing. Jean’s coming, and I don’t have a place for her to live yet. What about the XO? I haven’t even asked him if his wife has a lead on the room. I’m such jerk! I’ve got a wife! Did I just forget? Why didn’t I write? Didn’t I want her to come? No, it’s just that so much is happening...no damn excuses. Go catch a bus and get to the train station. Better let the XO know about Jean coming. Come on, get with the program. I’m married...love her...go meet her.
Jean Arrives in Norfolk
I knew when I caught the bus to downtown Norfolk that it took only about 20 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. I knew also that I’d let Jean down; I’d failed her by not staying in touch. I was sure glad it was Friday. I would have the weekend to try and explain my behavior to Jean. Also, after we got together, we’d have some time to look for a place to live. I was sure we’d find a room somewhere. Suddenly, the bus driver called out, ‘“Ensign, here’s your stop. The train station is just down the block.”

I jumped off the bus and started up the block toward the train station. Then I saw her. She was wearing the suit she wore at our wedding. A little pill box hat was perched on her head, and she was lugging a big suitcase. I remember running toward her and calling out her name as she dropped the suitcase and stood waiting for me. I took her into my arms and I remember her words as they spilled out.

“Oh, Norm! I didn’t know what to do! The rent on the apartment was due. I tried to call you, but the Navy said that your location was confidential. Why didn’t you call me or write? I just didn’t know what to do. It was awful!”

I held her close as I whispered my apologies, trying to express my feeling of guilt, my shame in my failure to stay in contact with her. After a few moments, Jean pushed me away from my embrace. I could see the tears glistening on her face. I took her hands in mine, and a quick little smile crossed her face when I told her that I had the weekend off and suggested we get a hotel room. Then I had to tell her that we should start looking for a room.

Her smile disappeared as she pulled her hands free of mine.

“So, we have no place to live! What on earth have you been doing? I know. It’s those damn airplanes! Well, you hot pilot, do I go back to Bremerton or do I stay here with you? You’d better decide damn quick—the train station is right here!”

My response was to hail a cab and check into the best hotel in Norfolk, The Grady. I left her to freshen up while I got a newspaper to look at rooms for rent section. I returned hoping to go with her to the hotel room. To my chagrin, she told me that she would join me in the lobby later. When she returned, I received her brief kiss of welcome. She hardly gave me time to return her kiss before she asked for the paper. I told her about the advice the XO had given me about getting a room near a bus stop.

She looked at me as if to say, “A room in somebody’s house!”; but she quickly pulled the paper open and found the section listing “Rooms for Rent.”

We got a map of the city, a bus map and spent most of Saturday looking at rooms for rent. We decided on one that was about half a mile from the base figuring that I could walk to work. There was also a shopping area a few blocks away where there was a restaurant. There was no place to cook in our rented room. Jean would have to go out for meals. The landlady and I agreed on a weekly price for the room after Jean and I underwent a close inspection by the very suspicious landlady. I remember wondering if she would demand to see our marriage license. Since we’d found a place to stay, I suggested we walk over to the air station and go to the officers’ club for dinner before going back to the hotel. We walked along a quiet street holding hands on our way to dinner.

Wonder what Jean’s thinking? She sure can’t be very happy about the room. No place to stay except in the room sitting on one of the beds. No place to eat. She’s sure quiet. What do you expect? Do something—can’t ask Jean to live like this. Hope there are some of the squadron guys at the club. Maybe Bill Austin and his wife will be there, how about the Cliff Johnsons? He’s one of the other married ensigns. If Jean could meet some of the other wives....Damn it, I want her to stay. Sure hope she will understand. New worries about fitting in. Leadership worries. She must know I love her. Maybe back at the hotel...alone in our room, I can convince her that I love her and want her to stay. Got to try.

That evening at the officers’ club, chance again entered my life. It came in the form of two young Navy wives who were at the club with their husbands, two of my squadron mates. They welcomed Jean with warmth and understanding as we sat together, enjoying cocktails before ordering dinner. As we husbands listened, our wives began exchanging horror stories about living conditions in Norfolk and being married to naval aviators. As the stories got more outrageous, so did the laughter. The three women continued to point out the often macho and stupid behavior of their husbands. Jean was especially vocal that evening about my behavior. One story she told was her response to me telling her that we had no place to live. I remember that her comments evoked the greatest laughter from the two other couples. I just had to sit and take the kidding from the group.

Jean and I left the club after dinner, a little mellow from the cocktails and dinner. A cab dropped us at the Grady Hotel. This time Jean took my hand in hers, and as we entered the lobby, she whispered her invitation to me. I knew she would not be going back to Bremerton. Our life together would continue.
Gunnery Training with the SNJ
According to my pilot’s log book for September 1 to 10, 1942, I flew 31 hours. There were five practice glide-bombing flights, six gunnery flights, four tow flights and six field carrier practice flights.

A typical day would appear in my log book as three separate flights.

Sept. 3 – Aircraft: TBF Duration 2.5 hr. Type of flight: Bomb
Sept. 3 – Aircraft: TBF Duration 1.4 hr. Type of flight: Gunnery
Sept. 3 – Aircraft: SNJ Duration 1.4 hr. Type of flight: Gunnery-tow flight

Each flight required a minimum of an hour for briefing and debriefing time as well as different skills and extreme concentration on the pilot’s part, especially the bombing and gunnery flights. Training pilots for carrier operations meant practicing multiple skills under stressful conditions. The result—a very tired and often emotionally drained pilot.

Of the three flights on September 3, the gunnery-tow flight was the least stressful. I had passed a written exam and flown the SNJ, the airplane that was used by the squadron as a tow plane for gunnery training. This procedure qualified me to fly the aircraft solo. The SNJ was a low-wing, single-engine plane with two cockpits that was built by North American Aviation as a training plane for the Navy. My job as the tow plane pilot started as I taxied the SNJ out on to the take-off runway. There, two sailors would attach 500 feet of rope to the underside of the plane’s fuselage. At the other end of the rope was a canvas banner laying flat on the runway. It was about 25 feet long and 6 feet wide. I waited until I saw four TBFs begin to taxi out to the runway where I was waiting with the tow target. These were the pilots who would join me in the gunnery area for gunnery training. I pushed the throttle to full power and started to roll down the runway. I was airborne with the tow target without a problem. The SNJ had plenty of power and speed to tow the target.