My Carrier War (19 page)

Next, I saw a plane on final approach. The pilot appeared to take the cut signal from the LSO, but he drifted to the right of the flight deck. As he hit the deck, the plane bounced to the right as the hook engaged a cable. I watched the plane go over the side of the flight deck. The landing gear dropped into the catwalk alongside the flight deck. That, and the fact the tail hook was still engaged with an arresting cable, kept the plane from going over the side into the ocean. I could see the pilot scrambling out of the cockpit. My radio crackled.
Ranger
was calling, “This is Papa One. Flight operations canceled. All aircraft return to base. Out.”

There were five of us in the pattern. I climbed to 1,000 feet, flying upwind and passing
Ranger
on the starboard side. “This is Bull. Join on me. My position, upwind leg passing Papa’s starboard side. Turning to a heading 270 degrees, altitude 1,000 feet. Bull out.”

As we headed back to the base, I thought, so much for carrier landings! I guess I’d go to sea without being carrier-qualified. The squadron was scheduled to board
Chenango
in eight days. I guessed Joe Johnson, the guy who went over the side, would have nice ride home, along with George who was supposed to fly back with me after I made my sixth landing. The ship would return to Norfolk to remove the crashed plane. I wondered if the chow (food) was good on Ranger. Eventually, I saw the field and requested a low pass and a carrier break, thinking I might as well have some fun. Tomorrow was another day.

For me, squadron flight activity had almost ceased as the squadron completed the planning to board Chenango. My last flight before deployment was on December 15. It was field carrier landing practice (FCLP). The landing signal officer (LSO) was determined to keep me ready for landing aboard
Chenango
, even if it was after we left for the South Pacific. It was obvious to me that I’d have to qualify after we were at sea. That raised some interesting questions. What if there was a deck crash like the last time I tried to qualify? All I did then was fly back to Norfolk. We’d be a long way from land and heading for Panama. What if the ship couldn’t get the deck clear for a landing? What then? Land in the ocean after running out of fuel? It was going to be interesting to say the least.

My thoughts were interrupted when I heard my name called. “Mr. Berg, the executive officer would like to see you in his office.” I followed a young sailor down the passageway to the XO’s office. The office door was open; he saw me and said, “Come in, Norm. Sit down.” He’s certainly informal today, I thought. I took a chair in front of his desk, but without the usual, “Reporting as ordered, Sir.”

He came right to the point. “Norm, I have a job for you. Normally I’d assign one of the lieutenants to this task, but the skipper has granted them leave until we deploy on the 20th. Their families are remaining here in Norfolk, and he wanted to give them as much time at home as possible. I know you’re married too, but I understand that your wife has left for her parents’ home.”

I nodded my confirmation that Jean had left.

“Norm, you’re well aware of the difficulties we’ve had getting our pilots carrier-qualified. In fact, you’re one of them. I know, too, that you’re very aware of the problems we’ve had with weather and deck crashes. The weather forecast for the 20th, our departure date, is marginal for flight operations. Yesterday, the skipper had a conference with the captain of
Chenango
. The decision was made that we will hoist our planes aboard the ship at dockside. Our TBFs will be towed by tractor to the dock where
Chenango
is moored. Using the ship’s crane, each plane will be hoisted aboard. The boarding date is the 19th commencing at 0800 hours. Norm, I want you in charge of the loading. Crews have been assigned to supervise the towing of the aircraft from the squadron area to the dock area. You will meet each aircraft and insure that it is safely loaded aboard the carrier. I have every confidence in you, Norm. Now, any questions?”

“Just one question, Sir. Who’s in charge of having the planes towed to the dock?”

The executive officer told me it was Chief Petty Officer Williams.

“He’s a top man, Norm, plenty of experience. He’ll get those planes to you for loading right on time. And don’t worry about the ship; they will be ready for you. Anything else?”

I responded with. “Yes, Sir! I’ll get them aboard.”

“OK, Norm. I’ll see you on the 20th aboard ship.”

Damn it! This loading job! I don’t know anything about loading airplanes on ships! And Chief Williams. He’s the most senior enlisted man in the squadron. I’m a pilot. I don’t load planes on carriers! How do you order an enlisted man to do something? Do you say, “Please do this?” Well, all I can do is be at the dock and do my best.

That night, the officers’ club was quiet. I guessed that everyone was on leave except me. None of the squadron guys were there. I left the club and headed for
Chenango
. I had checked out of the bachelor officers’ quarters (BOQ) when the ship tied up at the dock, and I had a bunk in a space with five other squadron guys. We called the area “Boys’ Town.” We each had a locker for our clothes. It was pretty primitive, but we knew it would serve us well throughout the cruise.

I was at the dock at 0730 on December 19.
Chenango
was moored alongside. My home away from home for—hell, I didn’t know. Then I saw the first TBF approaching the dock. Sitting on the tractor towing the plane was the chief. When he saw me, he signaled the tractor driver to stop. He got off the tractor, approached me, saluted and said, “Good morning, Mr. Berg. Nice to see you, Sir.”

I returned his salute and, in my deepest voice, I said, “Chief, I’m here to supervise the loading of our aircraft. Please get on with it now.”

He looked at me, “Sir, may the chief make a suggestion?” I responded with a nod. “Sir, may I suggest you go aboard ship and have a cup of coffee? I will carry out your order, Sir.”

I looked at Chief Williams, then at the four gold stripes on the sleeve of his uniform representing 16 years of service in the Navy. He wore the Good Conduct ribbon on his chest, with three stars on the ribbon. He had never been involved in any disciplinary action. “Hells bells,” I thought, “let the chief do it! He sure as hell knows what he’s doing.”

A smile broke out on both our faces. “Chief, that’s a fine suggestion. Coffee would taste good. Please carry on. I will check with you after lunch. I suspect all aircraft will be aboard by then.”

“They certainly will be, Sir. I’m planning on having a nice dinner with my family tonight. It’s going to be a long cruise, Sir.”

On December 20 at 0800, the officers and men of
Chenango
and all the aviation squadron personnel were on the flight deck. We were in formation, long lines of sailors and officers standing at attention as our ship moved away from the dock. A Navy band was on the dock. As we pulled away, we could all hear the tune of “Anchors Away” and then the “Navy Hymn.” Some of the words came to me: “Oh God, care for those in peril on the sea.” The slowly disappearing dock was filled with wives and children. Everyone was singing the “Navy Hymn” as they waved good-bye to their men of
Chenango
.

It was a very emotional moment for me as the ship moved away from the dock. All the excitement of getting ready to leave seemed to evaporate. I looked down and saw the space between the ship and the dock widen. The water was oily-looking, grayish, but as the space widened, I knew I was moving into a dangerous environment. The sea was unforgiving, and I was going there. I felt a moment of fear, fear of the future. I turned away from the view of the water. To hell with it! I was going to make it! I headed down the catwalk, a walkway just below the level of the flight deck. I was going to our pilots’ ready room. I needed some company.

The ready room was crowded, but I found a chair in the back of the room. A lot of conversation was going on as we all waited for lunch. The spaces looked very similar to our ready room back at the base—leather chairs that reclined, a coffee maker, the smell of cigarette smoke, a blackboard. There was a significance difference though. We now heard the low hum of the ship’s engines and the sound of the ocean moving along the hull of our carrier. Plus, there were the sounds of the ship itself. As the ship rolled due to the wave action, we all heard the creaking sounds of metal rubbing together; of things moving in work spaces and on the flight deck, aircraft tie downs; everything scraping together. The sounds of a moving ship; sounds we would learn to live with.

An announcement came over the ship’s P.A. system: “The officers’ wardroom is now open for lunch.” With that, we moved quickly to the ward room, which was the officers’ dining area. The food was served family-style at tables for eight. There were actually three dining areas on the ship: the officers’ ward room, the chiefs’ mess, and the ship’s galley for the sailors. As pilots, we soon discovered our daily lives centered around the ready room and the ward room. The ward room became an area for reading, for bridge games, and for socializing. The ship’s executive officer, who was the senior officer of the ward room, had just one rule: Officers did not discuss women, politics, or religion in the ward room.

After lunch, I wandered back to the ready room. Some of the guys were in their assigned bunkroom, stowing their clothes, trying to get settled. I sat there adjusting to the sounds of the ship, the wind moving over the flight deck, the sound of the water along the hull, when Lieutenant Shyrock, the squadron operations officer, entered the ready room.

“Hi, Norm, waiting for tomorrow’s flight schedule? You’re on it—the morning flight for carrier landing qualifications.”

I watched as he wrote the schedule on the blackboard. There I was: “0800 Berg: TBF number 00862. Carrier Quals.” Finally, I was going to land aboard the carrier.

“Norm, the pre-flight briefing will be at 0630. The LSO will do the briefing along with the ship’s flight deck officer. See you in the morning.”

I didn’t get a lot of rest that night. Too many strange noises from the ship and then all the procedures I would have to follow trying to land aboard were not conducive to sleep. I still felt rested, though, as I arrived at the ready room at 0630. Three other pilots gathered in the ward room for breakfast before the briefing.

The LSO began the briefing. “OK, guys, you’ve all done well with the FCLP. You all know the landing signals that I’ll be using. Berg, you still tend to be a little fast on the final. Get set up on the downwind leg, with your altitude and speed correct for a landing. Now, one word of warning. You’re not landing on a runway like in FCLP. This is a moving landing platform. The runway where you’ve been doing FCLP was not 60 feet above the surface, and it was not moving forward and up and down. You may feel a bit disoriented on your first pass. Guys, just follow my signals, and I’ll get you aboard. OK, I’ll turn you over to the flight deck officer.”

Damn! What’s this disorientation stuff? Just follow his signals he says. “Berg, you’re fast”...well, what’s my choice? OK, calm down. Hundreds of Navy pilots have made carrier landings. Just go do it!

We listened up as the flight deck officer reviewed the signals we would receive after landing and preparing to take off again. “Tail hook retracted; landing flaps down; taxi to take-off spot; go over take-off checklist; hold brakes; turn up full power; salute when ready for takeoff.”

He continued, “Remember pilots, we want each of you to make six landings. Flight conditions are near perfect. We have 12 to 15 knots of wind from the southeast. The carrier will turn into the wind for flight operations. The carrier speed will be 14 knots. This combination will give us an average of 26 to 29 knots of wind over the deck for landings. Any questions? OK, I’ll see you on the flight deck. Good luck.”

I quickly calculated my final approach’s air speed by estimating my plane would be going around 80 knots as I approached the flight deck, subtract the wind over the deck of 26 to 29 knots from my 80 knots of indicated air speed, and my actual speed on final approach would be between 51 and 54 knots. Damn! He was right—perfect conditions. This was going to be a snap!

The order came over the intercom in the ready room, “Pilots, man your planes.” As the four of us headed for the flight deck, I thought of those pilots at the Battle of Midway, old Torpedo Eight; they all had heard the same message. For me, this time it was just for carrier quals. For them, it was death in battle.

My thoughts quickly shifted back to the situation at hand as I arrived on the flight deck. My plane was spotted second for takeoff. A young sailor helped me strap on my parachute and hook up the radio cords to my helmet. I checked my fuel switches and flight controls. Then I heard, “Pilots, start your engines.” This command came from a loud speaker mounted on the ship’s bridge above the flight deck. Not only did it tell the pilots what to do, it warned the deck crew to stand clear of the planes.

Within a few seconds, all four of us had our plane’s engines started. I began going over my take-off checklist: flaps down, engine mags checked, all engine instrument normal. I felt ready for takeoff—my first one from a carrier. I watched as the plane ahead of me got the take-off signal from the flight deck officer. I could hear his plane’s engine roaring at full power as he began moving toward the bow of the ship. As I watched, he was airborne well before he reached the end of the flight deck. It’s all that wind over the deck, I thought. Nothing to these carrier takeoffs.

I slowly taxied my TBF to the take-off spot. Holding my brakes, I responded to the flight deck officer’s signal, and went to full power by advancing the throttle. My plane was shaking as I held my brakes on. One final check of the engine instruments—all OK. I saluted the flight deck officer and released my brakes as I saw his arm point to the bow of the ship. I was rolling! As soon as I was airborne and clear of the ship’s deck, I made a slight turn to the right, and raised my landing gear. Flying straight ahead, I reduced power, raised my landing flaps and leveled off at 500 feet. I had to set up to make my first carrier landing.