My Carrier War (28 page)

Three days later, I was on the flight schedule for a night familiarization (or fam) flight. Before the flight, Bill Shyrock asked me to meet with him. We met at the Pagoda where Bill told me that the skipper was being detached as the CO of our squadron after we completed this tour at Henderson Field. I wasn’t surprised. We were all sure the skipper would make admiral before the war was over. “Who’s the new skipper?” I asked.

Bill’s reply took me completely by surprise. “Norm, I’ll be Butt’s replacement. I’ll begin flying with the dive-bombing squadron, the job that the skipper has done.”

He stopped. Looking at me, he said, “Norm, you’re the senior pilot in the torpedo squadron. The skipper wants you to take over the leadership of the TBF squadron.”

Hot damn! I’ll be leading the guys. Just like the bull ensign back in
Norfolk. I can do it; the skipper believes in me. Remember how the
skipper leads, nice and easy. Be an example.

He continued. “I’ve scheduled you for this night fam flight tonight, then a practice bombing flight on the 18th.” He stopped. “Norm, the general wants a night bombing mission against Bougainville on the 19th. He wants to keep those Jap bastards awake. The skipper and I believe you should take the flight. I’m sure you understand the skipper’s thinking. Any problem with your making the flight?”

I flew the night fam flight and the practice bombing flight. My crew and I took off on the 19th for the attack on Bougainville. We were airborne at 2100 hours.

This isn’t going to be an aborted flight. Get on those gauges. Set the throttle for a 500-feet per minute climb. The hell with the clouds. Level off when clear of the clouds. There...6,500 feet; air speed 160; in the clear and passing New Georgia. Another hour. Add some power; start to climb. Go over the harbor at Bougainville at 12,000 feet. Oxygen mask on. There’s the airstrip. The coral runway really shows up. Set up an easy circle. Bomb bay doors open. Bombs armed. One 100pounder at a time....

I heard my radioman call, “Sir, lots of AA flashes on the ground.”

“Roger, Mac. I’m going to dive to 9,000 feet—now!”

I heard Smitty, my gunner. “Gunner here! Jap searchlight just came on!”

I saw the searchlight begin to probe for our plane. “Gunner, if the lights finds us, start firing at it. Open up on it with the your turret gun!”

Level off. Reverse course. Drop another bomb. Add power; climb back to 11,000 feet. Drop another bomb. That goddamn searchlight is still moving around...searching. Son of a bitch! White light! Can’t see outside the cockpit...it’s got us! Dive for the ground; there goes Smitty’s gun. He’s firing. Release the rest of the bombs. Maybe one will hit the bastard. Get on the gauges. There, we’re out of the light. Altitude...stay low. Right turn out over the harbor. Don’t go between those two islands; go over one of them. Let’s go home!

The next few days were hectic, but no one minded. The squadron was packing. The skipper had received orders for the entire squadron to fly out of Henderson Field with our aircraft on April 25, 1943. Our fighter group took off first, then the dive-bombers, and finally the TBFs. Again, a Navy transport plane arrived for the maintenance crew. This part of the Cactus Air Force was going back to Efate.

My log book has two entries for April 25. A four-hour flight to Espiritu Santo, code name “Button,” and a one-hour flight to Efate, code name “Roses.”

When our TBFs arrived at Roses, we made a low pass over
Chenango
. She was anchored in the harbor at Efate. We were home.
Return to Efate
We were back on our island of Efate living in metal Quonset huts—four of us to a hut. We had hot showers and a Navy-run mess hall with food supplies brought ashore from
Chenango
. In addition to the officers’ club and an enlisted mens’ club, there were volleyball courts and a white, sandy beach alongside the warm, blue South Seas. After our experience at Guadalcanal, all this felt as if we were at an expensive beach resort.

Upon our arrival, the squadron flight surgeon, a medical doctor with specialized training in aviation, met with us. He warned each of us that we should gradually increase our activities, but warned, “Don’t try to do everything at once.” His flight physicals of the pilots and the crewmen indicated and average weight loss of 15 to 20 pounds as a result of our tour at Guadalcanal. I went from 150 pounds to 135.

We were a bunch of skinny guys.

The flight surgeon cleared me physically for flight operations on May 1. By then, our aircraft maintenance crews had checked out the aircraft, patched up the bullet holes, and serviced each plane’s engine. My first flight was that day—a test flight on a TBF. These flights were to ensure a reported discrepancy on any particular aircraft had been corrected. What a pleasure it was. I flew around the island at about 500 feet. There were white beaches, small fishing villages, and coconut trees—thousands of them—so peaceful, so beautiful. With a few scattered clouds and the dark, blue ocean; it was flying at it’s best!

On May 6, the skipper called a meeting of all hands, pilots, crewmen, and maintenance personnel. We met in the mess hall and, as the skipper entered, we all stood at the command for attention.

“Seats, gentlemen. I’m sure all of us have enjoyed this vacation on our South Sea island. Any complaints?” Almost in unison came the sound of “No Sir, Skipper!”

“I want to bring you up-to-date on our planning for the next month. I’ve had a conference with Captain Wyatt, the captain of our carrier. We’re a carrier air group, and pilots and the carrier personnel need to be both retrained on carrier operations.” He turned to Bill Shyrock. “Bill, please schedule all pilots for field carrier landing practice (FCLP). I want everyone ready to fly aboard
Chenango
on the 11th. We’ll be spending the next two weeks flying off the carrier. I want refresher flights for formation flying, tactics, and bombing for all dive-bombing and TBF pilots. The fighter squadron will schedule its flight programs. Any questions?”

What’s going on? What about the invasion of New Georgia in July? We were told about it while we were at Henderson Field. Maybe we’re not going back to the Canal. That would be a relief. Good to get back on board the ship, though. No one shooting at us; just good flying.

We all did well with the FCLP refresher. The landing signal officer (LSO) suggested that we must have wanted to get back to shipboard life—we were actually answering his signals properly.

It was delightful to be back aboard. I was no longer sleeping in a bunk room with three other guys. I now shared a stateroom with Bill Shyrock. It was good to meet and talk with the ship’s officers again, and to take our meals with them in the ward room. They were our hosts. The ship was their home—we pilots were just visitors. Most of all, though, were the sounds of the ship as she steamed through the waters of the South Pacific—the wind over the flight deck and the sound of the water sliding past her hull. A ship at sea takes on a life of her own, like the sound of announcements of “The smoking lamp is out” or “Third watch report for duty.” Then there was the creak of metal as the ship rolled in the ocean swells and the soft sounds of men moving through the narrow passageways, up and down ladders between decks, carrying out their duties, making the ship a living thing. It was good to be aboard.

Between May 11 to 20, I made seven carrier landings, practicing bombing and tactical flight as well as formation flights. The tactical flights involved flying with the dive-bombing and the fighter squadrons on coordinated bombing attacks. We were getting to be very efficient as a carrier group. This refresher training was important, not only for the pilots, but for the carrier crew as well. Carrier operations require a real team effort to launch and recover aircraft in a safe and rapid manner. By the time we left the ship and returned to Efate on May 20, the ship’s crew was operating with newly honed skills. Captain Wyatt gave us a “well done” as we left the ship, thanking us for the excellent training experience we’d given the ship’s flight deck crew.

It was a short stay on Efate. We did have some time to do some final maintenance on our planes, get some additional training in glide-bombing, and do some partying. The skipper had announced earlier that he was being transferred, so on May 30, we had a farewell party for him. Actually, there were two parties, one organized by Chief Williams with enlisted men of the three squadrons, and the other organized by Bill Shyrock and me.

It was a very proud moment for me when the skipper announced that Bill would take over as commanding officer, and I would lead the TBF squadron. Lieutenant Anson, our air intelligence officer, was assigned the job of executive officer. That was fine with me; I would do the flying and Anson would do the paperwork.

For the first time ever, I left the party early. I did buy a round of drinks for the torpecker pilots, as I was reminded that I was still the bull ensign. Now, I was the Bull JG.

That night, laying in my cot, I contemplated the future.

Bet we’ll go back to the Canal...back into combat. This time I’ve got to lead. It will be different. Got to watch the booze. Have to make tough decisions. They are my friends. Don’t want to hurt anyone. Pray we all make it back.
Back on
Chenango
Our squadron left Efate for
Chenango
on June 16, 1943. She’d left the harbor the previous day and was about 50 miles west of Efate.
Chenango
was assigned to escort a convoy of supply ships to Guadalcanal. As I flew out to the ship, I had a very special letter in my pocket. I was a brand new father. Jean had just given birth to our son, Donald Edward Berg.

What’s it going to be like? A baby to care for. It’s Jean’s job, I guess. I’ve got my job...flying...what about our love making? Wonder if the baby...no...Jean will still be passionate. Should be going home soon. We’ve been away since December. Bet we get one more trip to Henderson. Damn! Back to getting shot at...hope there won’t be any more night stuff. There’s the ship. My first time leading the TBF squadron. Let’s make it a good one. The guys are flying a real tight formation...let’s get aboard!

Between June 16 and 23, I flew seven antisub patrols as
Chenango’
s planes protected the convoy en route to the Canal. Most of the flights meant flying an out-bound leg of about 100 miles after leaving the ship; flying a second leg of about 30 miles that paralleled the ship’s course; and finally turning to the inbound leg for the return to the ship. All the flights were routine, except for one.

On June 22, my log book records one four-hour flight, launching at 1500 hours. Based on the direction and speed of the wind and my plane’s speed, I estimated 3.4 hours of flight time. I would be back at the ship at approximately 1830, a full hour before sunset. The weather prediction was partly cloudy with scattered showers. I flew the outbound leg and turned at my estimated time onto the second leg. We were flying at 1,000 feet as my crew and I watched for any possible submarine activity—that feather of white water made by a sub’s periscope. I checked the time and made my turn to the inbound leg, heading back to the carrier. The rain showers were getting heavier and more frequent and the cloud cover above me was about 80 percent. I eased the plane down to 500 feet, flying through the rain showers and checking the time. I was about 30 minutes from my ETA (estimated time of arrival) at the carrier. I flipped on the switch for the YE, the ship’s radio homing transmitter.

What the hell? No signal. Maybe I’m too low to receive the signal. Better not climb above the clouds...might miss seeing the ship. Stay on course and get closer to the ship’s position. I’ll probably pick it up.

I called my radioman in the lower compartment. “Mac, check the YE receiver. I’m not getting a signal.” I heard his reply. “Sir, the receiver’s power light is not on. Is your YE switch on?” “Affirmative. Guess our receiver is out. OK, guys, I estimate we’re about 20 minutes from the ship’s position. We’ll find her.”

Damn! Weather’s not too good and visibility stinks. No sense in calling the ship; they can’t help. It’s not an emergency yet; don’t want to risk the ship. Get the navigation board out and lay out a square-search pattern. Better hurry...if you don’t see the ship in just ten minutes, that’s the ETA, start the square search.

A square-search pattern was a navigational plan a carrier pilot could use at sea to locate his ship. I had first learned about it at Corpus Christi while in flight training and we reviewed the procedure in our squadron training at Norfolk.

When I reached my estimated time of arrival at the ship’s position, I didn’t see the carrier. I knew the ship’s compass course was 030 degrees, speed 12 knots. I had been airborne about three hours and 20 minutes. I quickly calculated the ship’s speed times the three hours and 20 minutes I’d been flying. The ship could only have moved about 40 miles. I completed the navigation plan for the square search and started the search.

OK. Turn to a heading 210 degrees. That heading was the reciprocal of the ship’s heading of 030 degrees. Fly for one minute. No ship. Turn right 90 degrees to a heading of 300 degrees. One minute. Turn right to a heading of 030 degrees for two minutes. Nothing. Turn right heading 120 degrees. Two minutes. Still no ship. Turn right. Heading 210 degrees. Three minutes. Damn! Nothing. It’s getting late...when’s sunset? How’s my fuel? Where the hell is she? Turn heading 300. Three minutes. There, she’s just getting clear of that rain squall. Made it!

Those twelve minutes seemed like forever. I orbited the carrier until I saw the red Charlie flag stream from the signal bridge. That was my signal to prepare to land aboard. Chenango turned into the wind, getting ready to take me aboard. We got aboard on the first pass between two severe rain showers. I was damn glad to be home, and I hadn’t had to call for help.

That evening, our new skipper, Bill Shyrock, called a pilots’ meeting in the ready room. I was the one who called “Attention” as Bill entered the ready room. He grinned at me and said, “Thanks, Norm, it does take a some getting use to, this ‘Attention’ stuff.” He continued, “Guys, today I received orders for the squadron. The message came from Navy Headquarters in Noumea. We’ll fly off Chenango on June 26th for the airfield at Espiritu Santo. There, we will refuel and fly on to Henderson Field. Again, we’ll be part of the Cactus Air Force. Our job will be to support Army landings at New Georgia.” The ready room was quiet as we all absorbed the news.