My Carrier War (3 page)

Looking down, I could see the lieutenant sitting on the ground. At that point, a wave of excitement washed over me. I did it! I was flying by myself! All I had to do now was make a good landing. After my second circle around the field, I prepared for the landing, lining up with the grass runway, and making my approach. The landing was so smooth, I hardly realized I was on the ground. I taxied up to where the lieutenant was standing and waited as he climbed into the rear cockpit. Then I heard his voice through the gosport. “Take me home, Cadet Berg. Congratulations. You’re on your way.”

That evening, some of my classmates gathered for the “tie cutting” cere•mony. As a new solo pilot, I was required, by custom, to appear in uniform, which was a pair of khaki pants, khaki shirt, and a black tie. After appropriate comments suggesting that I didn’t have the brains or the physical attributes to become a Navy pilot, the senior cadet ceremonially took a pair of scissors and cut off the bottom half of my tie and presented it to me in honor of my solo flight. I then had the pleasure of pinning the remains of my tie under my name on a wall plaque, as a newly soloed pilot. I was on my way to becoming part of an elite group—naval aviators.

I had completed my initial naval aviation training. I had soloed and now had my first Navy travel orders. I read them over and over.

“When detached on 1 May 1941, from the Naval Air Station, Seattle, Washington, you are directed to proceed to the Naval Air Station, Jacksonville, Florida, for future assignment to Naval Air Station, Corpus Christi, Texas, for duty as a Naval Aviation Cadet.”

There was a lot of other information that followed, but most importantly, was the last sentence: “Ten days leave is authorized before reporting.”

I knew why I was going to Jacksonville first. The Naval Air Station at Corpus was still being built. It had been commissioned in March 1941, when the first class of cadets arrived and we were told that until additional barracks space became available, we would be in a “pool” awaiting transfer to Corpus. 

The delay really didn’t bother me. For me, the most important news was the ten days of authorized leave. This gave me time to be with Jean and my family. It was going to be great. I had especially missed seeing Jean. My schedule as an aviation cadet had not allowed me any time away from the Naval Air Station; consequently, I had not been back to Bremerton since reporting for duty back in March.

Looking back now, I recall vividly Jean’s lack of interest in my plans to go into the Navy flight program. When I would talk with her about the opportunity the program offered us—a commission as an officer and marriage when I graduated—she would only say, “It’s your choice, Norm.” I was, of course, somewhat disappointed with her lack of interest. She didn’t even congratulate me when I completed my training at Naval Air Station, Seattle. In fact, I just didn’t understand it. She seemed so resigned, and it worried me. I knew she didn’t want me to go into the apprentice program in the Navy Yard. Her father worked in the Navy Yard and Jean often told me how he hated his work. I wondered too, could it be that she thought I was making this decision, so I could break my promise of marriage to her? Then, too, there were some of her girlfriends. I felt sure they were asking, “What’s Norm doing? Why doesn’t he just stay in college? He wouldn’t be drafted.” Or, “What’s wrong with working in the Navy Yard? That’s what my boyfriend is doing. He’s not leaving me.” I knew that I was facing a crisis in my relationship with Jean. I was especially confused over her resistance to my desire to make love with her. After all, we had been sepa•rated for almost two months, and now I was leaving for at least a year.

I decided to ask my dad to give me the engagement ring that was in the family’s safe deposit box. I reminded him that I had bought it for Jean two years before. I felt that if I could give her the ring, we would seal our commitment to each other. I remember Dad urging me to consider how Jean might feel if I insisted she wear my ring while I was away. I dismissed any concerns about Jean not wanting the ring—after all, we were in love and were going to be mar•ried as soon as I finished my training.

My last day at home, May 10, 1941, arrived. My train to Jacksonville, Florida left Seattle at noon. My mother and father were driving me from Bremerton to the Seattle train station. I knew Jean wasn’t coming with us. She had told me the night before that she didn’t want to go with me to the train. As we drove to the Seattle train station, my mother asked if there was something wrong—why hadn’t Jean come with us? I assured her that things were fine. Thinking about that moment now, I know I was trying to hide the anxiety I felt about Jean and my decision to join the Navy. Years later, my mother told me that I looked like a lost little boy as I got on that train.

The evening before, I had made reservations for dinner for Jean and me at one of our favorite restaurants overlooking Puget Sound. I found myself doing most of the talking. Jean was quiet and withdrawn. Sensing her mood, I avoided any talk about the Navy and the flight training program. Most of our talk was about the old high school days and our friends. I remember too, that there were long stretches of silence—just the sound of the two of us eating. I felt reassured though; I had our engagement ring in my pocket. I knew that ring would keep Jean in my life. She would know that I loved her. She would understand that my only reason for leaving her was to return as a naval officer so we could be married.

After dinner, we walked out on a long pier extending over the water. It was a warm May evening, a half moon in a clear sky. I picked up a rock laying on the pier and tossed it into the water. The phosphorus was sparkling, bits of light flashing in the dark water. I turned to Jean, wondering if she remembered that beach party long ago.

I took the ring box out of my pocket. I had seen the slight smile on Jean’s face as she watched the rock, phosphorus streaming from it, disappearing into the quiet water. Very gently I took the ring box and placed it in Jean’s hand. She looked at it and then at me. I could see the questioning look on her face. I still remember my words, “Jean darling, it’s our engagement ring. I thought you might want to wear it while I’m gone.”

Her response is still vivid in my memory. She took the ring out of the box, tossed it up and down in her hand, and then, clenching it in her fist, she said, “I think I’ll just throw the damn thing away!”

I reached out, taking her arm, holding it, preventing her from throwing the ring into the water. As I held her arm, I recall her voice as she expressed her feelings. She accused me of no longer loving her, of leaving her alone to accept the pity of her friends and, worst of all, asking her to wear my ring as if she was a piece of property while I was away. Then came her final charge—she questioned my faith in her as a person. Did I think that she would be unfaithful with other men while I was gone?

I released her arm and she seemed to wilt as her anger disappeared. She stood, her shoulders slumped, her head bowed. I could see she was trembling. I took her in my arms and with my voice almost a whisper, I told her how sorry I was. I asked her to please just put the ring in her dresser drawer and keep it there until I came home. Then I stepped back until I could look into her eyes. I could see her tears and I knew what I had to say. I told her to have fun while I was gone—go out on dates—enjoy life, but please, sometime during the next year, put our ring back on and announce our wedding date. She did not respond. She just asked me to please take her home.

I took her home and we kissed each other goodbye. It was one of the most difficult moments of my young life. Jean had been my life net, my helper, my friend and my lover. I had to trust her—I just had to if I wanted to keep her love.

The trip to Jacksonville was long, almost three days. During the first few hours of the trip, my thoughts were centered on Jean. I was sure I had done the right thing by giving her freedom and trusting her. I finally decided that worrying about our relationship was useless. There was nothing I could do about it now. I could only write to her, telling her what I was doing, and telling her that I loved her.

I settled back in the club car of the train and began to enjoy the excitement of the trip. The only traveling I’d ever done was in the back seat of my folk’s car. I was assigned to a pullman car, so a berth would be made up for me. I must admit that I enjoyed the porter making up my bed each night. And then there was the dining car with its linen table cloths and napkins, lovely glassware and the food. I enjoyed every moment of the dining. I was even offered wine with my dinners, although I didn’t have the courage to try any. The only wine I knew was either red or white and I didn’t see any of that on the wine list.

After dinner on the first day out, I looked again at my ticket. I saw I had a layover of nearly six hours in Chicago. We would arrive at eleven in the morning and depart at five o’clock the same day. Time to maybe see the city, I thought. I decided to put on my “cadet whites,” have breakfast and then see a little of Chicago. The whites were a summer uniform and looked really sharp—white trousers and a white, long-sleeved, snug-fitting jacket with five, shiny brass buttons in front. The jacket had a high collar that fit tightly around my neck. I had epaulets on each shoulder with the two slim gold strips signifying my rank as a Navy cadet. My shoes were white. The hat had a short black visor with an insignia of an anchor on the hat band. As I looked in a mirror, I thought I looked great.

I sauntered into the dining car and waited until one of the waiters saw me. His face broke into a fabulous smile as he greeted me and escorted me the full length of the dining car. He seated me at a table for two and gave me a menu. My back was to the front of the dining car, so I was taken by surprise when I was joined by a woman. We greeted one another with the usual, “Good morning.” As she studied the menu, I took a peek at her. She was stunning, beautifully dressed in a rather severe-looking suit and wearing a hat that didn’t hide her soft blond hair. “She’s no teenager,” I thought, “Bet she’s at least 25.” It wasn’t long before she began to ask me questions. What kind of uniform was I wearing? Where was I going? What kind of a program was I assigned to?

It was almost eleven o’clock before I realized it. We were still sitting in the dining car. Then she asked me what I was going to do until my train left at five o’clock. When I told her of my plan, she took a long look at me. I returned her look, our eyes locking on one another’s. She smiled at me and asked if I’d like to have lunch with her at the Drake Hotel in downtown Chicago. She explained that she was in the city on business and was staying at the Drake.

Hot damn! The Drake! I’d heard of it, of course. It was world famous and she wanted to have lunch with me. She must have had a room at the hotel. God, I’d hoped I wouldn’t get flustered. She wasn’t trying to pick me up. She was just asking me to lunch. “Come on,” I thought, “just say, ‘Sure, I’d love to lunch with you and see a bit of Chicago.’” I thought about how I’d just said goodbye to Jean, and to forget about a beautiful blond woman with a hotel room.

Hours later, I boarded the train for Jacksonville and settled into my pull-man seat. I was very relaxed. It had been a wonderful lunch. It might have been the wine; we had a bottle with our meal. She explained the wine list to me in a gracious way. She never suggested we go to her room, and to this day, I’m still relieved that she didn’t.

My trip ended the next day, and I reported to the duty officer at the Naval Air Station, Jacksonville, Florida. The next few weeks were a blend of surprise and hard work. One surprise for me was the hundreds of young men from all over America, such as those from Texas cattle ranches, cities like Chicago, and little towns. We all spoke (and sounded) a little different. I particularly thought the guys from Texas had a language all their own. Half the time, I couldn’t understand them. It was the same with those from the deep South. One common trait, though, was very noticeable to me. Everyone there was white. Coming from the Northwest, I was used to being in school with Orientals, Mexicans, and Negroes. Even then, I realized the Naval Aviation Cadet Program didn’t fairly reflect the diverse population of America in 1941. I adjusted to these surprises and quickly developed a relationship with three cadets who were assigned as my roommates. Two of them, Archie and Harry, were from Texas and the third, Jack, was from Idaho.

Our days in Jacksonville, like those in Seattle, started early, 0530, with calisthenics. To this day, I hate doing jumping jacks. Breakfast was followed by two hours of close order marching drills with rifles. Why we had to learn to march soon became evident. A great many politicians from Washington D.C. were visiting the Naval Air Station. The base commander always ordered a parade in honor of the visitors, and cadets were the parade. We also spent a great deal of time on the flight line, where cadets who were already in the program were flying. We washed airplanes; we re-fueled airplanes; we turned the cranks that started the airplanes; but we didn’t fly any airplanes.

Fortunately, it wasn’t all work. We enjoyed playing lots of sports, such as basketball, flag football, tennis, and swimming. There were even some afternoon dance parties at the cadet club. Our dance partners were young women from Jacksonville, which was a delightful change from our all-male environment.

In late June 1941, I received my orders to report to Naval Air Station, Corpus Christi, Texas. My reporting date was the Fourth of July. Luckily, my roommates received the same orders and Harry had a car, a convertible. We departed Jacksonville on July 1 with a stopover in New Orleans. We didn’t stay very long in New Orleans—we all wanted to get to Corpus. We were ready. We wanted to fly with the Navy.

On Independence Day in 1941, my cadet roommates and I spied the gate of the Naval Air Station, Corpus Christi, Texas. It wouldn’t be long before I would be flying again. Three other Naval Aviation Cadets and I had driven from Jacksonville, Florida, after having spent more than a month at the Naval Air Station there waiting for our assignment to begin flight training at Corpus Christi. The Fourth of July, however, was no holiday for me. The Navy began processing me into the program with physical exams, uniform issues, and a room assignment in the barracks. All I could think about was getting back into an airplane. The memory of my solo flight in April at Seattle was so vivid. I felt the joy at that moment when I was flying alone, proving myself. I could hardly wait to experience that marvelous feeling of confidence again. I knew I could do it.