My Carrier War (4 page)

It took nearly a week to complete the check-in until I, along with some 75 other cadets in Naval Aviation Cadet Class 6B, finally received our first training schedule. For the next two weeks, we were bombarded with information about Navy customs and traditions. We were actually learning a whole new language. We were also back doing close order drills with rifles, calisthenics at 0500, and worst of all, “getting the word” from the senior classmen. I was assigned to a particularly aggressive senior cadet.

There was always something that I didn’t know about the Navy. I found myself marching off demerits that I had earned because I didn’t have the correct answers to some pretty dumb questions, like, “How do you get a rat out of a leeward scupper?” My reaction was “Who gives a damn? I joined up to fly.” A senior cadet counseled me on my poor attitude and assigned ten more demerits, which gave me a total of 15. Fifty demerits, and I would be washed out of the program.

Aircraft engines explained by instructor.

 Thankfully, the two weeks of indoctrination finally ended. Those demerits had worried me. The confidence I had felt when I arrived at Corpus was suddenly missing. I was scared of failure—of washing out. I just couldn’t let that happen. I had to make it. On top of it all, we were all scheduled for four weeks of intensive ground school.

I looked over the ground school program. Nearly all of the classes were two hours long. Most of the subjects didn’t look too tough: aircraft engines, radio procedures, Morse code, and then I saw celestial navigation. That meant math. Damn, it was just like back in high school. My roommates were all enthused and anxious to complete the ground school phase of training and start flying. How I envied them—so confident—and here I was fearful, knowing that I would have problems with ground school, especially the navigation course.

Practicing Morse code in study period.

Thoughts of my failures in high school began to overwhelm me. Was this going to be the same? All that time trying to learn math in high school was just a waste of time, right? Damn, to be so stupid. Now, a stupid navigation training course.

God, I need help. What in the hell are you praying for? You had Jean to help you back then. There’s no help now. Shit, Norm, why did you ever think you could succeed? You’ve always been a nobody. Forget it, Norm. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got to make it through this damn ground school.

The first two weeks of ground school went well, despite my fears. We had exams every Friday and I was passing every test. Then our schedule changed. Ground school the first half of the day; flying the second half. On August 12, 1941, my log book entry reads, “Type of aircraft: N2S-3. Duration of flight: 1.5 hrs. Inst.: Ensign Wilder.” I was back in the air, but with an instructor. I was having problems. My instructor didn’t like my air work, my landings, or my takeoffs.

In celestial navigation class cadets take readings with bubble octants.

S
ame old troubles—you’ll never make it. Why did you ever think you could be a pilot? Hell, you couldn’t even make the high school track team. A Navy pilot! Quit kidding yourself. You’re just facing another failure.

After three more dual flights, I was qualified to solo, but on August 16, I failed my final exam in navigation. I was taken off the flight schedule and was ordered to appear before a board of officers to explain my failure to pass the navigation course.

I knew it. It’s just too much. Why do you keep on fucking up? Maybe someone should check your IQ. You must be stupid. No one else is flunking navigation. Just dumb, old Norm. Now what?

Shooting clay pigeons on the gunnery range tests abilities in deflection gunnery.

When in front of the board, I successfully explained that my flying problems had reduced my ability to concentrate on the navigation course. I didn’t mention Jean. The board authorized extra instruction in navigation for me. A senior cadet was assigned as a tutor. On August 24, I passed the navigation course. On the 25th, I was back in an airplane, again with an instructor, for another dual flight. I flew a good flight and the instructor qualified me as “safe for solo” on August 26.

I began flying again on September 2, and by the end of the month, I had 20 hours solo time and 17 hours of dual time. The flight program was designed to build confidence in pilot control of the aircraft in all types of flight conditions. To do this, the instructor would demonstrate a flight maneuver like a small field landing, or a slip to a circle or a loop or wing over, and then I would practice it solo. I felt very confident. Every time I flew with my instructor, he would tell me I was doing OK.

I had, of course, been writing Jean on almost a weekly basis. She was responding about once a month. I attributed this lack of contact with her to her job change. She wrote me in September that she had passed the civil service exam and had taken a job as a secretary at the Torpedo School in Bangor, a Navy base just outside of Bremerton. I did wish she’d write more often. In early October, I received an unsigned letter from someone in Bremerton. I have always suspected that it was one of her girlfriends who must have been jealous of her. The letter claimed that Jean was deeply involved with a student at the Torpedo School. I didn’t know what was meant by “deeply involved.” In fact, I was afraid to even think about it. That, of course, was impossible. It was all I could think about, but I was afraid to ask.

Clarifying problems at the instruction board.

I tried my best to concentrate on my flying and learn all I could from my instructor, who told me that I was about ready for my final check flight. The first 40 hours of the primary phase of the flight program had been divided into four phases: small field landings, aerobatics, landings and takeoffs, and landings without power. At the end of each phase, I would fly with an instructor other than my own on a “check ride.” I had passed each one of these check rides. I was then scheduled for the final check before moving on in the training program. I had to fly with three different instructors and pass two of the three check rides. On October 10, I passed my first check ride. Poor weather developed and I had to wait until October 22 to fly my second check ride. I failed it.

How could this have happened to me? Damn, why me? It’s over. You just don’t have it, dumb Norm from Bremerton. That’s it, bury your face in the pillow so no one will hear your sobs of frustration. It’s over—you’re not going to make it.

That night, I did not sleep. The next day, I was scheduled for the third check ride. If I failed again, I was faced with being washed out of the program, of being sent home. Maybe the weather would be bad and the flight would be postponed. I was still awake at 0500. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and there was no doubt I would have to fly the check ride. So I met the check pilot at the assigned aircraft. The takeoff was smooth, and when we returned, I felt I had flown a good flight.

I don’t remember what the check pilot said, but I do remember the concerned look on his face. That was all I needed to see. I had failed the check ride. I arrived back at my room in the barracks. My roommates had all passed their final check in the primary phase, but I had failed.

Who can I turn to? There’s no one. You’re to blame for this. You never should have tried. Working in the Navy Yard is where you belong. Jean will never marry you. Your wonderful plans are dead forever. Sure, my roommates will feel sorry for me. That’s what I deserve—their pity. To hell with the whole program!

I knew what I had to do. I would not go back to Bremerton as a failure. I put on my civilian clothes, went to the officer of the day (OOD) and picked up a pass authorizing me an overnight liberty. I was going into the city of Corpus Christi. I knew the Canadian Air Force had a recruiting office at the Neuces Hotel. They were interviewing cadets who were failing the Navy program. I’d go talk with them, and then I would get drunk. As I started out of the barracks, however, the OOD called to me saying I had a phone call. Once more, chance entered my life. I went back to the OOD’s desk and took the call. It was my regular instructor. He told me that he had asked the Review Board of Officers to review my status. Then he said, “Cadet Berg, you are to appear on 24 October before the board.” I didn’t go into Corpus that night.

The next morning, I appeared at the scheduled time, hopeful, but fearful too. With the exception of the 15 demerits on my record and the failed navigation test, my record was exemplary. The board was sympathetic, and they granted me twelve additional hours of dual instruction.

Just before takeoff, sign the yellow sheet.