My Carrier War (7 page)

Then I heard my instructor. “Had a little vertigo, Cadet? You did just fine. You believed those instruments. Never forget that lesson, Cadet. Trust those instruments. OK, I have it now.”

Close-up view of the link trainer, showing part of the complicated instrument panel.

I released the controls and sat back. I could feel my parachute pressing against my back and butt. I felt my muscles begin to relax as I wiped the sweat off my face. This wasn’t going to be easy, I thought, as I heard Ensign Barber again.

“Cadet Berg, I’m going to put the plane in some unusual positions. Then, when I tell you, I want you to recover and return to level flight. Ready?”

I was watching the instrument panel, when suddenly I thought I felt the plane roll violently to the right. The altimeter needles indicated that I was losing altitude and the air speed increased. The needle in the turn and bank instrument was all the way to the right, but the little black ball in the turn and bank instrument was clear to the left. Then I heard the instructor say, “Cadet, you have the controls. Make your recovery.”

I grabbed the controls, staring at the wildly gyrating instruments.

OK. I am in a skidding and diving turn to the right. The little needle tells me I’m in a right turn. The small ball at the bottom of the instrument has moved way to the left, so the plane is out of balance. It is skidding. I have to get the wings level first. Get the fucking needle and the ball back in the center! Now get the nose up! Stop the descent. Reduce the power till the air speed gets back to normal. Now add some power. Whew! I’m back level again.

“Nice work, Cadet Berg. Nice recovery. You’re doing fine. Now let’s try some turns. Remember, when you start a turn, the nose of the airplane tends to move down. You must apply some back pressure on the stick to maintain your altitude.”

The rest of the flight went well. Again though, I felt stupid. I knew the nose of the plane would drop in a turn. I had to remember to trust the instruments as they can become the pilot’s only reference points. They replace the sky, the clouds, the horizon, and the ground that the pilot normally sees when flying. Without those reference points, either visual with the space outside the plane or the instruments in the plane, the pilot is literally blind. The pilot’s sense of balance is affected, vertigo results and control of the aircraft is lost.

Reviewing my log book from January 20 to 25, I flew eleven hours of instrument flying. I recovered from a great many unusual positions, did a lot of turns to compass headings and a lot of climbs and descents. Gradually, I found that I was quite comfortable flying blind. I had learned to trust the instruments and my own flying ability.

Then on January 26, I checked the flight schedule. I was scheduled for a cross-country flight on instruments. I knew the procedure from ground school and my training in the link trainer. I went into the operations office and prepared a written flight plan using the proper form and submitted it to a sailor in the operations office for filing with the Civilian Aviation Authority, the CAA. I was going to fly from Corpus Christi, Texas to San Antonio, Texas, and return. The flight would take about two hours. Since I was filing an instrument flight plan, I would have to get clearance from the CAA, the governmental agency that controlled the airways throughout the United States. In 1942, the airports across America were linked together by these airways, which were reserved air space, 20 miles wide, for use by aircraft filing flight plans with the CAA.

After I received a weather report on cloud and wind conditions en route to San Antonio, I worked out the navigation, including compass headings and most important, I reviewed the radio range frequencies I would be using on the flight. I then went out to my assigned aircraft to meet my instructor.

“Morning, Cadet. Nice morning for our flight. Would you brief me please on your flight plan?”

“Sir, I’ve requested a cruising flight altitude of 4,000 feet. I’ve requested 4,000 feet because we’re flying west, and must be at even altitudes. Estimated flight time is two hours. We will fly the outbound west leg of the Corpus radio range until we contact San Antonio radio and pick up the inbound leg of the San Antonio radio range heading 284 degrees. I will reverse the flight plan on return. The weather is projected to be excellent—CAVU, Sir.”

The instructor laughed. “Ceiling and visibility unlimited. Well, you won’t see it under that hood will you? Let’s get going.”

We both climbed into the airplane cockpits and using the radio, I called the CAA flight controller in the airport control tower and received my clearance for the flight. “Navy 03095, you are cleared to San Antonio via airway Green One. Maintain 4,000 feet. Contact San Antonio control prior to the return flight. You’re cleared for takeoff.” I acknowledged the clearance, made the takeoff and quickly pulled the canopy over the cockpit. I was on instruments by the time we reached 500 feet.

OK, Norm, just settle down and fly this bird. It’s just like the link trainer. You can do it. You know how. Stay loose and watch those instruments. Get onto that beam and fly it right to San Antonio.

I began a left-hand turn from my takeoff heading of 190 degrees and continued the turn until I intercepted the outbound compass heading of 284 degrees. I was now on the proper heading for San Antonio. I tuned in the frequency for the Corpus radio range. This would be the first time, except for the link trainers, that I had actually flown using the radio range system.

In 1941, this system was the primary method for aircraft to fly under instrument conditions. Instrument conditions existed when the pilot did not have visual contact with the ground or the horizon because of weather conditions. The system consisted of a radio transmitter located either at airports across America or between airports, but on the airways depending on the distance between airports. The transmitter would broadcast a continuous sound on predetermined compass headings. These headings were called “radio range legs.” There were usually four legs at each range station. The compass heading for one of the legs from the transmitter at Corpus was 284 degrees. This was the heading I was to fly to San Antonio and the range leg was aligned with the Green airway.

I rolled out of my turn onto a heading of 284 degrees. I could hear the steady sound of the radio range leg in my radio headset. I was “on the beam,” heading for San Antonio. I was constantly scanning my instruments to ensure I was on course and on the assigned altitude. I began to hear a signal other than the steady sound of the beam. It was in Morse code—a “dit-da”—the code for "A". I was drifting off the beam.

I knew from my link training what was happening. The radio transmitter also sent out signals other than the steady sound of the beam. If I flew in the air space between the radio range legs, I would hear the Morse code signals. In this case, hearing the A,I knew I was drifting to the right of the beam. If I had heard an N, a “da-dit,” I would have been drifting to the left of the beam. I only had to look at the picture on the chart of the Corpus range I had on my knee pad to know where I was in relation to the beam. That wind from the south was stronger than predicted, I thought, as I turned a few degrees to my left. Quickly, I heard the steady sound of the beam. I was now on a compass heading of 280 degrees. After 30 minutes of flying time, I tuned in the San Antonio radio range station. The heading of 280 and a flight time of 30 minutes took me over the station on my ETA (estimated time of arrival).

I heard my instructor say, “Nice work, Cadet. You hit the range cone right on time.” Just before my instructor called me, I had lost the sound of the beam. This was the “cone,” the signal that I was over the range station. I now reversed course to the return compass heading of 100 degrees and started my return flight to Corpus. I was on the beam all the way. When I was about 20 minutes from my ETA at Corpus, my instructor called me. “Cadet Berg, please request a clearance to make an instrument approach to the Corpus airport.”

He wants an instrument approach to the field! God, I’ve got to get down to 500 feet from my altitude of 4,000 feet and all I have are the damn instruments! Just do it. Fly this bird nice and smooth. Don’t panic. Come on, stay loose on the controls. Easy does it.

I acknowledged his message, called Approach Control at the airport, and received a clearance for an instrument approach. The radio range system not only provided a method for aircraft to fly in poor weather conditions from point to point, it was also used to make an approach to the field under instrument conditions. Radar had not yet been invented so all we had was the low frequency radio range.

I was right on the beam, getting a solid signal. I checked the time. I would be over the range station in two minutes. Then I lost the sound of the beam in my radio headset. I knew I was over the cone because there was no signal over the station. Next, I heard the solid sound of the radio beam again. OK. I checked the time. I had to fly out bound on the beam for three minutes, then reduce altitude from 4,000 feet to 1,500 feet. I began to hear a slight sound—a da-dit—a Morse code N. I checked my radio chart. I was drifting off the beam. I made a slight turn to my left and quickly heard the solid sound of the radio beam again. I checked my watch. Time to reverse course. I checked my gyrocompass, my heading was 100 degrees. I started my turn to the left.

Watch the altitude and air speed. Keep on turning to a heading of 280 degrees. Intercept the radio beam. OK, hold it.

I began to hear the solid sound of the radio beam. I had to stop the turn at 280 degrees. I was inbound to the airport. I could hear the solid sound of the radio beam. I reduced power and began my descent, leveling off at 500 feet. I checked the time. I was one minute out from the field when I heard my instructor remark, “Pop your hood, Cadet Berg. Nice work.” I reached up and released the cloth hood. There, in front of me, was the runway. I reduced power, made a smooth approach and landing. No sweat. Well, actually, I was sweating quite a lot.

The last week of January 1942 was a very special week in my life. My log book for January 28 has the following entry: “Inst. X–OK. Radio X–OK.” I had completed the instrument phase of my training. Just three days later, January 31, the entry reads: “Aircraft SNC-1. Duration of flight: 1.0: Type of flight: Fam.” I was assigned to dive-bombers for my advanced training, so I was going to the fleet aboard a carrier. That last week also brought me the following news clipping that Jean sent with just a simple comment on the edge of the story, “Darling, I told you I would.” It was from the local newspaper, the
Bremerton Searchlight
, dated January 25, 1942:

"Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Devaney announce the engagement of their daughter, Jean Marie Devaney, to Mr. Norman Berg, the son of Mr. and Mrs. C. E. (Skipper) Berg. Both families are from our city. Miss Devaney and Mr. Berg are both graduates of Bremerton High School. Miss Devaney is employed by the U.S. Government at the Torpedo School in Bangor as a secretary. Mr. Berg is currently in training in the Naval Aviation Cadet Program at the Naval Air Station, Corpus Christi, Texas. A wedding date has not been announced.”

After receiving the announcement, I wrote Jean to tell her how much I loved her and how happy I was about our future. I remember telling her that the commander of the Advanced Training Squadron said, “weather permitting,” I should finish my dive-bomber training by the end of March. Also, I remember inquiring at the personnel office as to when I might expect my orders.

“What’s the rush, Cadet? Getting married after graduation and your bride is getting anxious? Worried about her dress? About the church?” I acknowledged his questions, and he assured me I would have orders by the middle of March.

All I could really tell Jean was that I would be in Bremerton in early April. I would have twenty days leave, but I would not know where I would be reporting until the middle of March. I had to tell her the wedding date was up to her—I didn’t have the answer.

Her next letter was typical Jean. “We’re going to get married in April, and I’m going to follow you wherever the Navy sends us.” I remember how she closed her letter. “Get those wings, honey, and I’ll worry about the wedding.”

I took Jean’s advice. According to my log book, I flew over 30 hours between February 1 and 27, even though we lost six days of flying to bad weather. All my flight time was in the SNC-1, which was designated as a scouting plane built for the Navy by the Curtis Aircraft Company. It had, however, never been used in the fleet. It was a beautiful air-craft—small and sleek-looking, an all-metal, low-wing monoplane. It had two cockpits and a retractable landing gear. It was an exciting airplane to fly, very maneuverable and quick on the controls. Compared with what I had been flying, this aircraft more closely fit my image of a fighter plane.

The SNC-1, a sweet little airplane for gunnery, bombing, and tactical training.