A Dawn Like Thunder
Page 20
In the Navy, and especially in wartime, you do what you are told to do, and if some of your comrades are killed in the process it’s tough to take but it doesn’t change you into a wrathful avenger. Eventually, it leads to a steadying cold determination to beat the Japs and win the war. But fancy words don’t help. Any time a pilot says, “Thoughts of Jack or Joe will be riding with my next torpedo,” he is just blowing or else he is emotionally unfit to be a combat aviator. The only thoughts which should be riding with a torpedo to make a hit are those of entry and departure, target angle, target speed, dropping point, avoidance of A.A. fire, and other matter of fact considerations.
Fred Mears didn’t confine his thoughts about Swede’s call for vengeance to pen and paper. He brought them up to several of the pilots as well. Word of his reaction to Swede’s speech got back to the new commanding officer.
Swede already harbored serious doubts about Mears. He was someone who never seemed to take things seriously, coming across as a rich playboy who was always talking about girls and parties. Like George Flinn, he was a Yale man. In fact, Pete Peterkin was, too. All of a sudden it seemed like there were more of these Ivy League guys in the squadron than Academy men. Swede was surrounded by them.
Mears lacked the avenging instinct Swede was looking for from the pilots in his squadron. He decided to transfer him out before his lackadaisical attitude infected the others.
SATURDAY, 13 JUNE 1942
TORPEDO SQUADRON EIGHT
As the carrier task force neared Hawaii, Admiral Spruance released the pilots and flight crews to fly back to their air bases in the islands. They would then be given liberty to celebrate the triumph over the Japanese fleet.
The order didn’t apply to Swede’s detachment since none of them had seen action in the Midway battle. Swede gave his pilots a twenty-four-hour leave, after which they were ordered to report back to work on Monday, June 15. He had already laid out an ambitious flight schedule that would keep them flying daily training missions at Luke Field.
Later that morning, the carrier pilots from the Enterprise and the Hornet, as well as the surviving pilots from the Yorktown, flew back to Ewa Field, the Marine Corps installation on Oahu where most of them were stationed. There, they began preparing for liberty, using the telephones at the Officers’ Club to book rooms at the Moana Hotel, the Royal Hawaiian, or one of the other resorts on Waikiki Beach. The lucky ones arranged for dates.
Before heading out, many of them gathered at the bar to toast their victory. The big room was filled with laughter and freely flowing scotch. Every few minutes, someone would loudly call for a toast to another flier in the room.
Ensign Johnny Adams was a Wildcat pilot aboard the Yorktown, and had shot down a Japanese torpedo plane that was attacking the carrier during the battle. Adams was enjoying a drink with his friends from the Yorktown’s fighter squadron when he heard a loud voice calling for another toast.
When the big room went quiet, he looked up to see Stanhope Cotton Ring, the Hornet air group commander, standing by the packed bar, his glass raised in front of him. Ring announced that he wanted to stand a round for every flier in the club.
Adams and his friends were astonished when none of the pilots from the Hornet got up from their tables. They remained where they were, some standing, others sitting, stone-faced. A few conspicuously turned their backs on Ring.
Johnny Adams and his friends from the Yorktown went up to claim their free drinks. Adams had no idea why the others were giving Ring the cold shoulder. He felt sorry for him. For his part, Ring seemed oblivious to the fact that the pilots who had flown with him during the battle were refusing to drink his liquor.
WAIKIKI BEACH, HAWAII
ROYAL HAWAIIAN HOTEL
SMILEY MORGAN
2200
That night, the noise at the bar seemed deafening to Smiley Morgan. It was overflowing with fliers, not just Navy fliers but Army pilots, too. The Navy had taken over the Royal Hawaiian for the duration of the war, but it was now being shared by the Army Air Forces, including some of the pilots who had flown the B-17 Flying Fortresses in the Midway battle.
None of them had made a hit on a Japanese ship, but that hadn’t stopped them from saying they did. It was the first time the Navy pilots learned that the Army public relations people were officially claiming that their B-17s had won the Battle of Midway. To rub more salt in the wound, the Honolulu papers were running stories that hailed the pinpoint accuracy of the Army pilots as one of the keys to the victory. Not only did some of these Army guys believe their own press accounts, but they were belligerent about it.
The Navy fliers deeply resented their claims. The carriers’ torpedo squadrons had sacrificed their lives to buy the precious battle time that had allowed the Dauntless pilots from the Enterprise and the Yorktown to dive down and sink all four carriers.
Meanwhile, the B-17s had dropped their bombs from a height of nearly four miles, far above the antiaircraft fire and the attacks by the Zeroes. In fact, the only near hit made by a B-17 in the entire Midway battle was when a B-17 accidentally attacked the American submarine USS Grayling. The Fortress’s flight crew was up so high they claimed they had sunk a Japanese cruiser.
A physical confrontation was inevitable, and fights broke out that night all over the Royal Hawaiian, erupting in the bars, hallways, and gardens, and leaving in their wake a trail of broken bottles, glasses, heads, and furniture.
As for Smiley, he had planned an enthusiastic search for an exotic Hawaiian girl who looked like Dorothy Lamour, a girl he could hopefully maneuver out to the palm trees that fringed Waikiki Beach. Unfortunately, none of the Hawaiian girls he met looked like Dorothy Lamour.
Smiley had started the evening with his friend James Hill Cook, the earnest young flier from Grand Cane, Louisiana, who had given him his enduring nickname in a poker game. Over drinks, they had started reminiscing about Lieutenant Commander Waldron. One night back in Norfolk, the Skipper and his wife, Adelaide, had hosted a party for the pilots. Morgan and Hill had been standing in the doorway to the kitchen when Waldron came out of one of the bedrooms.
“Come over here,” he had said to them. “I want to show you something.”
He then led them back to the bedroom, where his two young daughters, Nancy and Anne, were curled up in their beds, asleep. “Did you ever see such pretty little girls?” he asked them with a father’s pride.
Cook, who had married his fiancée, Marjorie, just before leaving for the Pacific, told Smiley that he hoped Waldron’s daughters would always remember their father, and would come to know what an extraordinary man he was. Smiley recalled the time when Cook had been actually lovesick about Marjorie, and Waldron had given him emergency leave to get married.
“Go home and marry that girl,” the Skipper had said, “so you can come back and do your work again.”
Smiley decided to get drunk after Red Doggett came up to him at the table and handed him a ten-dollar bill. At first, Smiley had no idea what it was for. Seeing his confusion, Red said, “It’s the money Darrel Woodside owed you. I’m just following through on what he promised you.”
It only made him feel worse.
Smiley slept late Sunday morning, and then went to meet Mac McInerny. The big Irishman’s face was still lobster red from exposure, and his scabbed feet were so painful that he was wearing tennis shoes without laces. The two of them spent the day together, sitting on the shaded terrace of the Halekulani Hotel and drinking beer.
McInerny was bitter. He told Smiley what had happened to the group on June 4, culminating in his decision to head back to the carrier after they had passed the point of no return. Ring was all show, Mac told him. He might look the part, but he was no combat leader. The one squadron commander who had known what he was doing was Waldron, and he was dead. There had better be a lot of changes in the air group or it would happen all over again, he warned Smiley.
MONDAY, 15 JUNE 1942
LUKE FIELD, FORD ISLAND
PEARL HARBOR
TORPEDO SQUADRON EIGHT
At 0600, the pilots of Torpedo Eight reported for duty at Luke Field. They began the most intense training period the squadron had ever undergone. It included practice bombing runs on a fast-moving destroyer, simulated group attacks against the Saratoga, field carrier landings, gunnery missions, and practice torpedo runs.
On June 20, Smiley was diving at a target sleeve being towed in the water. He had just pulled out of the dive, which gave his teenaged tail gunner, Nicholas Chorak, a chance to rake the target with his machine gun. But Chorak never opened fire, and Smiley called the turret gunner on the intercom to ask him what was wrong. He said that Chorak was slumped over his gun. Smiley got on the radio to declare an emergency and immediately landed.
Except for the trickle of blood running out of his nose, the boy looked to Smiley like he was asleep. When a medical attendant told him Chorak was dead, Smiley turned away from the others and cried. Later, he learned that Chorak should never have been cleared to fly. James Hill Cook tried to ease his sense of guilt by saying, “You have to forget about it, Smiley. It’s best not to look back until this is all over.”
TUESDAY, 23 JUNE 1942
LUKE FIELD, FORD ISLAND
PEARL HARBOR
TORPEDO SQUADRON EIGHT
After roll call that morning, Swede Larsen introduced Lieutenant Bruce Harwood as the squadron’s new executive officer. At thirty-two, Harwood had served in the Navy for seven years. He was from Claremont, California, and had graduated from Arizona State Teachers College. Like several of the pilots in the squadron, he had been inspired to fly after Lindbergh’s solo flight across the Atlantic.
Harwood had been a fighter pilot aboard the Hornet in Pat Mitchell’s squadron. At Midway, his division of Wildcats had flown the combat air patrols that defended the carrier against attacks from Japanese dive-bombers and torpedo planes.
Right from the start, it was clear that Harwood was different from Swede. For one thing, he rarely said a word. To some of the pilots, he seemed melancholy, as if he lived with some inner sadness. Whatever the reason, he made it clear that he had no time for idle conversation.
Aboard the Hornet, he had won a reputation as an unflappable flight commander. In the air, Harwood was a superb pilot. He quickly developed an almost instinctive sense of the Avenger’s capabilities and limitations.
He was also the biggest man to ever serve in the squadron, a raw-boned 220 pounds on a six-foot-three frame. Seeing his body filling a doorway, one had to wonder how he had ever fit in the cockpit of a fighter. A man of immense strength, Harwood impressed one officer in the squadron by picking up a full fifty-five-gallon oil drum that had fallen off a truck and loading it back aboard.
Everyone wondered how he would get along with Swede. It turned out to be a good match. Unlike Swede, he never raised his voice. If someone made a mistake, he handled it man to man. He carried out Swede’s orders with calm, self-assured authority.
Through the remainder of June, the squadron maintained an unrelenting work schedule, flying multiple training missions every day. On June 27 alone, they made thirty-six flights. Later, they began night training, flying dozens of missions over the blacked-out islands.
As the weeks passed, the men in the flight crews began to form judgments about the capabilities of every pilot in the squadron. Fairly or unfairly, the reputations usually stuck.
When it came to Swede, there was no question that he was a superb flier. The men had learned to stay out of his way. His temper had a low flash point, and none of them enjoyed being on the receiving end of one of his tirades, whether the infraction was real or imagined.
Lieutenant Jack Barnum, whom Swede had made the squadron operations officer, was a good pilot, but often complained about petty problems with the plane he was about to fly, almost as if looking for a reason not to go.
Ensign Bert Earnest was held in awe by the enlisted men, in part because of his legendary flight at Midway, and in part because he was unfailingly polite to his flight crew and his new plane captain, Bill Tunstall, who was responsible for keeping his Avenger in top condition. Earnest never had to order them to do anything; instead he just asked for whatever he needed in his mellow Virginia drawl. They would jump to the task.
Ensign Gene Hanson, the second-generation Swede from Iowa, was another popular and capable pilot, as were Smiley Morgan, James Hill Cook, and John Taurman, all of whom never “put on airs.”
Ensign Bob Evarts was a gentleman, too, but he quickly became known as a hard-luck flier. Through no apparent fault of his own, his missions were often scrubbed because his planes had mechanical breakdowns.
Ensign Herb Jay was the only Jewish pilot in the squadron. Swede openly derided him as his “Brooklyn Indian.” Jay seemed very cautious in the air, always flying “by the book.”
Fred Mears was just the opposite. He sometimes tried to make the Avenger behave like a fighter, unnerving his flight crew in the process. Ensign Tex Grady was another pilot who seemed to take unnecessary chances.
Frenchy Fayle had returned to the squadron after missing the Midway battle because of his leg wound. He was considered a good pilot, but “flaky.” On the ground, he would sometimes begin dancing by himself, pirouetting like a ballet dancer. Things like that didn’t reassure the flight crews.
Red Doggett and Bill Dye, the two enlisted pilots in the squadron, were competent and well-liked. Tall and soft-spoken, Dye had blond, ringletted hair. It had led to the nickname “Curly Bill.” He was the lowest-ranking pilot in the squadron, and had the most flying hours.
With Tex Gay having returned to the States and not expected to come back, there were now seventeen carrier-qualified Avenger pilots in the squadron, including Swede. That number was reduced to fifteen when Fred Mears and Herb Jay were transferred out on July 4.
Fred Mears was particularly happy to go. He had recently been on the receiving end of a lot of Swede’s needling. Fred was joining the torpedo squadron on the “Big E,” the carrier Enterprise. His new skipper was Lieutenant Commander John Jett, an officer he liked and respected.
He also felt fortunate when he was assigned his new flight crew. The turret gunner turned out to be none other than Harry Ferrier, the young radioman who had survived the Battle of Midway with Bert Earnest. The only visual evidence of the harrowing mission was a livid circular scar on Harry’s forehead.
After Midway, Harry had been given the choice of returning to Torpedo Eight or transferring over to the Enterprise. Although he loved flying with Bert, he hadn’t enjoyed serving under Swede. Once aboard the Enterprise, he requested to be assigned as a turret gunner.
Harry told Fred Mears he had learned something valuable in the Midway battle while watching the Japanese Zeroes attack the planes behind him. Several of the Japanese pilots had turned away when the fifty-caliber tracers from the Avengers’ turret guns looped in close to them.
“I have no hankering to be an ace gunner,” he told Mears. “All I want to do is put enough slugs in the air to keep the Zeroes off our tail.”
TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1942
LUKE FIELD, FORD ISLAND
PEARL HARBOR
TORPEDO SQUADRON EIGHT
After reveille, Swede ordered a full muster of the squadron in the hangar of CASU-5. There, he announced that Torpedo Eight had been officially assigned to the USS Saratoga. The transfer of men and gear to the new ship was to take place that morning. “Sister Sara,” as she was affectionately known, was considered a lucky ship, and the men were excited to be joining her.
Later that day, Swede reported to Commander Harry Don Felt, who commanded the Saratoga’s air group. Felt told Swede that the carrier was heading for an important assignment in the South Pacific. So far, the destination was secret.
On July 8, the Saratoga and its escort ships left the Hawaiian Islands. Six destroyers led the advance, followed by a screen of cruisers, including Minneapolis, Astoria, Vincennes, and New Orleans. Two oil tankers foll
owed the Saratoga, indicating the task force had a long way to go before stopping to refuel.
That night in the officers’ wardroom, rumors began circulating about their unnamed destination. In the wake of the Midway victory, everyone was excited at the chance to take the offensive against the Japanese for the first time in the war.
The carrier’s air squadrons began conducting daily scouting and search missions, flying out on two-hundred-mile legs to make sure the sea-lanes were clear of enemy ships. As the task force continued south, the daily routine didn’t vary, although conditions aboard the ship slowly changed.
After the carrier’s freshwater tanks were depleted, water became increasingly precious. There were constant warnings about conserving the potable water produced by the ship’s distilling equipment.
The quality of the food began to decline with each additional day at sea. Within a week, the fresh milk was gone, followed by the eggs and vegetables. Within two weeks, the fresh meat would be gone, too, leaving only cured meats like ham and bacon.
Official confirmation of their first destination came down from the flag bridge a few days into the voyage. They were heading for the Tonga Islands, which were friendly, and lay between Fiji and Samoa. There was still no hint of where they would be going after they arrived there. As they neared the equator, the cool northeast trade winds were replaced by the heat of the equatorial sun.
On July 12, the pilots returned from their regular pattern of search missions to discover that the Saratoga had crossed the equator, and in accordance with long Navy tradition, King Neptune would be conducting his rites of initiation for those who were crossing for the first time, a ritual in which “pollywogs” became “shellbacks.”
Among the officers in Torpedo Eight, only Swede Larsen and Bruce Harwood had been initiated. The rest of the men in the squadron were fair game. As the veteran shellbacks compared notes on the indignities they had been made to suffer during their own initiations, the pollywogs from Torpedo Eight were led to a steel platform just beneath the flight deck. One by one, they were sent up the steel ladder through an open hatch.