“You know, Margie, I’m sure I could get the Flight Surgeon to ground him. He owes me a favor or two.”
Marge considers the offer seriously for a brief moment, then recoils in shame and comes back to her senses. She could not betray John, no matter how badly she wanted him out of danger. There was another catch: with as much time in-theater as he had, if he could not fly, he would be sent home. She did not want to lose him that way, either.
“Nancy, don’t you dare!”
Though very busy with seriously injured airmen and soldiers, Marge Braden eventually returns to check on Harmon Mann in Bed Three. After cleaning and dressing his inflamed foot, Marge says, “Captain, the doctor says you can go, but you’ve got to check back in every day. If you take care of it like he told you, it should clear up in a week or two. Of course, you’re off flying status until a doctor clears you.”
“So the Army Air Force is going to have to get by without one of the great fighter pilots of all time?”
“I’m afraid so, Captain.”
“Call me Harm,” he says, slipping a hand around her waist. “Nancy tells me your name is Margie…”
Sliding from his grasp, she replies, “Actually, I prefer Lieutenant Braden, sir.”
“You know, Margie, looks like I’m going to have a bit of time on my hands. How about you and me getting together? I bet we’ve got plenty in common. You look like a girl with a lot of class. Your Daddy must be a wealthy man. ”
“Oh, I doubt that, Captain, and no, he’s not. And I’m seeing someone, so… no, thank you.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around with that photo boy,” Mann says. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and give a real man a try?”
“Let me know when you find one, Captain,” Marge says as she walks away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The mission briefing begins promptly at 0300. Colonel Watkins strides to the front of the assembled recon pilots and begins to speak.
“Airfields, gentlemen, airfields. It’s all about the airfields in this first round of the invasion. Nimitz and MacArthur agree on at least one thing completely: eradicate the airborne and seaborne kamikaze before they can get to the invasion fleet and this operation will be a walk-over, because, gentlemen, that’s all they’ve got. Our missions today will be the first in a series to identify the kamikaze airfields so tactical air and naval guns can take them out. Each of you will be assigned a sector for a low-level mission. Some of the fields will be quite innocent-looking when the planes are camouflaged. We believe there are 30 such airfields on the two peninsulas of southern Kyushu alone. So far, we’ve identified exactly four. Step up to the map table and get your sector assignments. Northern sectors, plan to be airborne by 0430…southern sectors, by 0500. Let’s be over Kyushu at first light.”
The pilots let out a collective groan at the prospect of night flying over the blackness of the sea. Their F-5’s have only the most basic equipment for instrument flying.
John’s assigned sector is the southeast corner of Kyushu, from the southernmost tip north to Miyazaki and as far inland as Miyakonojo. As he prepares his maps and briefing notes, he is unhappy that he will miss breakfast with Marge. At least he had had the chance to pop in on her at the hospital a few minutes before the briefing started. She and Nancy Bergstrom had spent a harrowing night keeping a badly burned fueler alive. He had failed to properly ground his tanker and the aircraft about to be fueled. The small spark from the nozzle as it touched the P-47’s filler neck instantly set off an explosion and fire that consumed the aircraft and the tanker; 100 octane aviation gasoline is most unforgiving. The fueler was blown from the wing to a patch of ground not yet covered by the growing pool of burning gasoline. Two mechanics working nearby dragged him to safety, but he was severely burned over most of his body. Marge and Nancy were close to exhaustion. Major McNeilly had given John her customary disapproving glare as he quickly departed, able to do nothing more than wave goodbye to his new love.
John walks from the operations tent to the ramp where f-stop is parked, her aluminum skin shimmering in the moonlight. He finds Chuck Jaworski finishing the preflight checks. Petrillo and Lucas have just finished rolling away all the servicing equipment except the battery cart, used for engine start. They stand ready on either side of the aircraft, armed with fire extinguishers. If an exhaust belched raw gasoline during start, it could turn into a deadly blaze in seconds unless quickly smothered by the ground crewmen.
“How’s she look, Sarge?” John asks in greeting.
“Tip-top, Captain. The camera techs have you set up with colored film like you asked...gonna see through that camouflage real good. Oh, yeah, we changed the number 2 prop governor. The points looked a little pitted. Better to be safe then sorry.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Chuck. I could live without another runaway prop!” John smiled at the irony. Although he hadn’t meant the remark to sound quite so fatal, a runaway prop--spinning at some uncontrollable rpm beyond its design limit--could destroy itself, its aircraft, and its pilot.
“I sure hope the weather up north stays good,” John says. “Let’s get this show on the road, boys.”
As John stows his map case in the cockpit, he looks up to see Marge hurrying his way across the ramp. He jumps down from the wing to meet her. She smells of burned flesh.
“I know I stink,” she says, breathless from running, “but I just had to catch you before you took off. I’m sorry I didn’t have time for you before… that poor boy is in such bad shape.”
“I’m glad you did, honey,” John says, kissing her forehead. “By the way, Lieutenant Marge Braden, meet my crew chief, Sergeant Chuck Jaworski. We go way back.”
Awkwardly, Chuck shakes her eagerly offered hand.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant.”
“Same here, ma’am.” Then Chuck turns to John. “You about ready to crank ’em, sir?”
“Yeah…one second, Sarge.” Giving Marge one more quick kiss, John says: “Now go get some sleep. I’ll be back before you wake up.”
“Promise?” Marge asks, her eyes pleading.
“Promise.”
Marge stands to the side as f-stop’s engines come to life, Petrillo and Lucas ogling her from a discreet distance. With a salute from Jaworski, the plane taxies away to join the line for takeoff… and as it lifts into the air, just a few points of colored light and the bright blue-orange glow of engine exhausts, Marge feels the dread that has become all too familiar begin to grow in the pit of her stomach.
Chuck Jaworski catches up to Marge as she walks away. “You’ve got yourself some kind of hero there, ma’am,” he says.
“Why doesn’t he know that, Sergeant?”
“Wish I knew, ma’am.”
Taking off in the dark is always unnerving. Any malfunction is amplified by the lack of clear visual references to the world outside. Fortunately, John’s squadron is the only one departing right now. The fewer planes groping around in the dark, the less chance of the fiery, mid-air collisions that are all too common.
The F-5’s take off 90 seconds apart, each on a slightly different heading and climbing to a different altitude. f-stop is third to go. As John rolls her onto the runway and advances the throttles, everything looks perfectly normal. She leaps forward, accelerates through 100 knots about halfway down, and lifts off gracefully.
Retract the gear, pick up some more speed, 150 knots now… OK, retract the flaps… heading 015… this bird is humming! Keep up this rate of climb… gotta clear those hills to the north.
The hills, of course, are invisible in the early morning darkness, as is the surface of the sea and horizon beyond. The only things visible on the earth below are the dim points of light from the many encamped military units and ships in port, looking no different than the stars above. They give a pilot nothing with which to gauge his aircraft’s attitude. He could be upside down and not know it. He must rely solely on a gyroscopic instrument--the artificial horizon in the center of his instrum
ent panel--to keep him right side up.
The recon planes slowly climb to their assigned altitudes for the flight north; a steady, reduced rate of climb at lower power settings that will conserve fuel. There is little chance here of Japanese fighters being up in the dark, much less intercepting you.
As the sun rises, f-stop is at 10,000 feet, having just passed the island of Yaku-shima. John would begin his photo run in less than 20 minutes. He begins a slow descent of about 500 feet per minute; that will put him “in the ballpark” to begin his low-level run as soon as he makes landfall. The sky above the southern end of Kyushu contains only light, patchy clouds around 5000 feet. Further north, the conditions look less hospitable for aerial recon and photography. f-stop is still behaving well, but John notices the right engine’s coolant temperature is higher than usual but still in the normal range.
Hmm…that’s odd. Better keep an eye on it.
John can see no other aircraft, friend or foe. Staying to the western side of the small peak at the southern tip of Kyushu, John levels off at 300 feet, opens the throttles wide. Racing above the coastal plain, he switches on the left oblique camera at every area that seems flat enough for an airfield, noting on his mission map where and when the camera is activated; this would be the key to organizing the photos for evaluation later. There is no point turning on the right oblique camera now: there is nothing but empty sea in that direction, and he is too low to make practical use of the vertical cameras. He will save that film for a different pass. If there are any hidden airfields, he cannot tell with his own eyes as the earth flashes by beneath him.
A few minutes later, he is skirting the shoreline of Ariake Bay as he continues toward Miyazaki, the northern boundary of his assigned area. He flips on the right oblique camera, too, as there might be some suicide boats hidden around the bay. The cameras click away, the intervalometer operating the shutters every 9 seconds.
Something whizzes past him on the left side: large sea birds flying in the opposite direction. Fortunately, there are no collisions. He knows all too well what bird strikes can do to an airplane: two squadron-mates crashed after their planes were severely damaged by striking large birds in flight.
Moments later, little red balls stream vertically up, past his airplane: light anti-aircraft fire. In a second it is gone, scoring no hits.
This is getting exciting, he thinks, feeling the tension in his body rising several notches. He is desperately thirsty but does not dare take a hand off the controls to drink. At this lower, warmer altitude, the right engine’s coolant temperature is entering the caution range.
What the hell’s going on? The radiator flaps are showing wide open…If that’s true, the Prestone should be stone cold, fast as we’re going. Something ain’t right…
Reaching Miyazaki, he turns out to sea and begins climbing. To complete the entire mission, John must make another low-level pass further inland, this time to the south, and if he has enough film left, a medium-altitude run using the vertical cameras. The potential coolant overheat, however, is forcing him to consider aborting the mission and starting back to Okinawa immediately:
If I can’t control it…if the temp climbs any higher, I’ll have to shut the engine down…if I don’t, it’ll seize up or maybe catch on fire…
If I gotta go back on one engine, maybe I can get fighter cover…there’s supposed to be a couple of Tac Air units in the area…
But if I get jumped on one engine, I’m probably dead.
The crackle of the radio interrupts his thoughts. Two of the squadron’s aircraft, working farther north near Usuki and Nobeoka, are aborting due to poor visibility. One has minor damage from anti-aircraft fire, an apparent lucky hit by gunners firing blindly into the overcast at the engine noises overhead. John requests they do the medium-altitude work in his sector on their way back, as he may have to abort himself.
The cooler air of higher altitude has brought the coolant temperature back to the high end of the normal range. He decides to continue the low-level run to the south; at least he will be pointed toward home if he has to abort, and if he was slowed to single engine speed, his squadron mates from the north would overtake him and might look like escorting fighters to any Jap pursuers.
John rolls f-stop onto her back and points the nose down, reversing direction in a relaxed “split-s” maneuver. A few minutes later, he crosses the coastline again. Descending to 300 feet, he flips on both oblique cameras and heads south, about 1 kilometer further inland this time. The coolant temperature for the right engine climbs back into the “caution” zone, a little higher than before.
He actually begins to notice partially concealed Japanese aircraft in a few locations; the cameras would pick them up, too. He marks those locations on his map. As soon as the low-level run is finished, he will call for any available Tac Air unit to strike those locations; he is too busy with low-level flying to do it at the moment.
There is much chatter on the radio now. US Army B-25’s are attacking the Japanese naval base at Kagoshima. US Navy planes are prowling over the interior, looking to lure Jap fighters into combat, giving away their airfield positions. John begins to feel more confident of getting fighter escort should he lose the engine.
I can’t believe nobody wants to shoot at me today.
He allows his mind to drift off the mission and think of Marge for a split second. She’s probably asleep right now… Wish I could be with her.
That blissful distraction is shattered by the realization that he is rapidly overtaking two Jap fighters, landing gear and flaps extended, as they prepare to land at one of those yet-to-be-discovered airstrips. He pulls up abruptly to avoid a collision but at his far greater speed roars past them, much too close for comfort. The right camera records it all. The startled Japanese pilots almost collide with each other in John’s wake--and then f-stop becomes just a quickly disappearing speck in the distance. John marks the airfield location on his mission map.
The right engine coolant temperature rises to the top of the “caution” zone.
Reaching the western banks of Kagoshima Bay, John decides this mission is now over. Throttling the hot right engine back a bit, he compensates with rudder trim for the now-asymmetrical force of the engines trying to yaw the aircraft and begins to climb slowly away over the sea, headed back to Okinawa.
An odd thought crosses his mind: I’ve never bailed out of an airplane. Gee… I wish I’d told Marge that. Maybe she wouldn’t worry so much.
He finally takes that drink of water.
Over the island of Yaku-shima, at about 6000 feet, the needle in the right engine coolant temperature gauge begins rapidly making its way to the top of the scale.
“AHH, CRAP!” escapes from John’s mouth as he begins shutting the engine down, feathering the prop and dialing in a great deal more rudder trim, repeating the emergency procedure he knows by heart and has had to do several times in the past. The sudden absence of the right engine’s drone creates a disquieting void, negating any comfort the steady hum of the good left engine might offer.
“Looks like this is about as high as I go,” John says aloud as he releases the two long-empty drop tanks to minimize drag. Looking behind, he notices the trail of glycol vapor his right tail boom is now painting across the sky.
No wonder we’ve got an overheat, old girl… you’re blowing coolant.
6000 feet of altitude puts f-stop just above a deck of scattered, patchy clouds that extend south, east, and west as far as John can see. Higher still is a deck of broken clouds, which would afford even more protection but is now out of reach. Airspeed slows to an agonizing 180 knots…and still dropping.
Dammit, I’m gonna be late…Marge is gonna be really worried!
John considers announcing his predicament over the radio and requesting escort but thinks the better of it. If the Japs are monitoring, he would be easy pickings for any roving fighters until his own escort was on hand, if it ever arrived at all. He settles in for what will now be a much
longer flight home, his head nervously swiveling in search of adversaries with even greater urgency: he is now a sitting duck.
After a few tense but uneventful minutes, a flight of aircraft breaks through the upper cloud layer to John’s right, descending rapidly. Their path will take them across f-stop’s nose. As they grow closer, he realizes they are six “Oscars,” a type of Japanese fighter. They might as well number a hundred.
Look at all of them! To hear the intel boys talk, the Japs don’t have that many combat aircraft left in the whole country!
John is sure they have seen him, but oddly enough they begin to turn away. In an instant, he realizes why: two flights of US Army P-47s, eight aircraft total, break through the clouds in pursuit of the Oscars, fanning out for the kill. The Japs must think that f-stop is a part of their “funeral procession,” probably never realizing he has a dead engine.
Hearing the P-47’s chatter on the radio, John waits for a quiet moment and announces his presence to the flight leader, who acknowledges with the assurance that John is in good hands, then tells his number 43 ship to go cover the Kodak downstairs. That ship rolls out of formation and dives down, looking for f-stop. When the P-47 pilot finds her, he pulls up close on her right side, gives John a lackadaisical salute, then accelerates away from both f-stop and his squadron mates in the dogfights developing ahead. John can clearly see the squadron markings and the number “43” emblazoned on the tubby but powerful fighter as it flees to safer skies.
John mumbles to himself: “Gee…thanks for all the fucking help, numbnuts!”
The two recon pilots who had aborted their northern missions are well above this action. After hailing John on the radio, they descend to his level to keep him company for the remainder of the flight home.
Five of the photo ships have already returned by the time Marge awakens at noon. f-stop is not among them. She tries to control her mounting anxiety by doing some laundry, taking every opportunity to look across the airfield and see what type of plane is on final approach. No sooner has she thrown her dirty clothes in the tub than three silvery F-5’s pass overhead and turn to land, the trailing one with an engine shut down. As it taxies off the runway, she sees it is Number 47, John’s plane. She nearly sinks to her knees from the tremendous wave of relief that passes through her body. Then she runs all the way to the Photo Squadron’s parking area.
East Wind Returns Page 9