Sketches of a Black Cat - Full Color Collector's Edition: Story of a night flying WWII pilot and artist

by Miner, Ron

  “Pilot to Navigator...” John Ernhard’s voice in my headphones broke my concentration, and for a moment I thought he was addressing someone else, as I frequently sat beside him in the first officer’s seat. He was a skilled aviator and a lieutenant, but we enjoyed a certain amount of informality on these long flights. I gave him our position.

  “Ensign, head back into the tail cone and have a look.”

  I made my way back through the plane’s darkened interior and past several crew members, stepping through the familiar bulkhead hatches separating each compartment. I could make out the silhouette of our waist gunner in the starboard blister, intently scanning the near invisible ocean surface with his eyes. Once in the tail, I opened the hatch and casually sprawled out so I could peer down at the blackness less than 3,000 feet below.

  After a few minutes, I again got the word from John, “See anything down there, Howie?”

  At first I thought I had seen a ship or two, but had noticed nothing unusual since. If anything was down there, it had apparently gone dead in the water, as I could no longer make out any sign of the wakes.

  “I’m not sure. They may have spotted...” Suddenly, from directly below, came flashes of anti-aircraft fire. Tracers were racing up at us, something plunked into the sidewall, and instinctively, I reared up and slammed shut the belly hatch. John instantly reacted, winging us hard to the left. “You O.K. Howard?” As we slowly pulled away from the explosions that were all around us, I thought, “You just slammed a door. What good was that?”

  I had been at this for several months now, along with an eclectic mix of experienced pilots like John and flight school graduates like myself, yet there were times the intensity of things was still beyond anything I had ever experienced before. Secretly, I wondered, “Would I ever get used to it?”

  PBY silhouette over island palms

  The Discovery

  His ashes are in the bathtub?” Melissa’s tone said it all. I felt it too and was equally astonished at our inability to navigate the muddle of responsibilities that family members typically face in the days and months following a parent’s passing.

  In my mother’s case, she had made sure of every detail and left nothing to chance, fearful of anything that might saddle her children with an additional burden when they least needed it. My father was a very different story. Almost two weeks had now gone by, and we still didn’t really know what arrangements had been made, what legal steps had been taken, what details had been released to newspapers, or even where the Hell he was.

  My home in Oregon was 3,000 miles from Miami Springs, and the assumption, based on the latest hearsay, was that our father’s remains were gracing the porcelain of the Miami house’s clawfoot bathtub and we might need to make another trip down there.

  “Well, I think they’re probably in an urn ...” I offered, trying to give my sister some comfort.

  It was only a month ago in February of 2011 that that Melissa and Mike, two of my three siblings, and I had flown to Miami to visit with Dad ahead of a serious surgery. At his age, almost 92, major abdominal surgery was really a last resort and we didn’t have a good feeling about this one. We jumped a flight and appeared, unannounced, the night before he was scheduled to go in. He and Alayne were together in his room at the hospital nervously passing the time, as going to sleep now would only mean the morning would arrive all the more quickly. I’ll always remember the look on their faces as the three of us gently pushed opened the door and poked our heads into the room, an amusing combination of confusion, surprise, and then delight. The positive energy we generated in those few hours and again the next morning might have been enough to get him through the surgery and into recovery. Dad, by all appearances, was in pretty good shape for a ninety-something and tough enough to surprise even the surgeons. But the cancer they found was never part of the equation, and we soon learned there was nothing more they could do.

  As he was undergoing the procedure, the three of us had decided against languishing in the hospital’s waiting room and tried to prepare Alayne for the possibilities that lay ahead. We spent part of the afternoon cleaning out and sprucing up their minivan, including a time-bomb thermos of coffee and cream that had sat in the Florida sun for ten days. We tried to keep her busy, taking her to lunch and just talking. Mike and I conspired to meet with a counselor hoping to make some inroads toward a suitable place for her to now call home. Although she did not drive and we knew living at the house would no longer work for her, she would have no part of a discussion about leaving it. She was my father’s second wife, and we didn’t have any real right to make decisions for her.

  Dad woke up on March 10, his 92nd birthday and the day we were to catch our flight home. He was very weak and we shared a tearful farewell without really discussing what this all meant. On our return trip, I left knowing the situation was teeming with loose ends and, once in the air, there was a growing sense of helplessness due to distance and an inability to stay involved.

  He passed away two weeks later.

  A year earlier my wife, Heidi, and I had flown to Massachusetts where Dad had built a cabin in the woods as a New England getaway for the two of them. He had roots in this area and it had always been his dream to have a place in ski country. At that time, they had told us about a little cemetery, and he had even drawn a detailed map indicating their preferred resting place on a lovely hillside in a tiny Berkshire town near Stockbridge.

  Now that the summer was nearly upon us, I could sense an unfamiliar tension in my telephone conversations with Alayne, probably the understandable product of feeling lost, afraid, and uncertain about her life. I tried to keep this in mind, but our frustration about the lack of direction and the feeling that nobody was in charge of a host of important end-of-life obligations was becoming more troubling.

  Our first concern was Alayne’s well being, and at this point she seemed to be moving around to the Senior Center or to friends’ homes, but the conversation would always involve a desire to eventually return to her house. None of us could imagine how she would make it work there. She was in a very fragile state and increasingly hard of hearing. It was becoming difficult to have a productive discussion with her about the houses and the other various legalities. While I was sure she wanted this resolved as much as any of us, it was unclear whether we were making any headway. There was anxiety about his will. I wished I could see it. The two of them did not live a lavish lifestyle and I doubted there was much to his estate, and as his spouse, we were happy to allow Alayne the benefit of whatever they shared as a couple. For us as children, it was access to personal family things and family history that was most important. We were reasonably confident that she would always intend for us to have such things, but we just weren’t feeling any of this access. Confusion reigned.

  Alayne’s sister had come into the picture and was extremely active in trying to help out. For some reason, the two of them didn’t get along, but Janet could drive and was a good communicator and slowly, a few details that had been bugging me were addressed. She soon managed to get Alayne at least temporarily situated in an assisted living facility. I hoped that we were finally on the right path.

  I guess it is closure you want above all — an obituary, a service, the passing on of family heirlooms. My memory of a small collection of artwork, much of it from my dad’s WWII years as a pilot in the Navy, was still as clear as the day I first saw it. I probably was about six and we were in the basement in what was considered his office.

  In another seven years we would refer to it as the “fallout shelter” as we were all among the duck-and-cover children of the early sixties. He had a file cabinet with important papers and keepsakes of all kinds, boring stuff in large part, but on this occasion he lifted a worn manila folder from the cabinet drawer. Curious, I watched intently as he slid out a small stack of worn pages and turned one over. To my surprise, there was the image of three planes flying through the clouds, each with a striking but bizarre toothy expression n
ear the propellers. “These are Flying Tigers,” he explained. Then page-by-page we looked through the assorted watercolors and pencil sketches of jungles, planes, soldiers, and tent encampments. Other folders had locomotives or cowboys. It was fantastic! I dearly hoped his artwork would turn up somewhere despite all this confusion since his death, and that it would still be reasonably intact.

  The difficulty in gaining any traction with the situation had continued throughout the summer, and while there was some progress with a will and a few boxes that Janet had managed to ship, things appeared to be stalled again. I hadn’t been able to speak with Alayne and was no longer even sure of her whereabouts. Our letters and cards to her were now coming back to us. After several weeks of kicking around the possibilities, it was decided that we would go to the Berkshires and have a service. I hoped that most of the immediate family, including Alayne, would be able to make the trip, and we would somehow find the long-lost ashes in time, but another Berkshire winter was looming and it was time to make a move. I had been in touch with others in my family including Dad’s sister, Marian, expressing our exasperation with it all. She sent email after email filled with support and wisdom, not the least of which was this: “I know ashes are important, especially to Melissa. However, my feelings about ashes and bodies are that they are somewhat irrelevant compared to the memories people share of the person. That’s why I am so happy that you all will get together and do just that! Wish I could be with you!”

  On a sunny, seventy-degree October day, a small group of us gathered at that scenic hillside cemetery overlooking the mountains painted in autumn color a short distance away and shared our favorite stories, anecdotes, and memories. With one final emotional group embrace, we concluded our ceremony.

  This region included postcard New England communities like Stockbridge, Lenox, Lee, Otis, and Williamstown and was an area with a considerable history for the Miner family. Ancestors had taught, preached, and farmed in communities throughout the Berkshires. Mt. Greylock, the state’s tallest mountain, had an ancestor’s family farm on its flanks in early times and was a favorite recreational hiking and skiing destination for generations to come. This was Dad and Alayne’s stomping grounds and they were active citizens and volunteers. We visited a few places that were important in their lives, like the Norman Rockwell Museum where the staff welcomed us with a tour. They told us a tale of my dad painting Christmas cookies that Alayne had baked with the faces from a variety of Rockwell characters, mimicking artwork hanging there in the Gallery. These cookies were used as ornaments on the museum’s tree. At Lenox, the Berkshire Scenic Railroad treated us to a roundtrip train ride to Stockbridge. In retirement, Dad had been one of their engineers.

  My other sister, Susan, and her son, Mike, also had made the trip and Alayne’s sister, Janet, had joined us. Alayne herself was unable to fly and we were still unsure how she felt about any of this. Cell phone service around the area was spotty at best, and although Janet had a key, we didn’t yet know if we could visit the house. At our hotel, there seemed to be one sitting room, specifically one couch in that sitting room, where you could make a call. That evening, we tried again. Alayne sounded clear, spoke warmly, and sounded like herself again, and she said she was happy we made the trip and wished she could have been with us. She was concerned about the house and wondered if we could check on it. Apparently, Janet had told her that flying squirrels might have found their way in and if that was the case, could we deal with it. Of course we could!

  It was as I remembered it. Dad had put so much of himself into the house and grounds, creating a small rustic cabin with many handmade touches both inside and out. Extensive trails and native landscaping meandered throughout the rocky glens of hemlock and maple. It showed signs of wear and neglect, but otherwise was in good shape. She was right about the flying squirrels.

  It may have been a result of living through the Great Depression and growing up without, but whenever I visited, I always found myself overwhelmed by the crowded clutter that dominated their lives. Very little was thrown away, and it was difficult to know where to begin. Treasure, trash, or both? Relentless.

  Other times it was more poignant. About the time I heard Susan say, “Hey you guys, do you remember this?” we noticed Heidi trotting up the stairs clutching the WWII artwork album. This was a great relief to all of us, but the futility of sorting everything was becoming obvious, so we focused on looking for any of Dad’s keepsakes and inspecting the general well being of the place.

  “Hey Ron, check this out.” Mike had found a large box, one of several, and carried it over to the bed. “Some interesting things in here.”

  Inside, there was a variety of large envelopes and folders, scores of smaller ones containing photos, and a number of red spiral notebooks, perhaps half a dozen. The cover of each had a title in black magic marker and inside was a table of contents with chapter names. Two of them had references to his WWII experiences.

  This was new ground. I remembered as a child seeing a wooden locker with Japanese souvenirs in it and, of course, the artwork, but Dad hadn’t really spoken much about the war until the last few years and that always took a little gentle prodding.

  Mike pulled some final boxes loose and we resolved to give them more scrutiny later and continued on to the next pile. By late afternoon, we were all beat and tired of breathing stale, moldy air, preferring to see what wine might be available back in town. We’d box up everything we could find of importance in the morning and mail or pack it home.

  Families sometimes grow stronger out of adversity, and talking together about our collective past gave us comfort. Walking in our father’s preferred footsteps, seeing glimpses of his life, and exchanging stories with his friends was nurturing and gave us the closure we were seeking. Alayne’s considerate and accommodating eleventh-hour consent was the final piece of a complicated puzzle and we felt the satisfaction of a shared adventure beyond expectations.

  I had always felt Dad’s artwork deserved a forum of some kind and the idea of a book showing it off with appropriate text or captions had been among my mental musings for some time. Given the underwhelming way things had gone before our trip, it felt like a deserving tribute to him. I spread the boxes around my small office and took inventory, beginning with the photos. There were many hundreds of them. Often, the quality was poor, blurry, the victim of dampness of the tropics, or sometimes just nonsensical groups of guys mugging for the camera. Others were quite good, some powerful and exceptional.

  In the folders were stacks of assorted sized pages, most in worn pencil making them difficult to read. A few were photocopied to help with clarity I suppose, and several contained one word titles like “Tarawa” or “Nadia” — titles that were not yet recognizable to me. The red spiral notebooks were jammed with writing, roughly organized by chapter and index. They were predominantly short stories and spontaneous pieces. On the cover of one notebook he had written “Log of My Life.” In it were entries, pilot-style, beginning with “Born” and clicking through the months and years with highlights and occasions, each given its rightful place along with a few words of explanation. It was a life calendar. The back of each page was left blank, providing a clear space for additional new entries as they might occur to him.

  When I reached the “Forties” the pages included what must be flight log entries, each with corresponding dates, hours, and destinations, but they were somewhat incomplete. In 1944 I saw “Tarawa” again. I examined some of the assorted, small hand written pencil pages more closely, turning over the last page. At the bottom it was signed Lt.(jg) Howard Miner, 1944. There were other groups of pages fastened together with rusty staples, mostly untitled, with short and long descriptions of other locations, islands, and missions. Dates were sometimes there: 1943, Jan. 1945, and others. On the backs of some of the photos were names: Bonnett, Fagerburg, Peckham, Maravich, Peleliu, Guadalcanal. The sheer amount of writing and information was startling. Dad’s entire wartime story was likely distr
ibuted throughout all these pages and boxes, some of it stored here for over sixty years like assorted jigsaw pieces just waiting for light of day and a willing hand. I only needed to figure out how to put these pieces together.

  One of the red spiral notebooks came to the rescue. There were twenty or so chapters on assorted subjects that my dad must have written over a number of years and perhaps after he had retired. One chapter jumped out at me: “Off to the Pacific.”

  I knew now I had what I’d been looking for — the story that could bring his artwork to life for family, friends, and, I hoped, many others. I opened to Chapter IIA, page one and began to read...

  School Days

  Our biggest social event of the year at Wabash was the weekend of December 6th, 1941. Margaret came down for this special affair and looked stunning with her long blond hair and evening gown. I was in love. That evening, I gave her my “Sword and Shield” pin before arriving at the hall on campus where my Phi Delta Theta “brothers” sang romantic ballads to us as we danced the night away. We all hit the local snack shop before I finally bid her good night at the door of the rooming house where I had arranged her accommodations. The following day, we again eagerly met for a late Sunday brunch, enjoying conversation and pancakes as the radio played in the background the big band tunes of Jimmy Dorsey and Benny Goodman. It was exciting to think about our future together and playfully speculating about the life we might now share as a couple. Then, almost mysteriously, all about the room a humming sound, the buzz of voices increasing in volume, some kind of commotion, an announcement, slowly more information, and now the smiles had left our faces. The President’s voice would confirm our worst fears. Some time later, as Margaret and I talked it over, she gave me my pin back.