by Miner, Ron
As we walked the short distance to the village, one of the men pointed to the horizon, “There is airplane!” and a moment later, “Is American plane!” I couldn’t make out anything yet, but within a few moments, the distinct sound of a multi-engine plane became clearer. The image of the plane took another few moments to reveal itself. It was a USAF B-25.
In the village, the chief greeted us warmly and assigned each of us a guide. Mine was a stoic, rather tall fellow who led me along a group of thatch roofed huts perched on pilings and then, surprisingly, past a sizable gable roofed chapel. Through the doorway, I could see it had an English feel to it, two rows of benches neatly aligned and adorned with mat cushions facing a crudely whitewashed altar covered in flowers. One of the older men inside confided that he was a priest and the mission was where most of them had learned to speak English. Missionaries had built it many years ago, and they now held two services a day in it. My guide then proudly displayed a tattoo spelling “Ambrose” in artistic cursive on his arm, explaining it was his Christian name.
Ambrose and I continued on, ultimately arriving at his family hut and climbing the rickety stairway of the one-room dwelling, the perfect place for an enthusiastic game of barter. This time our crew had come prepared — there would be no repeat of the tennis ball — bringing soap, cigarettes, chocolate, and clothing. In no time, I had exchanged all I had for beautiful shells, baskets, mats, cat’s eyes, and all sizes of model outrigger canoes — exact replicas down to the minutest detail. We were both quite satisfied with the whole thing, but not to be outdone, Ambrose insisted I return with a bounty of additional gifts, pleading with me to do him the honor of taking them specifically to the “King of America” F.D.R. He was so thrilled that he had his boys haul the loot back to the plane, and he instructed his daughter to feed me and show me around. I suddenly found myself surrounded by females, each bearing a different form of refreshment — papaya, pineapple, poi, and some sort of bread, as well as fish, and probably squid or octopus. I decided not to have any part in that last whatever it was, but enjoyed the rest with a coconut milk and fruit juice “shake.”
Ambrose’s daughter quickly led me on a tour of the village; it was an enchanting place. I kept casting about for glimpses of any of my crew, but wasn’t seeing anyone anywhere, and I slowly started to feel a little apprehension about being part of a movie I’d seen somewhere. This girl was lovely enough and becoming increasingly friendly, and this was a paradise and all, but I hadn’t a clue about native protocol and had visions of my narrow escape in a full gallop through the surf toward our PBY, the crew urging me on with the engines going full blast, and a band of very angry villagers on my tail. It was time to leave.
After an afternoon of nothing but kindness and hospitality, perhaps it was their simple and beautiful farewell that stayed with me the most. As we prepared to step into the boats, word was given and the children filed past each of us with a timed, “Bye.” LaGuardia himself never kissed so many babies. The women then came up to each of us and presented a boutonniere, gently pinning it onto our shirts. These people so well understood the intricacies of true friendship.
Just as we were making our way back into the outriggers, the chief’s son gently pulled on my sleeve, speaking to me in broken English, “This war, you still have to fight?” I looked into his eyes and tried to explain that we wished dearly to end it and didn’t want things to be this way, but “Yes,” we had to. I will always remember the look on his face as he sighed deeply and shook his head, “Too bad.”
As we winged our way back toward base, I couldn’t help thinking again, like I had so many times since first passing beneath the Golden Gate, just how incongruous this “great war” really was.
I had fully intended to ship those souvenirs to the White House, but once we arrived at Henderson, I was quickly overwhelmed by a herd of eager Black Cats who made short work of not only the extra items, but had me fighting over my own. My apologies, Mr. President.
Back at Guadalcanal, the mail situation had improved. Earlier, in Hawaii, we had a V-Mail system where all letters were written on a one page form that was promptly read and censored. This usually resulted in numerous passages being unceremoniously sliced out with a razor knife. Nothing hinting of a location, equipment, or numbers of personnel could be passed along. The form was photographed on microfilm and reprocessed in the states to be forwarded to families and friends. But by now, letters, newspapers, and packages were getting through O.K. Jack was regularly receiving half pints of Scotch hidden in boxes of cereal.
Before I shipped out, my father and I had devised a plan to communicate my general whereabouts. John Caldow was the Headmaster at Park School, my former school where my dad was a teacher, and we decided to use his name and location as code for the area I was heading into or out of. We first superimposed a map of the United States over a map of the South Pacific area, and then each kept copies. Then periodically, I would mention John in a letter sent home, perhaps indicating a city, like Phoenix, that I had heard he was visiting. Dad could pull out his trusty map, find Phoenix, and underneath it would be the real location where we were currently stationed. Sometimes it would get more creative. “I heard that John Caldow was spending his time again in amongst the rides and bright colors at the Indiana State Fair (the ‘Midway’).” We had developed our own code, and the censors never seemed to crack it.
Much of the flying these days still centered in and around the Solomon Islands. This rather large chain of longish land masses stretched from the southeast to northwest in a long column off the coast of New Guinea, with a number of tiny island groups dotting the waters in between them. It included places like New Georgia, the Russell Islands, Kolombangara, Bougainville, and of course, Guadalcanal. Both sides were paying considerable attention to the New Georgia area and in particular the Japanese airstrip at Munda. “Black Magic” was at 7,000 feet as the Navy began its saturation shelling of the airstrip prior to the actual landing. What a sight! Our battle ships were throwing everything they had onto the small area, and as the big guns finished up, the dive bombers went in for the final touches. By the time they were through, I doubt if there was a Japanese gun left firing anywhere in Munda.
My younger sister, Marian, would sometimes send me a letter, some with cute sketches, telling me about school, her grades, and catching me up...
On a few occasions, we flew with countermeasure equipment to better assess the progress the Japanese were making in their development of radar. The equipment could detect radar emissions that were being broadcast and help us zero in on a station’s location. This “intelligence” was then used to evaluate and sometimes eliminated these stations.
Military pay was minimal, especially when you considered the type of job we were doing. Pilots enjoyed an override job “flight pay,” but there was almost nothing to spend it on if you didn’t gamble, and I didn’t. So for the first time in my life, I considered myself independently wealthy. My college debts and the heavy bills for the four different Naval uniforms were long since paid, so I decided to try to help out back home.
My younger sister, Marian, would sometimes send me a letter, some with cute sketches, telling me about school, her grades, and catching me up on life around home. Letters like these were important to us. During my time away, I sometimes felt a little guilty that she was put in the position of maintaining normalcy around the folks at home while both her brothers were overseas. Naturally, I hadn’t been home for her birthday, so I sent some money, specifically so she could indulge herself in a nice white evening jacket. I think, as it turned out, she opted for a more functional camel’s hair coat — times were still tough and practical was good, I suppose. And wouldn’t my dad be surprised if there was a sudden sum of money deposited secretly in his bank account? This one was a total backfire. He always kept careful track of his statements and promptly informed the bank that they had made an error. The resulting confusion was embarrassing to him and he soundly scolded me.
; The long months away from girlfriends, wives, or any type of female were telling indeed. We were young men at our sexual peak and took a dim view of the lot we had drawn. I was faithfully corresponding with my lovely Margaret from Wabash, and she religiously responded with carefully composed and artfully drafted letters on sensuous, fragrant blue paper. While we always eagerly anticipated these letters from home, they were little consolation, for by now, we were becoming convinced we were not going to return. That modern red convertible was pure fantasy and beautiful women were nothing but a pipe dream.
John Love (center)
So searching for diversions was a constant. There was a nightly movie in the Black Cat Bowl, a movie screen set up in a small amphitheater of coconut log seats. We never missed a flick from Laurel and Hardy to romantic stories with Anne Sheridan or Lana Turner. At one point, Bob Hope did a special live show with a host of female celebrities. Sometimes, though, it made matters worse — you could look, but not touch. Our Quonset huts were plastered with tantalizing pinups of the female stars of the day. Occasionally, with the encouragement of a few of the guys, I would try to reproduce in pencil or watercolor the portrait of some gorgeous Hollywood starlet.
In one of my father’s letters, he wrote that our family minister, Rev. Alexander, had become a Navy chaplain, and was somewhere in my general area. It was a grey, rainy day at Henderson, so our group was crowded into the Quonset, whiling away the time. In one corner a poker game was in progress, and an argument was gaining momentum amidship. Ultimately one of the group turned to John (Love), and said, “So, what do you think, John?” His response was always tempered and reasonable. “Well, I believe you could look at it this way ...” That was invariably the end of it. He later served five terms as governor of Colorado.
Down at the far end of the building, I was intently sketching a portrait of one of our lovely pinups. Jack happened by, then Del and Ray. Soon all the “Big Seven” were assembled and I was being needled to enhance the drawing with all manner of provocative embellishments. For Pete, a glorious bust was added, and then Art wanted more sensuous hips, and eventually, Del ... well eventually, in explicit detail, all the regions of importance were augmented to the ever increasing approval of the gang.
It was precisely at this point, where the finishing touches were being added, that we heard the screen door slam. I casually glanced up to see a familiar figure enter and make his way down the aisle between the bunks. At first, I was overjoyed. It was Reverend Alexander! Then a moment passed. “Holy shit, it’s Reverend Alexander!!”
I frantically scrambled for paper, books, anything, and just managed to conceal the thing in time to thrust out my hand and greet him. As it turned out, the good reverend was so happy about making contact with one of his parishioners, he set up a weekly Communion at the Black Cat Bowl. It proved to be very popular.
Give me a break
It’s hard to describe the feeling I had the day one of our planes did not roll down the mat, as expected. It had quite evaporated with all its crew and was never heard from again. A few weeks later, another one crashed on the runway with no injuries, but a totaled airplane, this time the victim of a nose wheel collapse. The missions continued but the war was becoming much more personal and morale was starting to suffer.
Our skipper realized something had to give, and suddenly, there were rumors of “R&R.” Sure enough, planes and crews were slowly being dispatched to Nouméa in New Caledonia. The crews returned, not only revitalized, but laden with canned beer to restock the club supply. One flight was returning with some 150 cases stowed on the catwalk the length of the ship when one of the lookouts spotted a yellow dingy tossing on the waves below. They circled down and could see a lonely figure waving from a life raft. The sea was choppy and this would be tricky. The PPC (Patrol Plane Commander) had to make a command decision and tersely ordered, “OK boys, we’re gonna set her down. Jettison the beer!” The reluctant crew began heaving the precious brew overboard until a crew member made one last appeal, “Please sir, can’t we just keep a couple of cases?”
“Request granted, but only two. T-W-O,” came the reply.
The open sea landing accomplished, the aircraft returned with the pathetic Army Air Force P-40 pilot in tow and deposited him safely at the Black Cat Base. His plight grew even more serious when the word spread that this “dogface” had been traded for 148 cases of beer.
Before long, my turn for R&R rolled around, and what a welcome experience it was. In Nouméa, we were billeted at an old mansion on a point of land. The clean, white bed linens were a forgotten luxury. The feel of three warm showers combined with almost chilly daytime temperatures (I actually caught a cold!) made this first visit to a French speaking community seem all the more extravagant. It was certainly a welcome change from a muddy camp in the tropics. A Frenchman named Jean took us out dynamite fishing early in the morning. He would toss a stick into the water and the concussion would kill or stun all the sea creatures nearby. Then he instructed us to dive into the icy morning waters and retrieve everything we could. It didn’t seem a particularly sporting way to go, but considering the seafood feast that evening, we managed to justify it.
Later on, we searched out the neighborhood pubs and did the town. Nouméa was a smallish place and showed some signs of wear with many storefronts bare or boarded up. Occasional shops still provided food and essentials — an attractive young French gal served us a toasted onion-omelet sandwich for ten francs.
Unfortunately, the only other few females around were at the “Pink House,” the local bordello. This place had long lines, but I didn’t pay them a visit. In retrospect, I’m not sure why, maybe a few too many G.I. films on V. D. Anyhow, I took a pass. I did have an opportunity to “check out” in a Navy seaplane version of the OS2 Kingfisher, doing spot landings in the bay. It was also entertaining to scope out the well stocked Navy Supply store. It seemed to have every conceivable piece of issue flight gear. Before shore leave ended, there was time for a train ride on flat cars up into the mountains, slapping monstrous mosquitoes along the way. Our friend Jean organized a deer hunt, not terribly successful, but we did manage one boar and returned with it to camp and the mess tent.
Relaxed and rejuvenated, I ran smack into my turn as squadron duty officer the minute I stepped out of our PBY. This was a 192 hour marathon handling all squadron business, telephone calls and messages, and a hundred other odd jobs that keep the officer in charge busy and nearly sleepless for almost the entire time. By the end of the week, I was relieved to break in the new man and return to flying status, but I had to admit it was an interesting study in how the system worked and what kept it ticking.
Our routine at Guadalcanal took a new twist. For months now, the Japs, desperate to retake the Solomons, moved their troops and other necessities throughout the area under cover of darkness.* Any successful military action would require equipment, fuel, ammo, concrete, and steel, as well as troops in massive numbers, so they began using smaller, more mobile barges to move along the shorelines at night to avoid the heavy losses they had been suffering using larger vessels. We knew even one sunken barge could send down as much in tons of cargo and supplies as a score of bombing runs on their supply docks, and we countered by contacting our rejuvenated fleet of P.T. boats to overwhelm many of the barges. Of course, our dumbos flew at night too, and we took turns at the blister guns, strafing the convoys. It was a strange sensation triggering this long arching finger of tracer bullets (every fifth shell), like a mile long pole. I merely manipulated it into one of the barges until the tracers started bouncing around and knew I had a hit. One September evening alone along Moli Island we made run after run strafing ten barges in the darkness below us. I have often wondered how many I killed — kind of an unsettling feeling, but an impossible situation.
There was still heavy fighting going on to the north of Henderson in the New Georgia Islands group, just below our routine patrol area in the “Slot.” Tiny Arundel Island was still in doubt and
a struggle to gain an advantage there had lasted a month. Returning from a mission, a developing air attack forced us to land at the American outpost there. We hunkered down as the air raid intensified and our guns opened up, and one of the Japanese aircraft was hit. It glided into an adjacent field where it crashed but didn’t burn, and when the shooting finally ended, what seemed like the entire population of the island raced out to see the plane. The unfortunate Japanese pilot did not survive the landing and was still swaddled in something that I recognized.
The “Belt of a Thousand Stitches” was considered a good luck charm for a Japanese flier, although not so much so for this particular one. In the early days of the war, 500 friends would make two stitches each in the belt as a wish for safekeeping and good health for the airman. As the war progressed and the air force grew, it became impractical to continue this painstaking approach to the belts and so the task was put on an assembly line like everything else in the war effort. Now, Japanese women, 500 of them in a line, were given two slips of paper with the proper wishes for the two stitches they would sew into each belt for a specified flier. In this way, many more of them would be protected from harm.