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

by Miner, Ron

  On my headset, I could hear Peck requesting direct approach for himself and two of the small planes. I learned later that in trying to get over the front, the small planes became separated from the group and got lost. Peck had rounded them up and they had flown in with him, scissoring on his tail to hold down their speed. We turned “Frisco Gal” into our parking revetment, locked the brakes, and killed the engines. Over against the trees was the battered wreckage of another Black Cat, suggesting the image of a nighttime attempt at a landing with a similarly hairy crosswind. Overhead, Peck’s three aircraft were now fighting the wind and making their way in, and in the distance the other formations were just becoming visible.

  We watched as one by one they landed, each struggling with that fierce crosswind, each settling unsteadily on that high landing gear and rolling to a stop. We counted as they came in and breathed easy as they were all accounted for, including one covered in oil from cowl to rudder. Peck must have been living right — as he rolled to a stop, his port engine started popping and cutting out. He added a little throttle and it quit completely and would not restart, a most reflective situation considering the landing he had just made. Ray and I had gone through training at Corpus Christi together and he had certainly become a savvy pilot. Judging from his thinning hairline, you might peg him as a worrisome type, but he was another of these California boys that had a way of just letting things roll off their backs.

  Quarters were at the transient camp, screened in frame buildings with sixteen cots apiece. Fresh linens were the whitest I had ever seen overseas, and as the shower opened up, we cleaned up a little until the water bag gave out. Then it was on to mess for a well deserved dehydrated dinner.

  I noticed quite a number of natives performing odd jobs about the camp. A few of them were working in the galley, some loading trucks, others building huts. They were a handsome lot, cinnamon-skinned with clean-shaven complexions and good builds. Each had a peculiar swagger when walking about, barefoot with head held high, like each was a chieftain in his own right. Most were dressed in a piece of khaki cloth wrapped about the waist to just below the knee, a few in brightly flowered costumes, sometimes including a ring in the left ear. While they always flashed a ready smile in passing, they seemed hesitant about speaking with us. I was interested to learn that they were signed up in labor battalions for a year at a time and paid $7.00 a month by the government. Many of them had not seen their families in three years, although they lived just across the lagoon.

  We went to a movie about dusk at one of the island’s two open air theaters, about a ten minute walk. Most evenings on these bases, it was possible to find a movie somewhere. They were very popular, so much so in fact that no quirk of the elements, sudden or prolonged, would prevent or interrupt a scheduled show. The theaters were generally cleared spaces on the side of a hill with a projection booth protected under cover. Various films became available and were treated almost like currency between bases, with more sought after pictures being traded for others as part of carefully crafted deals. It was exceedingly amusing to me the importance all these men, myself included, placed on those two hours of entertainment. Wouldn’t it seem even more astounding some day when I’d again be driving to Loew’s Palace on Meridian with my date beside me, instead of bumping down these dusty roads on a truck with forty other guys that managed to climb on before me. Just imagine, reclining snug in plush seats with dry peanut shells on the floor, instead of huddling under ponchos in ankle deep mud with water actually flowing past our feet, yet somehow scarcely noticing anything but Rita Hayworth.

  No, we couldn’t make do without the movies.

  The men usually made good audiences, although there was generally criticism of the servicemen lucky enough to be back home (the U.S.O. Gang — of course, any of us would have gladly traded places with them), or the tendency by movie makers for inauthentic characterizations of aircraft and blatant propaganda. We wanted the stuff that reminded us that America was still America, and that meant Cary Grant and Ginger Rogers or “Star Spangled Rhythm,” but with about ninety percent less flag waving. Of course, there was the ongoing, but good natured, rivalry between the services that required heckling whenever the Army appeared on the screen. No, we couldn’t make do without the movies.

  So while tonight’s selection was kind of an uninspiring choice between “A Trip to Paris” or “Klondike Annie,” we were still grateful for the diversion. The sun had just set across the lagoon, and there were still beautiful reflections from the clouds and the lights on the strips. A seaplane was just coming in throwing up pink spray behind it. Silhouetted against the sky were the ruins of an old stone mission, which had been camouflaged but hadn’t fooled the Japanese bombardiers. The walls were pitted by flak, and the roof and windows had completely disappeared.

  After the show, we spent some time trying to get Peck’s engine going. It was raining again, but the men worked attentively while the skipper and Major Moran watched. The major summoned over one of his crack mechanics, and eventually, they determined the distributor was at fault and parts that were not available out here would be required. They sent a dispatch for another plane to catch up with us as soon as possible. Peck was broken hearted about having to stay, but we knew he would run us down in a day or two.

  Once again it was up before dawn. Breakfast was scarcely worth describing. It seems that ships just didn’t stop any more and supplies were scarce. So it was off to the runway and shortly we were taxiing down the strip into a brightening sky. As we rose off the mat, hastening the dawn, we could see a severe buildup and shower activity in our path. Climbing to 10,000 feet, about the edge of our comfort zone, only gave us a better view of the towering clouds still above us. We headed toward a hole to port and could barely glimpse a patch of blue sky in its center. As we made for it, it quickly closed and the plane was veiled in white, so we went on instruments for several minutes. Then all at once, as if the blindfold had been snatched from our eyes and we found ourselves walking over a 10,000 foot cliff, the clouds fell away straight down to the ocean below. Before us lay the most colorful panorama of endless dark blue water. Puffs of cumulus clouds, distant “cumulons,” and the stunning color effects from the rising sun behind the clouds we’d just come through were dazzling. We swung back to our proper course, set up on the automatic pilot, and relaxed to enjoy the sight.

  The information on these tiny islands was kind of sketchy, so we came prepared with a beautiful new K-2 camera to photograph the groupings and details. One below us was still in darkness but a crewman tried a shot anyway, and soon we passed over a larger one before hitting open water the rest of the way. We were making better time than I had expected at 10,000 feet and were surprised to spot our next check point over the starboard bow. There was a radio report that the last of the planes was a little late taking off, and we were a little early, so we decided to swing over the next in the chain of islands and photograph them from several angles. I zigzagged between them as the guys in the blisters did the camera work, and I would identify the island on the map and spell it out to the men, so we could coordinate it with the film. Then I decided to pull out my trusty little Argus for a few more shots, hoping the long stint in the tropics hadn’t caused the film canisters in the case to get moldy.

  Bob informed me that the equator was just ahead, and looking at the chart, I discovered a little island only a few miles from the zero parallel. We took the range on the island and once at a defined distance, set a proper heading and circled twice, giving us a whopping five crossings in just those few minutes.

  We shot a few more reefs, and a crew member advised me that the film counter indicated a film change. After a few moments, his voice over the inter-phones was noticeably faint, “Sir, there doesn’t seem to be any film in the camera ...” Up in the cockpit, Bob and I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, it seemed a shame, all the pains we had taken to catalogue them, the maneuvering and all, but hell, it was funny.

  Some of the men seemed pr
etty disappointed, but unhappily, those “aero” cameras didn’t have any way of telling about the film without opening them in a dark room, and they handed it to us “ready to shoot.” So we stuck in another roll, took a few more pictures and headed for our destination, Tarawa, on the horizon.

  By the time we arrived, several of the planes had already landed and others were circling. Below us was an airstrip located on a tiny island that showed signs of a terrific bombardment, honeycombed with submerged shells and craters. I tried to imagine what it must have been like. The other field was over on an untouched part of the reef, above a few sunken ships, barges, and some plane wreckage and in stark contrast to a peaceful native village with beautiful gardens. That’s where we headed.

  Our turn to set down came just behind one of the transports. The strip was framed in green with palm trees, and we climbed down onto the mat and into the intense heat and glare of the equator. I ordered a man to sleep with the plane, then signed in with the duty officer. He told me, “We don’t have much of anything around here, but you’re sure welcome to what we do have. Let us know.”

  Within a mile or so, there was the “Seabee” camp, and again, you had to marvel at the ingenuity.

  It was a short drive through the sights and to quarters; it seemed a rather lovely place. After learning that chow could still be had, we hustled over to the mess hall for lunch and were astonished to see ahead of us a long table covered in white, adorned with bread, butter, lemonade, celery, and radishes. Stewards served a fine meal of roast beef, mashed potatoes, frozen peas and, finally, ice cream!

  Back at camp, we refreshed with cooling showers, courtesy again of those clever Seabees. They had rigged up wooden pedals to operate the thing while conserving water, and nearby, there were shaving bowls made out of regulation steel helmets painted white on the inside and set into holes on a long wooden platform.

  Reinvigorated but restless, some of us went for a hike along the beach. Within a mile or so, there was the “Seabee” camp, and again, you had to marvel at the ingenuity. Every hut had a small windmill facing into the prevailing wind, ranging from makeshift two bladed soapbox affairs to elaborate sixteen-bladed all metal versions. We discovered they drove a shaft and gears in the huts working a plunger up and down in a drum of soapy water, an inventive washing machine. Rumor had it that it also performed admirably as an ice cream maker.

  The “club” was open, so we secured the necessary chits and each bought a beer. Out on the lanai, you couldn’t but be impressed with how much cooler it was under the thatch of these simple structures. The drinks and the ocean breeze were refreshing; what a pleasure to kick back and discuss the trip and enjoy the impressive cloud formations. In the background, it became apparent a couple of the flight crews included a musician or two, some covertly bringing along harmonicas, even brass instruments, and the air had a pleasant melodic feel. I often wished I had learned to play an instrument, and at times like this, it would have been wonderful to be talented enough to join in.

  As a child, I had labored through a few piano lessons when we could afford them and, in college, had “banged the skins” for a few weeks on a friend’s drums while he was gone over Christmas break. The music now reminded me of that same first year in college. I had not been pledged to a fraternity and was automatically accepted into the large “Garfield Club.” During Winter Carnival, the various fraternities and organizations were all in search of musical talent, and our club sent scouts clear to New York to try to sign a band for the occasion. Our group returned with the disheartening news that none of the name bands were available for a small college event like ours. Regrettably, there were only two “unknowns” around that would be available at all: someone named Harry James and another called the Glenn Miller Band. So it all came down to which of these had a female vocalist as part of their group, and since Mr. James did, his group was selected to perform. That Saturday evening, with some ten other bands on campus, nearly everyone ended up at the Garfield Club as Mr. James blew his unknown heart out while the lovely Connie Haines sang.

  I was sitting and enjoying the whole thing and thinking it was too bad that Peck wasn’t here to join in. He was a solid trombone player and a talented, mellow voiced singer. Suddenly, it dawned on me that the skipper, having landed in the bay over at the other island, would probably be needing to get over here to “pow wow” with the brass about tomorrow’s flight. Phones were not operational on the island, and it would be a two hour trip by boat, so it seemed natural enough to fly over and pick him up.

  We took only a skeleton crew, but a lieutenant wanted to come along and soon four bystanders asked to join us as well. A heavy squall was closing in, so we hurriedly taxied out, checking the engines along the way, and just beat the worst of it as the plane got airborne. The lieutenant came forward and, coincidently, was heading over to the bay to look up the skipper, so I contacted the tower to request landing clearance and to ask that they locate him for us. “Sorry, boys, the commander just took off in a cub for the other field,” the tower responded. Now feeling useless, Bob “Rogered” back and told them we would just head on in, and if the weather worsened, might return again. On our approach, it was obvious conditions back at the field looked fairly rugged, but it seemed like we could get in under it all by going in immediately and very low. We made a straight in, power approach, dragging over the mudflats and crabbing into the wind. A sudden downdraft surprised me, pushing the plane below the end of the strip and before I could correct, the plane struck the sloping embankment about fifty feet short. It was a powerful deflecting jolt, which knocked the passengers all about the cabin. The parachute pack hanging over the lieutenant seated at the navigator’s table broke loose and fell into his lap (he later said he thought it was his head). The plane now sailed back into the air and from instinct, I added throttle and regained safe airspeed. The “feel” of the bounce suggested to me that the landing gear had not given way, so I eased it very gently back on the mat, ready to pour on the coal and come up again if anything felt wrong. It stuck and held, and I slowly lowered the nose in case a tire was blown. Everything seemed OK, and looking back, I noticed too many men aft; it was fortunate we hadn’t caught our keel. Slowly, I tiptoed along the mat in silent hopes that no one had really noticed, only to swing around and see every fire truck and emergency vehicle on the strip was already speeding our way.

  For the next couple of days I felt sick about that landing. You blame yourself for something like that even when logic tells you that there were particular factors beyond your control. It taught me a few things, and I finally persuaded myself that any landing you walk away from is still a good landing. The lieutenant chimed in, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. We bounce our R4Ds all the time.”

  While I didn’t answer, I was thinking, “Well, we don’t ‘bounce’ our PBYs.” I vowed to never let it happen again.

  The next morning at 5:00 a.m. sharp word came that we were not moving because the airstrip at the next checkpoint was not completed. The small planes were to remain here indefinitely and our Dumbos were to return to base. This was a dispiriting. By now, all of us had become acquainted and felt somewhat attached to the planes and their crews.

  So we went to breakfast kind of low. Even the lavish assortment of eggs, pancakes, and even orange juice couldn’t shake us out of it. After eating, the guys and I took a few moments to talk it over, but our attention shifted to a group of natives and an enlisted Navy man apparently in charge. One of the group was dressed in khaki with sergeant stripes, obviously quite proud of his status. He would bark orders in his native tongue to his men and they would quickly and skillfully perform the required task. It was fascinating to watch as several of them scampered up the trunks of the towering coconut palms with the agility of a jungle creature, pulling down dead fronds and coconuts to the delight of a growing group of onlookers. They would drop the fruits, carefully spinning them to land only on their points and unbroken, then hop down and hack them open with one swipe, a drin
king hole in each, so we might enjoy the milk. For all this, each was rewarded with a couple of packs of chewing gum.

  Around noon, we heard the sound of planes approaching and realized the second echelon was arriving. I counted four PBYs and guessed that Peckham must have gotten his replacement plane and was among them. Three of them landed and we were soon reunited with Harry, John, and Peck. Ralph in his Seacat made for the lagoon and would join us later. Again, all the planes were safe and accounted for. The island was gaining in population fast, so we decided to get a head start toward the club, which was opening at 1300 hours. It was a reunion of sorts and called for a beer.

  That night after the movie, we sat on the lanai watching the lights of the crab fishermen moving over the reefs. One of my crew came running up to us with news, “Everything is on again! We move in the morning!”

  “Better hit the sheets,” Peck commented as he stood and stretched. “Man oughta get some sleep if he’s gonna fight the war tomorrow.”

  In the morning we gathered our gear, still savoring the last of yet another banner breakfast. After a quick briefing — weather dope and recognition signals were handed out — Peck told us he’d like to make the early takeoff. He raced down the runway and I watched as our plane was loaded. I then passed the word that we had decided to cut our takeoff intervals from an hour to thirty minutes.