by Miner, Ron
Another letter was from our next door neighbor in Indianapolis (the one actually in Indiana), Mrs. Seet. She had written me inquiring about her son Bob off and on. She had recently heard from him that while at an Army receiving station near here, he had asked a rescued pilot if he knew who had brought him in. The flier replied, “A navy PBY, a Lt. Miner.” Coincidently, just a short time back, I had happened to run across the island where his squadron was based. During a recent hop near his location, I made up an excuse to land and check around for him. The crew was over at the Red Cross getting a sandwich, and I did some inquiring, finally getting someone from his outfit on the phone. He was off on a hop of his own for a few days, so I headed back to rejoin the crew thinking we could continue on to our actual destination. When I tried to start the starboard engine — nothing.
After several more attempts, Townsley, our plane captain, said, “Sorry Skipper, she’s not gonna catch. We need to open her up.” We were now on a strange airstrip, no Navy for miles, and no place to stay. As we began tearing the engine apart, I sent a couple of guys off in search of an Army supply depot. A new booster coil was installed, and with fingers crossed we tried it again — still no luck! It was too late to get supper anywhere, but one of them did locate an Army casual camp that gave us a tent. First thing in the morning, we were up and at it again making every test we could think of until it began to look like we would be spending another night here. In went our last hope, a new magneto. After three tries, she caught and we were back in action. We wasted no time getting out of there, and in our haste, I never got another chance to call Bob.
I later learned he was killed while on a training mission.
Our carrier-based aircraft were pounding enemy installations all around the Manila area and an American invasion of Luzon Island was looming. Clark Air Base, taken from us back in ‘42, was being used as a hub for Japanese aircraft and was the scene of several fierce engagements. MacArthur’s heavy bombers were paying daily visits to the area as well, in part, to deceive the enemy into believing our eventual invasion attempt would be coming from the South. We were called out to escort just such a strike.
The crew was ready and headed out early, our customary head start, but today “Frisco Gal” seemed sluggish and a bit unwilling. At any rate, we were only halfway to our target area when the bombers walked past us. There were several sections of A-20s and a large formation of B-24s and B-25s, and I watched their tails as they disappeared over the horizon. We were outrageously late for our rendezvous with our fighter escort, but they quickly joined us with a greeting, “Playmate Two, this is Attorney Blue. Do you read?”
We “Rogered” that and proceeded on to the strike location. By the time our PBY arrived, it was virtually over and most of the planes were already heading back. Particularly distressing was the possibility that some unfortunate one of them might have been in a predicament and waiting all this while for us, so Bob and I attentively listened for any calls for help. It seemed quiet and in the distance was Luzon, its shores the current home to our hated adversary. The enemy now feared American fliers so intensely that, once captured, none were spared on the bare chance they might escape and return to duty.
We checked once with our fighters before heading back. From high above, “Haven’t heard a peep, I guess they’re all O.K.”
Just as we were about to acknowledge, a crackling very faint and garbled call interrupted. “Hello Playmate Two, this is_____.” The rest was incomprehensible.
“Plane calling Playmate Two, say again?”
Even less distinct, a reply, “Hello_____ ___ this is_______ ___, ___ ___reflection___west coast_____ 67.” We called up to the fighters. “Attorney Blue, you get that?”
“We didn’t, Playmate Two. Let us try them ...” And then, “Plane in distress calling Playmate Two, can you say again?”
“Playmate Two, this is_____ ______ investigate______west coast Snowball 67_____survivors on shore______over.”
“You hear that, Playmate Two? West coast of Snowball 67. Survivors.”
We continued to try to reach the mystery plane, but to no avail.
“Roger, Attorney Blue, checking our index now, out.” Snowball 67 was an area covering Subic Bay on the west coast of Luzon, just north of Manila Bay. That was one of the three big bays on the west coast of Luzon, certainly a hot spot and probably one of the targets of the morning raid. There would be some challenges getting in and out, and since the calling “plane” was unidentified, there was the additional risk of a bogus call to bait any planes they could back into the area to retaliate. We continued to try to reach the mystery plane, but to no avail.
I had the crew strap on life jackets and all eyes were peeled as we cruised in at 1,000 feet, our fighter cover several thousand feet higher. “Bogey, three o’clock low!” The fighters were in hot pursuit of the plane about three miles starboard and quickly chased it into a cloud and out of view.
“Playmate Two, it was friendly.” What is your position, we’ve lost you?”
There wasn’t much to say here, we were a few miles south of Corregidor by now and heading toward Bataan. But, probably, so were they. A fine time to lose our fighters.
It was “pins and needles” now, but our misgivings aside, the rocky shore was in view and the mouth of Subic Bay was dead ahead. There was a towering column of smoke, perhaps the Jap Naval Base hit during the morning raid and maybe they would still have their hands full. I swung wide of it and around to the western cliffs of the bay.
We headed down to 300 feet and along the rugged wall of rock, then continued on past cultivated lowlands and eventually a beach. There appeared to be no gun emplacements, but no survivors either. Heading back toward the bay and billowing smoke, there was another island with some sort of fancy estate with white buildings and lawns. Nothing there, either.
“Playmate Two, we have you, over.”
“Good to have you along, Attorney Blue, we’re going in and drag the shore line, keep an eye out up there.”
It occurred to me that perhaps the western shore in the message was actually the western shore of the western peninsula, and although it was rocky and precipitous along there, it might be worth a quick look before calling it off. We informed the fighters.
Around the point and north along the cliffs past an old lighthouse was a smaller bay with a couple of sandy spots, looking quite uninhabited. Then over a high promontory and another deeper bay, Nasaza, was a small spit of beach and a tiny native hut. Nasaza was exceedingly narrow, something like a Norwegian fjord, with walls too sheer and high to be able to navigate in and turn around in time to get back out. It was an unlikely place for anyone to be in hiding, and with the terrain and dangerous winds, it seemed to make sense to just give Subic another try and then head home. I banked around to the south, and just as the bay was passing from view: What was that! There was a bright flash from the beach area, and we quickly swung around again and returned on a heading toward that beach. Another flash! Then a whole series of them but no recognizable pattern, and it was blinding, more like a searchlight than an aviator’s mirror.
This was a thorny little bay. While we could land in it, a scouting flight was impossible with mountainous cliffs at the end, too high and close to get up over and the whole canyon too narrow to circle back out. At 1,500 feet, we couldn’t make out who the specks were, now gathered along the beach, so one of the P-51s, far more maneuverable, dove in to have a closer look. The arching trail of what must have been a signal star, probably a dud, wafted along behind him as he strained to climb out, just clearing the mountains. There now appeared to be some yellow cloth on the beach and we were becoming convinced these must be our boys. The plan was to land in the shelter of the bay, requiring a downwind takeoff away from the cliffs to get back out. I set her down into the crystal blue-green wavelets, and it was a short taxi over to within fifty yards of the beach, where we dropped the hook and circled.
An outrigger was already heading for us, and as it drew clos
er, we could make out two bearded faces grinning ear to ear. A crewman called out from the blister, “How goes it?”
“Boy, are we glad to see you!” a brown faced flyer replied in very convincing Americanese.
Two airmen in ragged Navy flying suits, one with an American flag pinned on his sleeve, were sitting in the center of the canoe with a nearly naked Filipino rowing at either end. They clung to the rope and the boys all pulled as they swung along side.
The second flyer came on board, shaking his head and saying, “I just can’t believe it.” One of the two stuck his head into the cockpit, “Howdy, skipper, my name’s Naylon and I’m mighty proud to be aboard. Can you hang on a little longer, we have three others on the beach ...”
Of course we would wait, but I wasn’t sure about our fighters. “We’re OK for a little while longer, but please hurry it up down there.” I decided to kill the engines while we waited and followed the men back into the waist to watch for the others.
The brown faced flyer was with another crewman, a Minnesota boy named Clifford Schelitsche, also known as “Ski.” He was a TBF (bomber) guy from the Wasp. Naylon went on to explain, “There are five of us that have gradually assembled here. We come from four different carriers and four different planes, all shot down during carrier strikes. I’ve been wandering around that rock since September. I’d just about given up ever getting off.” He continued, “Roccaforte and Schelitsche here have been on an unpleasant task all day. They were up on that mountain. When they heard you land they nearly sprinted down the steep hill to the beach as I was climbing into that banka* there. You see, we got this big signal mirror rigged up on the beach. It’s a big oval mirror we got from the Filipinos and it has one of those small survival mirrors with an aiming hole in it to sight through.
“Rocky’s pretty good with it. We’ve contacted quite a few planes in recent weeks, but he wasn’t down here today and, when you flew over, we couldn’t get the damn thing to work. I was so excited, I was all thumbs. Thought I had missed you.”
In the distance, I could see the native canoe now taking on more passengers as he continued, “Well, as I said, we’d made a number of contacts with other planes and they’ve buzzed us several times and dropped notes. Even had planes from my carrier, the Cabot. Thought we’d be out by Thanksgiving, then by Christmas. Then New Year’s, then 1945!
“But I started to tell you about yesterday. We signaled an A-20, and he came in low to buzz us and drop a first aid kit, but when he pulled up to get over those mountains, he didn’t have enough speed. He tried a fast turn but stalled, then he nosed over and caught himself, pulled up again and went right into the side of that mountain. Oh, it was horrible. We just sat down and cried. This place is a death trap. Another A-20 came in later and damn near did the same thing. He had just enough more speed I guess, and when he started to stall, he cut real sharp and got away with it. He could have looked right down his wing at the wreckage of that other A-20.
Schelitsche quickly added, “The ammunition in the wrecked plane was going off for three hours or more and we felt it wasn’t safe to go up there. Finally, Rocky and I went up the mountain with some natives today to bury the guys. Just can’t stop thinking about it.”
The outrigger was close enough now that we could see the other three on board. As we started to pull them in, one with a fine black Abraham Lincoln beard stood up waving a long bolo knife and shouted, “You’re the prettiest looking Cat I’ve ever seen!”
We were loaded and had exchanged some cigarettes with the eager natives, then said our goodbyes. There was a moment of tense anxiety as the starters whined and the engines just weakly sputtered, but they caught and we circled a bit to warm them and get into position for our downwind takeoff. It was longer than usual, but she never even bounced, and shortly we were winging our way to Mindoro.
“Frisco Gal” insisted on a refueling stop at the tender there, during which time Ensign Roccaforte from the USS Intrepid explained how he was over Clark Field on Oct. 29. “A Jap made a pass at my TBF (torpedo bomber) and happened to hit the oil system. As he sailed past, I cut it hard and squeezed a burst from my wing guns. The Jap trailed flame, but my engine was dying too, and both of us ended up side by side in a rice paddy. I got in OK with a belly landing, but the other plane blew up. The Japs had spotted the plane and were right away after us, so we had to keep our eyes peeled all night.” Eventually he stumbled onto some villagers, who in turn took him to a guerrilla colonel. The colonel showed them a short cut, and as they escaped he became separated from his crew. After considerable wandering, he found his way to Nasaza Bay.
Ensign John Doyle, the fellow with the beard and bolo knife, was an SB2C (Helldiver)* pilot from the Ticonderoga. He and his gunner and radioman, William King, went down off Luzon near Santa Cruz. They had been hit twice as they made a run on a heavy cruiser, scoring a hit of their own and disabling it. It later sunk.
“Bill had the raft out in seconds,” Doyle began. “I had a small one-man raft in my parachute and climbed out on the wing and into the other raft. We spent two days on the water. A pair of Jap seaplanes spotted us and we had to flip the raft and dunk! These rafts are blue on the bottom to blend with the ocean, but they could see us down there anyway. We tried to stay underwater and I don’t know if they shot or not, but we didn’t have any holes in the rafts.”
Once the planes had left, they paddled near the shore of a small island, hoping to find a safe place to sleep. They could see a sloping white image, perhaps a roof of a barracks, in the dim moonlight, so they continued cautiously toward the shore. To their amazement, the white area was not a roof, but a beach, so they quickly made their way up and across it. It suddenly occurred to them, “Could this be an unfinished Jap airstrip?” It was wide enough and firm, and there along the edges were the dark silhouettes of the dozers and equipment they had been using when they knocked off for the day. The two quickly made for the foliage, wanting to put plenty of distance between themselves and the strip.
After a restless night made worse by swarms of mosquitos, they climbed a hill in the morning light and peered back at the same location. They were a bit embarrassed to see it was indeed a beach with some rectangular, squatty boulders here and there around it.
They made their way along the beach and stumbled into an old man who was scavenging around the water’s edge. He spoke little English, but led them to a guerrilla leader who did, and they followed him to a small village where the friendly natives supplied them with rice. “At first, we ate it three times a day, but they took such good care of us, soon we were up to six!” Doyle went on. “You develop a taste for the stuff, if you can believe that.”
After a week, they were driven out by the enemy and traveled nearly seventy-five miles over difficult terrain. “It got pretty rough and the hunger is always there,” King continued. “John told me when we hit San Francisco, we’d both visit the Drake and gorge ourselves and he’d pick up the tab, and if I complained, he’d put me on report. I told him, ‘O.K. then, I’ll eat you out of a month’s flight pay!’”
“Then today when you flew by and the natives yelled, ‘Flyin’ boat ...look! Flyin’ boat!’ I just couldn’t believe it, I still can’t.”
Eventually, they found their way to a Lt. Colonel Merrill who had escaped during the Bataan Death March and had been holding out in the jungle for nearly three years. The Colonel appeared to be quite a character, living a Robinson Crusoe-type existence deep in the rain forest. One day he took them both to an even more remote location, finally crossing a stream on a water buffalo to what he described as his “office.” Here, he had a war room set up, using a bicycle-powered generator peddled by his Filipino sidekick, Marcello, to power a radio and light. He would study the charts and listen to radio broadcasts while poor Marcello peddled faster and faster in the tropical heat. It was Merrill who told them about the others some fourteen miles away at Nasaza Bay.
Ensign Maurice Naylon was also shot down over Clark Field. He spoke
glowingly of the wonderful treatment they received from the guerrillas and native Filipinos. “They treated us like gods. Anything you were wearing or had on you was of the utmost value to them, especially shoes. They would look for the man in your group wearing the best shoes and figure he was the boss. At first, we gave away our stuff, survival gear and knives and stuff to pay for these favors, but then we found we didn’t have to. They considered it the highest privilege to take care of you. Sometimes they would feed us. One time, a guerrilla colonel showed up with a bottle of prewar gin. When it was gone, he shifted over to the awful tasting native beer that was like 200 proof. I passed out and someone put me to bed.”
At this point, Doyle chimed in, “That’s another thing, when we were inside we always slept on the floor with mats. I don’t think I could sleep on a mattress any more. And they got the biggest kick out of watching us sleep. Several times, we would awaken to find a whole circle of people we had never seen before that had gathered during the night, just watching the American sleep.”
“The Japs kept us moving, though,” Naylon added. “The natives were gossips, they would want to display you to their friends, and the word would spread. One time, some old gal even sold us out to the Japs and we just made it out of there in time. Then some friendlies told us about this place by Nasaza Bay, and we made our way over there. It was rice three times a day from then on, and that came over the hills by porter. They helped us get through it. We had the mirrors and held 24-hour watch, except when the Japs were in the bay. Two days ago, there were two destroyers anchored there all morning. They hid there until our planes passed from strikes, and then steamed north.”