My Carrier War (2 page)

I had asked a girl, Pat Douglas, to go to the game with me, but she ended up with her girlfriends and was still with them watching the dancers. I asked her if she wanted to dance, but she replied, “No thanks,” and stayed with her friends. “Some date,” I thought, as I stood listening to the music and watching the dancers. Then I saw Jean standing with a couple of her girlfriends. She turned and saw me, smiled and said, “Hi, Norm. You’re not dancing?” I mumbled something; I don’t remember what it was, but I do remember what happened next. Jean moved towards me and asked, “How about dancing with me?”

After a few dances, we wandered out on the upper deck of the ferryboat. The stars were out, and a brisk wind was blowing. We stood in the shelter of the warm stacks from the engine room. We talked about school and the game. Then I asked her if she remembered the evening when we went swimming at the beach cabin. I saw a wisp of a smile as she said, “Yes, I remember, and I wonder why you didn’t kiss me that night while we were swimming.” Right then and there, on the upper deck of the ferryboat, Kalakla, I kissed her for the first time. That kiss started a romance that lasted more than 50 years.

The rest of my junior and senior years in high school were certainly a happy time for me. Jean Devaney was my steady girlfriend, and I soon became part of Jean’s group of friends. Strangely enough, my grades even improved. I was in the senior class play; I was on the staff of the school paper; I had friends; and I was in love

Graduation came all too soon, and in the fall of 1938, I began my first year at the University of Washington in Seattle. I was admitted on probation because of my high school grades. At that time, there was no such requirement as an SAT score for entrance to a university. If you had the money for tuition, the school accepted you. Jean was a high school senior then, and I found it difficult, if not impossible, to separate myself from the many high school events she wanted to attend. As a result, I was returning to Bremerton every weekend to be with Jean. I had turned down the opportunity of pledging a fraternity and was living in a boarding house. I was the only student living in the house. I was constantly lonely. I knew no one, and I was miserable. I was also afraid of losing Jean. She had become my anchor—my safety net to keep me from returning to that boy who was just another unknown individual—a boy who didn’t have the slightest idea of who he was or where he was going.

At last, Jean graduated. I had managed to save enough from my monthly allowance to buy her an engagement ring, and the night she graduated, I gave it to her. The very next day, there was a family conference with Jean’s parents and mine. The outcome of the conference was that my father put the ring in our family’s safe deposit box, and Jean got a cedar chest for her graduation gift. Jean and I had no choice. Both families felt we were too young to consider an engagement. Jean and I didn’t think so. She was 17 and I was 19. But the fami•lies wanted us to wait, and we reluctantly agreed.

The summer after graduation, Jean found a job as a secretary in Bremerton and I worked in a fruit and vegetable market. We had a wonderful summer, but in the fall, I went back for my second year at the university. I moved into an apartment with three other young men I knew from high school. I wasn’t dating anyone, nor was Jean, but we weren’t seeing each other every weekend. I remained on academic probation throughout my sophomore year. I just couldn’t write or spell. All my exams were essay type and I would lose points because of my writing problems.

Eventually, my sophomore year ended in June 1940, and happily, I found a summer job in Bremerton. Jean and I were together again. It was another wonderful summer, full of dances on the weekends with old high school friends, beach parties, and even weekend trips to the ocean, provided we stayed with family. It was during this summer our relationship took on another dimension. Although we tried to resist our feelings, we began to engage in active lovemaking. It was a mutual decision on our part. We knew the risk we were taking, but we were in love, and we were going to be married as soon as I finished college. Our lovemaking was truly an act of love. When summer ended, I went back to the university for my junior year. Now, however, my responsibility to Jean became all important. She had given me her most important gift—herself. She had done it willing, trusting me with her future. And there I was back in school, still on probation. It all seemed so useless.

Then another of those unplanned, life-changing events happened.

I was home in Bremerton for the Christmas break when our family had a visit from my cousin, Preston Anglin. Pep, as he was called, was a few years older than me and was already an officer in the Army. He arrived for his visit in uniform, an olive-colored green jacket with light tan pants. “Army Pinks,” he called them. The silver bars of his officer rank were fastened to the shoulders of his jacket and glistened in the sunlight. “Boy,” I thought, “he looks great!” That uniform was something.

During an evening visit, Pep, my folks and I got into a discussion on world politics. We were all aware of what was happening in Europe and Asia, through the newspapers and the radio. I told everyone I thought America would probably have to enter the war in Europe. After all, I explained, nearly all of Europe had fallen to Nazi aggression. German troops controlled Paris, and England was isolated and fighting Germany alone. In Russia, Stalin was rapidly building up a huge army to defend his country. In addition, Japan had signed a ten-year military pact with Germany and Italy.

ep reminded all of us that, in his opinion, President Roosevelt was preparing the United States for a possible future conflict. He was rebuilding the military. The Lend-Lease Program with England had started. Turning to me, Pep said, “Norm, you know that when you turn 21, the draft will be waiting for you. You know, don’t you, that Roosevelt has activated the draft?” He continued, right in front of my folks, and suggested, “Norm, I wouldn’t wait for the draft. Won’t you be 21 next year? With your college education, you’d qualify right now for an officers’ program.”

Throughout the remainder of my vacation, I urged my parents to let me at least explore the possibility of volunteering for an officers’ program. What if the university dropped me because I was on continued probation? I would lose my college exemption. I pointed out that most of the young men my age in Bremerton were working in the Navy Yard, and they would be exempt from the draft. It would be guys like me who would be called. I didn’t mention Jean, but in my mind, she was certainly part of my future. We had made a commitment. Once I became a commissioned officer, we could get married.

Wanting me to finish college, my mother urged me to wait. Finally, though, she and my father agreed to support my plans. That week, I met with the naval recruiter, and within a ten-day period, I had passed the physical exam for the Naval Aviation Cadet Program, a program designed to train me as a pilot. Successful completion of the year-long course would result in my being commissioned an ensign in the U.S. Navy.

On 1 March 1941, I reported to the Naval Air Station, Seattle, Washington, to commence my training. I was 21 years old. Chance had intervened again in my life. I was on my way.

The first three weeks in Seattle were both enlightening and hectic. Everything was a new experience. Reveille was at 0530, off to calisthenics, and then breakfast. I’d never had baked beans for breakfast, let alone for three mornings in a row! Then there was ground school with classes in navigation, Morse code, theory of flight, and meteorology. But even worse, we weren’t even flying airplanes; we were spending the afternoons washing airplanes. Every new class was required to perform this task. It was part of our indoctrination in Naval Aviation. Actually, it wasn’t wasted time since we did learn the nomenclature of the aircraft.

The most severe shock, however, came when we learned that we would not be classified as Naval Aviation Cadets until we had completed the training program at the Naval Air Station in Seattle. Until then, we were sailors—Seamen 2d Class. We had to pass all the ground school classes with at least a 3.0 grade point average. Then came the toughest task of all: we had to be able to fly a naval aircraft alone, a solo flight, after no more than ten hours of flying with an instructor. Suddenly, I realized I was in a highly competitive program. You met the standards, or you were out.

On 21 March 1941, the U.S. Navy issued me a small brown book. It was called an Aviator’s Flight Log Book. My flight training was about to begin. Every flight I would make would be recorded in this little brown book. Looking back, I remember sitting on my bunk that night holding the new log book. I opened it, flipping through all the blank pages. The first three weeks of my training were over, and I had really surprised myself. I had completed the ground school with exactly a 3.0 average. I sure hadn’t done that well in college. Maybe it was because all the tests were true or false; I didn’t have to write. Now the flight training phase would begin. I still remember the feeling of fear as I looked at all those blank pages. I had never faced such a challenge. My thoughts had gone from, “What in the hell am I doing here?” to “Come on, Norm, you can do it.”

My log book’s first entry is dated 22 March 1941; the day I met my flight instructor and made my first flight in a Navy aircraft. It was a bi-plane, an N2S-3 with two cockpits. The Stearman Aircraft Company had built those planes specifically for training new pilots. The wings and fuselage were fabric-covered and the plane had a fixed landing gear. Because of its bright yellow color, I soon learned the N2S-3 was always called a “Yellow Peril.”

Before climbing into the aircraft, my instructor, Lieutenant Barrett, had me walk around the plane while he showed me how to inspect the plane prior to flight. After we both got into the plane’s cockpit, he started the engine and we taxied out onto the grass landing strip at the Naval Air Station, Seattle, Washington. I sat very quietly in the front cockpit as the instructor, who was in the rear cockpit, advanced the throttle and we took off. Because there was no radio in the plane, the instructor spoke to me through a flexible rubber tube called a gosport, which was attached to my helmet. He spoke into a face mask that covered his mouth. Actually, he didn’t speak—he yelled. The memory of that flight, which lasted only about 35 minutes, still remains fresh in my mind.

“Cadet Berg, here’s your first lesson. Get your head out of the cockpit. Look around. The only way you’ll stay alive as a pilot is to be aware of what’s happening outside of the cockpit.”

Suddenly, I felt something hit me along side my head. I had wondered why my instructor held what looked like a riding crop in his hand when he climbed into the rear cockpit. Now I knew. Then I heard his voice through the gosport.

“Damn it, Cadet! I told you to keep your head on a swivel!” Again I felt that riding crop hit the side of my head. I was really looking around now. For the next 26 years of my flying career, I could always sense that sharp blow to the side of my head whenever I strapped myself into the cockpit of a Navy aircraft. I never forgot that part of my first lesson.

For the next few weeks, I was flying almost every day with the lieutenant. I had learned to start the aircraft’s engine and to taxi it. I was also practicing takeoffs and landings. There were dual controls in the rear cockpit, and I could sense the instructor’s hands and feet were always touching the flight controls as he monitored my movements in the front cockpit. He was also yelling at me through the gosport if I did something wrong. My worst problem was leveling off too high as I approached the landing. When this would happen, he would yell, “You’re too damn high!” and take over the controls, add power and we would climb back to 1,000 feet over the field. I would hear, “OK, Cadet Berg. Take over and let’s try again and this time (I swear I can still remember his sigh of frustration) do it right!”

Of all the many entries in my log book, the one I remember most vividly was the entry on April 24, 1941. It read, “Pilot, Berg: Aircraft N2S-3: Type of Flight: Solo.” I met my instructor at 0800 on a beautiful, clear spring day. I walked around the plane inspecting it and got into the front cockpit and waited until my instructor climbed into the rear cockpit. I started the aircraft’s engine and carefully taxied out onto the grass runway at the field at the Naval Air Station. I knew that if I didn’t solo after ten hours of instruction, I would be dropped from the Naval Aviation Program. I already had over eight hours of dual instruction before that morning. This might be my last chance to convince my instructor I was ready to solo. I knew I had to fly a perfect flight. I heard my instructor telling me to fly north to an airfield where I had been practicing landings. He made no comments during the ten-minute flight. His silence didn’t bother me because I was too busy trying to fly the airplane without making any mistakes.

As I approached the grass landing field at 1,200 feet, I heard the lieutenant shout through the gosport, “Cadet Berg, go ahead and shoot a landing for me.”

Very carefully, and always looking around, I reduced power. I could see the wind sock on the ground so I knew the wind direction. I wanted to be sure that I landed into the wind. As I crossed over the end of the grass runway, I was careful not to level off at too high an altitude. I slowly closed the throttle and felt the wheels contact the ground. The tail of the plane settled onto the ground and we rolled to a stop. My instructor didn’t say a word, but I was aware that he was climbing out of the rear cockpit. Suddenly he appeared on the lower wing alongside my cockpit. He leaned towards me, his face close to mine. Over the noise of the idling aircraft engine, he said, “OK, Cadet Berg, take it around. Make two circles of the field and then land and pick me up.” He stepped off the wing and moved away from the plane.

At the time, I felt no sense of joy or elation. All I was thinking about was trying to remember all the procedures I had been taught and hopefully learned. I had to fly the Yellow Peril alone. I added power, turned the plane around and taxied back to the head of the grass runway. I lined up with the runway and went over the check-off list. Mentally, I noted, “Trim tabs set; fuel pressure steady; engine rpms checked; controls free.” Slowly, I moved the throttle to a full power position and after a few bumps, as the wheels moved over the ground, I felt the upward surge of the plane leaving the ground. I reduced power, gently moving the control stick back and let the plane climb to 1,200 feet where I leveled off and started to circle the field.