My Carrier War (22 page)

After two days in port, we were under way again escorting a convoy of supply ships headed for Guadalcanal.

I flew a four-hour antisub patrol on January 11. It was much different from the dusk patrol. My search pattern took me over 150 miles from the carrier. This would take me well out of the normal shipping lanes and ship traffic. The thinking was that I might spot an enemy sub on the surface recharging the sub’s electric batteries. The submarine commander might get careless feeling that he was safe away from the normal antisub patrols.

I was on the schedule again on January 23. I flew another four-hour, 150-mile antisub search. I’d been off the flight schedule since my flight on the 11th. This was normal squadron policy. When a pilot completed one of these long antisub flights, it was usually a week before he went back on the flight schedule. The type of flights were much different from the dusk patrol. The chance for a navigational error was greater, since the wind direction and velocity 150 miles from the carrier could be much different. The possibility of bad weather from what the ship was reporting was always a threat. All these factors meant both physical and mental strain in the pilot. Some time off was helpful for a pilot to unwind.

Then, on January 25, we were put on alert for possible action against a Japanese battle fleet. We had all heard the scuttlebutt about a possible sea battle in the Guadalcanal area. That evening, the squadron skipper, Commander Butts, using the ship’s intercom system, called a meeting in the ward room of all pilots, including pilots from the fighter and dive-bombing squadron, as well as the torpedo pilots. The ship had two ready rooms, one for the fighter squadron and the other we shared with the dive-bombing pilots. Neither ready room was large enough for an all-pilots meeting.

After the announcement, we were all in the ward room. There was none of the usual banter between the TBF pilots and the dive-bomber pilots with the fighter pilots. We all thought the fighter pilots were “prima donnas” and highly overrated. They all thought we were just “truck drivers.” Instead of the friendly jokes, though, we were all quiet. Any conversations were very subdued. I could feel the tension in the room. We were damn nervous. Was this going to be the action we had trained for? How many ships did the Japs have? What was our strength? Was it just our carrier? What about the carrier
Enterprise
? She was in the area too.

The skipper, chewing on his usual cigar, entered the ward room. We all stood until he announced, “Seats, gentlemen.”

“Well, gentlemen, here’s the scoop. Two days from now, on the 27th, the heavy cruiser
Chicago
will leave Noumea en route to the Guadalcanal area. There, she will be joining a U.S. battle force of battleships and cruiser operations in the area. She will be moving at 25 knots.
Chenango
will set up a course tonight, the 25th, to be in position to give
Chicago
antisub coverage as well as long-range search protection. Chenango is leaving two days ahead of
Chicago
because of the speed difference. Our flight operations will commence today with our searches covering the area ahead of
Chicago
’s course.” He turned to Joe Anson, our air intelligence officer (AIO). “Joe, go ahead and cover the intelligence briefing you had at Navy Headquarters in Noumea.”

Lieutenant Anson took over. “Guys, the Japanese are still contesting our occupation of Guadalcanal. They are determined to stop our convoys from supplying our troops there. But it’s more than the Canal. They know that by our controlling Guadalcanal and the airfield there, we can eventually attack Rabaul, their major base in the South Pacific. We will be able to invade the Japanese-held islands of New Georgia and Bougainville, take over their airfields and, with our aircraft, we can neutralize Rabaul. By doing this, we will neutralize the Japanese threat to Australia.” [See South Pacific map in Chapter 4.]

Joe paused for a sip of coffee.

“Now, about
Chicago
. We have good intelligence from the Navy Command at Guadalcanal that the Japanese are moving aircraft to the field on New Georgia. When the Japanese invaded the Solomon Islands, they took control of the islands of Bougainville, New Georgia, and Guadalcanal, and the non-native population—mostly Aussie and French nationals—left the islands. However, on the islands the Japanese did not invade, a few Aussies remained with the native population. They are known as coast watchers. They have radios powered by hand generators and are constantly reporting the movement of Japanese forces. Even more important, they have saved numerous Marine and Navy pilots that have been shot down flying out of Henderson Field on Guadalcanal.” Joe paused, as if for emphasis.

Our skipper stood and interrupted Joe, saying, “Thanks, Joe. Good briefing. Now gentlemen, what is our part in all this? For now, we’re ordered to protect the convoy and
Chicago
from submarine attack. However, after meeting with Captain Ben Wyatt, the commanding officer of
Chenango
, I’ve requested that the Navy Command in Noumea be informed that our air group is ready to supply air support to
Chicago
. The fighter squadron is available to supply fighter cover for the convoy. In addition, our dive-bombing and torpedo squadrons’ attack capability is also available if the Japanese ships attempt to attack. That message has been passed to the Navy Command in Noumea with Captain Wyatt’s concurrence. Gentlemen, that’s where we stand. Our first job is antisub protection. Let’s do a good job starting tomorrow. There’s one thing more. Effective at midnight tonight, the order for complete radio silence is canceled. The new order allows radio transmissions in case of emergency. Gentlemen, be damn sure it’s an emergency! That’s all. Good night.”

I headed for the bunk room and laid there in the darkness.

That build up of Jap planes means there’s going to be a battle. They’re going to try and get the convoy. Wonder how many ships the Japs will have? Maybe we’ll attack their airfield on New Georgia. Bet they’ve got heavy AA guns protecting the airfields. Got to do my job; wish I could forget Torpedo Eight. Poor bastards. Didn’t have a chance. Shit. I’ll be all right...I’ll make it...got to...come on...turn it off...get some sleep.

I wasn’t on the flight schedule again until January 28, but what a day it was! I remember that I first heard the rumor at breakfast—we were scheduled for a practice torpedo attack. I headed for the ready room. There it was; the schedule was on the blackboard. I was leading the third three-plane section. Commander Butts came into the ready room right behind me, so I called the group to attention.

“Seats, gentlemen.” That chewed cigar came out of his mouth. “OK, Captain Wyatt had a response from Navy Headquarters in Noumea. You recall that I told them we could supply air support to
Chicago
. Gentlemen, we’re ordered to prepare to launch a torpedo attack if enemy targets become available.” He paused, looking at us, waiting for the sounds of surprise, the audible sound of voices, “A torpedo attack!” Then he continued. “It’s been a long time since we practiced a squadron torpedo attack. It was at the Naval Air Station at Quonset Point. I remember some of us had our wives with us for that week. We did real well that time. We were all over that rock we used for a target. Now it’s time to practice again. For this practice run, we’ll launch nine aircraft. I will lead the flight. Our practice target will be
Chenango
. No weapons of course!” There was some rather forced humor from the pilots. We were still thinking torpedo attack!

The skipper continued. “Join on me after launch. We’ll start our attack from 10,000 feet. The procedure will be identical with the practice runs we all made at Quonset Point. I want you leaders of the other two sections to plan your attack so we’ll arrive over the ship together. Let’s show the ship’s skipper how good we are! Any questions?”

Later, I sat in my plane. Seventh in line to launch for the practice torpedo attack.

Damn! When is this tension going to stop? Boy! Do I ever remember that week at Quonset. Jean was so sweet. Damn it, just when I get a little relaxed, the fear starts again. God! I hope we really don’t have to do this; let’s just practice. Hope the Japs keep their ships in their harbors. What are my odds? One out of nine. Hell, if the skipper can do it, I’ve got to do it, too. No choice. There’s my taxi signal. Get this bird moving, let’s go!

The practice torpedo attack went well. All nine TBFs roared over
Chenango
within 20 seconds of each other and we got aboard without a wave off. We gathered in the ready room—everyone talking at once. We were one bunch of hot Navy pilots. We’d all make it back to the States—we knew it!

On the evening of January 30,
Chenango
passed the word on the ship’s P.A. system that
Chicago
had been hit by Japanese torpedo bombers. There had been a night battle at Rennel Island just south of Guadalcanal. The next day, while she was under tow, she was hit again with four torpedoes from Japanese planes.

Chicago
had been sunk.

That evening, we torpecker pilots were all in the ready room talking, wondering if we could have saved
Chicago
, or at least protected her while she was under tow. Well, our skipper had offered to help—we had tried. There was a sense too, at least on my part, of disappointment. I guess most of us wanted to be heroes. I wondered if the farther away one gets from danger, the greater the enthusiasm is to face danger? We had to prove that we were not afraid.

USS Chicago (CA-29) before her sinking.

We all learned the facts a few days later, when Joe, our AIO, briefed us. The Navy Command at Noumea had notified the admiral commanding the U.S. Task Force during the attack on Chicago, that
Chenango
was available to join his task force. Joe said the admiral commanding the task force had declined the offer. Joe read directly from the message. The admiral had said, “...I cannot command a task force of battleships and cruisers that fight battles moving at 30 knots and include
Chenango
, a carrier with a top speed of 18 knots.”

For most of February, I flew seven flights totaling 18 hours. All were anti-sub patrols.
Chenango
was assigned to convoy duty. That decision not to use
Chenango
to help protect
Chicago
seemed to have sealed our future. We were safe, but God, it was looking like it was going to be dull.
Flying to Efate
On February 26, the ship received orders to proceed to the harbor at the tiny island of Efate. Efate was one of the many islands in the New Hebrides group located about 200 miles northeast of Noumea. Our three squadrons were ordered to fly off the carrier and proceed to the airfield at Efate. The fighter squadron left first, then the dive-bombers, and last, the torpedo pilots. All planes arrived safely at Efate. None of us knew what the hell was going on.

Efate was a French-controlled island. The Marines had constructed an airfield there in support of the invasion of Guadalcanal. The Navy had moved in after the Marines. There was a mess hall, metal Quonset huts for living quarters, an officers’ club, and an enlisted club for our crewmen. It seemed like the entire island had been a coconut plantation before the war. The only trees we saw were coconuts, but it was a marvelous change from the ship. Best of all, we torpedo plane pilots were not flying those damn antisub patrols. Most of us were convinced that the Japanese had no submarines! We were all prepared for a nice change from the ship and some partying at the officers’ club. The day after our arrival, however, that all changed when the skipper called an all-pilots meeting at the officers’ club.

“Well, good morning, gentlemen. I hope you were pleased with your accommodations. I noticed too that some of you really enjoyed the officers’ club.” He stopped and shifted the cigar in his mouth. “Gentlemen, we have just ten days before we get back into the war.” He seemed to look at each of us as his eyes roamed around the room. There were some obvious groans. Even some “Oh, damns” could be heard. He turned to Bill Shyrock, the operations officer. “Bill, pass out that flight schedule for the next six days.”

As torpedo pilots, we each got one labeled, Torpedo Squadron. I saw that every torpedo pilot was scheduled for five glide-bombing flights and one gunnery flight. The entire officers’ club was buzzing as the pilots tried to absorb the meaning of the flight schedule. We torpedo pilots had not practiced glide-bombing or gunnery since Norfolk.

“All right, gentlemen, settle down.” He paused, waiting for us to quiet down. Then it came. “Yesterday, I received orders from the Navy Command in Noumea. We will deploy our three squadrons on March 10 to Henderson Field, Guadalcanal. We will fly our aircraft and our crewmen to the Canal. A Navy transport aircraft will move selected enlisted personnel for maintenance support. Chenango will remain at the harbor of Efate. That’s all, gentlemen. We’re going to war. God go with each of us as we face this challenge.”

The anticipated pleasures of Efate—the beaches, having a chance to discover the beauty of the island and yes, the officers’ club vanished from my thoughts. The Canal would not be a pleasure visit to a tropical South Seas island. I was getting my wish. I would be fighting the enemy. There were moments when I wished I’d stayed in Bremerton with Jean and worked in the Navy Yard, but I’d never admit to such a thought.
I was a Navy pilot—I could do the job!