My Carrier War (27 page)

I met my crew; briefed them; taxied out for takeoff; got a green light from the tower; and we were rolling down the runway.

Gear up; flaps up; reduce power; set up rate of climb at 500 feet per minute. Damn! It’s black out here over the water. Hardly any horizon and lots of clouds. Get on the oxygen mask. Damn it! I’m in the clouds...I’m in a turn! Instruments! Get on them! What’s my heading? Three hundred degrees. Goddamn, I feel like I’m turning, losing altitude! Fly those gauges; needle in the center; compass steady; just like Corpus...needle, ball, air speed! I’ve got vertigo; stay on those gauges. There. I’m out of the clouds. Steady now...I can fly this bird.

I got back on the correct compass heading and continued to climb. I was clear of the initial group of clouds, but I could see more build-ups ahead. I checked the time—I’d been airborne about 45 minutes. The island of New Georgia was visible off to my left. Then I heard a slight change in the sound of the plane’s engine. I glanced quickly at the engine instruments. The oil pressure gauge appeared to be fluctuating.

Engine problems! What’s the cylinder head temp? It’s high, I think. The fuel pressure gauge is jumping around too. There, oil pressure looks normal; fuel pressure looks OK. There’s that change in the sound of the engine again...something’s wrong! Now the engine sounds fine, but the damn oil pressure gauge is moving again. Should I go back? What about the mission? There’s that sound again. Goddammit! I’m back in the clouds again. Get on the gauges; I’m losing altitude; level the wings. To hell with it...get out of the clouds and go back to the field. Get back before the damn engine quits.

I came out of the bottom of the clouds in a shallow dive. At about 2,000 feet, I leveled the wings and got the air speed under control. I could feel the sweat running down my face from under my oxygen mask. I remember my struggle trying to control the plane, fighting vertigo, and the bouncing instrument indicators, as the plane came out of the bottom of the clouds.

I could see Guadalcanal ahead of us as I called the tower for landing clearance. I gave the proper code word and was cleared for landing. As we taxied to the parking area the engine sounded fine, gauges all normal.

God! What if there’s nothing wrong with the engine? The skipper could ground me! I could even lose my wings! Failure to carry out an order! There has to be something wrong. I know it. I wasn’t afraid of the mission. I wasn’t...it was the engine. I didn’t want to land in the water with an engine failure.

I shut down the engine as we arrived at the parking area. Chief Williams greeted me with the yellow sheet, which I filled out listing the problems I’d observed with the engine. All the chief said was that he’d check it out. Nothing was mentioned that I’d not completed the mission—that I’d returned early. A jeep picked me up and drove me to the Pagoda. I knew I had to complete a debriefing. The debriefing was short and very low key. I answered all the commander’s questions.

Yes, I understood the mission. No, the weather was not a factor. I was assigned to fly between at 8,000 to 10,000 feet. I was climbing through the clouds when the engine problems developed. Yes, I believed that I made the correct decision to abort the mission. I believed that the engine would fail before I could complete the mission. I left the briefing room still struggling with the commander’s closing comment. “Glad you made it back, Mr. Berg. Let’s hope the one plane that did make it caused enough confusion with its bombs to protect the pilots flying the mining operation. We’ll know if we suffered any losses when the planes return.” The jeep took me to my tent. I was alone. My three tentmates were all flying the mining mission.

One little drink...I’ve got to stay up. Got to wait until everyone is back. God, help them all get back...please. The damn engine; I know something was wrong. I had to turn back…had too! I’m so tired. Just one more little one...there! I hear a plane; they’re coming back. Please, God, I tried. The engine was bad...I tried. I can’t lose my wings! Please...help me.

I awakened early, sat up abruptly, and looked through the netting above my cot. All three of the cots were filled with sleeping guys. I hadn’t managed to stay awake until all the planes returned. I still didn’t know if everyone had made it back. I decided to go over to the mess tent. I had to get some news. At least my tentmates were here. They made it back.

I arrived at the mess tent and, as I got a cup of coffee, I saw the skipper and Bill Shyrock alone at a table. Bill saw me and called, “Hey, Norm. Come on over here. Join us.” I sat opposite the two of them. These two men whom I respected—men I would follow anywhere—said nothing.

Finally, I had to ask, “Skipper, Bill, did everyone make it back last night? Did we lose anyone?”

Bill responded. “Norm, everyone returned. A couple planes were shot up, but they made it back.”

“Man, that’s great news!”

Then the skipper said, “Norm, the briefing officer told me that you aborted the flight and returned with engine trouble. Tell me what happened.”

So I told my story to these two men I admired so much. I felt I had to convince them that I wasn’t a coward. My engine was failing. I’d experienced vertigo. Finally, I stopped talking.

The skipper broke the silence between us. “Norm, Chief Williams saw me privately late last night. Your plane checked out perfectly. He found no problems with the engine.” His voice softened. “Norm, just three things. I believe you thought you had engine trouble. Consequently, you made the correct decision; you aborted the mission. There will be no disciplinary action. I’m not going to ground you. Second, you will be assigned to the next mine-laying mission. This squadron needs your leadership. You’re the senior JG in the squadron.” Then his voice changed, and with a very firm tone, he said, “Mr. Berg. You will turn over your supply of booze to the flight surgeon. When the time comes, we’ll use it for a squadron party.” I left the mess tent.

Another chance! He doesn’t believe I’ m yellow...too scared to do my job. I won’t fail him!

The third mine-laying mission to Bougainville was scheduled for March 29, 1943. As expected, I was on the flight schedule. That morning, a truck picked up all of the pilots at our living area and dropped us at the Pagoda for the briefing. As we all settled down, the tension in the briefing room became obvious. There was no joking or outlandish remarks about being the best torpecker pilots in the Navy. Every pilot and crew member there knew the Japs would be ready for us. Our mines had done a job on their merchant ships. We were still getting reports of ships being destroyed. Everyone in that room knew this mission would be tough, and every pilot in that room believed he would make it back. We were ready.

The briefing was routine. The procedures were the same as the earlier missions.

The weather was excellent with some low clouds and no moon. We would have some Army Air Corps guys bombing the Japs while we were flying into the harbor with our mines. There were some remarks about whether or not those “Army pogues” could find Bougainville at night.

My crew and I manned our plane and rolled down the runway a little after 2100. Our total flight time was estimated at six hours. I set up air speed at 150 knots, altitude 1,500 feet. The air was smooth with excellent visibility. The dull roar of the engine and an occasional comment from crew members were the only activities we experienced. I’d made this trip before, so navigation was a snap.

A lot different from the last flight when I had to abort. I feel different.
Resigned, I guess. I must fly the mission. Wonder how my crewmen feel riding in the .50-caliber gun turret and in the belly of the plane. Funny, I’ve never asked them. They would probably say it’s their job. We’re all volunteers in this business of getting shot at. There’s Bougainville. Better get set up for my run. Only two minutes before the drop.

I came across the flat, little island (my check point) at 200 feet and 120 knots air speed, bomb bay doors open, mine armed. Then, I saw the AA fire.

Goddammit! The entire area around the airstrip is nothing but gun flashes. There are some of those reddish-yellow lines...again those beads arching out from the beach. I’m taking hits! I can feel the hits! My rudder pedals are vibrating! “We’re taking hits, Sir! In the tail, Sir!” “Turret gunner, open up on that firing coming from our starboard.” Oh, Jesus! A plane ahead of me just exploded! They got him! Now, drop that mine. Get down just above the water...left turn, full throttle...get out of here! Who got hit?

I cleared the harbor and took up a compass heading for Henderson Field. I could feel some vibration in my rudder pedals. I guessed it was from those AA hits we took. I called my gunner. “Smitty, can you see any damage on the tail surfaces from that AA fire?”

“Yes, Sir, the vertical stabilizer is full of holes!”

 “How about the fuselage? Any damage under the tail surfaces?”

“Sir, this is Mac in the radio compartment. I took some hits down here. The bullet holes are in the back of the compartment and just where the tail of the plane joins the fuselage.” “OK guys, I’m going to make a few shallow turns. Mac, you check if there is any movement of the fuselage just below the tail assembly.” Very gently, I pushed the left rudder pedal and then the right rudder pedal. The plane responded with left and right shallow turns. “Mac, see anything?” “No, Sir, no sign that the bullets did any damage other than put holes in the fuselage.” I turned back to my original compass heading. “OK, I guess this bird will get us home. Let’s go!”

We made it back to Henderson Field. Once again, my crewmen helped me out of the plane’s cockpit after we parked and shut down the engine. I felt numb, exhausted, as we got into a jeep and headed to the Pagoda for the debriefing.

Who got it? God! Hope it’s not one of our pilots! Poor bastards didn’t have a chance. How did I make it?

The debriefing was short and quick. All the returning pilots reported heavy AA fire. Two of us had seen one of our planes explode. We were both briefed carefully as we made our statements on what we saw. I was the tenth plane back. We would not know who had been shot down until all the planes returned. We waited at the Pagoda—all of us on the benches outside. The medic had given each of us the usual small bottle of brandy. No one felt like talking. We sat, looking at the dark sky and the stars, smoking and sipping slowly on the brandy. It was after three o’clock in the morning when we got the news—it wasn’t one of our pilots and crew. We all climbed in to the back of a truck and returned to our tents. The guys from the TBF squadron who had lost their friends that night accepted our quiet words. “Sorry, guys.” “I remember him, great guy.” “Good pilot. I knew him at Corpus. We were in the same class.” “Good crewmen. So sorry.”

The last mine-laying mission was over, and all of the guys in our squadron had made it. There was a great sense of relief. None of us had ever expected to face such a challenge—such fear, flying those long, dangerous missions. We had done it, but were we ever glad it was over.

The next day, March 30, the skipper scheduled a meeting of the TBF squadron in the mess tent after lunch. All the pilots from the squadron and our crewmen were present. We were one quiet bunch. We really didn’t know what to expect. The skipper entered with Bill Shyrock. We all stood as Bill called, “Attention!”

Dive-bombing and torpedo plane pilots of composite Squadron 28 at Henderson Field, Guadalcanal, April 1943. Commanding Officer, Lieutenant (jg.) Spencer Butts in front row, fifth from left. Lieutenant (jg.) Norman Berg in third row, sixth from right.

The skipper slowly removed the stub of that ever-present cigar from his mouth. “Seats, gentlemen. I have a couple of announcements to make.” His eyes roved around the room. He took his time, looking at each pilot and crewman. “Each of you has done a magnificent job these past two weeks. The demands have been almost overwhelming, and this squadron has meet every challenge.” He paused. “I met with the commanding general this morning. He sends a ‘well done’ to each of you. He also agreed with me on one other item.” Again a pause. “Gentlemen, as of today, there will be no flight operations for Torpedo Squadron 28 for the next two weeks.’’
There was a moment of silence, then from the back of the room came the words, “Sweet Jesus! Thank you!” The entire group began to yell at once, pounding each other’s backs, shaking hands, everyone grinning like kids at a surprise party. The skipper just stood in front of us, also grinning.

That evening we had a party with my confiscated whiskey.

The next two weeks were not the leisure time I’d expected. I woke up following the party with much more than just a hangover. I ached all over, my skin felt hot to the touch, and I felt very warm as if I had a fever. I was terribly thirsty. I blamed my condition on the party, but by late afternoon, I finally asked one of my tentmates to get a doctor from the Army field hospital to see me.

For the next ten days, I was hospitalized with an attack of malaria. I was released on April 10 and cleared for flight operations by the squadron flight surgeon. I felt well-rested, and in fact, I think I ate better than in the mess tent. I took the usual kidding about the nurses and taking life easy while my squadron mates were sweating out tent living and the mess tent.