My Carrier War (6 page)

Her letter explained that it was only then, when she turned on the radio in the hotel room, that she had learned of the Japanese attack. She and her friends quickly packed and went down to the hotel’s lobby entrance. While trying to find a taxi, a police car stopped in front of the hotel and took them to the Bremerton ferry dock. I remember Jean’s letter telling me how frightened she was. The ferryboat was filled with sailors, Navy officers and civilians like Jean who were working for the Navy. A Navy vessel, with fully manned guns, escorted the ferryboat across Puget Sound to Bremerton. That was the scary part—did the Navy expect an attack by Japanese planes? Then, of course, the fact that no one knew what was going on made it even scarier.

Funny, Jean didn’t say a word about us and our future. We are at war. Does she wonder about us, about me? She says she was scared, but says nothing about what I might be facing, a Navy pilot fighting in the war. Maybe she hasn’t really thought about it. No sense in saying anything. I’ll just wait.

I later learned that within a few days after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the Army arrived in Bremerton with “barrage balloons.” These were large (over 100 feet in length) helium-filled unmanned balloons. They were anchored by long steel cables to large Army trucks and sent into the sky to altitudes of about 1,000 to 1,500 feet. They had been designed to prevent enemy planes from diving on targets in the Navy Yard. One of them was stationed in a cemetery just behind Jean’s parents’ home. The military also issued orders to all civilians, setting up “black-out rules.” Windows had to be covered so no lights could be seen. No night driving was allowed without special headlights. In the case of some civilians who normally drove home from work after dark, the military arranged to house them on the base. Jean was one of those civilians. Others were issued special covers for their car headlights. In a later letter, Jean wrote that, “After about two weeks, I guess our government became convinced that the Japs weren’t going to attack Bremerton. We were allowed to return home and to drive again after dark. Once we realized we were safe, it wasn’t so bad. It fact, it was sort of exciting.”

Before my flight on December 16, I had been involved for two full days in ground school. I had spent the time reading aircraft handbooks, taking written tests, and sitting in the cockpit of three different aircraft. We were required to pass a written exam on each aircraft we were going to fly and to pass a blindfold cockpit checkout. That meant that we had to be able to touch and identify all the controls in the cockpit while we were blindfolded. Those aircraft were much more complicated than the Yellow Peril. Not counting the new instrument panels, they had radios, wing flaps, propeller controls, different throttle controls and one of them had a retractable landing gear. It was an entirely different kind of flying. The aircraft were much closer to the type I would be flying when and if I received orders to a carrier squadron after graduation.

Jesus, I hope the Navy knows what it’s doing. I only have 39.5 hours of solo time, and they’re expecting me to fly three different kinds of aircraft. They said some of the flying will be in formation. Damn, it’s hard enough to fly alone. Now they want us to fly with six other planes—even with eight other planes! I hope I can do it. Don’t get nervous up there. Shit, this program gets more dangerous all the time.

Between December 16 and 24, my log book shows seven flights in an SNV with a total of 9.5 hours of flight time, 4.5 hours of which were solo time. The SNV was a low-wing, all metal monoplane with two cockpits. The cockpits were covered with a sliding canopy. The Vultee Aircraft Company had built it for the Navy as a scouting plane, but it had never been used in the fleet. We called it the “Vultee Vibrator.” The nickname came from the fact that at certain rpm settings of the prop, the entire airplane would start vibrating, which was rather unnerving.

A right echelon formation.

On December 28, I had a dual flight with an instructor in an OS-2U. The cadets’ nickname for this plane was the “OS screw you.” Built by the United Aircraft Company, this aircraft was originally designed as a seaplane to be used off battleships and cruisers and was currently being used in the fleet. The aircraft we were flying had been modified and was equipped with a fixed landing gear like the Vultee. Like the SNV, it was a low-wing, metal monoplane with two cockpits covered by a canopy and with similar cockpit controls. So the transition was quite easy.

By mid-January 1942, I had 18.5 hours of solo time in the OS-2U. The flights both in the SNV and OS-2U were designed to teach us to fly larger aircraft in formation. We were learning to fly close together, first in three-plane formations and later in six- and finally, in nine-plane formations. We were also learning how to join up with other planes after takeoff.

Join-ups. Looked easy enough with the little wooden models the instructor used to demonstrate in class. I’m in a big damn plane flying at
150 miles an hour, and they expect me to get
within six feet of another plane. You can bet your
ass I’m going to be damn careful!

Each cadet was scheduled to be the lead pilot of a three-plane formation and a six-plane formation. By rotating the leader’s position, every cadet received training not only in leading the formation, but also in joining the formation. We soon learned we had to trust the other pilot who was flying so close on our wing. A mid-air collision could be deadly.

OS-2Us in an echelon of Vs formation.

More than 50 years later, those log book entries can make me vividly recall the thrill, the excitement, even the danger I felt. We were all inexperienced pilots. My total solo flight time was slightly over 50 hours. Some cadets were better than others at joining up and flying in formation. In many cases, we did not even know the pilot flying on our wing. This was completely different from flying the little fabric-covered Yellow Perils. I was learning to live with danger, to realize that at any moment I could be killed. Another plane could fly into mine, or I could hit another plane. I was often afraid, but all I could do was face the continuing challenge of completing the cadet program and receiving my Navy wings.
Flying Blind
On January 20, 1941, I flew my first flight “under the hood.” I would learn to fly “blind.” I was starting the instrument phase of my training and still flying the SNV aircraft, but it was sure different from the formation flying that I’d been doing.

I first met my instructor, Ensign Barber, at the airplane. I got into the front cockpit and he climbed into the back one. The SNV, unlike the Yellow Peril, was radio-equipped. Using the intercom feature of the radio, Barber briefed me on the flight as I taxied out for takeoff. I was to climb to 4,000 feet, and at that time, he would take control of the plane. I was to then reach behind my head, pull a black cloth canopy shaped like an accordion with stiff ribs and attach it to the top of the instrument panel. As the cloth canopy closed over the cockpit, I felt a sudden sensation of panic. I had no outside reference point, no horizon, no blue sky, and worst of all, I could hardly even see the instrument panel. All outside light had been cut off. Suddenly, I heard the instructor’s voice in my headset.

“Cadet Berg, don’t forget to turn up your cockpit lights.”

A flight gets together after completing a formation hop.

Damn, that’s why I couldn’t see the instruments. I adjusted the cockpit lights and felt a bit stupid, but also somewhat more relaxed.

“Cadet, you’ve had some instruction in the link trainers, right?”

I responded positively, recalling the time I had spent “flying the link trainer.” It was a mockup of an aircraft cockpit and had all the controls of a real aircraft. When I moved the flight controls, the trainer would also move. A cover came over the cockpit of the trainer, so all I had as a reference point was the aircraft instrument panel. Now I understood why the experience of flying the links was so important. It gave me a chance to “fly” using the flight instruments that I would find in an actual aircraft. There was a big difference though—here I was in a real airplane climbing to an altitude of 4,000 feet. This was no link trainer.

Again I heard the instructor. “OK, Cadet Berg— you’ve got it. Just remember the link trainer. Believe those instruments.”

I acknowledged taking control of the plane over the radio and concentrated on the flight instruments. My mind automatically began to review the link trainer experience.

Talking over the flight after being "under the hood" for an hour.

Watch the altimeter and air speed indicator—they tell me if I’m flying level and not gaining or losing altitude. Watch the gyrocompass and the turn and bank indicator to be sure the airplane is flying straight. Don’t chase the rate of climb indicator or the magnetic compass. They bounce around too much to try and follow. Scan all the instruments and don’t stare at just one.

“Cadet Berg, give me a one needle width turn to the right to a heading of 045 degrees.”

I remembered what I had to do. My gyrocompass read 275 degrees. I checked it against my magnetic compass. “OK, concentrate,” I told myself, “Start to turn.” There was a small quarter-of-an-inch-wide vertical bar called a needle in the turn and bank instrument. I started my turn, and I saw the needle in the turn and bank instrument moved one needle width, about a quarter of an inch to the right.

Now, stay in the turn until you get to the compass heading of 275. Damn, my air speed is going up. I’m losing altitude! I have to get the nose up! Too high—now the air speed is dropping! What’s my compass heading? Still losing air speed, better add some power. Shit! What the hell is happening? I’m getting in trouble. Better stop the turn. Center the needle. Get the wings level! Get the nose down! There! The air speed is OK. Altitude, OK. Damn, I’m still in a turn; I can feel it! I’m still turning. Vertigo! We were told about this. It has something to do with the inner ear. I check my instruments. I’m flying level, no turns, level. Almost lost it. Still feel like I’m in a turn. It’s an awful feeling.
My senses are all mixed up. How long does it last? Just watch those
instruments, Norm. Hold on. Don’t force the instructor to take over the
controls. There, it’s better! I’ve got it now.