VMB 423 Memoirs, Book 1, Part 2

A Crate of Eggs and a Carton of Tomatoes

I do remember several things that happened back then...

We were returning to Green from a strike one day, and from my station in the tail, on my knees, I kind of hunched back to rest my back. All of a sudden there was this big cloud of white smoke, and a few seconds later Jim Dunphy was blasting me with the fire extinguisher! What happened was the buckle from my right leg strap on the parachute harness came in contact with terminals mounted on a rib of the aircraft. The terminals were a power source for heated flight suits. Outside of a cold and wet backside not much damage. It burned a hole about the size of a half dollar in the skin of the aircraft.

When MAG_14 moved out, the flight crews moved from Pilots' Camp into the MAG-14 area. About the second night in the new area there was a big disturbance in our tent. There was a lot of grunting and hollering and something or someone hit the center pole, knocking it at an angle and making the tent collapse about half way. We finally saw the source of our trouble__an old sow with her three sucklings. We eventually got them out and maybe a few shots were fired in the general direction of their leaving.

Now I can't say for sure if what I say next has anything to do with the previous story -- draw your own conclusions. A couple days after the departure of the sow and the sucklings there was a very bad smell around, mostly in the mess hall area. Finally someone sent a couple island natives under the mess hall and they came out with a pretty ripe old sow. They cut a limb from a tree and tied the sow to it and two of them carried it away to their village to hang in the sun longer to ripen more. Then they would have a feast. We were told not to kill the pigs because they were sacred to the natives. Anyway they were tubercular. We might believe the first part but not the second.

Remember the supplemental food runs to Townsville? One of which I was very much a part of occurred the night of the day we returned with the food -- a crate of eggs and a carton of tomatoes. We stayed up until we had eaten them all.

We didn't steal the eggs and tomatoes. The crewmen in the back of the plane paid for them and had them delivered to the Great Northern Hotel where we were staying. They came with us the next morning to the airfield and we kept them with us in the back of the plane.

The bread from the mess hall was made with the New Zealand flour with wheat weevils in it that made it look like raisin bread.

In the tent next to ours was an aircrewman by the name of Johnson. I think his first name was Bill, but I am not quite sure. Anyway he had someone drive a nail through the lobe of his ear and he took a couple threads of parachute silk and threaded it through the hole. He kept working the threads until it was all healed and he had a clean hole. He then attached a tooth to a wire and hung it from the ear. He claimed it was a Jap's tooth. He had been on one of the ferry missions taking F4U's up through New Guinea and the Philippines, so he could have picked one up there. He was from Brooklyn and with a front tooth missing, a burr head, the earring, and a three_day growth of beard, he looked like a mean fighting Marine.

Most of the ground crew and the early replacement gunners should remember the ship we came home on. We left Manus the middle of June 1945 and arrived in San Diego around the first of July. The food, what there was of it, was terrible. The only meat we ever had was Vienna sausages from the can, watery powdered potatoes, green beans, and those big purple plums from a can. The men complained so much to the people in Diego that they investigated the ship's captain and found that he had sold all the meat on the black market in Hawaii.

There was a man on board who had a ruptured appendix and the sea was too rough for a PBY to land, so we made port at North Island San Diego.

We had one other thing happen about the eighth day out from Manus. One of our men, Roy Lutz, was chinning himself on the outside of the ship on the chains that are there to keep you inside. The chain broke and Roy was in the drink. Several life preservers were thrown to him and one did float and he managed to get to it. The alarm was sounded, the ship turned, went around, stopped, and took him aboard. Later the captain called him to his quarters, and told him he was one lucky boy. Twelve hours earlier he would not have stopped.

That fall Roy made the Cherry Point football team. One game I remember watching, they lost to North Carolina State at Cherry Point.
 
 

The Finest Marine...

"This is Mike Miller, senior archivist at the Marine Corps University at the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia on October 6, 1998. We're doing war history interviews here at the Ramada Inn where VMB-423 is having its reunion..."

Q: What made you want to be a Marine ?

A: Well I guess the idea came from reading the newspapers, finding out what the Marines were doing. My father had been in the Army Engineers in the Philippines before WWI and he said no kid of his was going in the Marine Corps. So one day I got dressed up to go to work and my mother wondered why I was so dressed up. I said some of us guys are going out after work. I went to work at the shop and told them I was going to enlist. I signed up downtown at City Hall in Chicago, and came home in the afternoon. My mom wanted to know why I was home so early. I told her I enlisted in the Marines and I'll be leaving in two weeks. When my father got home that evening he didn't have two feet inside the door and she said "Elvin enlisted in the Marines and he's leaving in 2 weeks!" I walked right out. I didn't see him till the next night. He tried to get me to admit I was sorry. I never was. I enjoyed it. But if I would have had any regrets I would never have admitted it.

Q: When did you go into the Marines, do you remember the date?

A: Yes, I was sworn in on October 1st, 1942

Q: What was the mood of America at that time, what with the Battle of Guadalcanal, the Germans, etc.

A: Everybody was pretty high to get it taken care of. Chicago was one of the best cities in the country for the servicemen when they were there -- they had a good attitude about it.

Q: Did you realize you'd go to the Pacific when you joined the Marines?

A: Oh, yes.

Q: How about your buddies? Did any of them go with you?

A: No. No one else that I knew went with me.

Q: How old were you then?

A: Twenty-one. We got on the train, went to San Diego, and had 8 weeks of boot camp.

Q: How about your experience on arriving. Were you greeted by the DI?

A: Yes. A bunch of guys were nearby saying "You'll be sorry!"

Q: And then did the DI come on the bus?

A: Yes.

Q: Did you think then you'd made a mistake?

A: No, and I never did think so.

Q: How tough was it? How tough were the DIs?

A: It was tough. But from what I've seen since, boot camp is lot harder now than it was then. 12 weeks now compared to our 8 weeks then, etc. But it was rough and they kept you busy.

Q: What was the hardest part about boot camp?

A: One thing I always remember was... out in the boon docks we had to run till we dropped. And if somebody dropped, the DI'd come over and give him a kick in the ribs and tell him to get going. The other thing I remember, while I was in high school I took up fencing, so I had the foot work. The instructor demonstrating judo picked me out as a guinea pig - in nothing flat he had me face down in the sand and I turned my head around and I said, "Take it easy." He took me by the hair and pulled my face up and said, "What did you say?" and shoved my face back down in the sand. I had my mouth open and I got a mouth full of sand.

When I got out of boot camp I wanted to go to Carlson's Raiders. But I had machinist experience, so they sent me to Great Lakes machinist school for 16 weeks. After that a month's guard duty. When we got back to San Diego they had too many machinists. They didn't know what to do with us, so I went to the B-25 school in Inglewood ,California. That was six weeks, I think.

Q: How many Marines went up there with you?

A: I don't remember. It was an Army school

Q: Did you have any desire to fly?

A: I was interested in flying but I enjoyed mechanic's work, too.

Q: On liberty, having the Marine uniform on, how were you treated by the public? Did you have any conflicts with other servicemen? Were there jealousies between them?

A: Of course there was always some feelings like that between sailors and Marines.

Q: At Great Lakes, was it a Navy school?

A: Yes, but Marines were all in one barracks. We had our own classes. The machinists course was 16 weeks. One day a week we had 1/2 day of math, the other half was ....steam fitting, as aboard ship. The math I always thought was a joke. 16 weeks, and math 4 hrs a week starting with simple arithmetic, then algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus and logarithms and the last day we had a test on all of them. There were a lot of guys that didn't have much on their test paper.

Q: Did many fail? How did you do?

A: We all finished. I came out as a PFC . A few made corporal, some came out with no stripe.

Q: What happened to you at B-25 school?

A: Classroom and working on B-25s.

Q: Did you learn the tricks of the trade? What was emphasized?

A: Well, working on the engines, also some sheet metal work and all-around working on the whole plane.

Q: Good instructors?

A: Very good. Very good.

Q: What happened when you finished?

A: We went back to San Diego, then to Cherry Point, North Carolina . That was my first time back east, beyond Chicago and Great Lakes. We joined VMB-413, and then I got an attack of appendicitis and had to go to the hospital to have my appendix removed. Fortunately I had an excellent surgeon. He was from Mayo Clinic, and then I was in the hospital for a week. I went into VMB-423 then. I was put on "light duty" for a while in the pilots' ready room, making coffee and stuff for the pilots.

Q: What was your first experience with VMB-423? Can you remember who you met?

A: Yeah, I met the crew chief and the crew I was going onto when we were assigned. Then we went up

to Edenton, North Carolina. We stayed there till December, 1943.

Q: How many mechanics does it take to take care of a B25?

A: There were 5 of us. Crew chief, assistant crew chief and the mechanics.

Q: All do the same thing?

A: Some would work at night, for the night raids.

Q: What were some of the hardest things you had to work on, on a B-25? Did things keep breaking down?

A: Yeah. The exhaust on the number 1 cylinder kept breaking. We had to drill the studs out and replace the exhaust stack. And the plane that I was on always seemed to have electrical problems. It had that as long as we had the plane.

When we left Edenton we went to El Centro, California, to practice torpedo runs. One day while we were there, I happened to be at lunch in the mess hall and one of the guys said to me "Hey, your plane's burning up!" I guess some gunner didn't clear the guns when they came in and somebody from ordnance set off a round. It burned to the ground.

Before I ever went to Great Lakes we had SBDs in our group. I'd never been up before, and I always wanted to go up, and a guy who had been there a while said to me "What ever you do, don't tell this major you've never been up before." The major was one of the first Marine pilots in the Marine Corps, he'd been a flying PFC for nine years. We came out and he asked me "You ever been up before?" I said, "Yes Sir." We take off, he goes up to 10,000 feet. We had water bombs. He nosed the thing down and leveled off about 300 feet above the water. Then he climbs back up, we went up to 12,000 feet, were flying around, then, instead of nosing it down he went like this (a wing-over up-side-down dive) we went down till we were 50 feet off the water. I wanted to die. I didn't throw up but oh, I just felt so sick. We landed back at North Island, he got out of the cockpit and I just sat there. He put his hand on my shoulder and said to me "Son, next time don't lie to me. I knew you were lying to me."

Going back to the ground crew at El Centro, we went up to Alameda where we got the ship to go over to New Hebrides before the planes arrived. The planes flew over.

Q: What were you feeling by this time? Were you anxious to get in the war?

A: Yeah, we were anxious. We got out there and then the planes arrived.

Q: What time period was this? '44?

A: Yeah, early '44.

Q: When did you first feel like you were in the war, or in the war zone?

A: It was when I was on Green Island. I used to love to go up. As a mech I didn't have to, but I used to go up. One experience we had, the plane got hit. I was sitting behind the co-pilot, and the pilot thought the navigator had been hit because there was hydraulic fluid shooting all over the place, which was red. Then, when we came back in we had to crank the landing gear down by hand and when we landed I was kneeling between the pilot and co-pilot's seats, behind the seats, with no harness. He had to use the air brakes; he came in much faster than he generally did; he gave the air brake one yank, that slowed us down to about 90 knots... He said "Hang on!" over the intercom. I was holding on over head. He hit the air brake. Well, I don't think we went more than 200 feet. It took the tires off the bottom of the wheels. That coral chewed them off, so I knew then I was in the war zone.

Q: What were you hit with, shrapnel, flak? How close to you was it?

A: Yeah, shrapnel. Maybe 3 feet away from me.

Q: What kind of a mission was it? Over Rabaul?

A: Over Rabaul, yeah.

Q: How many missions did you fly?

A: I don't know. I had another experience too, when I went up. This pilot was very good with his strafing, he would concentrate his fire power and when the tracers came up on the target he would drop his bombs. We were flying wing on the commanding officer, Col. Anderson, at the time. The co-pilot was pointing out the targets to me that the other planes were going to hit, when we looked forward and there was a palm tree... we hit the tree ... with the right nacelle. The bottom of the nacelle was caved in and the back rudder was dented ... later, another pilot said when we hit the tree it looked like we actually stopped in mid air and then surged forward. If we had caught the tree a little further out on the wing it may have spun us around or torn off the wing. The amazing thing is when we got back, the nacelle was full of wood, but when we took the prop off and tested it, it was still in balance.

After that I went up on a night raid and it was the first time I ever felt scared. I was never one to pray, but I think I prayed that night. It was supposed to be a hot target, but they didn't shoot anything at us at all!

Q: How about losing planes, accidents etc.

A: We had one shot down. Some were hit with flak and some had bullet holes.

Going back to when we were at Edenton, North Carolina, we had one of our planes blow up in the air. I never saw a report of what happened but the engines were a mile and a half apart. A buddy of mine was on it. Chuck Schweiman. I brought his body home. That was a sad experience, the day his mother got the telegram. It was her first day out of bed after a long illness.

Q: What kind of a guy was he, was he a good Marine?

A: Yeah. He was a gunner. When I got to Chicago with his body the brother and brother-in-law met me. They asked me what happened. I told them they never did find his head. It was a sealed coffin. They asked me not to tell his mother what happened. When I got to the house she was in bed. I sat down on the edge of the bed with her and talked to her. She'd ask me questions, "Was he burnt?" "No." "Is he in one piece?" "Yes." Finally I said, "Mrs Schweiman, I have to tell you now, you can't see his body because it's a sealed coffin." It took me about a half hour of continuous talking to quiet that poor woman down. When I got up I had a sister on one shoulder and a sister-in-law on the other shoulder, crying. So that was that. Later, they sent a nice letter to the commanding officer about it.

Q: Did you know him before you joined the Marine Corps?

A: No, we met there at the squadron. He was a good kid. I liked him a lot.

Q: What about other casualties?

A: As I was saying before, one of our planes was shot down, the crew were in a raft in the water, the Japs were shooting at them from the shore. Major Anderson was flying cover for them, he did not want to abandon his men. He had to be ordered back. Finally a PT boat got in there at night and got the guys out, brought them back.

Another plane we lost at Green ... there was an aircraft tender for refueling PBYs that land in the water ... the PBYs didn't have landing gear. The PBJ pilot mistook the lights on the tender for the end of the runway ... it was maybe 200 or 300 yds from us to the tender. The guys took off to help... everybody thought maybe it was a PBY that crashed, they ran out there ...anyway, the PBJ flipped over and burned... everybody got burned. That was a messy situation, bringing the bodies out.

Q: What about during your time on Green Island, what was morale like at that time. How did you keep yourselves up and going?

A: Just by working. Some of the guys played cards at night. There was no real entertainment.

Q: How long did it take to get a plane back up in the air? Was there ever a time when you couldn't fix a plane?

A: No, sometimes it took a little longer or if they got shot up, then they had to be patched, but mechanically on the whole it wasn't too bad. Of course the different inspections would take a little longer to do. You had the 25-hour, the 50-hour and the 100-hour inspections.

Q: When did you come back to the States?

A: I landed in San Diego on June 30th of '45, We were told we'd be in different outfits and be back overseas again in 6 months.

Q: What kind of celebration did you have when the war was over?

A: My buddy and I took off and went to Greensboro, North Carolina for a couple of nights. We had off. There was a lot of celebrating at Cherry Point. The band was marching up and down the street. Everybody was pretty happy about it.

Q: When were you discharged?

A: On November 2, I was discharged. I didn't have any intentions of coming out but when I was back at Cherry point, I had been engaged, and I got a Dear John letter; then my father wasn't well. He'd been in the hospital several times in the past year. If it hadn't been for that I would have stayed in. I liked it. To this day I wish I could have stayed in

Q: Okay, ending questions: What does being a Marine mean to you today, looking back on it after all those years?

A: I' m very proud of it. I belong to the Marine Corps League. We get together all the time. I go to a couple of meetings a month. I visit Marine patients at the Vets' hospital in North Chicago once a week. I'm just very proud of it and proud of the tradition.

Q: Who's the finest Marine that you saw during your service during WWII? Maybe you could name a couple that you might think of.

A: Well, there's two people. One, he was killed in New Hebrides. That particular night we were flying, too. The weather was real bad. From the cockpit you couldn't see the nose of the plane. We got our bearings from the Army Air Corps. When they told us we were over the field, we were fifty miles away. To this day I'm thankful that we did get back. The other plane was piloted by Lt. Lallathin. He's the one who, when I came out of the hospital and I was on "light duty," he was in charge of me. He would not let me lift anything. He told me right out, he said, if cases of coke have to be lifted, get these other guys, these officers, to lift them. They're no better than you are. His name was Lallathin. Everybody call him Lolly. He told me "when nobody else is around I'm Lolly, otherwise it's Lieutenant." He's the kind of guy ... ... well, that night, when they didn't come back, the ground crew sat out there around the taxiway. No one's talking, everybody's straining their ears, hoping and praying

to hear the sound of those engines. Finally, about one o'clock in the morning, the commanding officer, Colonel Winston, told us to go back, go to bed, get those planes out in the morning, and we'll go search for them. But here is an officer, can you imagine? ...it wasn't guys that were flight crews - they were ground crew! They liked him so much, they were just hoping and praying he'd come back. He was the Number One - one of best men I ever knew.

The other one, Major Anderson, later Lt. Col. Anderson, who later on became a Major General. We all had a lot of respect for him. He was an officer that was fair and who was really easy for the men to care for and respect.

Those are the two.
 
 

". . . Don't you want to go to war ?"

In the mid_ winter of 1943_1944, I was told to report to the headquarters of my training unit at Cherry Point, N.C.. When I arrived and identified myself to a Tech Sgt., he said, "If you've got any clothes in the base laundry, you had better get them out, pronto."

I was puzzled and asked why. His response will never be forgotten. "What's the matter? Don't you want to go to war ?"

I was not an original member of 423 but, rather, I was one of the initial two replacement crews. Each crew had seven members, the seventh being a "back_up" radioman. I was one of those.

When we were in California, preparing to ship out, we were briefed on the plans to reach Hawaii. Each plane would be staffed by five crew members: pilot, co_pilot, navigator/bombardier, mechanic and radioman. The two ordnance men and the two back_up radiomen from each crew were to travel by ship.

We four "non_flyers" boarded the aircraft carrier, San Jacinto, in San Diego. (A few years ago, I learned that one of our shipmates was a young torpedo bomber pilot named George Bush.) We arrived in Hawaii ahead of our planes, since each required special fuel-accommodating adjustments for the long flight.

The evening that the planes took off, they were soon called back due to an adverse change in the weather. My crew, piloted by Charles Milone , landed safely, but the other crew crashed into a California mountain, killing all. A very sad beginning. The four of us in Hawaii were considerably shaken_up. Within a few days, the two crew members who had missed the fatal flight were transferred, and we lost track of them. (In the early 1970s, while working in Columbus, Ohio, I received a telephone call from Lou Euphrat, the other back_up radioman. Lou was employed by the same company as I, but he worked in Canton, Ohio. He had seen my name in the company's house organ. Since we had not seen each other in over 25 years, we had much to talk about. We got together a few times before Lou's untimely death in 1973. He was only 49).

Eventually our crew was reunited in Hawaii and we reached VMB-423 in June 1944. I immediately became a "bench_player", substituting for any of the radio_gunners unable to fly with their own crew for one reason or another. I still have my flight log book and it indicates that I flew with these pilots: Milone, Taylor, Winston, Pritchard, Evans, Jones (R.P.), Lusky, Ryan, Meyer, Griffiths and Lowell. In March, 1945 I was transferred back to the states for six months of retraining. A return to the Pacific was scheduled for September, 1945 . Do you need to ask what my reaction to the August A_bombing was? I entered college in January, 1946.
 
 

The Lord Was Our Shepherd

VMB-423 squadron, the Sea-Horse Marines', primary mission was to observe at night any activity, vehicle movement, or resupply from ship or submarine to the huge Jap Naval base at Rabaul. Rabaul is located at the northeast end of New Britain Island, east of New Guinea in the Bismarck Archipelago and northeast of Australia.

If we saw lights or signs of activity we would drop a bomb on the area. Other missions were medium-altitude bombing raids on anti-aircraft guns, some anti-submarine searches and once in a while a low-level search for targets at random hidden in the dense jungle.

The low-level bombing strike on the afternoon of October 3rd, 1944, was no different from several others we had been on. The crew liked them because it was a chance to legally flat hat, that is fly low over the tree tops. When we'd complete this mission the crew would have number 23. My crew had been together for a little over a year, and camaraderie and morale were high because Jim, my navigator, had just learned a few days before that he was the proud father of a baby boy. None of the other crew were married.

"Think we'll have our fifty by Christmas?" quizzed Mezzelo, the tail gunner. By fifty he meant 50 missions. That seemed to be the magic number after which some of the crews had been told they could return state-side, although none of the 27 crews had any where near that number yet. "It all depends on the operations officer," I said, "If he'll schedule us we'll fly 'em." A chorus of approval came from the entire crew, ending the conversation as we approached the blue camouflaged PBJ (Navy for B-25), parked along a white coral taxi strip.

Stepping out from the shade of the wing was a photographer with camera in hand, he saluted sharply and said, "Lieutenant I'm supposed to go along and take some pictures of any good targets we can find." "Fine," I said, "We'll see if we can find some for you."

After a detailed inspection of the plane, which involved checking that there were two engines, two rudders, and that the cowling was all on and the big holes were patched, it was a relief to get aboard and get the engines running to get some air moving to dry the perspiration. Gloves were necessary to avoid blisters when touching bare metal exposed to that tropical sun, since we were just a few hundred miles south of the equator. Getting airborne was even better and it was quite pleasant with the pilot's window open.

We were the second plane in line to take off. As the leader's plane lifted off the runway, I pushed the throttles forward for full power. At about 120 knots I eased back on the yoke and we were airborne. I gave the thumbs-up signal to the copilot and he pulled up the lever that raised the landing gear. As the leader began his 180 degree I took my place on his wing in the six-plane formation. Th

e leader was the assistant operations officer.

On this mission our area of search was on the island of New Ireland which is northeast of Rabaul. New Ireland is about 245 miles long with a mountain range down the middle full length. The island is narrow with heavy dense tropical jungle all over except for a few copra (coconut) plantations along the coast. Some of the plantations housed Japanese bivouacs.

As we approached the island a radio transmission from the leader to the other planes, "Good hunting" broke the formation into three, two-plane sections. Each section had an assigned area to search. Targets might be trucks, boats, storehouses, gun emplacements, bridges, etc. My leader Bill dropped down to about 50 to 100 feet above the treetops and began to snoop in the dense jungle and coconut groves, while I remained about a thousand feet above and to his rear scanning a wider area. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of some faint red tracers leaving the base of a big banyan tree and arching toward Bill's plane. A quick call, "Hey Bill! Do you know you are being shot at?" "Negative" was his reply. "I've got him spotted!" I replied and I began my bombing run. I opened the bombay doors and toggled the switch that armed the bomb. In a hurry my dive was a little too shallow and my 500 pounder went skipping through the trees only to explode harmlessly on the sandy beach. So in the true spirit of a Marine (don't make the same mistake twice) I pulled up in a steep climb to come around and do it right. I could see the winking flashes of the machine gun and the tracers seemed to come right at the windshield but miraculously disappeared under the nose of the plane. I gave him a quick squirt with my five 50-caliber guns as I pushed the nose down in about a 500-foot dive and pickled off the second 500-pound bomb. That one stuck and the explosion covered the tree with a shower of sand and smoke. "I'll bet we scared him," piped Mezzelo from his tail gunner's position.

"Let's go" came the impatient leader's call. "Roger" I retorted and climbed up to look over the landscape.

The island is only about eight miles wide at this point, and we were at about the middle over the only road that creased the mountain range in the island's full length. There, over a deep canyon, was a freshly hewn log bridge. This bridge had been knocked out several times before by dive-bombers. This would be a prize target for my last 500-pounder and with a photographer along to get a picture to verify the destroyed bridge, what could be better proof for the decoration board? A hurried transmission to Bill, a swing to the left, then a sharp bank to the right, nose over and the bridge would be in my sights. This was fine strategy but at that instant things began to happen that drastically changed my finest plans.

There was a dull WHOOP! WHOOP! and several lesser explosions and the gallant PBJ lurched to the left. A glance out the open left window told me all I needed to know. An inside section of the left engine cowling was gone, along with the tops of two cylinders. I could see the pistons coming up and down as the propeller wind-milled. The left main landing gear dangled from the nacelle while a flaming inferno poured from a hole in the under side of the left wing between the nacelle and the fuselage. The left main fuel tank had been hit. I instinctively tried to feather the prop on the left engine but to no avail since there was no oil pressure or controls to do it.

"I'm hit! I'm hit!" was my urgent call to my leader, Bill. Subconsciously I trimmed the plane for single engine flight while heading for the closest water about four miles away. I never gave a thought to bailing out or crashing in the jungle for that was just pure suicide. The jungle was about 500 feet below and too low for the crew to bail out. The possibility of survival would be nil. The mountain under me was about 1600 feet above sea level. Something told me to use the 2000 foot altitude to gain speed and dive for the nearest water.

What I didn't know was that the water I was heading for was Namatanai harbor, bivouac for 15,000 Japanese troops in Namatanai village, just itching to have a party for us like the Kavieng post held for one of our previously captured crews. Tokyo Rose had told us over the radio what to expect. She said, "We'll behead any of you Sea-horse Marines we capture." From the intelligence reports I had learned this was what happened to one of our lost crews, and I liked my boys heads right where they were.

I tried to tell the crew in the back of the plane that I was going to ditch but I guess the intercom was out because I got no response. The bomb bay separates the front and rear sections of a B-25.

The crew in the aft section saw the flames on the left side and were preparing to bail out. They jettisoned the rear hatch, but all they could see was jungle just a couple of hundred feet below and they knew they needed at least 800 feet to have a chance of survival. They kept watching and the jungle seemed to be getting closer. Meanwhile I toggled the switch to open the bomb-bay doors, I didn't know if they opened or not without hydraulic pressure,

but I pulled the manual release to drop my last 500 pound bomb safe so it wouldn't come crashing into the cockpit when we hit the water. If the bomb-bay doors hadn't opened the bomb would break them open, anyway I'd be rid of the bomb.

"Can you make it home?" came the firm quiet voice of my leader over the radio. "Negative, I'm going to ditch, I'm going to ditch," was my reply as smoke was getting so bad I could hardly see the instruments.

A quick glance out my window toward the tail and all I could see was a flaming inferno and a long trail of black smoke tracing our path descending over the jungle. At that instant mentally I could see a short paragraph in the local weekly paper. The headline read, "LOCAL BOY SHOT DOWN. Son of Mr. and Mrs. George Meyer of Sutter lost in the South Pacific," etc. My crew and I had gone to Sydney, Australia just two weeks before for rest and recreation after our 20th mission. While in Sydney I had met this girl that I liked very much. We had some good times dancing and taking in the sights, and as I glanced again at the long trail of smoke a thought flashed through my mind "I'll never see Audrey again."

It wasn't long before the crew in the back saw water below the open hatch and they then knew I intended to ditch. They began to get into their ditching stations and brace themselves for that crashing impact. Harris the turret gunner braced himself against the turret mount armor plate with his hands pressing against the sides of the fuselage and suddenly his gloved hand went out through the left side of the fuselage. The aluminum skin of the plane was burned away leaving only the insulation and fuselage ribs on that side.

Smoke was coming in through the wing root and was getting so bad in the cockpit I motioned for W.C. my copilot to jettison the escape hatch over our heads, as it had been known to jamb on crash landings.

Sometime amid all this confusion, or perhaps he had stowed away from our home base, our unseen Shepherd had come on board and had taken over the controls and was making the decisions, for I shall not take credit for the miraculous turn of events that followed.

Jim, my navigator, yelled, "It's getting hot back here." Smoke by this time was nearly choking in the cockpit. A calm voice seemed to tell me, "This is it, set it in the water before it explodes and blows the wing off." I didn't have my shoulder harness hooked nor did anyone else in the crew and there wasn't time now. As I chopped the throttle on the right engine, W.C. the copilot crossed his arms in front of his face and leaned against the top of the instrument panel to brace himself for the sudden horrible crash we had been told to expect when you hit the water. Looking out the side window because I couldn't see out the windshield for the smoke, I proceeded to make a full-stall landing, much as I had done many times when flying PBYs (a sea-plane) when I was in training. I eased back on the yoke as the plane began to settle. I felt a couple of tugs like something was jerking us back when the tail drug over the tops of two waves. A quick yank on the yoke to ensure the stall and the "WHOOSH" and several barrels of water came pouring in the open hatch over our heads as the plane had dropped between two waves and gently slid under the wave. There we sat bewildered but unharmed with the cockpit half full of water as we bobbed back to the surface.

The crash had been so soft and smooth that I had to reach over and hit W.C. on the shoulder and yell, "Let's get the hell out of here, we're dead in the water." The missing hatch in the aft and possibly the open bomb-bay doors had scooped up several barrels of water and had slowed our speed appreciably, making the landing so soft that no one was injured.

This now was where our abandon ship drills in Tagen's Folly (old hulk of a wrecked airplane) paid off. I believe we set a new record in getting out. W.C. went first, then my navigator, and then me, out the top escape hatch. I took my back-pad and my seat, which was a one-man raft as did several other members of the crew. A quick glance and I could see no fire just a little steam but I could see the skin was gone off the left vertical stabilizer and I could see the ribs on the left side about three feet wide from the wing to the tail and the center of the left wing flap was melted away. The last couple men from the aft section came bobbing to the surface. They had to dive out the aft escape hatch which was under water.

Some one popped the emergency life raft door and the inflated raft popped out. The original four-man rafts were to have been changed to six-man rafts before the planes left San Francisco, but it was only a four-man raft and there were seven of us. I checked to see if everybody was all right. None were hurt but all were scared speechless and several were very pale. We inflated our Mae-Wests (life jackets) and began to paddle away from the plane which was starting to nose down by then.

Almost immediately as the plane sank from sight the first shells from the shore batteries began to land in the water near us. It was then that I first realized we were in a Jap harbor and only about a mile and a half from either shore. The crew started to get into the rafts but as more shells began to hit closer I told them to stay in the water. We could hear the guns fire salvos of eight shells as they were being fired before the shells arrived. Sound over water travels faster than the shells because they had to arch them to reach us.

As the "chaboom, chaboom" of the guns was heard, Mezzelo would say, "The dirty little sons-a-bitches, duck," and everybody would let out their breath and lay their faces down in the water to sink as low as possible. Only the arch of our life jackets were above the water exposed to shrapnel from the exploding shells. Several out of each salvo of eight shells would land within yards of us. By this time the other planes that had been with us on the mission were in the area. Several were strafing the gun positions on the shore. Several planes dropped one-man rafts, one nearly hit us. Mezzelo, the strongest swimmer, had just retrieved the last of these rafts when there was a loud "whoosh" like a freight train going overhead and about 200 to 300 yards out to sea there was a thunderous explosion and a geyser of water 50 or more feet high erupted.

"What was that?" quizzed the crew. I knew it was a big gun and told them so. Over the next few minutes two more shells were fired from the big gun but none landed closer than about 200 yards out to sea beyond us. The thought flashed through my mind how lucky we were because if I had held the plane out of the water a few seconds longer that gun would have blown us out of the water with one shot. I breathed a silent prayer with my face down in the water ducking the other shells. That shelling continued and several times as I raised my head I could touch the spot in an arms length where a 37mm shell had exploded, leaving a stinking brown spot in the water. It was then I noticed the big raft losing rigidity. It had been punctured by shrapnel and only the seat section remained inflated.

From the time our plane sank out of sight some of the other planes were making strafing runs on the shore battery gun positions. I asked the crew to make sure all the rafts were tied together and that each was tied to a raft. I didn't want everybody clustered together so if one shell hit some one it would only injure one and not several. About then I noticed one of the strafing planes feather one prop and I could hear the increase in the other engine's RPM and he went on single engine. Evidently he had been hit and lost an engine.

I had noted that my watch showed about one forty in the afternoon, when we were abandoning ship. I didn't remember any clouds in the sky .

We kept ducking the salvos of shells which would dot out right where we had been. The next wave would wash us further to the right and again the shells would land where we had been seconds before. This shelling and ducking continued over what seemed endless hours and I began to wonder how long we could be so lucky. About an hour into the shelling one of the crew told me that Harris had been hit. A quick check and I learned a piece of shrapnel had gone through the fleshy part of his index finger and had also gone through the one-man raft which he was holding on to. I gave them the first aid kit from my back pad. They wrapped gauze around it. I wanted to keep the blood out of the water because we were just north of the coral sea and that area is known to be alive with sharks. I knew that the exploding shells would drive all the sharks from the area.

Some time later as I had my face down in the water something went "fizz" and I settled 3 or 4 inches lower in the water, then about to my chin. A piece of shrapnel had punctured one half of my May West. I thanked God my head was down in the water or I would have gotten it probably in the neck.

Soon I became aware of some clouds casting shadows, causing us to shiver even though the water was a comfortable 75 degrees or more. Our hands and fingers were shriveled due to being in salt water so long. I also noticed the wind began to pick up and whitecaps began to appear. As the seas became rougher the shells became more scattered. Periodically a wave would slap over my head. Most of the planes had left the area as they would be low on fuel. The clouds became very low and darkness set in which, along with the white caps, caused most of the shelling to cease. A slight drizzle began to fall. We could hear one B-25 circling above the clouds.

The waves got much bigger and many were breaking over our heads. W.C. and Voss, my radio-man, had both swallowed quite a bit of sea water and were vomiting severely. The sea water and the fright were having a demoralizing effect and they were sure they weren't going to make it. I had to come up with a way to get them out of the water. I had them get into the one-man rafts, but the waves would upset them and they would swallow more sea water. Finally it dawned on me to have one man get on each side of the one man raft and run his arm through the two loops on each side. Their bodies hanging down in the water kept the waves from upsetting the raft and that took care of all six of them. I was left tied to the four-man raft. I was trying to find the holes but the waves kept crashing over my head.

With the men sitting up in the one man rafts they called it to my attention that we were drifting into shore. I immediately had everyone get into the water and we swam the side stroke away from shore. We swam until we were exhausted and then I had everybody get back on each side of the one man rafts with W.C. and Voss in the rafts. We had four one-man rafts and the one four-man raft. Two of the one-man rafts had been hit by shrapnel. We had screwed a wooden plug in the hole and it appeared to be holding.

I got the idea to cut two one-man rafts loose, one good and the other deflated, and let them wash into shore. The Japs might think they got us if a good raft and one raft hit by shrapnel washed into shore.

The drizzle became heavier and tended to smooth out the white caps. I worked feverishly trying to locate the holes in the four man raft. Somehow with my shriveled hands I opened my back pad and found the patching kit. I carefully handled everything so I wouldn't drop or lose anything and began to patch the holes. While the raft was deflated the hand pump, the emergency rations, and the flair gun were lost. All that remained was the two oars and the sail. As I applied the cement around the hole I was amazed to see the sea water run off like it was grease and I was more amazed to see the patch stick when applied. I had applied 4 or 5 patches and it occurred to me the only way to inflate the raft would be to blow it up by mouth, and this was a four man raft. This would take some time. About that time the crew called my attention to the fact that we were drifting substantially closer to shore. Again I had everybody get into the water and we began to swim the side stroke which was the only swimming stroke I could do as another lad named Arty Settle and I were the two poorest swimmers in the first class of 245 V-5 Cadets at Iowa University in 1942. We would count cadence very low. We must have kept this up for at least thirty minutes.

The men were winded so I had them take up their positions stabilizing the two rafts and I resumed patching the holes in the big raft. I would unscrew the valve and slowly blow my breath into the raft and cover the valve with my thumb to keep the air from escaping and take another big breath and blow it into the valve. It didn't take long before I began to get light- headed and nearly sick. I would hold the raft under water to find the bubbles at the hole and then I would patch it. A few waves still broke over my head since I had only half a life jacket, but the sea was getting calmer now. As I patched the ninth hole, the raft began to hold air. I crawled into the raft to get above the waves and it was a lot easier to inflate now. The clouds became very low and dark and about this time we could hear the sound of a different airplane engine. Finally we could make out the shape of a PBY, like the ones I had flown in training, just below the clouds, but he was circling a mile or so out to sea from us. I knew he was a rescue plane called the black cat. The rain nearly blotted him from view.

Looking toward shore we could see several bonfires on the beach. It was obvious we had washed in a mile or more toward shore. The wind and tide had taken its toll. Once in a while we could hear rifle shots over the roar of the ocean. Again, I had everybody get into the water and again we swam in low cadence for perhaps 20 minutes.

Finally one of the PBY's circles came closer to shore. I figured he might fly almost over us. How could I signal him because our flare gun was lost when the raft deflated. It then occurred to me that, against international law, I carried six tracer bullets for my Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. I remembered I had one in the cylinder somewhere. I pulled my pistol out of my shoulder holster and shook the water out of it, but would it fire? I knew that if I aimed right at the wing I wouldn't hit him. I pulled the trigger and BANG! it fired. I pulled again, and again, and there went the tracer between the wing and the tail about 20 feet out from the observation blister. I could see just how long it took the observer to tell the pilot, "They're right below us." The wing of the huge plane rocked in acknowledgment. He flew straight away from us out to sea.

The sea was calmer now and the rain a fine drizzle. Mezzelo came swimming over to me and asked if I had reloaded my pistol. I assured him I had and wanted to know why? He said they, the

crew, had been talking and none of them wanted to be taken alive. They doubted if their Colt .45s would fire after being submerged in the sea water for several hours. That had been the rumored history of the weapon. He said we know yours will fire and we don't have confidence in the co-pilot who also had a .38. "Don't worry fellows, I got you into this mess and I'll get you out," I assured him.

I had W.C. get in the tail one-man raft and the navigator and the photographer, since they both were small, in the other one-man raft. I had the others get in the big raft with me. I tried to use the oars to row the big raft pulling the others. It worked fine for a while then a big wave caught me wrong and I broke one oar. We then decided since there seemed to be an off-shore wind to rig the sail using the good oar as the mast and the broken oar as the rudder. Gradually the sound of the PBY grew louder and we could make out his image coming. Quickly I asked the radio man if he could send blinker (morse code by light) and he said he could. I took the little one-cell flash light from my back pad and held the yellow side of the sail around Voss and asked him to send "Seven OK." He blinked it out and to our surprise as the PBY turned sharply to the right, out the copilot's window a green Auldus light blinked, "Dit-da-dit" meaning roger we got the message. The PBY flew on away and only the drone of the B-25 bombers somewhere above the clouds could be heard. The sea was much calmer now and the wind kept the sail filled and a steady pull on the ropes tying the three rafts together. It made us feel better to know we had gotten the message to them that we were all OK.

Suddenly there was a lot of rifle fire on the shore and a lot of whoops and yelling on shore. I surmised the two rafts we had cut loose had washed into shore.

After that it became very quiet and very lonely. There wasn't much conversation because everybody was scared and were perhaps praying. I started a muffled conversation about when we would probably be rescued. I concluded that Island Command wouldn't come until about daylight to pick us up with the PBY. The nearest island with no Japs on it was Finney Island but it lay about 11 miles or more toward the northeast. I was also worried that since we were only about 90 to 100 miles from Rabaul they might send a torpedo boat to capture us. The crew's morale was very low as the hours dragged on. One thing did help, we could see we were getting further off shore. At the rate we were going I thought we might be two or three miles off shore by daylight.

Time dragged on so slowly in the following hours and conversation got even less. In the solitude I took time to thank our Shepherd for the signal and the patches that seemed to be holding excellently.

Several hours had elapsed when I got an uneasy feeling. I sensed something was in the area but I couldn't see nor hear anything. I told the men. I said, "Let's get out in the water quietly,

something is coming." After all were in the water I gave the instructions. "If there is a shot fired, duck under the water and swim out like the spokes of a wagon wheel as far as you can and keep on going toward Finney Island. I'll see you in the morning." It was about then I could make out the mast of a torpedo boat. There was a radar dome on the mast. The question was, could anybody remember from recognition class seeing a Jap torpedo boat with a radar on the mast? No one could remember seeing one for certain but there was one slowly coming toward us. I told the crew to get ready to dive, take a big breath of air. I took the little one-cell flashlight we had used to signal the PBY and made one quick on-off flash. Over the slight swish of the waves against the raft I heard, "Did you see that?" and it wasn't in Japanese. I quickly blinked two more times. I then heard, "Watch out, it might be a trap." As the torpedo boat slowed up to us I was looking up the barrel of the 40mm cannon mounted on the foredeck. The first words spoken, "Quiet." Then a rope ladder was lowered from the bow and the crew started to climb aboard. I came up last and pulled all the rafts up since they didn't want to leave a trace in the water. Upon scrambling aboard we were ushered into the cabin which was dark whereupon someone whispered, "Where's the pilot?" I said, "That's me." A firm hand grabbed my by the shoulder and pulled me through the cabin door. Once inside, the door closed and the light came on. The same firm hand spun me around and as our eyes met there was instant recognition. "Arty!" I exclaimed. "Kenny," he shouted, and the two grown men broke into tears of joy as they hugged each other. Neither had seen or heard from the other since that day in the Iowa University swimming pool where we both nearly washed ot because neither of us could pass the swimming test. Only by

the generosity of the program commandant, Navy Captain Hannerhan, who allowed we could pass if we could float for five minutes in the pool. He remarked, "That ocean is pretty big and no one has swam across it yet."

Arty and I had each gone to different "E" bases for flight training and had not been in touch since that day in July of 1942. Arty had washed out of flight training but had stayed in the Navy and become the second officer on a PT or torpedo boat.

After a minute or so hugging, Arty said, "I've got to tell the skipper who we've rescued. Here, get in this bunk." A boat crewman handed me a soup-bowl full of hot coffee in which he must have dumped a cup of sugar, it was like syrup. As I started to drink the coffee they fired up the other two engines on the boat and I had coffee all over my sea-soaked flight suit. I nearly fell to the deck but managed to catch the side of the bunk. The crewman who had given me the coffee took the bowl and refueled it and brought it back to me. Due to the speed we were going and the rough seas I spilled most of that. I crawled into the bunk but the pitching and rolling of the boat kept tossing me out on the deck. Finally the boat crewman put a sideboard on the edge of the bunk so I couldn't fall out. My crew had been put in other bunks somewhere but I knew they were being well cared for. It was a long rough ride the 190 miles back to Green Island. There was time for prayers of thanksgiving after which, in a state of exhaustion, I must have slept.

When we got to the boat dock at home base it was about daylight. There must have been fifty or more of our friends there, each of whom had a bottle of booze and wanted us to have a drink with him. The doctor or flight surgeon wouldn't stand for that so we were taken to sick bay which was a nice clean Quonset hut, compared to our quarters that were cargo tents stretched over a frame to hold them up in the wind and rain. There, each of us had to drink a little bottle of Lejeune brandy, that's the Navy's cure-all tonic.

It was hard for us to settle down or sleep because we were so excited at surviving that ordeal. I'll admit I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer thanking our Shepherd for bring my crew and me through this with no serious injury.

All of a sudden, "Caboom!" the quonset hut shook and all of us were sitting upright on our cots. A second, "Caboom!" and everything shook again. I never saw the doctor run so fast out the door. What was happening was an anti-aircraft firing drill. The 90mm anti-aircraft gun was only about 100 feet from the hut. They didn't know that we had just been rescued and of course stopped when told of our experience. That scare had excited us so much there was no way we could go to sleep now.

In an hour our skipper, Lt. Col. Anderson and several other officers came in to see us. After finding us so wide awake and in good shape the doctor said, "If you're not going to sleep you might as well go back to your areas," which is what we wanted to do anyhow.

When I got to officers' country I learned the thrill to the whole squadron when the black cat relayed the message to the skipper in the PBJ and he relayed "Seven OK" to the PT boat. The black cat didn't have compatible radio frequencies and the skipper had relayed our position and all to the PT boat.

In the officers' club was an old radio taken from a wrecked plane. We often listened to Tokyo Rose because she had later news than we had, although slanted. The night before, officers and enlisted men were welcome in the club to listen to what was going on about the rescue. When the message "Seven OK" was heard the area went wild, and again when the PT boat reported all seven rescued.

I also learned that the PBY black cat was making its final sweep when I fired the tracer bullet that showed them where we were in the water. I also learned that it was my leader Bill who had to go on single engine because a .22 caliber rifle bullet had hit a return oil line and he lost engine oil pressure. It was a grand home-coming. Next morning at the mess hall many friends and pilots gathered to ask questions about what we did, thought, felt, etc. including Joe Foss. Kenneth G. Myer Maj. U.S.M.C.

Map is with photos
 
 

Memories of VMB-423

The Phantom

One of my most vivid combat memories was sighting an enemy airplane over Rabaul at night. Two things I'm sure of: we were over Rabaul and it was night. We were on a night heckling mission dropping our 14 one hundred-pounders whenever we saw a light, which presumably indicated some sort of activity by the Japanese. According to our briefings, the Japanese had aircraft and pilots, but very little fuel. So we didn't expect to encounter any aerial opposition.

However, in the midst of our three hours over the target area in the middle of this November night, my tail gunner, Ralph Love, called me on the intercom and said, "Lieutenant there's an airplane on our tail." Knowing that there were to be no friendly planes in the area, we assumed this was a "Jap." My response to Ralph was, "Keep an eye on him and if he comes any closer, open fire." Immediately I began evasive action of diving and turning. The evasive action worked. We never saw him again.

Of course, I never did see him but was convinced that Ralph did. It was not until after the war that I began to wonder whether Ralph actually saw an enemy airplane. I wondered if he became worried and "saw" the source of his worry. Or perhaps, his eyes were playing tricks on him. I haven't been able to discuss this with Ralph, because I lost contact with him.

Strangely enough, my mother wrote me a little while after this incident and told me she had awakened from her sleep one night about this same time with the premonition that I was in danger. My logical mind tells me she awoke because she was worried about me. If you believe that people, especially mothers, sense such things, you could conclude that I was in danger. The phantom sighting and her awakening could hardly have been at the same time, because the middle of the night in Rabaul would have been mid-day in Illinois. At this point it makes no difference what actually happened, but it's interesting to speculate.

Mistaken Identity

Another somewhat similar incident happened to one of my squadron mates. I hope he tells the story, but if he doesn't, here is the story as I remember it. When one of our flight crews went on station for a heckling mission over Rabaul, one of his crewmen spotted a plane on their tail. The tail gunner opened fire and the plane turned away.

Only after they returned to Green Island did they learn what had happened. The plane turned out to be a Ventura Bomber (PV-1), also based on Green, flown by a New Zealand crew. The gunner had been very accurate. The bullets went through the windshield into the co-pilot's seat of the airplane. Fortunately, no New Zealander was injured, because there was nobody in the right seat. The New Zealand flight crew had only one pilot.

The rest of the story is that the New Zealand pilot for some reason or other stayed on target after he was supposed to leave. That seemed pretty dumb to us, because we knew that only one plane at a time was suppose

d to be on target. Perhaps he was new and had not been properly briefed. I'm sure he needed no further briefing.

There's another part of this story I still find amazing. I found myself admiring the New Zealand pilots for flying the PV without a co-pilot. I flew that beast in operational training and found it the most difficult airplane I ever flew, especially to take off, because of extremely high torque. It was even worse than the C-46, or R5C, as we knew it.

My Greatest Flying Experience

One of the biggest thrills in my flying career was flying the Pacific from San Francisco (Fairfield Suisun Army Air Corps Base). For a southern-Illinois farm-boy, who had never been more than 30 miles from home until he was almost through high school, flying across the pacific was momentous. My crew was one of the first to go overseas as a replacement crew. One year to the day after I got my wings, we took off from Fairfield Suisun at 9:30 pm April 27, 1944 with 1,650 gallons of gasoline at maximum gross weight of 34,500 pounds. The plane had been stripped of armor and armament to lighten it so we could carry full bomb-bay tanks of fuel.

Actually, we had tried April 25th. When we were about two hours out, we were ordered to turn around and return to base. The reason was they had calculated that the winds were too unfavorable and we might not have sufficient fuel to reach Honolulu. I was happy with that decision for another reason. We were to navigate by radio ships and the stars. We were flying in heavy rain which made celestial navigation impossible.

That first night was a tragic one for one of our flight crews. As we approached the coast on our return, we had been instructed to do a "dance" which was an identification procedure of prescribed turns for the controllers following us on radar. We did that and were instructed to fly between Sacramento and the Base for about three hours to lighten our fuel load to a safe landing weight. After landing at about five in the morning, we learned that George's plane had disappeared. It turned out that he did the "dance," but the controllers apparently didn't watch him any more. We found out six weeks later that the airplane had been found crashed in the mountains north of San Francisco.

I had my theory as to what happened based on my flying instrument training flights with George back at Cherry Point. He seemed to blank out every once in a while. I think he may have had a mild seizure disorder, which was undiagnosed. One thing I couldn't understand was how his co-pilot, a sharp pilot, could have let him fly into a mountain. Perhaps there was equipment failure instead of pilot error.

On the night we went, the skies were clear, a good thing, too, because we could not receive the radio ships' signals. My navigator, fresh out of navigation school when we left Cherry Point in early March, practiced a bit at El Centro on engine run-in flights. The Air Corps bomber crews flying to Honolulu were assigned full-fledged commissioned navigators from the Air Transport Command, their bombigators, as we called them, also commissioned, did not navigate their airplanes to Honolulu. The Air Corps pilots expressed some sympathy for us having to fly the ocean with such inexperienced navigators.

About half-way across I was reminded of their concern. Relying only on celestial navigation,

my navigator with some uncertainty said to me, "Lieutenant, according to my calculations we are 60 miles north of course." I suggested we hold the same heading and check our position one hour later. At that time he announced, with a fair degree of confidence, "We are now 100 miles north of course." He gave me a new heading and we hit Molokai Island as planned, precisely at the ETA.

The flight was successful in every way. The Army Air Corps controlled us completely and well. They assigned us staggered altitudes (8,500 feet for me) and takeoff times at fifteen-minute intervals. We were to maintain 175 MPH true airspeed for which they gave us suggested power settings. Our plane was able to maintain the prescribed airspeed on less than the suggested power settings. I cannot recall the exact power settings but near the end of the flight we were using approximately 22 inches of manifold pressure and 1550 RPMs. After 12.6 hours in the air, we landed about 7 am at Hickam Field with 350 gallons of gasoline, enough fuel for another four hours.

After our planes were re-armed and re-armored, we continued on, all daylight flights. Palmyra island was six hours south; Canton five hours southwest; Funafuti four hours southwest, and Espiritu Santos another five hours southwest. Canton is about 200 miles southeast of Howland Island, Amelia Earhart's destination when she was lost.

There's an interesting story about another PBJ crew on this same itinerary. A little after the point of no return to Espiritu Santos, one engine failed. To reduce weight so they could sustain flight, the pilot ordered all excess baggage including personal effects to be jettisoned. The co-pilot was in the navigator's compartment behind the cockpit throwing things out the bottom hatch. His fountain pen fell out of his vest pocket, and he dutifully and without thinking kicked it out the hatch.

We spent 10 days in Espiritu Santos with VMB-413; they were resting a few weeks after operating out of Sterling Island against Rabaul. On June 27th we flew to Guadalcanal, which we all wanted to see, refueled, flew to Sterling Island and on to Green Island to join 423. We learned soon after our arrival that Captain Edmonds and all his crew had been killed in a crash the night before on a landing approach. Captain Edmonds had been an instructor in SNVs, basic trainers (not so affectionately known as Vultee Vibrators) at Pensacola when I was there. He must have had a lot of single-engine time, perhaps too little multi-engine time.

Immediately upon arrival at Green we found out there really was a war on. At Barber's Point NAS, Honolulu, the Navy technicians had painted emblems on mine and Tom Taylor's airplanes. They each showed a bomb hitting a Jap in the belly. Our planes were named the Unexpected and the Uninvited. Those emblems were painted over. The Air Corps had emblems on their planes, but not the Navy or the Marine Corps. After a pleasant tour of the Pacific, we had joined the fight.

A Touch of Home on Green Island

Dear Ned:

Enclosed find three pictures. The one with Bob's tent pals while in the service, the other of the reunion.

Bob was pleased and enjoyed all the reunions. He never spoke too much about the service.

One thing, his mother sent him petunia seed and he said they grew very tall and he had a lattice for them by the tent. I used to have a picture of it but can't find it.

I recall a very nice reunion at Pensacola.Best to all, Marion Nicolodi
 
 

Recollections

As I look back on my experiences with VMB-423, I cannot disregard the good times I had when our crew visited Australia for the first of two trips. They were called R&R.

The stay consisted of a myriad of first-time happenings for many of us. They began from the time we took off from Green to our stopovers in Port Moresby and Townsville to our final destination at the cosmopolitan city of Sydney.

I think the hallmark of our stay was meeting the citizens of that lovely country. When we landed we did not look like the typical parade-ground Marine. On the contrary, we were weary, unshaven, had impetigo, yellow from atabrine, and our flight clothing looked unkempt. We were a disheveled bunch. But we were accepted immediately.

The one good thing we had going for us were great expectations. Why, I am not certain. But they were satisfied. The natives took us under their wings and by the end of our ten-day sojourn, we knew what friendship was all about.

As I look back I can see us paying for services rendered with cigarettes, boyish charm, and an unrelenting urge to have the time of our lives. I suppose what was one of the more important things was that the wistful memories of our family and friends back home were set aside for a few moments to enjoy life with newly found friends. The Australian people loved us and we them. George (Phil) Phillips, Corporal, USMCR

Big Foot

Big foot was a native coast watcher, and being a coast watcher it was his responsibility to notify the intelligence officer on the base of the movement of any enemy ships or ground forces in the area. The coast watchers moved around from island to island and were aware of more activities than anyone else. Big foot was a short, stocky, barrel-chested fellow, coal-black, and almost always wore a cheerful smile.

One time, Big Foot took me out into the jungle to teach me jungle survival. After a day's hard labor of pushing and hacking our way through jungle, stepping over roots and tree trunks and wet spots, I realized I was starving. I told Big Foot in the combined Pidgin English and gestures we used that I was hungry and there was nothing to eat around here, and that we should get back to the base.

Big Foot turned around and said to me, "Plenty of food here. Good food."

I said, "Show me," thinking he might shinny up a tree and throw down some wild fruit that I hadn't noticed, like mangoes or breadfruit or papayas

He walked up to a dead decaying tree lying on the ground, took out his machete and slashed it a couple of times.

He put his hands in the hole he had cut into the tree and pulled out a handful of something that I could not immediately identify. The proud look on his face said, "Lo and behold here is our dinner!"

Then I realized that what he held in his hands were beetle grubs. He saw that my expression was not one of joy, but something quite the opposite. He told me to try one, and demonstrated by eating first a single one and, apparently finding it delicious, he ate several massive handfuls of the white, writhing bodies and gestured to me to do likewise.

I regret to say that I then let out a curse word and told him where to go. I found it hard to believe that people would eat such creatures. Then, I told myself that I was mistaken about having felt starving a few minutes earlier. I was merely hungry. In fact by now I was just barely hungry.

When we finally got back to the base and the mess hall, I sat down and ate my fried bologna and powdered eggs, gratefully.

I have told this story since and some people say they would have tried the grubs. Others say "No way!"

What would you have done?

I was born and raised in Carteret, N.J. and still enjoying living here with my family and life-long friends.

Mary, my wife of 46 years, and I have a wonderful family, two sons - Anthony Jr. and his wife Donna and our handsome 22-year-old grandson, Anthony III [A.J.] -- and Wayne, our second son and his wife Lisa and our delightful 41/2-year-old granddaughter, Danielle.

Grandchildren have a special way of keeping our hearts young, even though the rest of our bodies don't always do the same.

Semper Fi to all my Marine buddies and may God keep you all well. God bless you. Tony
 
 

Photographers' Gallery
 
 

We bobbed like a cork for thirty days...

Some of the things I remember are...

We left San Diego Harbor aboard the SS Extavia some time in January 1945. 2,000 replacements headed for various assignments. Soon after departure we had a wonderful lunch and were enjoying smooth, comfortable ocean travel __ two hours later we passed the end of the breakwater and 2,000 fresh troops hit the railing. You have never seen so many sick men! We rocked and rolled for thirty days. The ship was a converted freighter and people weigh a lot less than she was designed to carry, so we bobbed like a cork for 30 days.

As we crossed the equator we were initiated into Royal Order of King Neptune's Court. (There is a name for this ceremony of equator crossing, which I can't recall.) This required crawling through a passageway and being blasted with a fire hose while those who preceded came back to whack you on the butt as you crawled into the blast. Finally, you were required to kiss King Neptune's big toe which was liberally coated with rancid grease.

Upon arrival at Green Island, as one of a group of replacement pilots, we were assigned to our quarters and we unpacked. Fred Reinmiller, (a tall Oklahoman who had been at Pearl Harbor 12/7/41 and then got assigned to pilot training) couldn't wait to go across the lagoon to find some native girls. He convinced Nicholas, from Iron Mountain or Escanaba, to go with him. They got a rubber raft and started across. Well, they had no idea how far it was nor how hot the sun was (or that native girls were off limits). Nicholas was okay, but Freddie was burned to a crisp. He spent 3 weeks in sick bay, not even being able to stand a sheet touching him.

An Aussie who was leaving the Island gave me a little Scotty dog, complete with her registration papers. She was a well_bred dog and a lot of companionship. I was sorry to have to leave her, either on Green or Emirau. I still have her papers.

I finally discovered at the last reunion how I came to fly as co_pilot on Col. Anderson's 100th mission. Al (can't remember his last name) was laid up in Sydney with the hives!

In August we took two old airplanes back to Ewa to pick up two new planes. I was asked to try to find whatever I could to help repair our ground vehicles. We needed tires, batteries, transmissions, differentials, carburetors, everything. I went from depot to depot all around Ford Island signing phony names and squadron numbers, telling everyone that my requisitions were lost or misplaced. I thought for years that if they ever caught up with me I would spend time in Leavenworth.

While at Ewa the war ended and I was able to call Ft. Wayne and talk to Laura. What a feeling -- and I can still talk to her every day! We had our 56th wedding anniversary 12/27/99. We are blessed!

We flew back to Mindanao (the squadron had moved up while we were in Hawaii). While there I once flew Moose Krause, our group recreation officer (later Notre Dame's Athletic Director), and our ball team up to Manila to play Peewee Reese's team.
 
 

Recollections By Bill Rogers, Tail Gunner

One thing I remember is...

Col. Anderson was flying the plane and Ned Wernick, who was a turret gunner, climbed down from the turret and turned off the oxygen. Just then, Col. Anderson motioned to him with his thumb to get back up to the turret.

(Ned explains: I noticed the O2 regulator indicated that O2 was flowing. I thought that at 9,000 feet no one would be using it, therefore it must be leaking. So I turned it off. Immediately, I felt Col. Anderson's hand on my wrist and looked up and saw his oxygen-masked face. With his thumb he pointed up toward my turret. I retreated. End of story.)

High Protein Bread

I was a baker's helper when one day, to my surprise, I found little black bugs in the flour. I called this to the attention of the baker. He said, "Just mix the dough and forget it."

So you see you ate quite a lot of bugs when you were on the islands.

A Happy Christmas Memory

This happened after the war but is worth relating. Ned Wernick, then a young Jewish lad from New York City and enrolled in college in the mid-west, visited Helen and me and our very young son on Christmas Eve quite a few times after the war. At the time of the first such visit, we were in the habit of waiting until Christmas Eve to decorate our tree, so we invited Ned to put the first ornaments on the tree. Helen and I opened the box of Christmas tree balls and handed it to Ned. Ned looked at the ornaments in the box, then looked at the tree, looked back at the box, back at the tree... as he just stood there, we realized he didn't know what to do or how to go about it, so we each took an ornament out of the box and hung it on the tree, and then Ned was able to follow suit. He not only enjoyed helping us decorate the tree that night, he even attended Midnight Mass with us!
 
 

Remembering

After boot camp, I was sent to radio school at Texas A&M College in College Station, Texas. It was a revelation for a kid from Queens to see this different world, where every passing Aggie greeted me with a friendly smile and a "howdy." To the best of my recollection, this was the first college campus I had ever been on. On Christmas eve, 1942, I was on guard duty outside our dormitory (barracks) at the college. It was dark, around midnight, and the sky was bright with stars. A train whistle blew in the distance, long and lonesome, and I heard a voice say, "Train goin' east." That sent a pang of homesickness through me that I still remember.

While at advanced radio school in NATTC Memphis, I reported to sick bay one morning with a sore throat. Everyone who did so that day, or perhaps that week, was examined for scarlet fever, which they had an epidemic of. That's what I had. I was out of commission for a month and worst of all, to me, I fell behind my classmates and had to pick up a new class. Looking back, I suppose if I hadn't gotten scarlet fever, I would have ended up in an SBD or TBF squadron or in VMB-413. Fate seems to play a big part in the life of a Marine.

My first flight ever was in a PBY, in operational training in Jacksonville. The pilots had just earned their wings and they were learning, too. The PBYs landed in and took off from the St. John's River, which ran right alongside the air station. Aircrewmen took turns acting as beaching crews. We'd push the PBY's big wheels from the parking ramp into the river and swim with them to the aircraft and attach them (there was a Port team and a Starboard team), so the PBY could be towed by tractor up the ramp and out of the water. I believe that to this day I still have some of that river fungus growing in my ears.

On that first flight, one of the more experienced crew members told me to give a test count on the intercom, and handed me the "mike." I thought it was a mighty strange mike, and before I got to "three" realized everyone was laughing -- I was talking into the relief tube.

Gunnery practice from the PBY was great. I remember standing out in the open at the nose gun, wearing goggles and helmet a la World War I, and being careful to shoot at the towed sleeve and not at the tow plane. We flew to Boca Chica and other islands in the Florida keys and I saw for the first time what the color aquamarine meant. The water was clear and beautiful. I was accustomed to seeing the dark murkiness of Jamaica Bay waters and was amazed by this!

After joining VMB-423, we spent a lot of time on the flight line before each flight, at least while at Edenton. Some of the activities I remember were draining water out of the fuel lines through petcocks, safety-wiring the petcocks back into the closed position, opening and closing cowlings with Zeus fasteners - everything we did and saw was new to us. And pulling the PBJ's props through on a cold morning was real exercise. We stood by with fire extinguishers while the engines were started because fuel leaking out of the exhausts would sometimes ignite. Once, I was standing by with the fire bottle and as the engine caught, flames came out of the exhaust. In my haste to use the extinguisher, I started to run through the spinning prop. Someone grabbed my arm just in time.

I remember, during training flights, cruising near beautiful, towering formations of cumulus clouds, colored every shade from white to pink to purple by the slanting sun, and being entranced... and getting caught and tossed around in a thunderhead and hoping the wings wouldn't come off... the difficulty of sending morse code when going through turbulence... flying down inside the the Grand Canyon, below the rims... and the mixed feelings of dread and excitement when I sat in the PBJ's plexiglass nose during a landing... and being airsick time and time again and fighting it by concentrating on the radio or radar.

While we were in El Centro, an ordnance man was boresighting a machine gun in the nose of a PBJ and inadvertently fired a round which struck another PBJ that was parked on the ramp. That PBJ burned to the ground and left nothing but a pile of ashes.

The tent our bunch lived in at Stirling, recently vacated by VMB-413 crews, had a sign on it that read "Tortilla Flats." Having been a John Steinbeck fan, I thought that was neat.

For a while we used to take a case of empty beer bottles along on our night heckling missions and drop a few from the rear hatch in between the real bomb drops. It was said that the bottles made a whistling sound, and could be demoralizing to the Nips below. Actually, who knows? Nowadays I wonder if those Nips thought we were drinking on the job.

Sometimes on heckling missions there were no signs of life in the target area. On one such mission, our pilot turned on his landing lights to see what would happen. It quickly brought the searchlight and AA crews into action! That experiment wasn't repeated.

Medium altitude bombing missions, flown in formation, were to me the most harrowing flights of all. We had to maintain a straight and level course for several minutes so that the bombardiers could get the bombsights lined up with the targets, and that's when the anti-aircraft gunners would zero in on us, especially over Kavieng, where the AA always seemed the worst. It was scary to be flying into and around the little black puffs of smoke. I remember being surprised that you could smell the gunpowder from the bursts so strongly. The Chaplain who said "there are no atheists in foxholes" could have added "or in bombers under fire."

Low-altitude missions were exciting -- things seemed to happen faster and you could see in close-up detail what was on the ground, even though it was streaking by the waist gunner's window so fast. On these missions, we all got to fire our machine guns at targets of opportunity and, being just boys, we enjoyed that thoroughly.

One of our PBJs disappeared on a night mission and our crew was sent up to try to establish communications or to see what we could see, but for some reason during the entire search I could never contact the base at Green. Even though I checked and double checked, I've always suspected I was transmitting and receiving on the wrong frequency. In any case, our silence caused a lot of anxiety back at Green, and I was a very unpopular radioman, and a very glum one, when we returned to base.

One time, we were returning to Green and had feathered one prop and were having trouble maintaining altitude. The pilot told us to jettison everything heavy we could. Reams, Klepaczyk and I worked as fast as we could to throw things out the rear hatch -- machine gun barrels, radio receiver coils and anything else we could detach from the plane, heavy or not, except our parachutes and survival gear. The guys up front did the same. We just made it back.

After a mission, we'd be "issued" a coke and a one-ounce bottle of brandy. I'd always trade my brandy to Lefler for his coke. It was my preference, but he thought that was a real cool deal.

During spare time between missions, in addition to doing our laundry and making the camp comfortable, many of us explored what we could of the island, played cards, shot the breeze, cleaned guns, played softball and volley ball, fished, swam, visited the radio shack, etc. But my favorite spare time activity was reading. Some organization, I don't know which, provided us with hundreds and hundreds of paper-back books; everything, I think, from classics to mysteries to adventures to westerns. Those books provided a welcome escape from boredom and from depressing thoughts.

While we were at Green, I heard that Captain Wilhite had become eligible to join the quarter-century club. I was amazed to learn what an old guy he was!

Something we brought back with us, besides memories and experiences, were friendships. We shared laughter and sorrow and fears and boredom and frustration with guys who were very different in superficial ways (city boys and country boys, northerners and southerners, easterners and westerners), but sharing and reacting to the same experiences made us realize that we had a lot more in common than we had separating us. Sometimes, however, the superficial differences were quite significant. For example, a lesson I learned early in my Marine Corps career was never to sit in on a poker game among guys with southern accents. They look and sound so friendly and innocent!

I can never reminisce about those days without thinking about the boys we left behind. These are sad memories and the same old questions echo in my mind, over and over again: Why? Why them and not me? Those questions never really go away, but I realize now that that is as it should be. The highest tribute we can pay these young men, our friends and comrades, is to remember them and to think about what they gave their lives for.

Memories of VMB-423 Photo Lab

The VMB-423 Photo Department was formed when the Squadron was commissioned in 1943 at Cherry Point. Photo officers were 1st Lt. Michael J. Bosak and 1st Lt. Ralph P. "Bubba" Jones, both pilots. The original photographers were harry J. "Pat" Ryan, Edward J. Leonard and Paul R. Schell, all graduates of the Naval School of Photography at Pensacola, Florida. Their job was to take pictures of Squadron activities and personnel, and accompany the crews on their flights and record the bombing missions, and then process the photos for official reports and records. Most of the missions were over Rabaul and sections of New Ireland and we had our share of dodging the "flak" and an occasional Jap plane.

We worked and spent much of our extra time together, even going on liberty together - - if and when we could get "cut loose" from the Photo Lab. Lt. Bosak had secured a Photo Trailer for us and we used it for mixing chemicals, processing the films we shot and making prints for the records. We had a tent attached to the trailer and it was used for drying the long rolls of aerial camera film and prints and keeping records, and generally lounging around.

We were joined at Green Island by Paul Lantzer, who transferred from the VMB Photo Squadron at Guadalcanal. Also joining was George Yates, who was classified as a "striker" and he filled in on missions and did extra work around the Lab.

We accompanied the planes and crews, mainly on daylight missions, both Medium Altitude and Low Level runs.

Eddie Leonard was on the plane when 1st Lt. Kenneth Meyer and his crew were shot down during a low-level run on New Ireland and ditched in the ocean. All got out before the PBJ sank, and they floated on their rafts for several hours until being rescued by a PT Boat that came all the way from Green Island. It was probably the most harrowing experience any of the photographers had.

We all had our R&R leaves to Sydney, Australia, and joined with other crew members in having great times and seeing another section of the Pacific.

When the replacement photographers were assigned in December, 1944, we were rotated back to the United States in January, 1945, along with other crew members. After our 30-day leave we were assigned to various Marine Air Stations where we spent the rest of our time until the War ended and we were discharged from the Corps.

The tour of duty with VMB-423 was a truly wonderful experience. I cherish my memories of the great times I had with members of a great Squadron.

Semper Fi ---

...Friends Through the Years

Please excuse printing as I do not have a typewriter - So hope you can read this.

Enclosed are pictures sent to Ken at our home in Scottsdale, a favorite visiting place.

The Nicolodi family (Mr. & Mrs.) visited in Scottsdale a couple of times.

Of course the O'Shaughnessys are living in Sun City. Dick Shepherd did live in Mesa but we have not seen him in years - just visited him at his home at that time.

Remained friends with these folks thru the years.

Loren was always known for "brushing his teeth" and he joked about Nicolodi grinding his teeth in his sleep.

What year pictures taken - unknown.

Seasons Greetings, Trudy Sheckler
 
 

The Worst Landing ...

Charles Milone told me about the recollection he contributed to the VMB-423 book of memories. My story is a continuation of one of his: On one of our night_heckling missions, our tail gunner, Ralph Love, reported a strange aircraft on our tail. Charles immediately took evasive action _ there were lots of clouds _ and asked me to radio in a bogey report. We never saw the bogey again and were never sure whether Ralph was imagining things or just wanted to liven up the evening.

That was the end of the tale for me until on board the USS Young America, returning home. During a conversation with an Army Lieutenant, he brought up an alert incidence relative to a "bogey report". We compared dates and it had to be my radio message back to Green that had been picked up on Bougainville. They thought the bogey was following us into Bougainville, put the whole island on alert and shut everything down. Ever since, I have had the satisfaction that, in our own small way, we contributed to the Army's war preparedness. Charles and I thought this would be a fitting sequel to his portion of the story.

Another small incident that remains in my mind _ we had been out on a skip bombing and strafing mission over New Ireland in which one of the planes had been shot down and was in the water being shelled. One plane had an engine shot out and was limping home. We were low on fuel so were returning to Green as fast as possible to gas up and go back. The co_pilot (to be nameless) was landing the plane and as I understand it, decided to drop it and flare only once just above the runway. Unfortunately, we didn't flare and the first bounce seemed forever. When we came to a stop, the fuselage was buckled just aft of the wing and the tires were all blown, but luckily we didn't cart wheel.

We all got out of the plane, happy to be in one piece, when Lieutenant Colonel Anderson drove up in his jeep. In what I considered a masterful understatement, his only comment before driving off was, "That is the worst landing I have ever seen."

Looking Back

It's been so long that I really don't know where to start, so I guess I'll try to just start from the beginning. On November 24, 1942, along with my younger brother, I joined the Marine Corps. He was 17 years old and I was 19 years old. Together we completed Marine boot camp at Parris Island. I was selected to go to ordnance school in Memphis, Tennessee, and he remained at Parris Island. This is significant because I never saw my brother again after leaving boot camp.

My brother, Walter, later completed Marine Paratrooper training and became a Para-Marine. He took part in several South Pacific Island engagements against the Japanese and was killed in action in the invasion of Peleliu Island -- on September 28, 1944. A campaign that was, I feel, unnecessary and a waste of a lot of young men.

In the meantime I was completing ordnance school in Memphis, Tennessee, gunnery school in Norman, Oklahoma, aerial gunnery school in Jacksonville, Florida and then to Cherry Point, where I was assigned to VMB-423. I don't remember when we were assigned permanent crew members but I eventually ended up flying as tail-gunner for pilot 1st Lt. Lynn W. Griffiths and co-pilot 2nd Lt. Edward G. Powers. I'm ashamed to admit that I can't remember the name of our bombardier/navigator. However, I do remember that we lost our original bombardier/navigator when he substituted for another crew on a training mission and they crashed with all hands lost. John Phillips was our turret gunner and Stanley Shaffer was our radio gunner..

Oh, how I remember some of those long submarine search missions over endless miles of water, freezing in the tail of that plane and dreaming of a good hot cup of coffee. On return to base at Green Island, going to the mess hall and taking that allotted 2oz bottle of brandy and having what we called a Coffee Royal.

As I mentioned earlier, we lost our original bombardier/navigator on a practice mission. Well, if you look in the VMB-423 Seahorse Marine Squadron book, on the first page of the flight crew photographs, in the lower right hand corner of the page, you'll see that our crew photograph is the only one with only five members (no navigator). All the rest have a complete crew of six members. When the pictures were taken, we hadn't been assigned a replacement bombardier/navigator. I'm kneeling to the right and John Phillips is kneeling to the left (looking at the photo).

Another thing that stands out in my mind is when we flew those night harassing missions over Rabaul and we had dropped a few bombs here and there to keep them awake and a little nervous, they would turn on a few search lights and probe the sky for us. When they finally found us

in their light beams it was bright enough to read a book in the plane. Kinda scary! Waiting to see if you would be hit next, with flak.

Then, there were those medium altitude raids where, as you approached the target area, you'd see this huge cluster of little black puffs of smoke all around you. Then, you really knew that those damn Japs were trying to kill you. I can remember, at that moment, wondering if and when, kneeling as I was in the tail end of that plane, I was going to get hit, by some of that flak, up my butt. Weird, the things you think about at times like that.

There were times when things seemed not so hectic or scary. Like the time we were returning from one of our missions. I got to wondering what would happen if I reached out and, unexpectedly, manually activated the plane's elevator. I didn't just wonder, though. I leaned out the open end of my plexiglass housing, just barely reaching the edge of the elevator and pulled up on it just enough to make the plane climb a little. Then I heard, over the inter-com, my pilot, Lt. Griffiths, asking our co-pilot, Lt. Powers, "Ed, did you see that?" "What are you doing back there, Stay, having a party or what?" I told him what I had done and he asked me to demonstrate what I could do. I carefully went through some little climbs and dives and he seemed impressed. He jokingly told me that if we ever got our controls shot out that I could bring us in for a landing.

Everything wasn't all bad. When we weren't flying, there was the volley ball games, played by most, with the many skinned knees and hands from falling on the coral ground. Also, the many card games played in the evenings after a shower under the oxygen tank hanging from a tree limb. How about all those little salamanders and lizards that used to run and climb all over and around the tent poles and rafters! No one seemed to mind as long as they didn't get under your netting and into your sack.

Our crew flew 47 combat missions and shortly afterwards was returned to the States where I was given a 30-day furlough and spent a joyful reunion with my family - a mother and father and 11 (eleven) brothers and sisters. Of course, I really didn't see my brothers, for, as I mentioned earlier, one was a Marine killed in action and the other three were still in the service - one in the SeaBees, one in the Army and the youngest brother in the Navy.

After my 30-day furlough I returned to duty and was assigned to a dive bomber squadron as a rear gunner in a Navy SB2C. I trained for several months and was preparing to be sent overseas again when the war ended. Shortly after, I was discharged on February 18, 1946 from Bainbridge, Maryland, with the rank of Sergeant.
 
 

Things I remember

I remember vividly my first sight of Espiritu Santos. I was so impressed, and the impression stayed with me for so long, that in 1986 I wrote to their chamber of commerce. My letter included the following paragraphs:

One day, early in 1942, I was standing on the deck of a ship that was anchored off the shore of Espiritu Santo, New Hebrides. Our ship approached the island on a night that was stormy, with heavy rain. In the blackness, there was nothing to be seen.

As daylight approached, there was a cloud cover that hung over the area like an umbrella. Beneath it we could see the shoreline which was covered with lush vegetation. It seemed somehow unreal to see what appeared to be a tropical paradise while the world was in a state of war with much sorrow and unhappiness.

We landed on the island and found the people friendly and the countryside incredibly beautiful. Unfortunately, I was unable to stay very long but moved on to places less beautiful and less pleasant. That all happened a long time ago. But, through the years, I always thought that one day I would like to return.

I would be extremely grateful if you would find the time to send me whatever information you may have regarding visitors' accommodations. It would also be greatly appreciated if you had available any pictures, maps, historical background, and information on your becoming a republic which I understand occurred in 1980. Congratulations.

Here is their insightful answer:

Tuesday, 11th February, 1986

Dear Mr. Stewart,

Thank you for your interesting and unusual letter of 28th January 1986. It deserves an answer on a personal note and the writer will endeavour to supply it. Although having served in a different theatre of war, we have the same nostalgic memories of places visited a long time ago. Our experience, on revisiting these places has invariably been rather disappointing. Is it because we tend to embellish the object of pleasant memories, or have things changed? Or, maybe, we have changed ourselves? Probably a mixture of all three.

Whatever the cause, Santo, especially the town of Luganville, has changed. Many people, mostly French, have left and many plantations have

been abandoned and are returning to nature. Luganville has become a phantom town.

But the beauty of the island is still there and had it not been for the present economic depression and the decline in tourism (partly due to the high rate of the Vatu to the Australian dollar), Santo might well have its share of tourists. The "Hotel Santo" is a good place, not quite of international standard, but clean and with good beds. The (French ) restaurant of the hotel is excellent. There is no other comfortable accommodation. Across the Channel, on Bokissa Island, is a resort hotel of which people speak well. There is no luxury, but the people who have been there and stayed in one of the bungalows and have eaten there, are full of praise.

If you are a diving enthusiast, Santo is the place for you, especially the wreck of the "President Coolidge", a wartime relic. Other points of interest:. Champagne Beach and Million Dollar Point, where the U.S. Marines drove their trucks and other heavy equipment into the sea rather than abandon it intact.

Air Melanesiae has several flights daily to and from Santo. The Company uses small piston_engined Islander, Trilander, Twin Otter and Bandeirante planes (one hour from Vila to Santo).

In the way of literature we cannot offer you anything but the Vanuatu Trade Directory (published by this Chamber) which contains many articles on the history, geography, the people and the economy of Vanuatu. It will be airmailed to you on receipt of your bankdraft (payable in Vanuatu) for US$ 7.00 (postage paid).

If you decide to make the trip, we shall be pleased to receive you at the Chamber's offices.

Yours sincerely,

One thing I remember about Espiritu Santos was going to a place called Charlie's where you could have a steak. It was com- pletely unexpected in that kind of setting.

Other memories...

Helping Lew Merritt build a washing machine that shredded your clothes...

Lifting weights with Val Stachowski and Jerry Hicks... Dynamite fishing with Jerry Ross and Leo Kearney... The day Lt. Beinor used aviation gas instead of kerosene to burn out the heads and near blew himself up.

Writing these recollections has stirred up many humorous and fond memories and I am grateful for that. I lived and worked with a bunch of wonderful guys in VMB-423.
 
 

INTERLUDES WITH THE U S MARINE CORPS 1942_1964

AND THE AEROSPACE INDUSTRY 1942_1977

PROLOGUE

On December 7, 1941, I was a senior in the Aeronautical Engineering Department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, N.Y. RPI did its part for the growing war effort by graduating the Class of '42 a few weeks early. Thus I graduated in May 1942 with a BS in Aeronautical Engineering.

Two of us from the Aero class of '42 had accepted offers from North American Aviation (NAA), Kansas. With degrees in hand we boarded the trusty New York Central RR for the first lap of our journey to Kansas City and NAA Kansas positions as engineer trainees. Naturally this carried with it a 2A draft status, a situation that within a few months was to cause a problem.

NAA Kansas was building B_25's and also had a contract for hundreds of B_29's. Work was not far advanced on the latter program and I suspect the reason for the large number of trainees was that contract. Somewhat coincidental with our completion of the trainee program (with a presumed knowledge of how NAA functions) the B_29 contract was canceled. The Navy had dumped a Boeing flying boat project which made a Boeing plant available and the NAA B_29 program superfluous; this then permitted increased B_25 production, including deliveries to the Navy/Marine Corps. This change had a major effect on subsequent events in my career.

After completing the trainee program,

five of us were assigned to the night shift in scheduling. Over the next few months the Iowa State member of this crew and I talked each other into joining the Marine Corps via their OCS program. At that point I ran into a small problem over the 2A status. The head of the draft board was a friend of my father's and although his son was at that point a senior at West Point, he

had a stated position that no engineer should be in the military. After several exchanges of correspondence I received a telegram from the draft board advising that for a period of 24 hours my draft classification was 1A. Within the 24 hour allotted period the two of us were in the Marine Corps although it was to be November before we reported to Quantico, VA.

MARINE CORPS

In mid_November 1942 some 200 of us Marine "boots" arrived via RF&P (Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac) at Quantico in the middle of the night courtesy of government- provided transportation. Greeted by the DIs we were marched to barracks for the start of a 10-week program to turn us into officers and gentlemen, followed by a 10 week program on how to be an officer. My memory says the Executive Officer, Lt. Col. Bertrand Fay, of this Reserve Officers school was an RPI graduate. Completing this program in early April 1943 1 received orders to Marine Aviation and to the North American Aviation B_25 Field Service School at the plant in Inglewood, California. At this point I will switch to the Navy/Marine designation of PBJ (PB for patrol bomber and J the symbol for North American arising I believe from Berliner Joyce a predecessor company).

The Field Service School was approximately 3 months in duration and hopefully would provide all information on maintaining the PBJ's coming into Marine service. In addition to the maintenance officers attending, there were a large number of Marine NCO's and others being groomed to be PBJ mechanics. Life was difficult for us officers _ we lived on per diem at a Hollywood hotel on Vine Street with an NAA car picking us up each morning and delivering us "home" in the afternoon.

Upon completion of the NAA school, orders sent me to Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS), Cherry Point, North Carolina. Reporting in at VMB_413 (V for heavier than air, M for Marine, B for bomber, and 413 the squadron number of the first of the PBJ squadrons commissioned 1 March 1943), 1 found something like a dozen engineering (maintenance) officers, perhaps a similar number of pilots, several NCO's and few enlisted personnel and not more than one airplane. But almost immediately things started moving rapidly. MAG 61 (Marine Air Group) was commissioned 13 July 1943, as the administrative focus of all PBJ squadrons. The surplus engineering officers were transferred to MAG 61 where I immediately acquired a secondary MOS (military occupational specialty) of Motor Transport Officer. Troops, pilots, equipment, and PBJ's arrived daily. VMB_423 was commissioned 15 September, 1943 to which I was transferred as Engineering Officer and Motor Transport Officer, and since the latter function included a fire truck, another title of Fire Marshall was added. In the time between coming aboard VMB_413 and the commissioning of VMB_423, considerable time was spent in Link trainers

Operational training continued at Cherry Point, then transferred to MCAS Edenton, NC, then over Christmas/New Year 43_44 the squadron moved to MCAS El Centro, California. Here, in addition to continued operational training, a number of NAA engineers and mechanics were around making modifications to our aircraft _ the primary one being the addition of four 50 caliber gun packages on the sides of the fuselage. In a round_the_clock marathon all engines were replaced. Bomb bay tanks and crawlway tanks (the bombardier's crawlway space) were added for the additional fuel that would be required for flying the aircraft to Hawaii and on to Espiritu Santo. The ground crews made the move to Espiritu Santo aboard a Jeep carrier.

Next move for the squadron as a complete unit was to Green Island, a small spot of coral north of Bougainville. This move found the Supply Officer and Motor Transport Officer with most of the motor transport crew tasked as rear echelon bringing up all the squadron's gear in one of Henry Kaiser' s best. This was a memorable trip because the Captain of this Liberty Ship had sailed under von Luckner in the German raider Seeadler during World War I. On the bridge every evening he entertained his passengers with tales of those sailing days. Because the cargo had not all been properly loaded in inverse order of unloading and our gear was first on last off, we spent 6 weeks up and down the Solomons with ports of call in order of the required unloading. Upon arrival at Green the Captain looked at the high seas outside the lagoon, decided valor was the better part of discretion, and took his ship into the lagoon _ the first of that size and as far as I know the only one to be anchored in the lagoon. A year later when we left, we loaded outside the lagoon with 8 _ 10 foot seas.

Loading the larger vehicles offshore like this had its exciting moments such as the fender bending incident between our fire truck and a ship's raft support. The distance between these raft supports was not much greater than the vehicle width. For this move to Emirau (north of Green) the transportation troops were again the rear echelon. I have memories of eating a lot of cherries in the time period we were waiting for our cargo ship and loading. Somewhere, someone had found a number of 5 gallon cans of pie cherries.

In mid_July I was eating breakfast one morning when word came that the CO (commanding officer) wanted to see me immediately. In the dark as to what may have been screwed up, I headed to the Colonel's office in high gear. There I was greeted by a smile and the announcement that my orders for stateside were in hand and a flight for Manus (the Marine Aviation Transient Center) was leaving in 10 minutes. Would I be able to make it? I assured the Colonel I would be on that flight. My 2 sets of greens (Marine winter uniform) and a couple bottles of scotch were thrown in my parachute bag, my Marine Corps property dumped on the Supply Officer, and I climbed on board that C47 (DC_3) with time to spare.

Arriving at Manus I found a considerable backlog of personnel awaiting transportation. Within a week, this became sufficiently severe that someone up the line must have taken notice. Anyway, two C46's (Curtiss Commando) were dispatched from MCAS Ewa. By luck of the draw or whatever, I was assigned to the C46 whose pilot was on his final trip before stateside rotation. For this reason he had been given a somewhat free hand as to his routing. The other C46 went directly to Ewa with one stop en route. We lucky ones spent a night at Guadalcanal, a night at VitiLevu in the Fijis, a night in American Samoa (the first white female seen since leaving Santo), a night at Palmyra, and a night at Johnston before arriving at Ewa. The ones on the fast flight were still waiting at Ewa for stateside transportation. Once again, lady luck must have stepped in because while most of those waiting were placed on surface ships, in less than a week I was on a PanAm clipper headed for San Francisco. Arrived there on a memorable date, V_J Day. However, Department of Pacific in San Francisco would not let me out on the street. Instead they loaded me on a train headed for MCAS Miramar (near San Diego). So V_J night was spent on that Southern Pacific train. Took a couple of days at Miramar for the next set of orders to show where I was headed. Back to MCAS Quantico!

Transport to Quantico was not without incident. Government provided transportation selected a TWA Boeing 307B Stratoliner 4 engine aircraft departing Burbank for New York via Chicago. For whatever reason, they blew a main gear tire on landing in Chicago. So I had the pleasure of a night at the Palmer House courtesy of TWA. Next morning the Boeing was still not in service. TWA loaded a B_17 flight crew headed for England, myself, and a considerable amount of cargo on a DC3 which allegedly was headed for New York, but because of fog landed in Philly. After that Murphy's Law went to sleep and without further incident, I made it home for my leave, bought a car, and headed off driving to Quantico. Now in retrospect, with ten 307's built and with only five of the B's going toTWA, and being the first pressurized commercial transport, this flight east may have been more significant than thought at the time.

Upon reporting in at MCAS Quantico, it was finally revealed what was to be my immediate future. In addition to the normal processing paper mill, the new form listing the number of points earned toward release from active duty was completed. Total points indicated a logical expectation of almost immediate orders to inactive duty. Not so! I was assigned to A&R (Assembly and Repair _ a major overhaul facility) as Assistant Engineering Officer replacing the previous Officer who had been released from active duty. Additionally, I was informed the Corps had made a unilateral decision that my retention was essential to the conversion of A&R to Marine Corps Aviation Technical School. So much for the point system.

A&R was still going full bore with overhaul programs. The rush to convert to Marine Corps Aviation Technical School seemed to be abating. As far as the Colonel commanding A&R could determine, I was still declared essential. As time went by, the activity at A&R did begin to slow. It wasn't until March 1946 that I managed to promote orders to inactive duty. The time at A&R must have gone quite smoothly because I remember nothing peculiar or spectacular from that time other than being attached for administrative purposes to an Aircraft Engineering Squadron whose primary function at that time was discharge processing of aviation personnel. That did not take much time except for the times I was tagged as paymaster for what could be several hundred transients being processed through. Interesting spending a large part of the day counting money.