We were just about to call it a day in the
Ready Shack when we got the word. Scout planes had sighted the enemy.
Work to be done.
Back during the long grind of ground school
and even in the last lap of training at San Diego, it had never occurred
to me that I would reach the stage when I could call it just "Work".
But aside from the little lightning playing up and down my spine and
the image of a Zero in my gun sights, it was just routine - routine
born of the best training and the best equipment. Even as we ran to
our planes, there was confidence in the thought. Those planes were
ready, maintained by the best ground crew in the world. When you climbed
in and adjusted your gear, the fighting machine was complete, ready
to spring out over the Pacific blue and with just the pressure of
a finger ready to stitch a seam across the fuselage of a Zero. When
you were neat about, they promptly burst into flames -- and that's
a satisfaction I can't quite describe to you.
We took off in line after the Skipper and
formed up just under a broken overcast at fifteen thousand. It was
dusk, too early for the moon, but enough light was left to bring out
the magic coloring of the scene below - the unbelievable blue of the
ocean, the surf like shifting snows and the breathing green of the
island. The whole scene speaks of an ageless peace, seemingly unaware
of lurking danger under the waters, the thundering menace in the skies
and red-hot death bristling in the undergrowth. All to remind us why
we are here.
Our forces of fighters, bombers and torpedo
planes was ordered out to intercept an enemy task force steaming in
our direction about 120 miles away. "Cash" sighted them first. He
was flying wing on our Skipper, Lt. Comm. L.C. Simpler, and I was
in the wing position (last man on the long leg of the "V"). He called
the Skipper and gave their position. "O K Cash - I see them".
As we went to meet them, I spotted a two-seater
bi-plane below us, at about to thousand and reported. Roy Meyers was
leading our section so the Skipper told him to go after it. Roy peeled
off, made his run on the Jap. I followed at about 150 yards, wide
open, guns going. When I recovered Meyers had gone on after another
and the bi-plane was still flying. You have to catch them just right.
Just then I saw three other wildcats go after
the Jap and Lt. "Fog" Green got him clean. He burst into flames and
went in. That's teamwork. I spotted three other wildcats off to the
right, and seeing no more Japs at the moment, went out to join up
and make a fourth. It's nice to have company up there.
Suddenly I spotted a floatplane below them
and nosed down for a fast high side run. That float fighter could
fly all right, fast and shifty. He maneuvered out of my sights. As
a matter of fact, he did it twice and I was getting a little exasperated.
"I'll just fix you", if I had a thought at the time, that was it.
I had decided to play his game so I recovered from the second run
on his level and came back to meet him head on and wide open. He pulled
up at the last second and I caught him in a turn - good that time.
So intent was I in finishing him off that I barely missed the blood-red
disc on his fuselage. Recovering high to one side, I looked back and
saw him burst into flames and spiral into the Coral Sea, plainly writing
his final chapter down the sky in thick, black smoke. Tell your ancestors
"hello".
Sweeping on to look for the next Jap, my
cockpit suddenly filled with oil fumes and the needle on the oil pressure
gauge settled down to a fatal zero. His rear gunner must have gotten
one through my oil line. I looked down and saw oil flying past the
bombay window - an ominous black stream.
"Finis:" There is no help for busted oil
line in mid-air, except to get as far as can before the motor freezes.
I could see our attacking party ahead and they were doing all right,
great clouds of black smoke billowed up from more than one vessel.
We were doing the job.
I turned back for home, determined to squeeze
every possible yard out of that engine. Remembering that we had passed
a little round island sticking up out of the water like a coconut,
I decided to head for it and radioed a message to the Skipper.
"Alright, Cookson, I hear you". Cookson is
a sort of razz-name, referring to the Cookson Hills of Oklahoma. Jenson
heard me too. "O K, Cookson, I hear you. We'll be around". Good old
Skipper: Good old Jenson: I must remember to tell them that they both
have beautiful voices on the radio. But maybe I'm prejudiced.
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