[NOTE TO READERS: This is one of a series of short stories about my dad’s experiences in WW2, based on his letters, his diary, his pilot’s log book, and the many documents he saved from his time in the Navy and other historical records. Individual conversations and scenes I have invented, though they are informed by the records in my possession. The episode previous to this one, ‘Finishing Primary Flight Instruction,’ as well as the others can be found on this site.]
Between the regular clickity-clack of the wheels over the rail joints, the gentle rocking of the carriage as the train wound its way from Missouri to Florida, and the warmth of the passenger carriage, I reckon I fell into the deepest sleep I’d had for two months.
“Hey, mister, wake up! Sailor! Wake up!”
I clawed back to consciousness as the porter shook my shoulders none to gently. I opened my eyes and as I slowly gathered my wits, I saw that the train had stopped, and there was no one on it except me and the porter.
“This is your stop, suh. We’s at Pensacola.”
I wiped the drool off my chin and struggled to stand, still half asleep. “Thank you,” I mumbled. I stumbled off the train at the Pensacola Depot in predawn darkness, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I think the train must have paused at every whistle stop large enough to have a stop sign. I felt like I was living in my uniform.
The clock over the terminal indicated that it was six fifteen, not yet dawn on this chilly February morning. I decided that if I saw anyone with coffee, I’d mug him and cop the cup. Okay, not really. But I would ask him where he got it.
Finding a bench, I sat for a minute to finish waking up. The first order of duty was to locate some coffee. The second was to find the base, the location of which I had no idea.
My name is Lou Cobb, and I’m a naval aviation cadet. At this point in my enlistment in the Naval Reserve, I had just completed Primary Flight Instruction at Lambert Field, St. Louis. I was transferred to NAS Pensacola to continue my flight training, enroute to becoming a Naval Aviator. I was glad for the transfer. Pensacola was closer to home, it was warmer than St. Louis in February, and most importantly, the largemouth bass fishing in Pensacola was far superior. In other words, when I was transferred to NAS Pensacola, all the really important stuff improved!
I was reporting a day early because I’d get the choice of bunks if I was first in the barracks. I’d also discovered that the rush to get trained pilots into the war meant that the Naval Quartermaster would sometimes run out of gear before the base ran out of cadets. I wanted to make sure I got the stuff I needed.
A porter on the platform noticed me looking around like I was lost, took note of my uniform, and had mercy on me. “There be a diner right down the street, suh, close by. They be servin’ breakfas’ ‘bout now. They gots a real good cook. Sometimes they gives the servicemens a meal for half-price. They good folks what own that diner.”
The mention of food brought me to full alert, and I thanked the man and set off in search of the diner. Didn’t take long, and soon I was seated at the counter ordering breakfast.
A grizzled oldster took the stool next to me. He was built like a tank, deep chest and broad shoulders, muscular arms bare to the elbows. Had a bit of a gut on him, but he looked like a man who could mix it up with the meanest and come out on top. When he ordered breakfast, his Irish brogue was so thick I thought he must have just gotten off the boat.
He nodded his head at the duffle bag under my stool, “It’s for the Naval Air Station you’re headed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know how to get there?”
“No, sir.”
He nodded. “Give ye a ride I will. When do ye have to be there?”
“Oh, thank you, sir. I don’t even know where the base is located. I’m a day early, so I can report anytime today.”
He nodded again. “Well, then, I got time to eat me breakfast.”
I pointed at the tattoo on his right arm, an anchor with a fouled line wrapped around it. “You’re a Chief Petty Officer?”
“Was. Retired. Now I just hang around, see what trouble I can get into. Mostly I haunt the depot here, and when I see sailors get off the train, I run ‘em over to the base. Worked out a deal with the Air Training Command. If I transport at least thirty-five sailors from the depot to the base each week, they let me keep the T-sticker on me pickup truck, which pretty much gives me all the gasoline I need.”
“Swell deal,” I said, knowing how difficult it was to get gas now that everything was rationed.
“Yeah, but I don’t abuse it. Keep me drivin’ to a minimum. A war there is, after all.”
“So what did you do in the Navy?”
“My last duty station was on the USS Mississippi. Managed the black gang; my boys they were, and good ones, too.”
‟Black gang?”
‟Engine room boys. We keep the steam up, shovel coil into the burners, make sure that the engine is ready to respond to orders from the helm.”
“You were on the Mississippi? Isn’t she somewhere on the West Coast now?”
“You’re thinking of the new Mississippi, BB-41. Last I heard of her she was with the Pacific Fleet.” He paused a moment, wiping up the egg yolk on his plate with a piece of toast. “No, me ship was BB-23, the old Mississippi, first of her class. Her keel was laid down in ‘04, but everything back then was advancing so fast she was practically obsolete before she slid off the ways. Small for a dreadnaught by today’s standards. I joined her in ‘09. We spent time with the Atlantic Fleet—mostly as a training ship. Slow as Christmas, she was. Too slow. I think that’s why we pawned her off to the Greeks.” He downed the last of his coffee and slid his cup toward the waitress behind the counter, who refilled it. He turned to study me.
“Gad, they’re robbin’ the cradle nowadays. How old are ye, boy?”
I blushed. “Twenty, sir.” That wasn’t true—I was nineteen until mid-April, but nineteen didn’t sound as grownup as twenty.
He shook his head. “Saints preserve us—recruiting children they are.”
Irritated, I shot back, “Well, how old were you when you joined?”
He grinned and winked. “Seventeen. Told ‘em I was nineteen. Lied to ‘em, I did. Me pa was making things tough at home, so I bailed out early. Forged daddy’s signature on the recruitment paper, and never looked back. It’s been a good life. Do it again, I would.”
We both worked on our breakfasts for a few minutes. The cook finished his orders and walked over, coffee in hand. He pointed at my duffle. “Navy?”
“Yes, sir.”
You might notice I was calling everyone, ‘sir.’ That wasn’t Navy training, that was home training. My dad drilled it into me. “Respect your elders, son. If they’re older ‘n you, doesn’t matter their rank or station in life, doesn’t even matter what you might think about colored folks. It’s sir and ma’am for you. You show respect to your elders, black, white, or purple. Don’t you be mouthin’ off to anyone.”
The cook took a sip of his coffee and nodded at me, “What’s your classification?”
“Aviation cadet. I’m here for Intermediate flight training. If I can pass flight training and carrier qualification, I’ll be flying fighters off carriers somewhere.”
The cook nodded. He pointed at my plate. “Meal’s free, buddy. Luck to you.” He turned back to the grill.
“Wow, thanks, mister!” I said. That was helpful, as my cash was running low at the moment.
My Irish friend piped up. “Hey, what about my meal, Tony?”
The cook scoffed. “You’ve had your day, O’Reilly. You get respect, but no free meals, old man. If I gave free meals to every old salt in Pensacola, I’d be broke tomorrow.”
“Respect and two bits might buy me a cup of coffee, but not much more. Heartless ye are, Tony!” O’Reilly said, winking at me again.
“Beat it, O’Reilly, and take the man-child with you. I gotta make room for paying customers.”
When we finished eating, I followed O’Reilly out and got into his black 1927 Ford Roadster pickup. He was clearly a man who took care of his possessions, for I didn’t see a speck of dust nor rust on the old truck, and it started with a healthy roar when he cranked it.
“I’m forgetting meself, son. Had breakfast with you, don’t even know your name. I’m Bill O’Reilly, and it’s Irish I am. Proud of it, too.”
“Lou Cobb. Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Reilly.”
“Cobb? Hmm, now that name rings a bell, it does. Can’t remember why, though. It will come to me, I reckon.
“So you’re an aviation cadet, are ye? That means we have something in common.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Well, when the old Missy dropped her hook out in the bay in 1914, she was actually here in support of the new aviation training command at Pensacola. In fact, that’s when the Pensacola base became Naval Air Station Pensacola. Actually, back then they called it the Naval Aeronautical Station but some wiser tongues shortened it. We had sailed from Annapolis to Pensy, loaded down with planes, aviators, and all manner of supplies and came here. The ship became the first offices and quarters of the Air Station, because the only thing on the beach at the time was one old storm cellar and lots of sand fleas. The old Missy provided all the facilities until they’d been built on the shore. And then the brass sold that sweet, old, slow boat to the Greeks. Like to break my heart, it did. She might have been slow and obsolete, but a fine ship she was, and a fine company she had.
“So, Cobb, my ship started the very air base you’ll be training at. So I reckon that kind of makes us related, somehow. Guess a little bit of livin’ history I am.”
He drove me around town for an hour showing me the beach, the best bars and restaurants, and the general store. As we approached the air station gates, an SNV trainer passed low overhead, the throaty engine so loud we had to stop talking until it passed.
“That’s it!” shouted O’Reilly, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. He pulled onto the shoulder and stopped the car. “That’s it!” he repeated. “Just remembered why the name Cobb rings a bell. You by any chance related to a Cobb down Bradenton way, a sometime barnstormer and wingwalker?”
“Maybe. My dad’s a barnstormer, and we live in Bradenton. He’s a flight instructor in the CAA-WTS, the Navy’s training pipeline.”
“Speak English, son. What’s the CAA-WTS?”
“It’s the Civil Aeronautics Authority War Training Service. They’re kind of the front end of basic flight training for the Navy.”
“What’s your daddy’s name?”
“D. K. Cobb, sir. Donald Cobb.”
O’Reilly broke into a big grin. “I should smile. I’ve heard of your pappy, son. Seen him wing-walking at an air show several times. A bold, fearless man.”
**********
The MP waved O’Reilly to a stop at the gate and walked over. “Got another one, do you, Bill?”
“Yep, gas for another week, thank goodness.”
“You’ll have to let him out here. They’re tightening security on the base. Some Dilbert thinks he sighted a U-boat off the coast. Probably just an over-excited fisherman seeing a whale or something.”
O’Reilly rolled his eyes and sighed. “Oh, come on! You know me, Parker. It’s Irish I am, not German.”
The MP laughed. “I know, you old salt. But orders are orders. We’re locked down at the moment. Let him out, and then swing around and exit, please. I’m sure things will be back to normal in a week or two.”
O’Reilly looked at me. “I’m afraid this is as far as the bus goes, son. You’ll have to hoof it from here. You need anything, most mornings you can find me at Tony’s diner. If I’m not there, Tony knows how to get hold of me. Good luck, son.”
‟Thanks, Mr. O’Reilly.”
I got out of the truck and shouldered my duffle. After O’Reilly left I walked over to the guard house. “I’ve never been to Pensacola, and I’m not sure where to go. I’m an aviation cadet. Can you give me any directions?”
“Sorry, bub, but no. The base is expanding so rapidly in the aviation section that most of us can’t keep up with the changes. Your best bet is to report to the Officer of the Day in Building 635. He’ll be able to direct you where you need to go. I can at least show you how to get there.”
**********
The barracks to which I was assigned was cold, dark, empty, and brand-spankin’ new. It smelled like fresh paint and damp lumber. I switched on the light and picked a bunk next to a window. I reckoned that most of the guys in this new cadre would show up tomorrow, as I was a day early. After reporting at the flight training headquarters and drawing my gear from the base quartermaster, I returned to the barracks and tossed it on my bunk. No one else had shown up yet, so with time to kill I walked down to the airfield. It was a beehive of activity—planes taxiing, taking off, practicing touch-and-goes, and landing.
Careful to stay out of the way, I strolled along the flight line with a big grin on my face. So far in my training I’d been flying biplanes—the N2S4 most recently, the Navy version of the Kaydet Stearman. It was a fine airplane to learn on, but it had only 250 horsepower to work with. The throaty roar of the SNV I was watching as it raced down the runway told me it had a lot more under the hood than the N2S.
‟Wow,” I muttered.
‟Impressed by the Vultee Vibrator, Cadet? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
I turned around, startled. ‟Sir!” I said, saluting. ‟Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you standing there.”
‟Been watching your fascination with these airships. You’re obviously new here.”
‟Yes, sir. I’m supposed to report tomorrow, but I wanted to get here a little early, learn the lay of the land.”
‟Where are you in the training cycle?”
‟Just finished Primary at Lambert, sir.”
‟What track did you choose?”
‟Fighters, sir. I’m hoping for carrier duty.”
He nodded. ‟We’ll see. What’s your name?”
‟Aviation Cadet Lewis Cobb, sir.”
‟Ensign Bill Winecoff; I’ll be one of your instructors. Welcome to Pensacola. You’ll be in Training Squadron VN2D8-A. We’ll find out if you can cut the mustard.”
**********
By February 6th, the full cadre of aviation cadets had arrived. The next several days at Pensacola were filled with orientation meetings, base rules and regulations, new medical checkups, and other necessary but boring kinds of things. We were very sternly warned about buzzing the residents at low altitude, or frightening livestock. This was called ‘flat hatting’ and had been a favorite activity of pilots until some Dilbert took it too far and managed to stampede a whole herd of cattle. The rancher expressed his outrage to the mayor, who then expressed his outrage to the base commander, who then shared his outrage with all the instructors. Now they were sharing their outrage at us. We were hotly informed that flat hatting could get us drummed out of the aviation program. We were all made to sign statements that we were aware of the prohibition of flat hatting.
On the evening of February 8th we were called together in the squadron room, and Ensign Norm Shelby, one of our instructors, gave us several basic lessons I have never forgotten.
‟Gentlemen, when you fly a Navy fighter, what exactly are you flying?” Ensign Shelby asked. After a pregnant silence, he added, ‟Come on, men, I’m actually looking for an answer. When you fly a fighter for the Navy, what are you flying?”
Ensign Shelby had already logged a combat tour—he’d ‘seen the elephant’ as the saying goes, and we all looked at him with some degree of awe. Flying off the USS Yorktown, CV-5, in the battle of Midway, Shelby had scored two Zekes. He’d also been shot down once and forced to bail out of his flaming aircraft. He was pulled out of the drink by a destroyer several hours later. Shelby was at Pensacola to instruct our cadre of fighter pilots and to train his own four-plane section for his next combat deployment. We all reckoned he’d cheated death, and so when he opened his mouth we listened closely.
‟What are you flying?” he repeated. More silence. We were all thinking ‘a fighter plane’ but that seemed too obvious. Shelby walked over to the instructor’s stool, sat down, and waited for a response.
‟Well, obviously, a fighter plane?” Ted Landrum ventured. None of us wanted the embarrassment of answering incorrectly, but Landrum was one of those devil-may-care guys who wasn’t concerned about how he looked to others. Like me, he was at Georgia Tech when the war started. Ted hailed out of Austell, Georgia, and was one of the better pilots in our cadre. His bunk was next to mine in the barracks, and he and I were fast becoming friends.
Somebody snickered and said ‘Duh, Dilbert’ under their breath. Landrum turned around and grinned at the guy.
‟Nope,” said Ensign Shelby.
‟An F4F Wildcat?” another cadet guessed.
‟Nope.”
‟A very expensive piece of equipment provided by the U.S. taxpayer for which we should do all diligence to bring it back in one piece?” I asked, just for the heck of it.
There was a murmur of chuckles around me. Shelby laughed, ‟Well, yeah, Cobb, but that’s not what I am looking for.”
After a moment Shelby said, ‟Gentlemen, that aircraft you are flying is a flying machine gun. That’s the whole purpose of a fighter aircraft. In the case of the Wildcat and the new Hellcats about to roll off the production lines, you will have six, individually-selectable, fifty-caliber machine guns. And we are going to teach you not simply to fly that fighter, but to wear it like a glove. That flying machine gun must become an extension of your brain, so that no matter the situation, no matter the emergency, your reactions—without thinking—are instinctual, immediate, and correct. You’re going to memorize every performance specification pertaining to your aircraft. You’re going to know it inside and out and upside down. When you are done with Intermediate, you should be able to write the operations manual on that fighter from memory.
‟Now let’s talk about the second most important thing we want you to learn. I’ll start with a question again: what is your main mission at this particular stage of the Pacific war? The details and particulars may change, but your main mission as a fighter pilot will remain the same. What is it?”
‟Kill Japs, I reckon, Sir” drawled Mort Daniels. He was from Wyoming and among other interesting talents, he could actually throw a lasso with deadly accuracy. He practiced on the base commander’s Great Dane, until one day the commander saw him do it. If I remember right, the commander confiscated his rope and gave him latrine duty for a week.
‟Well, Cadet Jones, that is an important part of what you will do, but that’s not your primary mission. Somebody else, what do you think it is?”
We all looked around and shrugged our shoulders.
Shelby answered, ‟Until we establish air-supremacy in the Pacific, a fighter pilot’s main mission—or role, whatever—is as a protector, a sheep dog. You will be launched on CAPs, protecting the ships in your fleet from attack by enemy aircraft. You will be launched on strikes protecting the torpedo bombers and the dive bombers from harassment by enemy fighters. You will be launched on strikes protecting amphibious landings and the grunts on the ground from enemy aircraft.
‟It is vital that you remember this fundamental role as a protector and not be lured off by targets of opportunity. One of the reasons Lee lost at Gettysburg was because Jeb Stuart forgot the cavalry’s role as the eyes of the army. Instead, Stuart was glory-hounding and gallivanting around eastern Pennsylvania, hitting easy targets of opportunity. But he failed in his main mission; consequently Lee lost the battle and eventually the war. You must not fail in your main mission as a protector. When air supremacy has finally been established in your area of operation, your main mission will change, and then you men can take on a very aggressive, offensive strike role yourselves, rather than simply protecting other assets.”
**********
The first order of business for the training squadron was to get checked out in the SNV. The motor produced 450hp, almost double that of the N2S. With that much power, a new pilot could get into trouble a lot faster, and likewise get out of trouble more quickly. Added to the multiple instruments a pilot must pay attention to, the SNV also had a radio (very distracting!) and a propeller capable of two different pitch settings. The airship was also much heavier than the N2S, which gave it more momentum when putting the aircraft through various maneuvers.
In our orientation to Pensacola and the goals of our Intermediate Flight training, the instructors warned us that getting used to the SNV was more difficult than might first appear. But my cadre were all fresh from graduating out of Primary. Cocky and full of ourselves, we knew we had this flying business down pat. I listened to the warnings but was sure I’d be the exception to the rule.
The formal name of the SNV was the Valient. In production terms it was known as the BT-13, ‘BT’ standing for ‟Basic Trainer.’ We all called it the Vultee Vibrator, because in certain flight configurations it had a pretty mean shimmy.
We started flying on Tuesday, February 9. The first phase of our training was just to get accustomed to the SNV and to pass a check ride. I did not do well. The Vultee Vibrator didn’t take long to humble me. After my first ninety-minute flight in the SNV, Ensign Winecoff’s comments on the evaluation sheet were not encouraging: Lands in skids. Airwork rough. I knew I was better than that and looked forward to tomorrow’s hops to show my flying expertise.
On the 10th, we took off on a beautiful cloudless morning. I was intending to demonstrate to the instructor that I was better than yesterday’s miserable performance indicated. Well, that balloon popped almost immediately. ‟You’re skidding, Cobb. More ailerons, less rudder,” Winecoff barked from the back seat. A minute later, ‟Now you’re over-correcting.‟
Frustrated and embarrassed, I muttered under my breath.
‟Beg pardon, what did you say, Cadet?” came the irritated question from the back seat.
‟Oh! Nothing sir, I was just, ah, … coughing.”
When we landed after an hour and a half flight, the evaluation was not particularly complimentary: Skids in turns. Field Approaches very irregular.
The middle part of the day involved several hours of classroom instruction before Ensign Winecoff and I took off for my second hop of the day. It was another dud. Swerves on take-off and does not get stick forward soon enough. Landings rough and wheels first.
The next day, flying dual with Ensign Shelby wasn’t any better: Landings too full stalled. Turns wrapped up. Does not correct for drift..
I wasn’t the only guy with my tail dragging between my legs. The whole cadre was experiencing similar body blows to our unjustified egos. The SNV was a different aircraft, and we were all learning why check rides were necessary when a pilot first flies an aircraft he hasn’t trained in.
That afternoon, sensing the discouragement in the cadre, our instructors gave us the night off and eight-hour passes to leave the base and blow off some steam. I called a cab and headed for Tony’s Diner, the place where I got breakfast when I first arrived. I was glad to see the Irishman, Bill O’Reilly, sitting at the counter when I arrived.
‟Don’t you ever eat at home?” I asked as I sat next to him.
He turned his head and noticed me. ‟Well, saints and angels preserve us. It’s that wannabe Navy flyboy. How are ye doing, son.”
I shook my head. ‟Not so good, Mr. O’Reilly. I haven’t washed out yet, but I fear that I might be headed in that direction.” I picked up the menu and ordered a hamburger.
‟Me memory’s not that great, son. I remember your face—I never forget a face—but I can’t attach it to a name. What do you call yourself?”
‟Lou Cobb, sir.”
‟Oh, right. Yer the son of… of…”
‟D. K. Cobb, the wingwalker.”
‟Right. Now I remember. Yer worried that they’re gonna kick ye out of the program?”
‟Not yet, but if I don’t start flying better they might.”
‟Have they said that to ye?”
‟Oh, no. I’m just afraid they might.”
O’Reilly scoffed. ‟Yer borrowin’ tomorrow’s trouble today, lad. Foolish it is. Did ye ever think your worry might be the very thing gettin’ in your way? Do ye know how to fly, son?”
‟Yes, sir, I do. I know the basics pretty well, but I’ve a lot to learn yet.”
‟Then fly the darn thing and quit yer worryin’. Learnin’ takes time and a fair piece of mistakes before you get it right.”
‟It’s not that simple, Mr. O’Reilly.”
‟Actually, it might be. Are ye scheduled to fly tomorrow?”
‟Yes, sir.”
‟Well then, when ye sit in that cockpit tomorrow, just think about flying that contraption. Don’t think about doing a good job or gettin’ a good grade. Just do what you know. Just fly. I’ll bet dinner next time I see ye, that you’ll do better. If I’m wrong, you buy me dinner. And if you’re wrong, then you can buy me dinner.”
Tony brought my hamburger and a Coke. O’Reilly and I sat and jawed about everything and nothing until Tony was ready to close up.
‟Give ye a ride back to the base, Lou?”
‟Thanks, Mr. O’Reilly.”
‟Remember what I told ye, boy. Think about flying, don’t think about your evaluations.”
‟Yes, sir.”
And it actually was just that simple! The next day I was scheduled for two solo hops. In the morning, I walked down the flight line to my ship and stood there for a minute, just admiring the aircraft. After I did my pre-flight inspection, I climbed on the wing, slid the canopy back, and lowered myself into the cockpit. I walked through the start-up procedure, then sat there and let the engine warm up. Gazing around the airfield, watching all the activity, I murmured to myself, ‟You love to fly, Lou. You are so fortunate to have this opportunity. You know all the basics. Just enjoy it—make the most of it.”
My jitters evaporated into the morning mist. I taxied into the line of SNVs waiting for takeoff, and then had the smoothest flight of my life. When I returned, I greased it down in a picture-perfect landing and taxied back to the flight line. Ensign Winecoff was standing there, watching. He smiled and nodded, then walked away.
I grinned, because now I owed Bill O’Reilly a dinner. A fancy, steak dinner!
**********
‟There ain’t gonna be any war left for us, boys. The Japs are abandoning Guadalcanal. Heard it down at Squadron HQ,” said Ted Landrum. ‟Once we got ‘em on the run, the war won’t last long. I’ll bet we wrap up the Pacific theater by the fourth of July.”
It was a Sunday and the cadre had the day off. I was lying on my bunk, listening to typical barracks talk. There was a Blackjack game happening on Bob Wright’s bunk, and Landrum was busy losing last month’s pay. ‟Gimme one card,” Ted said to Rocky Aldridge, who was dealing.
‟Apparently no one told Tokyo Rose. If you believe the bull she spouts, the Japs have already chased us out of the Western Pacific,” Wright said. ‟I’ll take two cards,” he said to Rocky.
‟She’s a hoot,” I said. ‟She’s almost as funny as Dean Martin. I wonder if she believes her own lies.”
‟Oh, give the dame a break. She probably just repeats the propaganda she’s been told. Besides, she sounds really cute,” said John Campbell.
‟Cute? Now you’re imaging how she looks based on her voice? Sheesh, Campbell,” Wright snorted. ‟I’ll bet she’s built like a sumo wrestler.”
‟If the Japs are really leaving Guadal’, MacArthur must be getting off his butt. He should have been canned when he hadn’t prepared his people for the Japanese attack,” Aldridge said. ‟It was a sucker punch, I’ll give you that, but he should have had his defenses on alert. Heads should have rolled for that debacle, starting with his.”
‟Yeah, I agree. I’m glad Nimitz is in command of the Navy in the Western Pacific,” I said. ‟An army general has no business commanding aircraft carriers.”
Ted looked around to make sure the other guys weren’t paying attention to us, then he lowered his voice and asked, ‟Any of you boys been flying in formation with Mort Daniels?”
‟I have,” Bob Wright said.
‟Me, too,” said Cambell. ‟Why?”
‟I flew in a section with him yesterday, and he’s a disaster waiting to happen. If you fly in his section, keep your eyes open, boys. He’s just not cutting it. He overreacts in turns, he doesn’t maintain altitude or heading, and his wingovers are positively dangerous. He’s a swell guy, I like him, but he can’t fly worth beans. He’s liable to kill some one.”
In this part of our training we were learning formation flying. Piloting four aircraft in close proximity with synchronized maneuvers was demanding and nerve wracking. As novice pilots, it was also very dangerous. But learning how to fly in tight formations was an essential skill for a fighter pilot. It’s much easier to pick off an enemy who is by himself than it is to attack a tight formation of four aircraft.
Two days later it happened. We were up for a hop practicing a tight formation. It was Daniels’ turn to lead. I was his wingman on the right. A fellow from New York, Paul Smith, was on Daniels’ left, and Ted Landrum on Paul’s left. Ensign Shelby was the chase pilot, behind us.
Over the radio I heard Shelby say, ‟Section Lead, come to new heading niner five.” This would involve a gentle, smooth, turn to the left, as our current heading was southeast, one-three-five degrees.
Daniels repeated, ‟Section, come to new heading niner five.” Rather than rolling to his left gently, Daniels banked sharply left. What happened next is stamped into my mind like a slow-motion movie.
Mort’s left wing dipped into Paul’s propeller, which carved the wing tip into shards of metal. The momentum actually flipped Mort’s SNV upside down, smashing Paul’s canopy, and probably crushing Paul himself. There was a brief scream over the radio, not sure who it was, as both ruined aircraft plunged into a pair of vertical, spinning dives. It was all over in less time than it takes you to snap your fingers. I knew neither pilot would survive.
‟Snap to, men, keep your heads in the game. Form up on me,” Shelby radioed, and he moved up into the lead position and took us back to the base. Ted and I were both badly shaken—it was the first fatality in our cadre, and it claimed two lives—men we knew, men we liked, men we’d gone through training with up to this point.
Shelby told us to wait in the squadron ready room. As soon as the rest of the cadre had finished their hops, they joined us. The mood was very somber.
Shelby critiqued the hop and explained what happened. He spent thirty minutes going back over the basics of formation flying and emphasized (again) the level of concentration necessary to avoid similar accidents in the future.
‟I want all of you men back here at 1300 hours, for the next flight,” Shelby instructed.
‟We’re flying again? Today? We just witnessed two friends die a few minutes ago, and we’re flying again?” Landrum objected.
‟Yes. This is a hard lesson to learn—but it’s best that you learn it now. Men, you are training to be combat pilots. You will have dangerous missions to fly, and some of you won’t make it back to the carrier. Some of your friends will die right in front of you. It might be from an enemy bullet, it might be from pilot error or some stupid mistake, it might be from some bone-headed, stubborn air group commander ordering a launch when every scrap of common sense tells you that the weather conditions are lethal. But fly you must, and save your fears and grief for later. You can’t fall apart. The war goes on, your mission goes on, and nothing changes just because people die. You have to bury your feelings and do your job, and if you can’t do that you become a danger for everyone else.
‟So yes, I want you back here at 1300 hours, and yes, we’re flying again, and yes, you must not only learn tight formation flying, you must master it. If you can’t do this, report to squadron HQ and you’ll be reclassified as a seaman, and your naval aviator days will have come to an end. No one will think worse of you.”
Three men bailed out of the program. On February 22nd, 1943, our cadre completed formation flying with no additional accidents. It was time to move on to the next phase of Intermediate Flight Training.
Copyright 2024, C. H. Cobb, all rights reserved. 13 INTERMEDIATE FLIGHT TRAINING
