THE TRIP TO THE MARIANAS
The shiny new B 29 is fully checked and passed all its tests. It and we are ready to take our places at the bottom of a powerful hierarchy across the Pacific. We’ll join the 93rd Bombardment Squadron of the 19th Bombardment Group of the XXI Bomber Command of 20th Air Force of the United States Strategic Air Forces in the Pacific (USASTAF), headquartered in Guam, the southern most of the three islands, and commanded by General Carl Andrew "Tooey" Spaatz, with the aid of his colorful Chief of Staff, General Curtis E. Lemay. We are ordered to ferry the plane to Saipan. It's not ours. Contrary to popular belief crews are assigned different aircraft for each mission, at least at this stage in whe war.
Leaving Kearney (and our little dog) behind we took the plane to our port of aerial embarkation, Hamilton Army Air Force Base near San Francisco. An overnight stay before jumping off gave seven of us a chance to go into town and bid the States goodbye. A properly touristic bon voyage party called for dining at the famous Top of the Mark at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. However, It didn’t quite work out as planned.
After getting to the top and admiring the Mark’s panoramic view we were escorted to a large round table set with elegant chinaware and more knives and forks than made sense. The toast to our upcoming adventure was next. A tuxedoed waiter moved around the table taking drink orders. The upscale restaurant was, still is, famous for martinis, and that’s how I decided to start. But he server paused when he got to baby-faced me. He asked to see my identification. Something to show my age. Finding me under 21 he apologetically but unequivocally said the law did not allow serving me alcohol.
A momentary silent impasse. Then the table exploded, mildly but energetically. First laughter. One of the crew pointed out that we were all about to risk our lives for our country. How the hell could it say we couldn’t have a drink? Someone else raised his voice to tell the waiter he had to be kidding. The server held up his hand; succeeding in quieting us. From him then the obviously practiced response; it wasn’t his policy. The restaurant could lose its license if I was given a drink.
Someone across the table stood. I saw that it was Left Gunner Arvil Foley, a thickset farm hand from Fargo, North Dakota with whom until then I was sure I had nothing in common. “We’re leaving,” he announced. Everybody rose at once. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We marched to the elevator. How good it was. Who needed a martini? I had never felt so much a part of a tribe of my own as we departed en masse, unlubricated and unfed. Figuratively taller than the famous restaurant in the sky.
Our flight orders included two refueling stop-overs before reaching Saipan, the northern most of the three B 29 Marianas bastions (Saipan, Tinian, and Guam). We were to refuel at Hickam Field, Hawaii, then Kwajalein Atoll.
My navigation training had been entirely over land. We embark, and are immediately over the endless Pacific, I am petrified. No landmarks. Only water as far as the eye can see. I order up our heading, correcting from time to time based on scanty dead reckoning based on the white caps and shaky drift readings of the waves below. Nervous hours pass. The pilot finally announce that his radio beam had centered on Hawaii a few hundred miles out. I am elated. The headings had worked. The window beside me frames spectacular Diamond Head as we fly beside it preparing to land, a beautiful gift card celebrating this major event in my short life. On the ground we all sweat in the humid heat as we refresh ourselves in a bar after a brief sight-seeing visit to Pearl Harbor, still pock-marked from the Japanese assault. I don’t mind the weather or the war. A bit of shine has been added to the pebble that is me.
The next day we head toward Kwajalein. It appears right on schedule; I am getting good. Kwajalein island from the air is a flat crescent shaped tan pancake,. A mile and a half long by a half mile wide, the tower on its side lends it the look of a crooked landlocked aircraft carrier. It is barren. I hoped, as we left that the men stationed there, stranded it seemed to me, at least got to see good movies.
We stayed on Kwajalein just long enough to refuel. The copilot, Wig (our foreshortened adaptation of Wight, correctly pronounced White), was beginning to show a need for action. Wig was hyperkinetic, sometimes in amusing ways, particularly in contrast to Skipper. This impression took root Back in training at Alamogordo when our two pilots practiced a lot of formation flying and I could just sit around and watch. This maneuver required each plane to get one of its wings behind the wing of the one in front of it and step it into the lull of the vortex formed behind that wing. There wasn’t much space between the planes looking like a flock of giants winging along with intermeshed outstretched arms.
Skipper would sit and calmly accomplish this feat seemingly with no effort, one hand on the wheel, barely moving. As if driving a car along a straight road at high speed, one hand holding a cigarette, the other steering. When it was Wig’s turn to practice formation flying, on the other hand, he made it a boxing match. In perpetual motion, he would fiddle with the throttle, jerking the wheel left and right in tiny spurts, swearing “you sonofabitch” or “get in there god damit” as he went.
Wig was, in other words, a good, but impatient and jumpy, jockey. Now as we are ready to depart Kwajalein he implores the skipper to let him take off. In addition to formation flying, takeoffs and landings were the times bomber pilots had fun, and in these activities, the copilot was often more of a bystander. The skipper agreed. Sure Wig could take us off.
We rush down the runway. Just as we began to rise, a momentary scare. We feel the plane swoop down precipitously for a moment, then resume its climb. Intercom chatter informs us that Wig had applied the brakes a jot too soon. It could have been a tragic blunder. This time, however, no problem, at least until it was time to descend. Wig righted the plane. Up we went. On we went, worried only about how landing would go if the tires were damaged.
Landing at Saipan the landing gear held. A sizeable chunk had been torn from one tire; the other three were intact. Relieved to have finally arrived, we were ready to settle into our quarters. But SNAFU a favorite and much uttered expression, kicked in. "Situation normal, all fucked up." It was. Our manifesto had sent us to Saipan, the northern most Mariana Island. And here we were, as directed. But, it developed, unexpected, and unwelcome. The designated destination was wrong. The wrong orders had been cut in Kearney. We and the plane were supposed to be on Guam, 100 miles south. We were ordered to proceed immediately to Guam.
The skipper, a model of equanimity, accepted this gracefully. However, he insisted, first replace the damaged tire. The ground crew chief refused. We weren't members of the Saipan clan. There were no replacement tires for aircraft not assigned there. Get it fixed on Guam where we and it belong. Skipper lost the argument. He handled the Saipan takeoff and landing on Guam gingerly. Fortunately, the mechanics were right about the danger. Three unblemished tires were sufficient.
Our first week on Guam was devoted to indoctrination, including practice bombing runs over Rota, a tiny island about half way between Guam and Tinian, uninhabited except for a few Japanese hold outs, ignored and unmolested except for occasional practice bombings. It was said that they fired rifles at us. I can imagine this in my mind’s eye, but certainly never actually observed any sign of this or any other human activity on Rota.
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