Mariner/Marlin Association

The Japanese Surrender of Wake Island

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 21:03:18 +0000

By Captain Floyd Harris USN (RET)

VP-21 was relieved of combat duties at Shima Wan, Okinawa in early August 1945 and sent to Eniwetok, Marshall Islands. At Eniwetok, it was obvious that the squadron was brought back for something new and different. Many crates of cold weather type equipment and supplies were waiting for us. The Material Department started issuing arctic clothes to all hands. The Maintenance Department and FASRON started doing things to the PBM-5’s such as installing rubber leading edge deicer boots and various other heater and de-icing equipment. I hadn’t seen this kind of equipment since I first went to Norfolk as a new ensign in 1942 and reported to VP-202, which had PBM-3 Ds before they were stripped to become the PBM-3s. Al1 this activity was incongruous with the setting of the hot and humid tropics. As it turned out VP-21 was slated for duty with COM NOR PAC and the invasion of the Kuriles and Northern Japan, and winter was not far away! By the way, I still have my knee length heavy alpaca lined overcoat with hood. It’s been great for forty years for duck hunting, skiing, etc. — even though it weighs 14 pounds.

Just as the squadron was getting well under way with the winterization program, Hiroshima and Nagasaki occurred and the Emperor threw in the towel. However, the cold weather gear did prove most useful since we did report in September to COM NOR PAC and the squadron operated for several months at Ominato in Northern Honshu, and it was cold.

A few days after Japan surrendered, the Commander of the Marshall Gilbert Area gave VP 21 the surrender terms to be dropped on Wake Island. The island had been in Jap hands since John Wayne’s last F3F went inoperative. There were three copies of the terms signed by R. Adm. William K. Harrill, which were shrouded in heavy canvas pouches weighted so time their trajectory would be predictable. I guess it was crew number 4’s turn for the next flight because the first thing I knew I was in the Operation’s Air Intelligence quonset hut for a briefing and given the custody of the three packets containing the surrender terms. Lt. Roy Buehler and his crew were to fly the buddy PBM. We took off from Eniwetok the morning of August 28, 1945.

Wake Island had long been leapfrogged by the Pacific fleet in its drive towards the Japanese homeland. It was one of dozens of islands in the Pacific that still had many enemy troops remaining on them but little offensive capability remaining. Wake had a special interest however, because it was a U. S, territory before the war, had been a Pan Am Boeing Clipper base in the ‘30’s and of course the valiant stand by the Marine Detachment (and John Wayne) against the Japanese invaders. It had become a training target for the carrier air groups to sharpen up prior to combat and support of the landings farther west such as the Marianas, Palaus, Philippines, Iwo and Okinawa. However, somehow the enemy still had ammo enough to make it hot for any plane that got too close

It is understandable that the two big targets (PBM’s) approached the island cautiously, since we were not sure whether, they had been cut in on what Hirohito had ordered. We circled the island closer and closer, but couldn’t see any sign of life. We had no way of contacting them. Finally, after much caution, I told Ray Buehler that I was going in and drop a packet at the junction of the two runways. All gun stations were manned and Ordinanceman Jones was stationed at the port waist hatch armed with the surrender missile in hand. I made an approach to a runway, about #30, and let down to about 50 Feet. As we got closer the scars of hundreds of bomb hits clearly showed, but we were astounded to see that apparently each had been filled in and smoothed with packed coral. Apparently, the Japanese had been waiting in vain for the reinforcements that never came.

The missile landed at the junction of the runways and I pulled up and started circling. Very soon, several soldiers appeared from nowhere and ran out to pick up the packet. Our orders were to wait as long as possible for an answer. The terms dropped specified making a white cross at the junction of the runways. It was also specified that they could communicate through another Japanese-held island, Mille (in the Marshalls), which had already surrendered.

We had lots of fuel so we circled and circled and things got duller and duller. We could not see any sign of life other than the surrender terms pick-up. Finally Buehler called and said, “Why don’t we practice touch and go landings in the lagoon?” I immediately bought the idea and started an approach, but he was closer to the wind line and beat us in for a landing. I think it is safe to say that Lt, Roy Buehler and his crew made the first American aircraft landing at Wake for more than three years. However, crew #4 made the second!

After over 3 hours of waiting, even touch and go got dull. Then, we saw some activity on a narrow bridge that connected two of the low sandy coral islands that make up Wake and letters became legible. They laid white strips or panels that formed the words, “TO MILLE”. This was all we needed to know and 11.9 hours after take-off, we landed back at Eniwetok.

A few days later, we flew over Tokyo Bay and the USS Missouri, where Gen. MacArthur signed the peace terms, on our way to Ominato and another chapter of VP 21’s varied history.

What happened to the other two surrender packets? Souvenirs, of course. I have one and co-pilot (then), Ens. John, P. Blair has the other.

Huge Gap in VP-22 History

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 20:52:22 +0000

Kenneth D. Landriau, Ltjg, USNR – Retired

I thoroughly enjoyed the “Official Record” VP-42, (M/MA Vol. 30, Issue 4) but I was surprised that the story left a huge gap of over ten years, from June 1952 until April 1963. I can fill in part of this gap, because I joined the squadron in March of 1953, when we deployed to NAS Kodiak, Alaska from San Diego via Whidbey Island. (Please see M/M Newsletter dated September, 1994). From March until May 1953, we flew patrols on both sides of the Aleutian chain from Kodiak and Adak, looping around Attu, and around the Bering Sea. A secondary base was established at Adak, where we were serviced by AVP-48 (Onslow). In May, one of our planes exploded shortly after takeoff from Adak and all hands were lost. In early July, the Onslow moved north from Adak and anchored in Port Clarence, at Teller, Alaska. From that point, we flew daily patrols over the Arctic Ocean, when the ice began breaking up, thus allowing tankers in and out of Point Barrow. I was assigned to the Onslow as liaison officer, received Top Secret clearance, and to my knowledge, I was the only member of the squadron fully aware of our true mission, which was to search for, and photograph, snorkels and periscopes above the Arctic Circle. In early August, the Onslow returned to Adak and the Bering Sea and Aleutian Chain patrols resumed. In mid-September, the squadron returned to San Diego, after which we got our first look at the aircraft. VP-40 had the new planes and were well into their training for their deployment to NAS Sangley Point, scheduled for May 1954.

We soon learned that VP-42 would also receive P5Ms and we were scheduled to relieve VP-40 in November 1954. In early May of 1954, we watched VP-40 airplanes take off from San Diego Bay at dusk for their night Transpacs to Pearl. Unfortunately, one plane went down several hundred miles short of Hawaii. They had lost one engine, and managed to get the plane under control but within a short time they lost the second engine, and ditched in the open sea, not an easy feat in the middle of the night. About half the crew perished; the rest survived. A few days later, VP-42 was ordered to deliver a replacement plane to Pearl for VP-40. At that time, I was Navigation Officer of the squadron, and based on my experience in Alaska, I campaigned vigorously for a daytime TransPac. LCDR. Bob Sparks, our Operations Officer, told me he would be willing to PPC the flight if I agreed to navigate. We quickly had a deal, and LT. Bob Endebrock joined the flight crew as PP1P. On May 28, at 5 AM, we were at the head of the ramp ready for launch, and ready to defy the old tradition that all Transpacs were to be flown at night. We took off in total darkness shortly after 5 AM San Diego time, and touched down at Pearl a few minutes before 4 PM local time. Except for the first half hour, the flight was completed in total daylight. Navigation was by drift meter, wind stars, and a LAN fix. We were at the Pearl Officers Club in plenty of time for Happy Hour at which time we celebrated the success of our daylight TransPac. Sadly, the Navy did not accept our proposal that even during winter months daytime TransPacs were feasible simply by moving takeoff time earlier so that arrival at Pearl would still be projected for daylight hours.

In mid-October, VP-42 deployed to Pearl for our ORI. Attached is a photo I took during our training flights. (It took just 20 minutes to join up, but we spent more than 35 minutes getting properly positioned for the picture.) VP-42 relieved VP-40 at NAS Sangley Point in early December. For the next six months we conducted patrols in the South China Sea, along the coast of what was then Indo-China, and night patrols to and from Okinawa through the Formosa Straits. I was designated PPC of SA-12 in March 1955. Ed Groff, PP1P, and I spent many hours working on the best techniques for getting off the water in high swells and for leaning the engines and adjusting the airspeed to get the most miles per pound of fuel. We began our return to San Diego in May 1955, and it turned into quite an exciting trip. We lost an engine midway through our instrument approach to Guam, but completed the approach and landing without any further problems. Then we had to wait on the water until high tide so that the plane could be ramped and a new prop governor installed. At Kwajalein, we had 15 foot swells and we were glad we had learned how to deal with them without porpoising. On the last leg home, we encountered severe headwinds and fuel consumption became critical. To make matters worse, San Diego was totally socked in, well below minimums, and without a viable alternate, we made a GCA approach. Because we were so low on fuel, we elected to land in the Lower Bay and taxi the rest of the way. We were jubilant as we wove our way past the ferries and finally tied up to the buoy at the ramp. As we were pulled out of the water, the plane captain reported that we had less than 200 pounds of fuel remaining, and from takeoff to buoy we had logged 16 hours and 15 minutes of flight time. At that moment, I wasn’t paying too much attention for I had spotted my wife and our five month old son waving to me from the Tarmac.

I was released from active duty in July, 1955 and so I have no further information for you, relating to VP-42.

The Last Mariner Deployment

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 20:27:03 +0000

By Bill Laux (then LTJG, USN)

Patrol Squadron FIFTY (VP-50), under CDR C. J. “Dino” Economou, was scheduled to begin the last PBM-5S2 deployment from NAS Alameda, CA, to NAS Iwakuni, Japan, on 2 January 1956, to relieve VP-48, which was also deployed from Alameda, and which operated the newer P5M-1 flying boat. The practice at that time was to deploy two VP squadrons, one flying PBM or P5M seaplanes, and the other flying P2V landplanes, to conduct shipping surveillance in the Sea of Japan and the East China Sea. Three seaplane and three landplane squadrons sere rotated in these deployments, and a deployment lasted five to seven months, including the one-week island-hopping trans-Pacific crossing from California or Hawaii to Japan and return.

But, there were three unforeseen and unpleasant developments. In Iwakuni, the new P5Ms were found to have fuel tank vents called “wicker-bills” that froze in cold weather and rendered the planes inoperable on the winter flights off Korea and Siberia. Their flights were assigned to VP-19, the P2V squadron, which then had to fly a double load. The second problem arose because of conditions in California. That winter saw some of the worst floods in history in the Feather and Sacramento Rivers, with Yuha City and Marysville under water. Tuns of debris washed down into San Pablo and San Francisco Bays for weeks, making seaplane operations at NAS Alameda hazardous. Safety considerations required “sweeping” the take-off and landing “sealanes” frequently and before every flight and ruled out night operations. This, coupled with VP-5O’s low experience level at NAS Ford Island in Pearl Harbor, the first stop, meant that both the takeoff from Alameda and the landing in Pearl Harbor would have to be made in daylight. Given the 140-knot airspeed of the PBM, the only feasible takeoff time was from about 1500 to 1700, with a post-dawn arrival in Pearl. The third adverse factor was the thirty-knot headwind, which prevails at that time of year. At more than about ten knots headwind, the PBM could not fly the 2,240 miles; it would run out of fuel.

On 3, or 4 January 1956, in very late afternoon, pilot reports from the California to Hawaii air route indicated that the wind factor was within limits and half the squadron managed to get off from Alameda. More could not go because it got dark and the en-route servicing facilities could handle only six seaplanes with their beaching gear and ramp requirements, anyway.

But, the winds immediately became adverse again and were to continue so for weeks. Each day at noon the remaining crews in Alameda reported to the meteorology office at Alameda base operations, and finding excessive headwinds forecast, secured at about 1500. In late January, some of the crews made local flights to ensure that the aircraft were all in good order, but there was no sign of a wind shift. Meanwhile, the first half of the squadron had arrived in Iwakuni and had commenced operational patrols. But since they could not carry the whole seaplane patrol schedule, VP-19, the P2V squadron, had its deployment extended until the rest of VP-50 could arrive.

Finally, late in the afternoon of 1 February, after having secured until the next noon, it was learned that there had been a wind shift. The crews were rounded up as quickly as possible and frantic efforts were made to find those who had left for a night on the town: it was payday. Shore Patrol, police departments and sheriff’s departments were all asked to help find the crewmembers. This writer was in the Top 0’ the Mark in San Francisco, enjoying the view, when I noticed that the seaplane lights at Alameda were on. I called Alameda to find out what was going on, and found out that we were leaving. I made it back in thirty minutes, surely a record. All did eventually show up, and all remaining aircraft did manage to get off for Pearl. All was not smooth en route, however: one PBM under LTJG Pete Patton, ran into a thunderstorm, was struck by lightning which disabled some instruments and was forced to divert to Hilo, the alternate. But, he soon made it to Pearl, and soon all were on their way to Japan, where they arrived on 10 February.

Everyone was happy to see the arrival of VP-50’s second half, but the happiest of all were the crews of VP-19, who could now go home. The VP-19 officers were guests at a party given by their VP-50 counterparts at Iwakuni’s “Slipway Club”. During the festivities the following poem was read . . .

RHYME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

It doesn’t have a T-tail. it doesn’t carry MAD.
It doesn’t have much airspeed. its rate of climb is bad.
It doesn’t TransPac swiftly, it must he quite a thrill -
There’s another thing it doesn’t do — that’s freeze its wicker-bill.

It doesn’t carry Jet pods, or altitude retention.
It doesn’t carry landing gear or other such invention.
It doesn’t have back-firing Wrights or retro-launching gear,
But it does twice the work of a P5M — damn. we’re glad you’re here.

It goes around the track so slow,
it lands after it’s dark.
But at least it goes around track
the Marlin had no spark.

History of the Mariners and Marlin in the U.S. Coast Guard

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 20:21:23 +0000

Official History USCG (uscg.mil)

Martin PBM-3/5 Mariner

The Coast Guard acquired 27 Martin PBM-3 during the first half of 1943. In late 1944, the service acquired 41 PBM-5 models and more were delivered in the latter half of 1945. Ten were still in service in 1955 although all were gone from the inventory by 1956. These flying boats became the backbone of the long-range aerial search and rescue efforts of the Coast Guard in the early post-war years.

As of 31 October 1944 the Coast Guard’s PBM’s were stationed at the following Coast Guard Air Stations: five PBM-3’s at Elizabeth City; one PBM-3C at Miami; two PBM-3S’s at Port Angeles; two PBM-3S’s at St. Petersburg; two PBM-3S’s at Salem; one PBM-3C and three PBM-3S’s at San Diego; and two PBM-3S’s at San Francisco.

Martin P5M-1G/2G Marlin

The Coast Guard acquired seven of the P5M-1G flying-boats directly from the Glenn L. Martin Company beginning in October 1953, although the first did not enter Coast Guard service until 20 November 1953. The service then acquired four of the new P5M-2G flying boats, distinguished from their earlier brethren by their high-mounted vertical stabilizer (referred to as a “T” tail), beginning in 1961, according to Pearcy. Photos in the Coast Guard Historian’s Office files, however, indicate that some were delivered as early as 1955. These four P5M-2G’s were based at air stations St. Petersburg, San Diego, and San Francisco. Two P5Ms eventually served with Air Detachment Bermuda.

The P5Ms primarily flew off shore to rescue injured seamen off of merchant or fishing vessels and returning them to shore for medical treatment. For example, on 5 July 1957 a P5M Martin seaplane from the U.S. Coast Guard Air Station, San Francisco made an offshore landing at the extreme operating range of 950 miles southwest of San Francisco to remove a seriously ill seaman, who had been transferred from the merchant vessel Kirribilli to USS George

With the decrease in the need for such medical evacuations far out to sea and the high cost in operating these large flying boats, the P5Ms were transferred to the Navy between May and December in 1960.

The P5M Marlin was the last flying boat in the Coast Guard’s inventory.

It’s wearisome, but Air Patrols Vital To Interdict Foe’s Seaborne Supplies

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 17:18:24 +0000

By Don Dedera, Arizona Republic, April 4, 1966

ABOVE THE GULF OF SIAM— To port broods a snappish tropical squall, and to starboard loom the opaque peaks of Phu Quoc Island.
Between the two ominous shapes, the little Martin P5M seaplane pursues a hairline radar course, across a chart tangled with disputed international boundaries.

For five hours the slow, awkward, all but antique patrol plane has been droning down the Vietnam coastline. Past midnight she blasted off Cam Ranh Bay with rocket boosters, and since, she has prowled south along a secret track. She has kept an electronic eye out for Russian trawlers, and her magnetic gear has probed the depths for unfriendly submarines.

Time and again the ultrasensitive radar of the seaplane has detected surface shipping in the South China Sea and in the Gulf of Siam.

By radio, by light signals, she has asked each ship for identity. Some ships have not responded, and each time the seaplane has dived to a few hundred feet, illuminated the ship with a powerful searchlight, and reported the ship’s size, course and position.

This is a vital facet of operation Market Time: in effect, a blockade of the coast of South Vietnam.

Since Feb. 1, more than 20,000 junks have been boarded and searched by the U.S. Navy and Coast Guard. The success of market time is not only in the 40 junks of contraband seized, but in the closing of sea lanes to the Vietcong.

AND NOW the seaplane is halfway around Phu Quoc, an island nudging the border of Cambodia and Vietnam. Running lights are extinguished. Altitude and elevation are just beyond range of small arms.

Until last night, Phu Quoc has been 99 per cent Vietcong territory. Now it is all Vietcong. In the time since takeoff, the enemy has overrun the only American Special Forces camp remaining on the island.

“If we see any action,” says Lt. (jg) Neil P. Rogers, “this is the likely spot. We can’t be sure who it will be. Sometimes we have our navigation questioned by people who have other ideas about Cambodian air space.”

On this mission Rogers is standby navigator for the P5M. As dawn begins to tint the top most thunderheads, he and fellow Arizonan AXAN Walter H Miller, team up to rig an M-60 machine gun in a side door. The airplane mounts four such guns.

ROGERS shouts to be heard over the roar of engine and slipstream: “Our first mission….first part of March…..we weren’t armed! Any old junk sailor would wander onto deck and pot at us with rifles!”

P5Ms returned home with bullet holes. A slug ricocheted around one seaplane and came to rest in a galley fry pan. Another bullet expended itself in the navigator’s chair, injuring the occupant’s pride more than his person.

“Then we started shooting back,” Rogers bellows. “That made Christians of all the junk sailors THE NOISE, the vibration, the strain of propeller driven flight marks the faces of the young crewmen. Their eyes are bleary from catnaps, and with grimy fingers they scratch at itching stubble. They spell one another at duty stations for hot bacon sandwiches and robust coffee.

Phu Quoc slides beneath the horizon, and once again the P5M is skirting the Vietnamese coast. Now she is closer to shore, the crew peering at the plankton-like Asian shipping, and reporting suspicions to the central command of Market Time.

On the outbound leg, the night skies over South Vietnam flashed and glowed with artillery fire and flares, and now, as the morning wears on, smoke and fire rise off the tortured land. An inland Vietnamese fortress is under siege. Offshore, an American destroyer trains its main batteries upon a jungle slope. Navy bombers strike again at a paddy land birm.

BELOW the P5M, a Coast guard cutter has a junk dead in the water under its guns, and a boarding party is afloat. It could be a junk fixed by the P5M, a junk laden with rice and munitions for the Vietcong.

It is not the most dramatic or dangerous work of the war. But it is wearisome.

The aging dowager of naval aviation waddles across the thermals of the Cam Ranh peninsula, and with a great moist sigh, settles into the blue satin of the bay. With no more than a day of rest, she and her crew will be aloft again, headed for Phu Quoc Island.

Hurricane Flying

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 17:04:22 +0000

by Taylor McConnell

A Consolidated PB2Y-2 Coronado, a large flying boat patrol bomber designed by Consolidated Aircraft 1937, in flight. The plane was operated by patrol squadron VP-13 (aircraft 13-P-1). (http://en.wikipedia.org/)

During 1943, Patrol Bomber Squadron VP-206 (later VPB-206) was stationed at Coco Solo Naval Air Station, Panama. Flying Martin “Mariner” PBM-3s’s, we were engaged in tracking down German U-boats in the Caribbean.

But part of the Squadron was deployed to an advanced base in Corinto, Nicaragua, on the Pacific Coast. From there they flew eight flights daily to and from the Galapagos Islands on the Equator (four planes each direction). This was part of the outer defense perimeter of the Panama Canal, designed to provide early warning of a Japanese attack on the Canal. In 1943 there was still a possibility that such an attack might be mounted.

I was assigned to this duty in early October, the third pilot for these long-distance flights. On October twentieth a small hurricane was churning across the Caribbean toward the eastern coasts of Nicaragua and Honduras. I suppose it was what we today would call a “category one” hurricane.

A PB2Y “Coronado” carrying some 20 passengers and crew was flying from the States to Panama. In those days long before weather satellites, the tracking of hurricanes was quite imprecise. So the PB2Y flew into that hurricane and was downed at sea.

Since we were the nearest squadron to this event, we were ordered to set up a search-and-rescue mission. On the morning of October 21, the seven planes available at Corinto took off on this mission.

Flying to the northeast, we crossed the 264 miles to the northern coast of Honduras. We took up stations every three miles, North and South along 8600 degrees west longitude and 1657 to 1715 North Latitude. This spaced our planes three miles apart as we flew east and west, and at the end of each East-West leg, we would fly 21 miles south and then reverse course. This created our search grid.

But! — We were flying right into the teeth of that hurricane. One of the most impossible ventures we would ever engage in.

As the junior pilot on PBM-3s #6697, I was expected to do the navigating. Lt. J. G.’s James (Jim) Hobgood and John (J.P.) Morgan were my seniors; both qualified patrol plane commanders, with Jim in the left seat that day.

Years later, J.P. and I exchanged correspondence and then personally visited at length about that day. My memory is that of a navigator’s nightmare. Flying low, at 500 feet, so we could spot life rafts, in and out of clouds, and overseas that were running 25 to 30 feet of mostly white water. Mercilessly pounded, I had to recalculate our drift and groundspeed every few minutes. Why? We were so close to the center of the hurricane that the wind direction was constantly shifting. The plane was wildly pitching, yawing and rolling.

Let J.P. take up the story, from a pilot’s perspective. He wrote: “My first image is that when we arrived on station the drift was forty-five degrees! Intuition as well as math tells you instantly that if your air speed is 120 knots you are obviously in a 120 knot crosswind!” This was of course a gross exaggeration–but it surely seemed that bad!, even though we calculated it at 80 knots.

J. P. Continues: “ The second image: as you say, 25 foot seas, “Even higher”? And the third image: all at once the crosswind ends, the sea is less angry, some sunlight shines through. What is going on? I hadn’t previously learned the anatomy of a hurricane in any detail.

“The fourth image: after about a minute of calm, the crosswind is now 80 knots in the opposite direction!”

Let me add another image: at one wild moment we saw another PBM suddenly pop out from cloud and cross our bows not more than 200 yards away. Dead-reckoning navigation was obviously ludicrous, but what else did we have? Celestial navigation was impossible, there was no radio or radar navigation, and Loran and GPS had yet to be invented.

We finished the search assignment after about six hours and proceeded to retrace our flight across the Isthmus to Corinto. By now the hurricane had reached the mainland. Let J.P. take up the story again:

“When the time arrived to return to Corinto, we remained over water and went into a spiral climb to over 12,000 feet, because the chart showed mountains of 11,000 feet. Controlling the plane was fiendishly difficult. When these high winds hit a mountainside, the updrafts are formidable.”

[And the downdrafts and cross-currents can suck you into canyons. ]

“After we leveled off we headed southwest, flying at high power settings. Even so, it was a struggle to keep the wings and nose level. At one point we were nose-high according to the artificial horizon and the air-speed was dropping. Jim was pushing on the yoke and he ‘invited’ me to help and we both pushed and pulled on the yoke with all our might. A pattern was set of our wrestling the yoke using our combined strength.”

[PBM’s had no power assist for the controls.]

“On occasion, it required all our strength combined to avoid stalling in a downdraft. Jim had been flying needle-ball-airspeed, and I pointed out that with the artificial horizon there is no time lag in reporting the attitude of the airplane.” (In the clouds most of the time, there was no real horizon to use.) “I have remembered such detail because we were all quite close to death that day and I have relived it over and over…

“I still remember the immense relief, seeing the Pacific Ocean appear below us through a hole.” (I had commented to J.P. that they dived that PBM into the hole in a steeper spiral than I believed the plane could take.) J.P. replied, “I don’t disagree, but my strong memory is that of extreme caution in not allowing the cylinder head temperature to go below the proper limit for fear of the engines seizing.”

Six of the seven planes made it back to base, and the seventh landed on Lake Managua. And that evening, the thought that was haunting our conversations was “Will we have to do this again tomorrow?” The planes themselves provided the answer: popped rivets and frayed control cables said they were not safely flyable. Several planes had lost their artificial horizons, even though the reliable old turn-and-bank indicators were still functioning.

What about the passengers and crew of the “Coronado”. Only two survived, washed up on tiny Swan Island, about 100 miles from the Honduran coast. I marvel at how any life raft could live in those seas we flew over!

1950 PBM Mariner Aircraft Art

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 19:39:37 +0000

by Ned Norris

My brother Jack Norris known as “Jock” in VP46 had joined the Navy 2 years prior to me. When the Korean War broke out in 1950 I was completing my sophomore year in college. I joined with hope of serving with my brother. After completing my schools I was assigned to the USS Kearsarge and was headed for Korea when my orders came in to transfer VP46. “Jock” Norris was an AK2 and I followed him into storekeeping. I had the opportunity to serve in VP46 through the Korean War and made two cruises to US Naval Station, Sangley Point in the Philippines.

In looking back time spent with the squadron were some of the happiest times of my life. Our squadron was blessed with outstanding Officers and men. I personally had the opportunity to fly as a crewmember throughout my squadron time. It became known in the squadron that I had a background in art. A close friend in the squadron, C. T. Hartigan, an AT3 in Baker Dog 10 asked me if I would create and paint nose art for his crew. (A side note, C. T. Hartigan became very successful in his business career, becoming the owner and publisher of Dunn and Bradstreet Publishing in Chicago IL.) I completed the art work on BD10 which created a great deal of interest from the other crews. (The Bat Out of Hell)

Our Squadron Captain determined that he felt it brought our crews closer together and supported the crews in selecting nose art. (It should be noted that when we would return to the states the nose art had to be painted out much to the moaning and groaning of the crews.) I would draw up a number of suggestions for the crews to select from. The next obvious step was to have patches made for our flight jackets that were exactly like the individual planes nose art. It should be noted that the Captain would periodically discuss with me what he felt was appropriate or perhaps too risqué. Overall I believe it was a moral builder and lot of fun for all concerned. The patches were made possible through our squadron tailor Venecia Reboya. Vince and his family became close personal friends through the years. Vince lived in Kiewit, Cavite with his outstanding family. Vince passed away several years ago but we have stayed in contact with his oldest son Carlos. I would like to add that we had in our squadron an AB3 by the name of Nesbitt Charles Jenkins Jr. Nesbit was a great help in providing the correct spacing for the aircraft scaffolding, and the timing for the artwork. Nesbit became a very successful contractor in Atlanta Georgia. We remain close friends to this day seeing one another as often as possible.

My brother “Jock” is 83, C. T. Hartigan is now 78, Nesbit and I are turning 80 in a few months and we are all going strong. We all look back at our squadron days with wonderful memories.

2011 MMA Reunion Photos

Wed, 18 May 2011 18:39:15 +0000

Photos taken at the 29th Reunion in Pensacola, FL, May 3-8, 2011

The $5,000.00 Photograph

Tue, 22 Mar 2011 17:16:05 +0000

Irvin S. Copper

The young guy in the helmet, goggles, and white scarf, was me as a Cadet in January, 1944. It was a photograph taken by the Navy just before we received our wings as U.S. Naval Aviators. The photograph was made for the Navy files, in the event I became a war hero or killed in battle. They made ten copies, postcard size, and gave nine of them to each Cadet to trade with classmates, or send home to family and friends.

I gave my first copy to my friend AI Nadler, a skilled and eager pilot who was hoping for carrier duty in the Pacific. As things turned out, I ended up in the Pacific and AI spent the War years as a flight instructor.

When I returned home at the end of the War, AI was one of the first of my buddies I met. We were both wearing our working green uniforms with gold wings on our breast pocket, and our lt.(jg) one and one half gold stripes on our sleeves. He was envious of my combat ribbons pinned under my wings. We hugged each other happily and tried to catch up on our experiences since we had last seen each other. We recalled memories, friends, and the nostalgia of the programs we went through together. We laughed, and then AI gave me another hug and tugged at his tight Navy tunic. In his breast pocket, just behind his gold wings, he gleefully removed my Cadet photo to show me how he had carried it all the time I was overseas. The edges were worn from handling and I was baffled why he would have carried my picture so long. AI boasted to me that my photograph was worth $5,000.00. Before I could ask for an explanation, he had already started to give it to me.

“Every night after flight school,” he began, “I would go into town and head for a local bar. I would sit down on a stool and take your picture out. I would lean it up against a bar glass and then look at your photo. Usually, someone came in alongside and would sit next to me, and curiously ask, “Who’s that?”

“I would shrug my shoulders,” and Al performed the ritual for me, and say, “That’s my pal Cooper. He just got shot down fighting the War in the Pacific. Without hesitation, the guy would put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Let me buy you a drink.”

Al looked at me with pride in his eyes. “Let me tell you,” he said, “that picture of yours bought me at least $5,000.00 worth of drinks.”

April 4-6, 2011 the Centennial of Naval Aviation

Fri, 10 Dec 2010 17:05:56 +0000

In recognition of the Centennial of Naval Aviation (CoNA), the 2011 Maritime Patrol and Reconnaissance Heritage Celebration will be held on-board NAS Jacksonville from 4-6 April, 2011 in conjunction with the annual MPRF Reunion. Heritage events run from Monday-Wednesday and include a Flight Suit Dinner with guest speaker Vice Admiral Myers, Commander Naval Air Forces. Other highlights include a Heritage Fly-in, Heritage Golf Tournament, PBY Monument rededication and more. As we are looking for maximum participation from every era of MPR aviation, the events are open to all current and past MPRF warriors.

Information on the event, as well as, registration, is provided on the CoNA website (www.mprfcona.org). The website includes information on travel, lodging, base info and a detailed description of each event. There is a $20 registration fee, which includes an official patch and coin designed for the celebration. The event is fully supported by the MPRF and we intend to make it one of the most memorable events to date.