The skies were calm and clear over Cebu City despite a day’s worth of strike operations. The sun was shining. Planes were droning along serenely in formation, flying due east over the Philippine archipelago on return to their ships. It would have been a picture-perfect scene if not for one lone plane erratically bouncing and bucking through the air. Lt.(jg) Bryant L. “Wally” Walworth was in the cockpit of that plane wrestling with his controls. Something was definitely wrong with his Hellcat. 

He adjusted the elevator trim tab to counteract his plane’s wild pitching. No response. The roller coaster ride continued. Wally worked to bring his errant Hellcat in line, but it required constant manual adjustment to keep his plane’s nose level. He was still more than 200 miles from Intrepid and would have to fight his plane every inch of the way home. 

Wally’s squadron mates in Fighting 18 radioed him to make sure he was okay but otherwise kept the channel free of chatter. Part of this was due to the squadron’s excellent radio discipline. The other part had more to do with Wally’s predicament. They could see what he could not: a gaping, one-foot-wide hole blown in the starboard side of his plane. Light poured through multiple smaller holes on the opposite side where shrapnel cut clean through his aircraft. But at that moment, Wally needed to focus on getting back home in one piece. Knowing the long odds he faced would just distract him. 

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Bryant Leonidas Walworth was born July 22, 1919, in Martinsville, Illinois. His striking name came from an institution that served as a sort of focal point for the Walworth family: the University of Illinois. Bryant’s father, Edward, graduated from Illinois with a degree in agronomy and later taught at the school. Edward held the head of the agronomy department, William Leonidas Burlison, in such high regard that he borrowed his middle name for his son. Edward was also very active in campus religious life. He led Baptist youth services and maintained a close connection to Reverend Martin S. Bryant, who catered to the spiritual needs of the University’s Baptist population. Hence Bryant Walworth’s first name. 

These connections helped shape young Bryant’s life and led him, after a couple years at local Monmouth College, inevitably to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Like his father before him, Bryant pursued studies in agronomy and participated actively in campus life. He also excelled in sports. Bryant played for the Illini Hall intramural basketball team, where his skill in the guard position propelled his squad to a 1941 intramural championship title. School papers were replete with tales of “Little Chick Walworth” converting free throws one after the other to lift his team above their opponents. 

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As Bryant moved closer to graduation, war quickly and violently arrived on American shores. He was already interested in flight thanks to his roommate, Weldon Sheets, who owned a plane, but now aviation looked especially attractive to Bryant. It presented an opportunity to serve his country and earn an officer’s rank and pay, all while being fortunate enough to avoid time in foxholes eating canned rations. Bryant and Weldon both went to speak with Army Air Corps recruiters on campus. Weldon’s eyesight ruled him strictly out of military flight service, but Bryant had no such issues. He should have glided through the Army’s battery of tests and questions.

Then they asked if he had any allergies. Bryant answered truthfully that he experienced slight hay fever—slight! The interviewer immediately wrote him off. Bryant must have been dumb-founded. Here was an agriculture student whose professional life revolved around plants, who regularly worked through any mild symptoms he experienced in the field, and the Army was saying that an occasional sniffle was enough to ground him. Undeterred, he went to speak with the Navy about his prospects. The Navy doctor had the right prescription for him: “[I]t doesn’t seem to bother you, don’t tell anybody you’ve got it. And if it ever recurs on you in the Navy, why, just say you never had it before.” 

The Army’s loss was the Navy’s gain. He eagerly enlisted and in no time at all was on his way toward flight duty. Young cadet Walworth recalled in his diary, “I said good-bye to Dad at the gate at Lambert Field on July 30, 1942…” The first hurdles on his way to the cockpit were mere annoyances. “…I learned that I was two hours late…I was instructed that hereafter to be sure to read Navy time correctly and to be always on time.” He had to hurry up and wait: “We waited for a physical, we waited for clothing issue, we waited for chow etc.” But it was all worth it once he got airborne. 

Training moved Walworth from Lambert Field in St. Louis to Pensacola, Florida—the “Anapolis of the Air.” By this point, Naval Air Station Pensacola was training as many as 1,100 cadets per month. Many of these prospective young aviators were hoping that at the end of their arduous year-long training syllabus, they would find themselves in the cockpit of sleek fighter aircraft flying over 300 miles per hour and climbing more than 38 feet per second. Bryant Walworth was one of the lucky selectees whose competence, extraordinary reliability and plane-handling skills earned him a coveted fighter billet. He was shipped off to Jacksonville to start operational training in frontline fighters like the F4F Wildcat. 

His diary recalls, “…I left for Lee Field, the VF squadron, and arrived about noon. That was Tue. 27 April [1943]. I was assigned to flt. 65 which included Joe Chrobuc[k], Tom Sorens[e]n, “Mach” Chatham, Amerman, Burley and Myself. Tom and I were the last two to be assigned to that flt. So we roomed together.” Friendships formed fast. Bryant was even called upon to serve as best man when Joe Chrobuck got married during training, on 13 May 1943.

Over the course of his two months with Flight 65, Walworth flew 95 hours and received above-average marks for his plane handling and readiness for combat. He learned division flying principles with two pilots he’d meet again in Fighting 18—Amerman and Burley. And he got his first taste of the dangers of flying on Sunday, 16 May 1943, when his plane veered off the runway. Fortunately he came away from the experience with just a scraped wing.

Tragedy struck Flight 65 the very next day. While making gunnery runs on a tow sleeve off the Georgia coast, practicing target leading, deflection and other skills integral to success in air-to-air combat, Tom Sorensen overshot his run on the target. Walworth remembered the incident that claimed his roommates’ life decades later. “We were out…doing overheard gunnery runs where you come over and you turn your plane over and go straight down on the target. And he hit the tow line, he hit his wing…they never found his body.” That same afternoon, Walworth inventoried Sorensen’s belongings and flew them back up to Lee Field to be returned to his family. It was a stunning reminder of the fragility of life and the realities of war. 

At the completion of operational training, Bryant Walworth, Paul Amerman and Franklin Burley of Flight 65 were sent cross-country to Naval Air Station Ream Field, California, to join VC-18. These young pilots had over 300 hours flight experience each by this point, but they still had much to learn. As original members of the squadron that ultimately became Fighting 18, they witnessed the arrival of Cecil Harris fresh from Guadalcanal to whip the new unit into shape, and the delivery of the new F6F Hellcat, a plane that represented a significant step up from the faithful but increasingly dated F4F Wildcat. After another full year of training, from July 1943 to July 1944, Walworth and company went aboard USS Intrepid in August to begin their inaugural tour of duty—just in time for the last major air and sea battles of the war. 

Known as “Wally” by his peers in Fighting 18, Lt.(jg) Walworth distinguished himself on a number of occasions, including repeatedly strafing an enemy light cruiser during the Battle of Leyte Gulf. His bombs found grounded enemy aircraft and buildings, and his guns assisted with the sinking of at least two enemy cargo vessels. Such work tends to be overlooked in favor of aerial victories, but the simple truth is that at this point of the war, strafing and bombing missions tended to be considerably more dangerous than fighting Japanese pilots. Wally learned this first-hand on 24 September 1944.

He took off from Intrepid as part of the last strike of the day: 12 Hellcats, 9 Helldivers and 6 Avengers assigned to hit shipping vessels around Cebu. In addition to escort duty, Fighting 18 pilots were free to roam as far afield as Tagubanhan Island some 80 miles northwest of Cebu to find worthwhile targets. The real danger, however, was Cebu City itself. Fighting 18 would need to hit nearby airfields to ensure clear airspace. It meant repeated passes over artillery positions with 20-40mm guns capable of knocking down planes with just one hit. 

Anti-aircraft fire was not at all heavy, but it was alarmingly accurate. All prior strikes had visited the Ormoc and Coron Bay areas, leaving Cebu at full strength. Japanese gunners were ready for the attack. Fearless young William “Junior” Sartwelle was last seen flying low over the field raking targets with his six .50 caliber guns. Though he was not seen to go down and was reported as Missing In Action, it appears that enemy guns found their mark. Sartwelle did not return from the strike and was later listed as Killed In Action. 

Another plane was also hit over Cebu: Wally Walworth’s. It is on that note we return to the beginning of our story, with our Intrepid hero pinballing his way back to the fleet. 

The wakes of the destroyers and other outlying ships of Task Group 38.2 must have been a beautiful sight to Walworth, whose arms no doubt grew increasingly sore with each push and pull of the stick. The little specks on the horizon slowly grew into definite shapes, including the most blessed view imaginable at that point, the rectangular flight deck of Intrepid. At that altitude and distance it still looked like a postage stamp framed by an endless blue background of ocean. 

Walworth signaled his readiness to land and took a lap around the carrier, flying downwind on the port side of the ship before turning 180 degrees and getting into the groove behind her. Intrepid no longer looked like a stamp but a veritable city sprawling out before him. Waiting on his platform on the back end of the carrier was Intrepid’s Landing Signal Officer (LSO), Lt. Richard “Rit” Moot. He watched Walworth’s jerky approach probably with consternation at first, then with increasing concern. As the pilot bled off speed and began to descend towards the deck, Moot gave him the wave off. Walworth’s approach was too fast and too high. He’d crash coming in like that. As Walworth pulled back on the stick and climbed for altitude for a second pass, Lt. Moot saw the gaping hole in Walworth’s plane. He knew in a flash that the pilot wouldn’t get a third chance. 

It was time for the second pass. The ailing Hellcat wobbled its way back into the groove with Walworth fighting all the while. He was still coming in even faster and higher this time, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Moot wasn’t about to tell the pilot to make a water landing: the plane was a sieve and would sink in an instant. So he used his intuition. Gauging Walworth’s speed and altitude, Moot waited for the right moment and slashed his paddles across his chest, giving Walworth the signal to cut his engine.

As gravity took over and his plane started sinking, Bryant could see the ship’s deck coming up to meet him. Was he going to crack up on impact, overshooting the arrestor cables; or was he going to land shy of the deck, plunging into the ship’s wake below? Bryant Walworth remembered that moment with striking clarity more than 40 years later. During an interview with his son, Lee, in 1986, he said, “We had one of the best signal officers in the world. His name was Moot…he gave me a perfect cut from way the heck back there.”

Rubber tires made contact with the ship’s wooden flight deck. There was a bounce or two—Walworth probably braced for impact just in case—and then his plane skidded to a stop in the Number 3 wire. It was a miracle. Bryant remembered during the interview, “…it’s the only time in my life that I ever really saw that whole carrier deck, I was so high, everything was just the perfect picture and I made a perfect landing. But, he gave me a perfect cut.” A little luck and a lot of help from Lt. Moot brought him back home safe and sound. 

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When he got out of his Hellcat, Walworth had the opportunity to survey the damage to his plane. His buddies had been merciful in not giving him the gruesome details. “…that shell, whatever it was, had taken away two thirds of my controls. Your cable in there…is woven steel cable, and there were three strands of it, two of which were shot away so one left about the size of a lead pencil.” That was effectively the margin between life and death for Walworth that day: a cable strand the size of a lead pencil. 

After Intrepid was temporarily put out of commission by kamikaze attacks on 25 November 1944, Walworth returned stateside, where he and many of his former comrades reformed VF-18. They began the serious task of preparing new pilots for the dangers ahead. Mercifully, Walworth was not forced to test his luck twice. The war came to a close with the squadron 88% complete with its training syllabus and in the midst of testing out new F8F Bearcat fighters. 

Bryant Walworth returned to civilian life in April 1946. Before leaving the east coast for his home state of Illinois, however, a friend from high school helped arrange a job interview with American Cyanamid in Stamford, CT. It was the first and last interview Walworth ever had to sit through. Two years later he met his wife, June, and settled down to raise a family. Over the course of his 43-year tenure at American Cyanamid, Bryant L. Walworth produced 57 U.S. and 200 international patents—more than anyone in the history of the company’s Agricultural Research Division circa 1990. He made discoveries that led to whole classes of herbicides being introduced and was given the Northeastern Weed Science Society’s Award of Merit as a result of his lifetime contribution to the field. 

Wally Walworth’s service with Fighting 18 left a lasting impact. His family remembers him taking Navy showers despite facing no threat of water rationing. He loathed Friday the 13th, which makes sense since Intrepid pilots were put through their paces on 13 October 1944—a Friday. And he would always end letters with his signature “Thumbs Up” sign-off, a practice dating at least back to his war years. 

Bryant Leonidas Walworth passed on 13 April 1998 at age 78. He was a veteran, a scholar and a family man. 

I am greatly indebted to the Walworth family: Brad for initial correspondence, Sherry for helping to circulate these stories, and especially Lee, whose breadth of knowledge and willingness to share it have provided the bulk of what I know about this remarkable Fighting 18 alumni. 

25 November 1944 is one of the best-known episodes in USS Intrepid’s history. That afternoon, two kamikaze pilots crashed their planes into the ship within minutes of each other. Intrepid was so badly damaged it was almost written off as lost. Sixty-nine officers and men were killed and scores more were wounded. However, thanks to the bravery and ability of the ship’s crew, Intrepid stayed afloat and was able to limp back to the States for major repairs.

Much less is known about the missions flown by Fighting 18 pilots that day. While separate Dive Bombing and Torpedo squadron aircraft action reports are available, the Fighting 18 paperwork appears to be Missing In Action. I’m happy to say that in the course of my research, I’ve located some documents that shed light on the subject. The first is a list of recommendations for awards. It begins:

On 25 November 1944 eleven planes of Fighting Squadron EIGHTEEN were launched to sweep Nichols and Nielson airfields, Manila, P.I. Over Nielson Field the formation was attacked by 15-20 enemy fighters. Eleven enemy aircraft were destroyed and one was probably destroyed without loss or damage to our own fighters.

Though no Fighting 18 pilots were lost, Frederick Wolff had a close call during the swirling aerial combat over Nichols and Nielson:

Lieut. F.C. WOLFF destroyed one Tojo. After evading a four-plane attack WOLFF dove on two Tojos attacking a single F6F. His first bursts caused one Tojo to split “S”. He then closed on the second from 4 o’clock up. WOLFF’s fire drew flames from engine and wingroot. The enemy pilot bailed out and his plane crashed to the ground.”

This episode also reveals the lengths squadron members would go to in defense of their fellow fliers. After being attacked by a numerically superior force and while still separated from his section mate, Lieut. Wolff pressed the attack to help out another fighter pilot in distress. It was a valiant act and helped down an enemy plane, evening up the fight. Frederick Wolff was awarded the Gold Star in lieu of a second Air Medal for his fearlessness and combat prowess.

The fighter sweep was not the only aerial activity for Fighting 18 that day. There were also attempts to protect the fleet as part of combat air patrol sorties, and bomber escort for strikes on and around Luzon, Philippine Islands. The recommendation for medals list continues:

On 25 November the enemy made a determined attack on our carrier task force. Several groups of bomb-ladened [sic] single engine planes came in at varying altitudes. Three pilots of Fighting Squadron EIGHTEEN each destroyed one enemy aircraft while on combat air patrol and a fourth was shot down by one of our pilots returning from a strike.

Credit went to “Tony” Denman, who scored while returning from a strike; Cecil Harris, marking his 24th and final victory of the war; Roy “Bud” Burnett, who apparently had to evade serious canon fire from his adversary; and Jesse Barker, whose saga was captured by the intelligence officer aboard USS Ticonderoga where he landed his damaged aircraft. According to this aircraft action report, which is the only VF-18 action report I have been able to find from this date:

One pilot, Lt. Barker, had taken off at 1245(I) with Strike 2C, had shot down and [sic] OSCAR as stated in ITEM V & X. Due to injury to his cockpit hood by a flying piece from the OSCAR which knocked out one starboard panel, plus an oil leak, plus no radio, Lt. Barker sought to return to Parent CV. He was taken under fire from own AA during a “KAMIKAZE” suicide attack and while leaving the area of TG 38.2 at best speed, saw the two JILLS mentioned in ITEM IV flying low and inside the screen. Lt. Barker sought to make a run on the nearest JILL and followed it into intense AA from own ships but was unable to close to effective range before he was forced to break off.

There were also successes against enemy surface vessels. Bob “Growler” Gowling of Strike 2C had a close call during his bombing mission. According to the recommendations for awards document:

The flight in which Lt. GOWLING’s division participated sighted two enemy destroyers in Balancan Bay, Marinduque Island. Although both ships had been previously attacked their anti-aircraft fire was intense and of all calibres. Lieut. GOWLING dove from 10,000 feet and released his 500 pound bomb at 1,500 feet. His wingman confirmed the hit which was slightly aft of the stacks. Black smoke poured from the destroyer and its anti-aircraft fire lessened. Following his bombing run Lieut. GOWLING pulled up and began his strafing run. After several long bursts to the base of the stacks the destroyer suddenly blew up throwing fire and debris to 500 feet. The blast threw Lieut. GOWLING’s plane out of control and several fragments struck his engine. With cool skill he regained control and despite loss of power and oil he brought his aircraft safely back to base.

Top down from left to right: Cecil Harris receiving award from Admiral Marc Mitscher; Roy Burnett receiving award from Adm. Mitscher; Anthony “Tony” Denman; Jesse T. Barker; Robert “Growler” Gowling

Besides this official record of what happened, there is also a first-hand account from the diary of Charles “Punchy” Mallory, one of Fighting 18’s photographic fighter pilots who experienced the pandemonium of 25 November aboard ship, in the air, and later on the ground with the Army. Mallory wrote:

We went to General Quarters at 12:30 just as Strike 2C hop started out. (I had taken off on 2B but had to land back aboard – oil leak) I moved my plane on the hangar deck. Suddenly the ships opened fire with everything on attacking Jap planes. A Zeke crashed on the Hancock and started a big fire. I was yelling and raising hell because they were waiting to launch me last. Finally I got off and climbed wide open to 9,000′ west of the force. Everyone was chasing Japs. I saw the ships open up on two coming in low but I couldn’t get to them. Then one crashed into the Intrepid and started a roaring fire. He was followed by another a few minutes later. She was a roaring mass of flames and exploding bombs.

When we were about fifty miles from the ship, Bingo called us and ordered us to proceed to Leyte and land…Arrived at Tacloban about five and landed. What a mess! The field was loaded with planes of all types. About dark the Japs started coming in and they bombed us until about 01:30. Believe me I was scared – not from the Japs (although one passed over head about 500′) but from our A.A. They threw up a tremendous barrage but it all hit behind the Japs…It was a helpless naked feeling to be in the raid without even a helmet or a truck to crawl under. We hid behind coconut trees during the worst of it. Believe me it was a fourth of July.

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Though not exhaustive, these documents help reconstruct the experience of VF-18 pilots on that extraordinary day. Remarkably, after almost three continuous months of grueling combat—and having their ship shot out from under them—Fighting 18 was assigned to USS Hancock to continue flight duty. They did not ultimately make it back home until January 1945. The vast majority of original Fighting 18 pilots opted to stay with the squadron when it reformed later that year, including Harris, Denman, Wolff and Gowling.

Superstition has always been a part of the sea services. The caprice of nature and the awesome power of the sea have led people across time and space to invoke the supernatural when setting sail. The color of the sky or the appearance of a bird can foretell disaster—or salvation. Even those who don’t usually put stock in superstition may find themselves comforted by a good luck charm when the sky darkens and waves begin to pitch their ship. 

That’s why it must have felt like a cruel joke when the men of Fighting 18 learned they would be going aboard USS Intrepid, a ship that seemed ill-fated after less than a year in commission. Intrepid was first damaged on its maiden trip through the Panama Canal—in other words, before ever seeing combat. The ship was forced to make a detour to Hunters Point for hull repairs. Soon thereafter, Intrepid joined the fight in the Central Pacific. The ship was torpedoed during the assault on Truk in February after less than a month in action. Intrepid headed back to Hunters Point, where the shipfitters must have blinked a couple times to make sure they weren’t having a bad dream. Was Intrepid jinxed? 

This article is not just about Intrepid’s former bad-luck reputation as the “decrepit” or the “Dry I” or the “Queen of the Dry Docks”—names which Fighting 18 pilots were warned not to repeat when they came aboard ship in August 1944. It’s about the fact that virtually every member of Fighting 18 was serving temporary duty aboard nearby ships when Intrepid was torpedoed. What follows is a snapshot of their experiences serving in the Pacific a full six months before Intrepid became their home.

Assessing the Target

The Japanese base at Truk was shrouded in mystery. Command staff and pilots alike thought of it as Japan’s Pearl Harbor, a sort of “Gibraltar of the Pacific.” When he learned that Truk was his next target, Lt. Cdr. Philip Torrey, Commander Air Group 9, recalled, “My first instinct was to jump overboard.” He must have been envisioning scores of anti-aircraft batteries, legions of fighters, and battleships bristling with massive guns. If the battle-hardened leader of an entire air group felt that way, you can imagine what the young pilots under his command were thinking. 

Reflecting these assumptions, the Navy deployed a massive force including 9 carriers, more than 200 support vessels and over 560 planes. Given the tonnage of bombs and the number of planes involved in the strike on Truk, it was aptly codenamed Operation Hailstone. Unlike strikes on the Marshall Islands just weeks earlier, the goal of the attack on Truk was not to seize a new fleet anchorage: it was simply to pound the base into submission, to be bypassed and left useless and desolate for the remainder of the war. 

In stark contrast to the mystique that had cropped up around it, Truk was never actually developed to its full potential. Even after the Japanese began a crash program to expand its facilities and defenses in late 1943, Truk’s major islands sported only a handful of modest airfields, 40 fixed anti-aircraft batteries, no major power stations and no underground fuel storage facilities to protect supplies from attack. Japanese surface ships in the anchorage would have posed a deadly threat to pilots, but they had all been moved out of Truk to the Palau Islands where they would be safe from the Allies’ rapid advance. What remained behind were largely cargo and supply vessels. In other words, an ill-prepared Truk was left to fend for itself in the face of the largest carrier onslaught to date. 

That’s not to say the attack on Truk was a cakewalk, or a “milk run” in aviator parlance. Some pilots encountered significant anti-aircraft fire; others dueled with Japanese fighters. Even if the air had been clear and the gun emplacements silent, combat flight duty and carrier operations were inherently dangerous. Some men were not coming home. 

Flying with the Pros

Lt. Clarence Blouin, Lt. Thomas Rennemo, Lt. Harvey Picken and Lt.(jg) Sidney McGurk, all of whom had been training together in Hawaii, were temporarily attached to Fighting Squadron 9 (VF-9) aboard Essex. Because this was VF-9’s second combat cruise, its veteran aviators—including Hamilton McWhorter, the first Hellcat ace, and Eugene Valencia, soon to be one of the Navy’s top scorers—understandably ran the show. 

The first day of Operation Hailstone, 17 February 1944, started with fireworks for Fighting 9. Pilots on the morning fighter sweep claimed 21 enemy planes blasted out of the sky at the cost of one missing Hellcat. Then on the second strike of the day, Strike 2B, another dozen or more Japanese fighters fell. This time all the Essex pilots made it home, even if one ran out of fuel and had to be scooped out of the drink by a friendly destroyer. 

On the third strike, Lt. Blouin was assigned command of a four-plane division. As with the previous strikes of the day, the Essex Hellcats escorted bombers from their ship and the nearby Intrepid. Their mission was to scour the anchorage for targets of opportunity. As luck would have it, they flew right over a single destroyer that had made it out of North Pass, one of the few points of ingress or egress from the atoll. With no friendly aircraft to drive away the Americans, the destroyer was subject to dive bombing and strafing attacks by dozens of planes. Ammunition clanged off the hull and tore through decking; oil poured out into the water; a small explosion blossomed amidships. Despite the damage Blouin and company heaped on the destroyer, when all was said and done that plucky little ship was still trudging along—albeit back towards Truk, where it would undoubtedly meet its end. 

Two hours later, Sidney McGurk and Harvey Picken flew as part of Strike 2D, the fourth strike of the day. More ships had spilled out of North Pass in the mad dash from Truk. Four in particular—two destroyers, a cruiser and an oiler—were about 15 miles beyond the coral fringes of the atoll when McGurk, Picken and the rest of the fighters started circling overhead. They stayed over the ships for two hours, first raking them with their guns, then observing as the Essex and Intrepid bombers did their work. It was a sight to behold. According to both the Fighting 9 and Torpedo 9 action reports, the oiler was well-plastered, and the cruiser suffered multiple bomb hits as well. The oiler sank 20 minutes after the attack. The cruiser was left dead in the water and was pummeled by subsequent strikes. 

Five days later, Rennemo joined Blouin, McGurk and Picken as part of a photographic mission over Saipan. The Navy continued to cast its eyes west toward Japan and needed as much intelligence as possible on the Marianas, the next stepping-stone in the island hopping campaign.This important recon mission was perhaps the last one these four men all flew together. The next day, 23 February 1944, Lt.(jg) McGurk was returning to Essex from routine combat air patrol duty when something went wrong. On final approach to the carrier, his plane spun in, crashing into the sea aft of the ship. This tragic loss occurred only five days before Air Group 9 was relieved and the men aboard Essex headed back to Hawaii. Out of the many VF-18 pilots on temporary duty in February, Lt.(jg) Sidney Wells McGurk was the only one to miss his date with Intrepid later that year. 

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Scoring in the Marianas

It wasn’t all fleet carriers for the men of Fighting 18. There were also light carriers (designated CVL), which could keep up with their larger siblings but carried a smaller air group; and slower, even smaller escort carriers (CVE), which were used as close-in support for Marine and Army forces on the ground. Generally speaking, pilots on these ships did not receive the same level of notoriety as their counterparts on the big flattops. Their squadrons contained fewer men and fewer planes, and were more frequently assigned less glamorous duties like combat air patrol (CAP) and anti-submarine patrol (ASP). They therefore had fewer opportunities to rack up big scores like the one posted by the men of Fighting 9. Nevertheless, they played an important role in the Pacific and exhibited no less valor than their peers 

Ed Ritter and Robert “Frog” Hurst found themselves assigned to light carrier USS Monterey (CVL-26) with Fighting Squadron 30. Flying with aircraft based off of Bunker Hill on 17 February, they encountered oilers, barges and destroyers near North Pass—perhaps some of the same ships spotted by pilots from Fighting 9. Ritter and Hurst were surely happy to be assigned to the lagoon and not to targets over Truk’s principal islands, where anti-aircraft fire was listed as intense and accurate. Aside from the aforementioned ships, only one enemy plane was encountered in the air that day. All in all, it was fairly uneventful work. That all changed five days later, when Monterey, like Essex, headed to the Marianas. 

Ed Ritter was assigned to fly as part of the initial fighter sweep over Tinian on 22 February. Still operating with Bunker Hill, his group of 23 Hellcats took off at 0600 hours into overcast skies. The clouds cast a thick and unbroken blanket starting at 8,000ft, meaning that the strike would rely on instruments and Navy intel to determine when they should descend into the murk—and hopefully arrive successfully over target. 

Ritter’s division was one of two to lead the charge through the overcast. Speeding towards the ground at more than 300 knots, his altimeter steadily unwound without any change in the cloud cover until finally, at the last moment, the airfield below materialized. He pulled out of his dive at perilously low altitude to find that his division leader was gone. The other division was nowhere to be seen. That left Ritter and fellow flier Ens. Walter King to fend for themselves. 

The two were out of position to hit aircraft parked along the runway, but as they roared overhead they took full advantage of the lack of airborne opposition. Their guns were charged. Their targets, a control tower and buildings lined up along the field, were strafed until they started to throw off smoke and flames. Just then Ens. King heard a transmission on his radio. It was the leader of the second division broadcasting his position and orders to join up. Though they did meet up with a third pilot en route, who must have also heard the transmission, the second division leader was missing. The prospect of getting the fighters back together for a coordinated attack was becoming increasingly dim.

Ritter’s band of three now circled around the southern tip of the island—the only area free of the overcast. It didn’t take long for them to see the lumbering form of Avenger torpedo bombers heading up the west coast, looking for a hole in the clouds from which to start their bombing runs. The planes were unescorted, so Ritter and his two fellow fighters headed out to provide them with protection. It may not have been part of the original plan, but that had all gone out the window anyhow. At least this would be doing something productive. 

Like seemingly everything else that morning, their new mission immediately went off the rails. Ens. King spotted two Japanese fighters below and head of him, steadily gaining altitude as they climbed towards the Avengers. He and the third pilot quickly broke off to engage. The Japanese pilots never had a chance. Approaching from above and behind, King and the third pilot in the group quickly shot down the two interlopers. 

That left Ed Ritter, who spotted a solitary enemy off to his right trying to sneak by low on the water. Ritter didn’t want to go on a wild goose chase. Instead, he broke right and sent a quick burst of fire hurtling in the direction of the plane, which he identified as either a “Zeke” or an “Oscar,” both different types of single-seat Japanese fighters. As he quickly snapped back to the left to reconvene with his group, he saw the enemy plane steadily losing altitude. It wasn’t smoking or showing any other signs of damage, but it nevertheless continued down almost serenely until it slammed into the water.

That moment made Ed Ritter the only member of Fighting 18 assigned to temporary duty during this period to score in air-to-air combat. 

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Pacific Punching Bag 

At the same time Truk was undergoing relentless assault by the carriers of Task Force 58, a more modest assemblage of ships was quietly carrying out anti-submarine and combat air patrol duty east of Truk, in the Marshall Islands. Taroa Island in particular was singled out for attack given its position as the easternmost Japanese air base in the Pacific. It had been the subject of persistent hit-and-run raids by Allied aircraft since 1942 for this very reason. More recently, in late January 1944, it had been so thoroughly worked over that there probably wasn’t a single operational aircraft left on the island. The Navy wanted to keep it that way. Additional strikes were authorized for February 1944 and would continue to be authorized practically to the end of the war, by which time the tiny island had been hit by over 4,000 tons of ordnance.

Noel “Big Tom” Thompson and Anthony Denman were both assigned to participate in these strikes as part of VC-66 aboard the escort carrier USS Nassau. They arrived on 12 February from USS White Plains with replacement aircraft and orders to stick with the squadron until its return to Pearl Harbor. Unlike the fleet and light carriers, escort carriers were so small that they didn’t have air groups with independent bombing and fighting squadrons. Instead, the ‘VC’ stood for ‘composite,’ a mixed squadron made up of fighters and torpedo bombers. Another difference was that the escort fighters flew Grumman-designed Wildcats as opposed to the newer Hellcats operated by pilots on bigger ships. The Wildcat was slower and less well-armed than the Hellcat, but it was still an excellent plane in skilled hands.

As the squadron prepared to hit Taroa, its War History recalls that the men:

“Had a chance today to look at our handiwork as the Nassau steamed into Majuro lagoon and we saw at close range, the immense size of the lagoon and the tremendous collection of floating power assembled there…This marks the first time that the bulk of the new Pacific Fleet has assembled in one harbor, and what a sight it is!”

On 16 February, Thompson and Denman participated in a strike against Taroa Airfield. Their FM-1 Wildcats were loaded with two bombs: one 100lb. general purpose explosive, and one 100lb. incendiary. Though the island was already in shambles from two years of attacks, anti-aircraft fire—from the chatter of machine guns to the booming thump of big artillery pieces—was intense. Pilots remained stalwart in the face of heavy fire. One diving plane had a round tear through its starboard wing, severing the wires that served to charge guns and arm bombs. Its pilot returned to base with its payload. Even with one plane effectively out of the fight, the remaining 7 Wildcat pilots logged 7 hits with their general purpose bombs: 2 on a barracks, 4 on assorted buildings and 1 on “elbow pier” on the shore of the island. Incendiaries were dropped but the results were labeled “a distinct failure.” Only a few small fires were noted. 

Thompson and Denman’s experience with the unit likely jives with the reminiscences of the War History:

“In combat operations, the squadron accomplished its mission of neutralizing Taroa and Wotje, even though the bulk of hours in the air were spent on CAP and ASP. The gang had enough close scrapes to feel indoctrinated in the business of war…As the Nassau steamed back toward Pearl, stripped of her planes and ammunition (and beer), but carrying seventeen Jap prisoners, the Seagulls of 66 decided that they had been to war, for a while at least.” 

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Reunion

By 3 March 1944, Thompson and Denman were transferred from Nassau back to squadron training with VF-18. A day later, Blouin, Rennemo and Picken arrived from Essex. They had to break the sad news about Sidney McGurk. Ritter and Hurst came from Monterey, and the rest of the men—Robert “Fox” Morris from Yorktown and others from all manner of carriers—all filtered back to Hawaii. They had a bit more experience under their belts and a renewed sense of purpose. They were ready to get back out there in a squadron of their own, where they’d have the opportunities they were typically denied as replacement pilots. By May 1944 they were ready to go aboard Intrepid for their inaugural tour of duty, just in time to participate in the Marianas Turkey Shoot.

Intrepid, on the other hand, was far from ready. The torpedo that knocked the ship out of commission in February created lasting headaches for repairmen, who could not seem to iron out the kinks in the ship’s propulsion system. As a result, Intrepid did not ultimately leave Hawaii until August—three months late for its date with destiny. For the crew of Intrepid, the torpedo ordeal represented a trial by fire they passed with flying colors. All hands had come together to ensure the ship’s survival; its battle wounds were proof positive of their competence as sailors. It therefore makes sense that when the novice aviators of VF-18 came aboard their ship, the crew would suffer no slights against it. 

Despite their initial suspicions of the ship and the hostility—real or imagined—they sensed from Intrepid’s crew, the men of Fighting 18 ultimately followed Ernest Hemingway’s advice to his son: “”You make your own luck…” Fate wasn’t determined by portents and omens, it was the product of action, for better or worse. Through hard fighting in some of the Pacific’s biggest air and sea battles, Fighting 18 became welded to Intrepid and thought of their ship not as the “Dry I,” but as all of the synonyms for which Intrepid stands: bold, brave, courageous and daring. And they wouldn’t abide any slander on its name from anyone else, either. By the end of their tour, the air group’s War History recorded:

“Several pilots from another Air Group in the same boat let it be known that their group had sunk the entire Jap fleet, single-handed. They passed several remarks about the “Queen of the Drydocks” and her “green” air group. Duke Delaney [VT-18] quietly worked himself around beside one of these gentleman and when he opened his mouth again he hit him and knocked him ten feet to the deck. Duke jumped on him and looking around said, “Anyone else from his group here?”

There apparently wasn’t. Air Group EIGHTEEN and the INTREPID have come a long way together since they first met. The Air Group will listen to no slurs on the name of their ship…” 

Today would be William “Bill” Ziemer’s 100th birthday. He might have made it to that milestone, too, if his siblings are any indication. Bill’s big sister Alice was 99 when she passed; his eldest brother John “Jack” Ziemer lived to be 88 years old; Ernest Ziemer, next in line, saw his 93rd birthday; and the youngest of the lot, Howard and Arthur, are still with us at 97 and 93 respectively. Longevity and service are the hallmarks of the Ziemer name. Sadly, William Ziemer died August 2, 1945, at the tail-end of the War. Though the circumstances surrounding his death are tragic and need to be discussed, today is Bill’s birthday. Let us reflect on and celebrate his life on this special day.

William Creveling Ziemer was born November 18, 1920, to John and Lulu (nee Creveling) Ziemer. Though he and his four older siblings were born in Pennsylvania, the family soon moved to Toms River, New Jersey, where Howard and Arthur were born. Bill flourished in Toms River, excelling academically and athletically. He could have graduated high school at 16 based on his academic performance, but he chose to stay back a year to lead the Toms River Indians as captain of the football team.

According to newspaper articles, Bill was a “tall, husky” youth, a “threatening ball carrier” who could either muscle his way down the field or simply blaze past defenders. As a testament to his speed, he helped set a mile relay record during a Toms River track and field meet in 1938. His team took 1st place overall with 80 points. Rumson, in second place, was left in the dust with a score of just 19. In football, Bill’s name appeared frequently in the Asbury Park Press for touchdowns, first downs, and all around performance. His play with the Indians earned him a 2-year scholarship to the Hun School in Princeton, NJ. The school’s motto perfectly encapsulates the Ziemer family: Quaerite Scientiam Et Honorem, “Seek Knowledge and Honor.”

Bill graduated from the Hun School with honors and received a Pro Merito Award given to five scholastic leaders of the Class of ’40. In addition to an academic scholarship, he was awarded a football scholarship to Lafayette College in Easton, PA. It seemed that Bill’s rising star would make him a local football icon.

During his freshman year at Lafayette, Bill played first string for the “frosh eleven.” The next year, when he would have a chance to play varsity ball for the Leopards, he “made a favorable impression on coach Hook Mylin during spring practice…” When war arrived on American soil later that year, everything changed. Bill quickly traded in his football uniform for regulation Navy dress and began the rigorous training required of aviation cadets. Coach Mylin, who had just lost his star back, Walt Zirinsky, to the armed forces, now had to deal with Bill Ziemer, Zirinsky’s replacement, heading out to fight. The Lafayette Leopards had gone 5-4 and won their conference championship in 1941. In 1942, they finished 3-5-1. Young men like Bill were hard to find.

Service—in particular, Navy service—was a Ziemer family tradition started by the head of the household, John Ziemer, Sr. He had served in the Navy from 1910 to 1914, became a successful businessman in Toms River, and later served as a civilian aircraft inspector at Naval Air Station Lakehurst. His enthusiasm for the sea services and for aviation was so great that all five of his sons entered the Navy almost as soon as they were able.

John, Jr. served in the Seabees from early 1942 through the end of the war. He deployed to Iceland, the Marianas and Okinawa. Ernest enlisted in 1937 at age 18. Though he started out aboard destroyers, he transitioned into aviation around 1940 and made multiple deployments to Alaska as an Aviation Chief Machinist’s Mate in a PBY flight crew. Howard enlisted in November 1941, just before the U.S. was pulled into war. He served as an Aviation Machinist’s Mate 1st Class and in 1945 transitioned into pre-flight school. Arthur enlisted while still in high school and finished boot camp a few months before the official end of the War.

Bill started his training in Easton but quickly moved on to Chapel Hill, NC, for pre-flight instruction. Howard Ziemer, stationed at Norfolk, VA in the summer of 1942, took the bus down for the weekend to see his big brother. It was the last time the two would meet. Bill went to Oklahoma next, and finally to Naval Air Training Center Corpus Christi, TX, where he was part of Flight Class 12C. After receiving his commission as an Ensign he was put through advanced training in Florida and sent out to Fighting Squadron 36 (VF-36) on the west coast.

Like many combat aviators undergoing flight training, Bill had a brush with death before ever engaging the enemy. On October 7, 1943, he and Ensign J.N. Bales suffered a mid-air collision off the California coast. Both their FM-1 Wildcat aircraft were total losses, but somehow the two emerged from the incident unscathed. They were picked up in the water by a Navy vessel and brought back to their base at Ream Field. Ziemer was undeterred. He made it through the next month of training, celebrated his 23rd birthday, and shortly thereafter found himself aboard USS Cabot en route to Hawaii.

By this time the pilots in the squadron, recently re-designated VF-18, had gotten to know each other well. As in high school and college, Bill proved popular among his squadron mates. Numerous photos depict Bill and company swimming, lounging, posing with bandoliers and generally clowning around while they enjoyed the island amenities. Bill was also loved by Cindy, Fighting 18’s canine mascot, who rode as a passenger in his F6F on multiple occasions. Lest the reader think Hawaii was all fun and games, Bill’s flight log book shows that at the end of April 1944, he had amassed 765.5 hours of flight time. By the end of August 1944, when the squadron went aboard Intrepid, that number had ballooned to 927.2 hours. Every minute of practice would pay off when the shooting started.

One last treat in training arrived July 16, 1944, one month before VF-18 and Intrepid headed for Japanese waters. Bill’s brother Jack, in the Seabees, was passing through Hawaii on his way to Tinian as part of the Navy’s push in the Marianas. Bill wanted to take his brother up for a flight but the F6F Hellcat could only accommodate its pilot. To get around this problem, Bill and his division leader, Cecil Harris, checked out two SBD-5 Dauntless dive bombers. Bill had never flown this kind of plane before, but after a brief period reading the manual and a quick check flight, he was confident it wouldn’t be a problem. Jack Ziemer clambered into the rear seat of his brother’s Dauntless and one of his buddies hopped in behind Harris. The two planes took off for a quick hour-long joyride where the pilots showed off their prowess by skimming the wavetops. It was a memorable day for all involved. It was the last time Jack—or any member of the Ziemer family—saw Bill.

Bill Ziemer, Jim diBatista, Cecil Harris and Franklin Burley grew particularly close in training and in combat. The four men came together to form one of VF-18’s regular divisions. Harris and Ziemer were section leaders, with Burley and diBatista flying on their wings for mutual protection. Serving with Harris’s division meant facing some of the toughest strike assignments given to Fighting 18. Harris drew up the squadron’s flight schedules. Like squadron skipper Ed Murphy and Air Group commander Bill Ellis, Harris led from the front and didn’t shy away from danger. This fact is clear from the aircraft action reports documenting Bill Ziemer’s experience in September and early October.

On September 13, 1944, eight fighters, including Harris’s division, escorted Air Group 18 bombers out to airfields on Negros Island, Philippines. “They ran into a hornets nest over Fabrica, thirty-six Jap planes,” according to the air group’s War History. Harris had already seen his fair share of combat, but this would be the first time squaring off against enemy pilots for Ziemer, Burley and diBatista. It was a trial by fire.

As the bombers completed their runs on the airfield below, Japanese fighters swarmed up to exact their revenge. Harris’s division dropped down from above like a hammer, causing enemy aircraft to scatter in their wake. They continued hurtling down through the clouds until they came out into clear skies above the field. There, at only 500 feet altitude, more than a dozen Japanese fighters were milling about above the wreckage of their base. Harris and Burley went one way, and Ziemer and diBatista went another. Splitting up was never ideal but this was a life-or-death situation.

Ziemer and diBatista stayed down low making passes on the disorganized bunch of Japanese planes over the field. The two novices kept overrunning their quarry, but despite their inexperience and numerical disadvantage, they both managed to come out of their ordeal alive. Bill even managed to chase down an enemy “Oscar” fighter in the process, putting rounds into the enemy’s cockpit and engine area until the plane crashed through the trees below and into a river. For “his daring tactics and cool courage in the face of terrific odds,” Bill was awarded the Air Medal.

Squaring up against enemy fighters was only the beginning. Bill also flew napalm bombing missions during the Marine invasion of Peleliu on September 17, 1944, and participated in a surprise hit-and-run mission against Okinawa one month later, on October 10. Though these were important strikes, the most intense combat Bill saw—and the toughest day of flying according to most pilots later interviewed about their experience—came on October 12, when Admiral Halsey’s flattops hit “Fortress” Formosa (Taiwan).

As part of the morning fighter sweep against northern Formosa, and as part of the division assigned to fly low cover over its airfields, Harris’s division would be the first to face the awesome barrage of anti-aircraft fire from Japanese ground emplacements, and the division most vulnerable to enemy aircraft hiding in the clouds above. The Japanese were on high alert after the strikes of October 10 so there was no chance for surprise. Ziemer, Harris, diBatista and Burley carried 500lb. bombs for their mission. Their target: an ‘L’ shaped series of hangars on Shinchiku airfield. The aircraft action report for the sweep notes, “The glide bombing runs were made…in the face of intense flak of all callibres [sic]…” In spite of the danger he faced, Bill Ziemer pressed home his attack to score a direct hit on one of the hangars below. It was another ‘touchdown’ by the football wunderkind.

Photos of strikes on the Shinchiku (Hsinchu) complex taken by Air Group 18 enlisted men

Ziemer, Harris and their wingmen pressed on to the next field in line. There was still much work to be done. As they groped their way north through increasingly bad weather, they spotted 6–8 twin engine bombers circling down below, apparently getting ready to land at nearby Taien field. Since Harris’s radio was out, Ziemer took point. Those lumbering Japanese planes were sitting ducks for the hungry Hellcat pilots. According to the account in Edward Sims’ Greatest Fighter Missions,

Ziemer is maneuvering perfectly to be in a position to open fire on the enemy bomber which is last in formation and farthest to the right. Harris kicks left rudder and…eases out to the left. He watches Ziemer, ahead, almost within firing range.

The bombers are caught from behind by surprise. A few seconds more and the Hellcats will be pouring shells into them. The seconds drag. Now! White smoke streams back from the wings of Ziemer’s Hellcat as the six 50-caliber guns send streaks of shells into the trailing brownish-green bomber on the right. In seconds Ziemer’s fire is tearing holes in him, and smoke is streaming back. A splash of flame! The enemy bomber has exploded and disintegrated.

But the pilots covering Harris’s division made a fatal mistake. Not encountering any aerial opposition whatsoever, many headed down to help polish off the enemy bombers. It only took two minutes to complete the deed, but that was plenty of time for the Japanese fighter pilots hiding in the cloud cover above to make their move. As many as 20 enemy fighters suddenly burst through the clouds in hot pursuit. Ziemer and his wingman diBatista saw the danger to their squadron mates. They immediately started climbing at full throttle and RPM in a heroic effort to even the odds. Unfortunately, their steep climbs bled off precious speed, and as they drew nearer to the action more and more Japanese planes appeared from above.

Parachutes filled the air. Japanese planes exploded. Fighting ranged over about eight square miles of airspace from as low as the treetops to as high as two miles altitude. diBatista’s plane “was riddled by 20mm and machine gun fire and he was dazed by the impact of several 20mm on his armor plate…He did not see his section leader again after this attack.” diBatista barely made it back to the fleet. His Hellcat was so badly damaged that he was forced to bail out, and in his haste to get free from the unstable aircraft he actually wound up slamming against it, breaking his leg in the process. He was lucky to survive.

Ralph DuPont, Isaac Keels and Bill Ziemer were not so lucky. One Hellcat was seen to crash in flames over Formosa. It was not known whose. Squadron Commander Murphy wrote letters to all three families explaining that while their sons had been listed ‘Missing In Action,’ he did not think the odds were in their favor. To the parents of Isaac Keels, he wrote,

Isaac was a conscientious and aggressive fighter pilot, and when last seen, he was engaging enemy aircraft that greatly outnumbered him; the chances are overwhelming that he gave his life courageously carrying out his duty in the finest tradition of the Navy. I am reluctant to write this but I feel it would be unfair to you to hold out any but the slimmest hope of his survival.

Unbeknownst to his squadron mates in the air and back aboard Intrepid, Bill was fighting for his life on enemy soil. According to Lt. William A. Davidson, Jr., an Avenger pilot from USS Wasp who was shot down the next day, Bill parachuted down and hit the ground running. He managed to elude his Japanese and Formosan adversaries all day and night. The next day he made his way to the beach to inflate his raft, but it had been damaged during his run through the rough jungle underbrush. Before he could patch it up and make it safely off the coast, Bill was captured and taken prisoner.

After being transferred to Camp Ofuna outside Tokyo, Bill and Lt. Davidson, who were in adjacent cells, endured starvation, exposure to the elements, beatings, tropical illnesses and all manner of privation. Through it all Bill clung tenaciously to life, speaking nonstop about his family and his childhood home. These sweet memories sustained him as long as they could. Tragically, after fighting for months on end against monstrous treatment, Bill succumbed to illness on August 2, 1945. He was likely the last resident of Toms River, NJ, to be killed in the War.

Bill’s mother learned her son’s fate soon after the War drew to a close. Bill and Lt. Davidson had made a pact that whoever survived imprisonment would tell the others’ family about their fate. Lt. Davidson made good on that promise. According to a letter sent by Bill’s mom Lulu to her youngest son Arthur, who was at that moment serving aboard the destroyer USS Noa,

While they were confined, they would talk in whispers, thru a crack in the wall, & Bill described our house, so much so that D. said he would have known it anywhere. Bill used to tell him about the checkerboard cakes I used to make, & the fruit cakes I’d send him, & about Dads chair & mine in the living room, & lots of other things.

Ernest, Howard and Arthur Ziemer at the memorial dedication held in their brother Bill’s honor, Toms River, NJ, November 20, 1999

At 0820, Lt. Bill Verity of Cabot raised a shout that everybody heard: “I see ‘em.” He reported the Japanese formation on an easterly course off Mindoro Island. “Big ships,” he yelled. Two minutes later the voice of Cdr. Mort Eslick of Intrepid’s Bombing 18 came on—relayed loud, clear, and very cool: “Four battleships, eight heavy cruisers and 13 destroyers, course east, off the southern tip of Mindoro.”

It was the sighting of the day. Others would be more startling, but none so timely and accurate…Said Mick Carney, “Never in any main action at sea has the intelligence information from searching been so good, so thorough, so quickly put through, and so complete.”

-Carl Solberg, Decision and Dissent

This account of the Battle of Leyte Gulf has been cited in major works, including Evan Thomas’s Sea of Thunder and, more recently, Ian Toll’s Twilight of the Gods. Its author is rightly considered an authoritative source given his role as Admiral Halsey’s air combat intelligence officer (ACIO) during this epic showdown. There is just one problem: the names mentioned above—Bill Verity and Mort Eslick—are not correct, and even if they had been, those men were not there that fateful morning. In the case of Eslick, whose name was Mark, not Mort, it was because he was killed in action over Formosa almost two weeks prior. Regarding Bill Verity, there is no record of such a pilot aboard Cabot at that time, and at any rate, there’s virtually no evidence that USS Cabot had anything to do with the searches that found the Japanese battleships. 

All of this raises the question, who actually deserves credit for spotting “the largest armada seen massed together in the entire war…”? Who broadcast the “timely and accurate” sighting report to Halsey? On the 76th anniversary of the Battle of Leyte Gulf, it is time to finally give the correct men their due, starting with Fighting 18 pilot Donald Watts, Jr. 

Donald Leavitt Watts, Jr., was born March 3, 1921, in California. His love affair with all things fast began as early as age 14, with an Indian motorcycle he rode around the Burlingame area. At 17 he signed up for the National Guard, though it would only be a couple of years before the siren call of the Navy made him switch branches. Maybe it was the sharp dress whites that sealed the deal. More likely, it was the prospect of being strapped into the cockpit of a carrier plane that would make his Indian look like a bicycle. Either way, it would have put him at odds with his younger brother Jack R. Watts during the annual Army-Navy football game. Jack enlisted in the Army in early 1941 and ultimately joined the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division. 

Watts’ leadership abilities were apparent from the very beginning. He went from corporal to sergeant in the National Guard, commanding the 3rd platoon, 159th Infantry Regiment by the time of his release in 1940. At Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, he served on his class’s regimental staff as commissary officer and then as regimental sub-commander. He graduated first in his class in December 1941, just as war arrived on American shores. He had achieved all of this by the time he was 20 years old. 

Once deployed, Watts proved to have an eagle eye and a nose for juicy targets. His first big score came on October 10, 1944, during strikes on northern Okinawa. After escorting Intrepid’s bombers to their targets—shipping on the coast and air facilities inland—Watts looked for something worth planting his 500lb. bomb on. He noticed a little island in one of the channels running out to sea. For some reason, it just didn’t look right to him. Watts dropped his bomb over the target but narrowly missed. Despite the threat of anti-aircraft fire, he flew lower and opened up with his Hellcat’s six machine guns, raking the “island” from stem to stern. Branches flew into the air. Netting tore open. Gasoline poured from the three barges carefully hidden beneath the debris. The water around the barges burned fiercely, casting the 200’ vessels in stark relief. Watts’ hunch had paid off.

Two days later he was at it again. On “the third strike of the day against heavily fortified, strongly defended Kiirun Harbor, northern Formosa,” Watts led his section through intense anti-aircraft fire against three SC’s or “Sugar Charlies,” small cargo ships that were attempting to hide out in a cove. Watts and his wingman, Ensign Winton Horn, hosed the ships down with .50 caliber rounds. As with the previous day, he really knew how to pick them: “These ships were evidentally [sic] loaded with ammunition or explosive for they blew up with violent explosions leaving nothing but debris and purple slick.” He wasn’t done yet, though. “Two more SC’s were sighted 10 miles north of Kiirun Harbor. Lt. Watts sank one and seriously damaged another.” 

These were just warm-ups for Watts. His biggest single-day tally came on the morning of October 25 as Halsey’s carriers pounced on the unprotected remnants of Japan’s carrier force. Although this was a decoy force lacking the protection of Japanese fighter planes, the big ships steaming below still bristled with guns that could throw up walls of flak against attacking Helldivers, Avengers and Hellcats. 

Air Group Commander Ellis led Intrepid’s 25-plane strike to the target. The weather was absolutely perfect. He arrived on the scene at the same time as other carrier groups, leaving the sky above Japan’s beleaguered carriers jam-packed with ordnance. Without harassment by Japanese planes, there was plenty of time to organize the dozens of aircraft into a carefully orchestrated attack. Admiral Mitscher aboard Lexington instructed his ship’s air group commander, callsign “Mohawk,” to take the lead. Mohawk handed out target assignments. Each group got into position, awaiting the order to “check all switches,” and finally, “commence high speed run in.” 

Dive bombers pushed over first. Despite facing intense anti-aircraft fire, the action report filed after the strike recorded five pilots scoring confirmed hits and one probable on the light carriers they had been assigned. Four VF-18 pilots, including Donald Watts, followed on the heels of the bombers. Their dives were as steep as 70 degrees as they hurtled from 16,000’ down as low to 2,500’. Cevoli and Amerman recorded probable hits on a light carrier; Frederick Tracy scored a direct hit on the after flight deck of Japan’s one remaining fleet carrier, Zuikaku. It was hard to tell what happened with Watts’ bomb drop in the chaos of the moment. The action report records a near miss on a light carrier. His flight log book indicates a possible hit. His citation for the Silver Star Medal determined that Watts “probably scored” a hit. 

After pulling out of his dive, Watts craned his neck around to pick a new target. He may have expended his one 500lb. bomb, but there was still plenty of ammunition packed into the wings of his Hellcat, and he knew from experience that it would cause plenty of damage. His flight path was going to put him in line with a light cruiser on the edge of the scattered and battered Japanese formation. Watts pulled his plane up and dove at the ship, firing as he picked up speed. This wasn’t a duel with another fighter pilot, where the prudent thing would be to conserve ammunition by firing short bursts. No, the more rounds the better. Watts held down the trigger and let ‘er rip. Bullets tore into the base of the cruiser’s smokestacks as he hurtled over it at 500’. He threw his stick around as he left the scene, jinking his plane violently to avoid counterfire from the cruiser. One mile distant and feeling bold, Watts banked to get a good look at his quarry. It was smoking heavily. A moment later, there was a massive explosion. If the ship was still afloat beneath the pall of oily black smoke, it probably wouldn’t be for long. 

All of this is impressive, but Watts’ most significant contribution to the Battle of Leyte Gulf did not come from bombs or bullets: it came from his keen eye, cool head, and unflagging resolve. Unfortunately, his actions on the morning of October 24, 1944, have been obscured by inaccuracy and confusion in the historical record. For the reader’s sake, the full discussion of that event can be found at the end of this article. Watts’ citation for the Distinguished Flying Cross will suffice to explain what a significant role he played in this battle:

For heroism and extraordinary achievement in aerial flight as a Fighter Pilot in Fighting Squadron EIGHTEEN, attached to the U.S.S. INTREPID, in action against major units of the Japanese Fleet, during the Battle for Leyte Gulf, Philippine Islands, October 24, 1944. Launched at dawn, Lieutenant Commander (then Lieutenant) Watts took off on a hazardous search for the Japanese Battleship Force reported south of Mindoro Island and, upon sighting the enemy Fleet, boldly flew within range of its powerful gun batteries where he remained for approximately one and one-half hours and accurately reported the composition and movement of the Japanese Naval Force, thereby assisting materially in the development of our attack upon the enemy. By his skilled airmanship, gallant fortitude and unwavering devotion to duty, Lieutenant Commander Watts contributed essentially to the success of our operations in this historic battle, and his great personal valor in the face of grave peril upheld the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.

After returning home from his stint aboard Intrepid, Watts, like many of his peers in Fighting 18, elected to stick with the unit. He trained throughout 1945 in anticipation of a second deployment. The grim odds of making it through yet another tour of duty were not lost on Watts, whose younger brother Jack was killed on September 27, 1944, as he jumped into Holland.

Fortunately for Donald Watts, 1945 would be a year of weddings, not combat. He and Jane Ellen Faries, Alpha Chi Omega at UCLA and chairman of the local War Loan drive, were married July 14. A month later, after Japan came to understand the full force the United States would bring to bear to end the war, the odds of being deployed a second time became 0. Donald Watts had done his duty as a reservist and was ready to reintegrate into civilian life.

It didn’t last. When the Korean War broke out only a handful of years later, the Navy again needed as many trained carrier pilots as it could get its hands on. By this point, Donald Watts was a Lieutenant Commander in charge of his own reserve fighting squadron flying F4U Corsairs. The squadron was activated as VF-874, put aboard USS Bon Homme Richard, one of Intrepid‘s sister ships, and sent to the Pacific to join the 7th Fleet. Few of the WWII veterans wanted to be there—a fact made plain by the squadron’s insignia, which features a wreath with the letters ‘WDV’ for ‘We Didn’t Volunteer’—but they were going to make the best of a bad situation and serve their country with distinction.

VF-874 earned accolades under Watts’ capable leadership. The squadron served five line periods over the course of 1951. Its pilots regularly came under intense anti-aircraft fire as they sought to destroy infrastructure and provide support for UN troops on the ground. On one occasion, Watts was even shot down off of Wonsan. He was able to get “feet wet” and ditch by a British destroyer. Upon his return to Bon Homme Richard, Watts was greeted with “Ode to the Colonel,” a ditty written in his honor by his young pilots, and a celebratory cake (see slideshow above).

On November 10, 1951, Admiral Martin, in command of 7th Fleet, Admiral Clark, in command of Task Force 77, and General Ridgway, who took over after MacArthur was relieved as commander of all United Nations forces in Korea, observed carrier operations aboard the “Bonny Dick.” The next day, Admiral Martin sent out the following:

The whole task force should be very proud of the show it put on for General Ridgway X In particular the Bon Homme Richard deserves a well done for as fine a demonstration of carrier operations as I’ve ever seen.

For his service in the Korean War, Donald Watts earned the Bronze Star with Combat V, additional Distinguished Flying Crosses and Air Medals, and the respect and affection of the men he led. Watts may have been glad to return stateside to start his family, but there is no doubt he would miss the thrill of flying and the camaraderie of carrier life.

Watts served in the Navy Reserve for a total of 22 years, and even after he was released on the 20-year rule in 1960, he continued to be associated “on non-pay status” with his beloved “Weekend Warrior” unit for years to come. Not only did he reach the rank of Captain, he ultimately assumed command of the 250-member NARTU Alameda Air Wing Staff, making him the top drilling reservist among the Bay Area’s 3,000 members.

Donald Watts was one of Fighting 18’s most highly-decorated, longest-serving military men—Reserve or otherwise. On the 76th anniversary of the Battle of Leyte Gulf, an event he played a pivotal and overlooked role in, let us honor his memory and the many sacrifices he made in defense of his country.

Special thanks go out to Paul Watts, caretaker of his father’s collection and legacy, without whom this article would have been impossible. Read on if you are interested in the evidence concerning the search efforts undertaken on the morning of October 24, 1944.

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October 24: The Evidence

The account that follows is derived from action reports, communications logs and other primary source materials including the citation Watts received for his actions on the morning of October 24, 1944. It is hoped this will serve as a corrective to the prevailing narrative.

On the morning of October 24, Admiral Bogan, Commander Task Group 38.2, had fleet carrier Intrepid and light carrier Cabot in his group. These were the only flattops available to him. According to the report of air operations covering this period, “As a result of reports that major units of the enemy fleet had been sighted approaching the western Philippines a six sector search was ordered to be launched at dawn…Two VF and 1 VB were allocated to each sector and 2 VF for relaying messages. In addition a special search of four fighters was sent to cover the west coast of northern Palawan…” 

Intrepid’s War Diary for October 1944 contains a detailed list of aerial activity for each day, including launch and recovery times and the character of each flight. The entry for October 24 shows the following:

Launched	Recovered	Designation	VF	VB
From 0600	By 1103	Geographical Search	12	6
0600	1103	Recco.	4
0600	1103	Communication Relays	2

The above numbers cover the full aircraft roster for six sector searches, the special 4-plane search, and communication relays. Cabot’s War Diary, meanwhile, describes morning flight operations this way: “0600 launched CAP and ASP of 12 VF’s and 4 VT’s…0825 Reports received of a Japanese naval force…sighted south of Mindoro…0855 launched 8 VF’s and 5 VT’s to strike previously reported units.” In 212 pages of aircraft action reports from Cabot’s Air Group 29, there are none with reference to searches flown this day—all specify CAP/ASP flights and strikes. Further, VF-29’s War History, which would certainly mention such a momentous occasion, instead states: “The 24th dawned with two splashes by our CAP and the arrival of news of the approaching Jap Fleet in the Central Philippines.” 

Documents related to Intrepid’s Air Group 18 on the other hand provide granular detail concerning the searches. From the VF-18 War History: 

On 24 October at 0600 the search group took off. Bill Millar and Herpich stayed half-way between the ship and the searchers in order to relay messages. At about 0730 Max Adams rearseatman picked up a radar blip. Max and Watts of VF went over to investigate. At 0815 Millar relayed the following from FIVE FOX LUCKY, Watts, “13DD, 4BB, 8CA off the south tip of Mindoro, course 050, speed 10 to 12 knots. No train or transports.” 

The aircraft action report from Air Group 18 is equally explicit:

This important search was organized as follows: Six teams, each consisting of 2VF and 1VB, were to search six 10 degree–300 mile sectors from 230 to 290 degrees true, and were numbered clockwise one through six. A special search of 4VF was to investigate the northwest coast of Palawan…Two VF were to station between base and perimeter of search to act as relays for contact reports. All sectors were fully covered. 

In fact, all six teams and the special search are mentioned in the report:

Why then is there any mention of Cabot in the historical record? It appears to be a mistake in the communications logs. Per the Commander 3rd Fleet War Diary:

0810 Item A search plane of the CABOT in Task Group THIRTY EIGHT POINT TWO in sector 3V11 reported contact with 4 battleships, 8 cruisers and 13 destroyers off the southern tip of Mindoro Island, course 050, speed 10 to 12 knots. The original contact report was intercepted by Commander THIRD Fleet on VHF channel “Charlie”. 

And the original communication log:

Message	TOR
232320	232320	Channel A
	From CABOT 3V11	Major force sighted 3 BB, many other units. 300
		speed 15 Vincennes 130 speed 15 — CABOT

The communications log for Com 3rd Fleet was cobbled together from TBS (talk between ships), VHF, and other communications channels into a single chronological account of communications between Halsey and his subordinates. We already know this record contains typographical errors. One glaring example is a communique from Bogan to Halsey stating that Air Group 18 commander William Ellis was at the target site and reported two battleships damaged. The 232220 timestamp for this TBS report would have put it at 0720 Item (Japan’s local time, GMT +9) on October 24, almost an hour before Sector 3 spotted this force. A handwritten note on the digitized copy of this document at NARA echoes these suspicions. 

There are other glaring problems with these accounts. For one, the War Diary indicates Halsey received the contact report on VHF channel “Charlie,” and the report was delivered with a full breakdown of Japanese forces. The supposed Cabot transmission is indicated as channel “Able” (in the WWII-era spelling alphabet) and refers only to 3 BB and “many other units.” However, the next message in the communications log, which was reportedly sent two minutes later, is as follows:

Message	TOR
232322	232322	Channel C
	From 5F INTREPID	The force consists of 4 BB, 8 CA, 13 DD, location
		is south of southern tip of Mindoro, course 050, speed
		10-12 knots. No transports in the group and in all a
		total of 25 warships.

Multiple sources agree—even if they are not willing to commit to the non-existence of the Cabot aircraft—that the transmission which ultimately reached Halsey and had the largest impact on his decision making was that of 5F, or Five Fox Lucky, Donald Watts. The prior transmission attributed to Cabot by Solberg et al. is given less significance due to its generality. It is typically construed as Cabot planes getting the first look at Japan’s massive battleship force and Intrepid planes arriving on the scene on their heels. 

But how could a plane from another carrier be within a two minute flight of a search sector covering a 10-degree, 300 mile plot of ocean? Why does that ship and that ship’s air group’s historical documentation lack any and all reference to participation in searches? Why is the name of the pilot Solberg mentions nowhere to be found in Air Group 29 materials? 

A simpler explanation exists. From the same Air Group 18 action report cited above:

While on the first leg of their sector and when approximately 30 miles south of the southern tip of Mindoro Island, ADAMS reported that his radioman had a radar contact bearing 090 degrees distance 25 miles. They were then flying at 9,000’. Course was altered and the wakes of six ships observed at 0746. (all times in this report are Item). An emergency contact report was sent by WATTS to the relay team stating many Jap ships observed 9 miles south of Mindoro, course 030 speed 10-12 knots. This report was relayed and acknowledged. All three search pilots now had the entire disposition in view and after quickly checking the number and classes of warships observed, amplifying reports were sent to the relay plane and promptly transmitted to base. (emphasis mine)

The sighting report credited to Cabot in Solberg’s, and subsequently Evans’ and Toll’s books, is just Watts’ original emergency sighting report being relayed. Somewhere along the line its source was mistaken or a typographical error crept into the transcription. This is far more plausible and has much more support than attempts to square the record with Solberg’s account.

Bill “Jeep” Daniels, Intrepid’s fighter director, was closely monitoring the radar console at his post in the ship’s combat information center. Each blip on his screen represented a pilot on combat air patrol (CAP) cruising protectively around the carrier group. He furrowed his brow. Four of the blips looked too spaced out for his liking. He’d have to herd those planes back into formation. 

Jeep got on the radio. “Close up, Spider.”

Frank “Spider” Foltz was flying on the outside edge of his four-plane division. When he heard Jeep’s transmission, he thought it came from his division leader, Roy “Bud” Burnett. He moved in tight on Bud’s wing. He was practically within spitting distance. 

Maybe Jeep’s instruments were on the fritz; maybe he thought Spider Foltz could stand to be wingtip-to-wingtip with Burnett. Whatever the reason, Jeep radioed again, more insistently this time: “Close up, Spider!”

Foltz again thought the command came from his division leader. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Close up?’ Couldn’t Bud see they were practically touching? Spider was exasperated. He got on the radio and rather matter-of-factly replied, “I can’t get any closer, Bud!” 

Bud Burnett and Jeep Daniels thought the whole thing was hilarious. Though it was just a tiny incident in an otherwise action packed deployment, it became a favorite memory between the two, an in-joke that only they could understand. They had been through something together. The men you flew with and the ones who guided you home? You were thick as thieves. You were brothers in arms.

Roy Otis Burnett, Jr., was born June 29, 1916 in Portland, Oregon. He was the baby of the family: the youngest of three children and the only boy of the bunch. Roy’s father was a car dealer who worked hard to build his namesake, Burnett Motors, into a local institution. When the Great Depression hit, times were lean and Roy sold newspapers to contribute to the family’s earnings. When the American economy began to bounce back, however, his father’s car business became a runaway success. The family didn’t have to worry about money from that point on. In 1935, Roy Burnett Sr. and his business were featured as part of a full-page spread in the local Beaverton Enterprise. The advertisement paid homage to leaders in the community, saying of Burnett and other entrepreneurs, “These men, outstanding in their separate chosen professions and business, constitute a very great part in the success and increasing growth of Portland…they are truly Americans.” 

That same year, Roy went off to the University of Oregon. Everyone called him “Bud,” a nickname he carried throughout his life. He was athletic, good looking and well-liked on campus. In his freshman year he played on the basketball team, pledged Beta Theta Pi and even got a visit from his “old man” on the University’s annual Dads Day. While he wanted to be an actor or a lawyer, if all else failed he had a thriving family business to join after graduation. The world was his oyster. But as war erupted in Europe, the collective best laid plans of America’s youth began to go awry. Bud could see the writing on the wall. If he was going to fight for his country, he wasn’t going to wait to be drafted: he was going to do it on his own terms. He enlisted in the Navy October 4, 1940, more than a year before the attack on Pearl Harbor. 

His odyssey started close to home with elimination flight training at Naval Reserve Aviation Base Seattle, WA. It was practically in his backyard. To get his Wings of Gold, however, Bud would have to travel clear across the country to Pensacola, Florida. It probably seemed like an incredible distance at the time. By the end of the war, though, it would pale in comparison with the number of miles he traveled on the seas and in the skies. 

After earning his wings, Bud was posted to Naval Air Station Pensacola as an instructor. It was there he met Adelaide McSween, a beautiful—and extremely bright—young woman. She was about to graduate from Mary Baldwin College with a degree in sociology and was one of six seniors listed in Who’s Who of American College and Universities for her dedication to serving the campus community. The two were engaged in April 1942 and married just a couple months later. Roy’s marriage broke hearts back home. Years later, one of his female classmates could still remember his charm. She summed it up this way: “Bud was silk.” 

Burnett’s tenure with “Two-a-Day 18” began the following year, when the squadron was still designated VF-36 and practically none of its pilots had yet seen combat. His name appears in the War Diary of USS Copahee on November 20, 1943. The squadron was undergoing carrier qualification and refresher training that day. During one of his landings, Bud missed the arrestor cable and was forced to slam into the little carrier’s crash barrier. The impact did major damage to his F6F Hellcat and minor damage to the ship’s wooden flight deck where his propeller sawed into the planks. Though that sounds bad, it was far from unusual. Bud’s overall performance got him a pass. Soon, he and the other men in the squadron were put aboard USS Cabot and sent to Hawaii for the final leg of training. 

By this time Bud was a 27-year-old full lieutenant, making him one of the oldest and most senior-ranking men in the squadron. As a result, he served as a mentor to a number of the squadron’s young ensigns. He was like an older brother to Robert “Fox” Morris, a 20-year-old New Yorker who Ed Ritter called “one of the diminutive heroes of the squadron…” Bud and Fox posed for pictures in Hawaii during training, spent time aboard an escort carrier after their temporary flight duty in early ‘44, and of course served in combat together later that year aboard USS Intrepid. The two remained friends after the war as well. One of Fox Morris’s sons remembered that “Uncle Bud” would visit the family in Florida, despite the fact that Burnett lived on the other side of the country. 

According to Harold Thune, Burnett was also close with William “Junior” Sartwelle, a Texan who was a full eight years younger than Burnett. The two had much in common. Both were slim and good-looking. Their fathers were both successful businessmen—Burnett’s with cars and Sartwelle’s with cattle. And of course they both loved to fly. Sadly, Junior Sartwelle was lost September 24, 1944, when his plane was hit by anti-aircraft fire over Cebu Island in the Philippines. Thune remembered that, “…when he got knocked down that was kind of tough on the guy [Burnett] because they kind of developed almost a father/son relationship…” 

Still, the loss wasn’t something Bud could dwell on, especially since there would be another two months of combat before the squadron headed home. He had to make sure that the rest of his division survived their trial by fire in the Pacific. He had to look out for Jeep Daniels back aboard Intrepid, too. Nobody was going home if the ship was sunk. Fortunately, Bud excelled as a patrol pilot. Four of his six credited victories occurred while he was defending the fleet off the coast of Formosa. 

On the afternoon of October 13, 1944, Burnett was flying snooper/anti-submarine patrol (SNASP) with his four-plane division. It was a rainy day with big clouds blanketing most of the sky. Their Hellcats were loaded with 250lb. depth charges in case a Japanese submarine reared its head, and they flew low over the water to make sure they couldn’t miss their quarry. The threat that day didn’t come from beneath the waves, though: it came in the form of a Japanese bomber attempting to slip through the Navy’s defenses. 

As soon as Burnett saw the brown paint job of the D4Y “Judy” against the clouds above, he sprung into action. His Hellcat would close the distance in no time. The two Japanese crewmen in the bomber knew they were in trouble when they saw him coming. They also knew enemy ships were still miles away. With no other choice, the pilot jettisoned his bomb and made a run for it. The Judy’s gunner waited until the last second, when he knew he couldn’t miss, and opened up with a hail of accurate gunfire. A round punched a hole in Bud’s wing; another gouged metal out of his propeller. But the Hellcat was built to withstand much more punishment than that. Bud returned fire, leaving the enemy plane smoking before he pulled out, readjusted his point of aim, and unleashed a second burst that sent the Judy crashing into the waters below. 

Bud flew again the next day. It was another day of rain squalls and clouds, patrol flights and attacks by Japanese planes. This time it wasn’t one or two snoopers, though: Japanese aircraft were pouring out of the clouds by the handful to repel the invaders. The Imperial Japanese Navy was throwing everything it had left against Halsey’s carriers, including the remnants of its carrier groups and the T Air Attack Force, Japan’s specialized nighttime and foul weather attack unit. 

Despite having a numerical advantage of nearly 3-to-1, the Japanese pilots were easy prey for their American counterparts. Most of the men in Hellcats had hundreds more hours of training than their Japanese counterparts. They had better equipment and the benefit of fighter directors back aboard ship helping them “see” through the miserable weather. Jeep Daniels helped vector his pilots out to an incoming raid of 30 enemy planes. Burnett downed two. Only one managed to get through the indomitable defense put up by the combat air patrol. 

A second raid of 6-9 straggles came loosely on the heels of the first attack. Burnett once more put himself directly in harm’s way to neutralize the threat. Gunfire pinged off of his propeller and engine but his plane didn’t even seem to register the damage. He quickly closed on the plane he was chasing, pouring .50 caliber rounds into its engine and fuselage until it burst into flames. His division members, Spider Foltz and Fox Morris, both shot down planes of their own. Intrepid came through the ordeal unscathed.

After the war, Bud settled back in his native Portland with Adelaide. He joined his father at Burnett Motors as the company’s Vice President and continued to grow the business, including serving as the Northwest distributor for Cessna. He and Adelaide adopted three infant children between 1948 and 1954. The couple lavished them with affection.

A prosperous business allowed him to buy land: first a 60 acre farm in Portland’s Lake Oswego suburb, and then a ranch house up the hill from the original property. Bud was a cowboy at heart. He kept horses and was a talented polo player for many years. He even went in on an actual ranching venture in the 1960s, raising wheat and cattle on 13,000 acres in eastern Oregon. Perhaps it was also a way to honor the memory of William “Junior” Sartwelle, the young Texan who didn’t make it home. 

Besides his longtime friendship with Robert “Fox” Morris, Bud also kept in touch with Bill “Jeep” Daniels, who visited the Burnett family at their Lake Oswego farmhouse in the 1950s. Daniels made a fortune bringing cable television west of the Rockies. He became renowned for his philanthropy, and that extended to helping care for Bud and Adelaide when their health began to fail in the late 1990s. No expense was too great to ensure that they received the best treatment and round-the-clock care in the final years of their lives.

When Bud passed in early 1999, Daniels sent a large floral American Flag to the funeral in recognition of his long-time brother in arms. He also sent a message to Bud’s daughter, Kate, whom he clearly adored. He wrote:

Kate My Love,

I know what you are going through. I have been there. Just always remember that I will be your new Bud, your Dad, your friend, your love.

I hope you remember my note, in “Close up, Adelaide, close up Adelaide,” that is my famous note to Bud, “Close up, Spider, close up, Spider.”

Much Love,
“Jeepo”

Jeep Daniels passed the next year. Perhaps it was time for him to “close up” with his Intrepid brother, Bud. The pictures of friendship that have survived these years, the reminiscences of their children, and the stories they chose to pass on show us what these men wanted to focus on after their ordeal in the Pacific. Rather than war stories and tales of valor, they held fast to moments of hope, of levity, and ultimately of brotherhood. 

When you think of the Navy and basketball, does any particular state spring to mind? Is it Florida—Naval Air Station Pensacola and the Heat/Magic? Maybe California—Naval Base San Diego and the Lakers/Golden State? I’m willing to bet it’s not South Dakota, a land-locked state without an NBA team. Nevertheless, South Dakota produced two of the highest-scoring naval aviators of World War II, Cecil Harris and Joe Foss, and one of the country’s premier collegiate point guards, Harold Thune. Harold wasn’t just a warrior on the courts, though: he also served alongside Cecil Harris as a fighter pilot in USS Intrepid’s VF-18 squadron.

Harold’s father, Nikolai Gjelsvik, left his native Norway for the United States in 1906. He changed his name to Nick Thune on arrival to help reinforce his American identity. Nick worked on the railroad in South Dakota and saved his earnings to open a hardware store. He made his American dream come true in a decade: by 1916 he was a property owner, business owner and married man. His wife gave birth to three sons. Harold Richard Thune was the second arrival, born December 28, 1919, in Mitchell, South Dakota.

When Harold was in the sixth grade, the family moved to Murdo, South Dakota. It was a basketball town through and through. There were school teams for kids in the fourth and fifth grade; there were makeshift baskets erected on virtually every garage and barn. Harold grew up immersed in the sport—and he excelled, too. In 1937, while in high school, he led the Murdo Coyotes to the state championships. Though they narrowly lost in the finals, Harold was the game’s leading scorer and was cited in local papers as the “outstanding player of the contest” after putting on a “sensational defensive performance.”

He was so good that a local doctor with some Big 10 connections took an interest in Harold and decided to help him break into the big leagues. Rather than attending college in his native South Dakota, the doctor proposed Harold enroll at Hibbing Junior College in neighboring Minnesota, where the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers talent scouts might notice him. Harold did just that, and before long he was not only noticed, but signed and put in the rotation as a point guard for Minnesota.

Harold proved himself as a sophomore during a game against his native South Dakota State Rabbits. After a rocky start to the second half, Minnesota’s coach opted to try out some of his new players. According to the Minneapolis Star Tribune, “Of the new men, Harold Thune…proved the most impressive, playing cool clever ball…” He continued his upward trajectory as a junior, helping lead the Golden Gophers to a Big 10 playoff berth that got them all the way to the semi-finals, where they lost by two points to the team that won the whole tournament: The University of Wisconsin Badgers. “Hal,” as he was known in the local press, was chosen as the season MVP for the Gophers and finished out his tenure there as co-captain of the team in 1942.

By that time, war had already come to American shores. Harold’s older brother Gilbert was a cook aboard USS Boggs, a destroyer-minesweeper in Hawaii, when Japanese planes came roaring over Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. His ship sped back to guard the approaches to the base against further attack, but by that point the damage was done. When Harold saw the headlines in the newspapers he knew what would come next. He quickly enlisted in the Navy, but because he was going into his senior year of college he was allowed to finish school before shipping out to training.

After graduation, Harold entered the aviation cadet program and was sent to Wold-Chamberlain Field in Minneapolis to begin flight training. Choosing naval aviation was a no-brainer for Harold. He’d grown up reading Boys’ Life, a publication of the Boy Scouts of America whose covers regularly featured aircraft like the lighter-than-air USS Akron and lumbering Boeing Clippers. Unlike the pages of his magazines, seeing planes in the sky was a rarity. When one did fly overhead, it could draw a crowd of excited onlookers—not just kids like Harold but adults, too.

The other novelty for Harold was the sea. He grew up in the middle of the country, more than 1,000 miles from the nearest ocean. The idea of water as far as the eye could see was about as alien a notion as flying thousands of feet in the air. It’s no wonder that when the time came to serve his country, Harold wanted to be a carrier pilot. It was the fulfillment of a childhood dream.

Training bounced him all around the country. After Minneapolis, he went to Corpus Christi, TX, for intermediate training with increasingly advanced aircraft. In April 1943 he was commissioned as an Ensign and had his Navy ‘wings of gold’ affixed to his tunic. From there, he was sent to Melbourne, FL, for operational training with aircraft that were actually being flown by carrier pilots at war.

Harold had one last thing to accomplish before he was assigned to a squadron and sent into combat. While attending the University of Minnesota, he’d met a young woman who worked serving sodas on campus. The two hit it off and pursued a serious relationship, even as he was forced to move from state to state for training. In May 1943, while Harold was stationed in Florida, the two got engaged. They married the very next month. It was their last opportunity to do so before Harold’s training took him across the country, down to Hawaii, and thousands of miles across the Pacific.

On August 15, 1943, a new squadron, Fighting Squadron 36 (VF-36), was created as a standalone unit to be stationed on land. Harold Thune was assigned to the squadron and may have thought at that moment, ‘So much for my boyhood dream of aircraft carriers.’ But the squadron’s fortunes changed rapidly as ship after ship splashed out of dry dock and into the Navy’s waiting arms. Although none of the men in the squadron knew it at the time, just one day after VF-36 came into being, the USS Intrepid was commissioned. In a year’s time it would be their home.

Harold went with Fighting 36 to Naval Auxiliary Air Station Ream Field, outside of San Diego, for the last leg of training and carrier qualification. The make-or-break test after more than a year of hard work would be just a handful of touch-and-go landings on the short, stubby deck of the escort carrier USS Copahee. Harold and the rest of the young pilots went aboard on Saturday, November 20, 1943. Harold recalled the experience during an interview with his son in 2007:

“…[Y]ou had to make 4 landings before you were qualified to be accepted in the uh, into a squadron. And the ones that I made, when I flew what I thought was a good pattern and was ready to land, I got the wave off. Which is mandatory. You can’t land…And so I went around and when I was in what seemed to be about the most uncomfortable position I was in, then I would get a cut which meant, that’s also mandatory, you’ve got to take it.”

Though awkward at first, Harold passed carrier quals and later acclimated to the unique sensation of thudding down on a flattop. Three days later, he and the other men of VF-36 were put on a slightly bigger carrier, the light carrier USS Cabot, and sent down to Hawaii. For now it was goodbye wife, goodbye mom and dad, and goodbye to the life he had known for the better part of 24 years.

Training in Hawaii was intense. Attack and defense tactics, gunnery, and increasingly advanced maneuvers pushed both pilot and plane to their limit. VF-36 was also redesignated VF-18 at this time, since it was a squadron without an air group, and Air Group 18 needed a fighting squadron. The newly-completed carrier group practiced joining up in the air, flying out over a designated point and returning to base safely. Pilots spent upwards of six hours in the air on any given day. Harold’s flight log book recorded over 70 hours in the cockpit during the month of March 1944 alone, and over 700 hours of flying in total since 1942. Every hour in the air was becoming increasingly important. Any advantage he could eke out could spell the difference between life and death once the shooting started.  

Fortunately for Harold, fellow South Dakotan Cecil Harris was put in charge of training the squadron. Harold said, “…he was a remarkable pilot, I’ve never seen anybody fly a plane like he did.” Harris’s unorthodox style lent itself well to the strengths and weakness of the F6F Hellcat, the plane Fighting 18 used in combat.

“…the tactics that were by the book, kind of, was…you come down and try to get on the tail of somebody and all the while they were losing speed. His was totally different. You come and you took ‘em head on. Then you broke away and then you’d come back up and uh, it was a totally different type of operation than we had gone through in training.”

“Cece” Harris also taught Harold,

“[I]f you had somebody on the tail, he said well, if you’d chop…your engine, horse back on the stick and stick it on its tail…then you’d kick over and you were on his tail. Well that happened…so I did try it and you’re moving at pretty good speed on that. So when you chop the engine off you slow down pretty quick. And then when you pull her up, actually you’re into a stall which is a dangerous thing…but he went by and I kicked back and…I was sitting on his tail.”

It was a dangerous but effective maneuver, a kind of mid-air switcheroo.

Harold was well-regarded by the leaders of his squadron. Everett Link, VF-18’s inaugural commanding officer, wrote in his fitness report, “Ensign Thune is a quick-witted determined person. He has unusual ability to plan and think for himself and do things without being told. He is exceptionally cool-headed and logical in his actions. His personality and character make him exceptionally successful in working with other officers to a common end. His ambition, sincerity, and ability make him an exceptionally good leader. He is strongly recommended for promotion.”

Edward Murphy, the man who ultimately commanded Fighting 18 aboard Intrepid, felt the same. Not only did he have glowing remarks to put in Harold’s fitness reports, Murphy assigned him as a section leader in his division, meaning he trusted Harold to watch his back in combat. Thune, who by July 1944 was promoted to Lieutenant (junior grade), was also made Assistant Flight Officer under “Cece” Harris. The two grew close enough that when it came time for Harris to get married in 1945, Harold stood up at his wedding.  

During Harold’s time aboard Intrepid, he logged over 170 hours of flight time and more than two dozen strikes against enemy positions. The lessons he learned from Harris served him well. According to the Combat Accomplishments of Fighting Squadron 18 submitted by squadron skipper Ed Murphy, Harold is credited with:

In addition to being interviewed by his son for the Library of Congress’s Veterans History Project in 2007, Harold was interviewed by the Intrepid Museum’s Oral History Project ten years later, in 2017. It’s incredible what Harold could recall 60-70 years after these events took place. He remembers the intimate details: the kind of father/son bond formed between one of the squadron’s oldest pilots and one of its youngest; the time the squadron flight surgeon, Doc Fish, went to San Francisco to get some country records, and how they reminded guys of home when they spun on the scratchy phonograph aboard ship; how the Dutch freighter that took the squadron back to the U.S. had a huge shipment of fresh oranges that the pilots singlehandedly devoured—their first fresh fruit in God knew how long.

These interviews also reveal what carrier life was like for pilots between strike missions, when they had to occupy themselves physically and mentally to cope with the many stresses they were exposed to in wartime. Aside from playing cards and reading/writing letters, one of the favorite pastimes aboard Intrepid happened to be Harold’s forte: basketball.

“And so we had kids, college kids and stuff like that, pretty good athletes. And so we had, we put together a pretty good team. And on the hangar deck…they rigged up some baskets and we could play basketball down there. And of course the enlisted men also had a very good team. [Laughs] And uh, of course they loved to beat the officers. And I don’t know as they ever did quite beat us, but uh, there were some real—it was about the only time the enlisted men could gouge an officer and not get called for it. [Laughs] But we became pretty good friends with those guys.”

The squadron War History recalls this as well. “On quiet days there was usually sun, air and exercise on the flight deck. For the Air Group, it was mostly sun and air. The only thing that could pass for organized sport was basketball, played on the forward elevator. Pop Thune and his five usually trimmed the highly touted ships-company team…”

A kamikaze attack on November 25, 1944, took Intrepid temporarily out of action and caused the squadron to return home in early 1945. Harold was airborne when the attack occurred and forced to land with the rest of his flight on a small airstrip on Leyte, in the central Philippines. The next morning Harold and company gassed up, geared up and flew to Peleliu, where they’d again have to sleep and prepare for a final flight to Ulithi, the fleet anchorage where they could catch a ride home.

Harold’s closest brush with death occurred that morning at Peleliu.

“…I blew a tire on takeoff and blew up a plane. (laughs) And some of the guys wanted to come back and the skipper said, he didn’t have a chance…it isn’t even like having four wheels, you had two wheels. (laughs) One is down—you’re going where it’s going, is what it amounted to. But Peleliu had lots of coral, and when they built the runways, they pushed it off to the side, and big rocks and everything…so when I went off the runway, my bellytank hit one of those rocks and—it was in flames, immediately. And so, when I got stopped, I got out very quickly. (laughs) And of course they couldn’t see because the plane was all on fire and everything else. And so, they were certain that I was gone…And so, I stayed there. They took me to the infirmary and bandaged me up, and all that sort of stuff…”

Harold was healthy enough to catch a flight out to Ulithi shortly thereafter. Skipper Ed Murphy, meanwhile, was in his tent still reeling from the presumed loss of one of his pilots to such a senseless accident. Harold remembers that Murphy was “slightly surprised” when he walked into his tent alive and well. The whole squadron was no doubt overjoyed to see him. They had lost about a dozen men over the course of their deployment. They were tired of grieving. It was time to go home.

After the war, Harold left the Navy to help his father with the family’s hardware store. His wife, Pat, who had worked during the war in a factory inspecting gun sights, worked at the store as well. The couple ran it for 15 years. Both Harold and Pat later worked in the Murdo school system: Harold as a teacher—and basketball coach—and Pat as school librarian. The couple had five children including Senator John Thune, currently the second-ranking Republican in the United States Senate.

Harold Thune turned 100 years old in 2019 and is one of the only—if not the only—surviving member of Fighting Squadron 18.  

War correspondents on Navy ships were tasked with transporting their readers to an alien environment: a land of low ceilings and low lights, of well-regimented hustle and bustle through a maze of winding corridors that would put any ant colony to shame. At the same time, reporters needed to imbue these machines with a sense of purpose and familiarity to ensure that morale on the home-front stayed high. Stories of hometown heroes and their success in combat helped motivate civilians in war industries and justified the sacrifices everyone was making for the cause of victory.

USS Intrepid saw its fair share of newsmen coming and going throughout the course of the war. Tim Leimert of CBS was aboard during the Battle of Leyte Gulf. At its conclusion, he went to USS New Jersey to interview Admiral Halsey directly. Correspondents from Newsweek and TIME were also aboard Intrepid in the fall of 1944. Even reporters from foreign papers, like Denis Warner of Australia’s Sydney Sun, spent some time on the ship.

I want to focus on two reporters who wrote extensively about their time aboard Intrepid: Philip Heisler of the Baltimore Sun, and Ray Coll, Jr., of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Their interviews with Fighting 18 pilots shed light on some of the lesser-known members of the squadron, and bring to life the day-to-day experience of young men at war.

Philip Heisler

Philip Heisler came aboard Intrepid on October 2, 1944, and departed November 30, 1944—a long stay compared to most of the other correspondents bouncing from ship to ship. As a Baltimore newspaper reporter, he made sure to seek out local flyboys for feature pieces. There were a couple Marylanders he could interview from the bombing squadrons, but Heisler was looking for something with more glitz and glamour. His big break arrived on October 27, almost a month into his stay aboard Intrepid. The newcomer’s name was John T. Williss and he was the full package: handsome, a fighter pilot, and even better, a Baltimorean. It only took Williss a couple days to give Heisler a juicy story for the folks back home.

John Williss enlisted in the Navy in 1938 as a Fireman. By early 1942 he had worked his way up to Machinist’s Mate and was serving in neutrality patrols in the Canal Zone. The next year he went full “mustang,” jumping from enlisted man to officer and graduating from NAS Corpus Christi in August 1943. Ensign Williss was originally assigned to Fighting Squadron 11 aboard USS Hornet. However, in the wake of losses suffered during the Formosa Air Battle and Leyte Gulf, Fighting 18 was in desperate need of replacement pilots. Almost a dozen men from the “Sundowners” squadron were thus transferred from Hornet to Intrepid—pure serendipity for the story-hungry reporter.

On the afternoon of October 29, Philip Heisler was perched above the flight deck on “vulture’s row” watching planes coming into the groove for landing. Clear, sunny skies made it easy to see the little specks on the horizon coalescing into the familiar outlines of Hellcats, Avengers and Helldivers. The big blue birds typically queued up for landing with practiced discipline, but today the planes were in disarray. Something was definitely wrong.

One of the struggling Hellcats thumped solidly down on Intrepid’s wooden deck. It was a good, clean landing. As the plane bounced to a stop, Heisler could see Ensign John Williss grinning ear-to-ear in the cockpit. Deck crew rushed to unhook his plane from the arrestor cable and taxi him forward on the flat top.  Heisler couldn’t understand why Williss was smiling or how he’d landed so easily. “You could see the sky through two big ragged holes in the tail of his plane…” They were the telltale traces of Japanese 20mm cannon fire.

Williss actually got off easy compared to some of the other men on the strike. Nine Hellcats were mauled and three men had shrapnel wounds. Kenneth Crusoe (a former VF-11 pilot like Williss) pulled his tailhook out on landing and slammed into the crash barrier. The impact banged up his back and caused him to cut his head open. Intrepid’s action report notes: “Wound cleansed and irrigated with normal saline, bleeders tied off with No. 0 plain catgut…Retained on sick list.”

Charlie Mallory, Crusoe’s section leader, had the hydraulics shot out of his plane. He flew all the way back to the ship with his landing gear whooshing in the wind. Mallory later recalled, “I had no flaps, but the LSO (landing signal officer)…brought me in a little faster and higher than normal, and somehow I got the hook—flat tires and all. My plane never flew again. It had 67 holes in it.”

Here’s the action as Heisler reported it:

While the fighter pilots climbed out of the seats in sweat-soaked flying suits they told a tale of one of the strangest aerial dogfights in the Pacific War.

Williss was in a group of six United States planes jumped by ten Jap Zeros in the air over the Philippines. For a few frantic seconds the planes milled around in a wild scramble before the pilots realized a giant merry-go-round had been formed.

Every United States plane had managed to get on the tail of a Zero but every Zero was also on the tail of a United States plane. This strange formation of alternating Jap and United States planes—with everyone shooting at the plane directly in front of him—whirled into a giant endless circle.

Williss was flying as wingman to the division leader and when a Jap began firing on the leader he sent a burst into the Jap. The Zero burst into flames and went down.

At the same time bullets began whizzing past him from a Jap on his tail, but another United States fighter following that Jap plane shot it down before it had done more than put holes in Williss’ tail.

With two Japs shot down, the Jap formation broke up and started heading for home, but not before Williss bagged his second Jap plane. A total of six Jap planes was shot down.

“I was so excited—and scared, I guess—after I got my first plane I hardly realized I had shot down a second plane until it was all over,” Williss said.

Williss was awarded the Air Medal and Distinguished Flying Cross for his service in the fall of 1944. Upon returning home, he was again profiled by the Baltimore Sun. Despite the intense combat he’d seen aboard Intrepid, Williss only had positive things to say about the experience.

“On the carrier on which he was stationed, Lieutenant Williss said he enjoyed better food than he has been able to find in Baltimore, he did not have to make his own bed and there was hot water available any hour of the day or night. “It was like a hotel,” the lieutenant said with a happy smile.”

Ray Coll, Jr.

Ray Coll, Jr. stayed aboard Intrepid from October 19 to November 12, 1944. He was an experienced war correspondent who had spent time on land and at sea, in the European and Pacific Theaters, and with virtually every branch of the Armed Forces. Though foxholes were no picnic, Coll found that weathering storms aboard Intrepid was even worse. “Why didn’t I stay on Guam or Saipan? Dengue was as a bed of roses compared with this…I’d hate to go through a real typhoon. Nope, send us more Japs instead.” He even took a tumble while coming back aboard the ship in November. Coll, “…suffered lacerations of the scalp when he slipped and fell into the water…Prognosis: good.”

In spite of these challenges, he was able to find solid footing with Air Group 18 and produced more than a dozen articles chronicling their exploits. Coll captured the excitement of carrier life by writing gripping narratives instead of merely reporting the news. His columns ooze with the smell of fuel-oil and the salty tang of sea air. What’s more, his relationship with the pilots of Fighting 18 allowed him to be a fly-on-the-wall in their ready room, the center of their social universe aboard ship. Personal details, emotions, routines: as the men talked, Ray Coll listened and wrote it all down.

On October 19, when Coll first came aboard Intrepid, he made a beeline for Ensign Arthur “Moe” Mollenhauer. The young fighter ace was at that moment appearing in newspapers around the United States thanks to an article by Philip Heisler. Coll was determined to profile Moe, too. Though it took until November 8 to finally see publication in the Honolulu Star-Advertiser, Ray Coll’s column on Moe represents the best contemporary insight into the life, character and combat experience of Fighting 18’s youngest pilot. It is reprinted below.

With Vice admiral Marc A. Mitscher’s Fast Carrier Task Force—Your correspondent came aboard a carrier in this force too late to get in on the big aerial battles over the Philippines and Formosa between Oct. 9–15, but the boys are still talking about it: a total of 915 Jap planes destroyed by naval air power in that period and 3,080 since this force went into action June 6. Admiral Mitscher himself is authority for the statement that enemy naval air power has been destroyed while known land-based or army air force has been reduced to scattered remnants.

The hero of the moment aboard this flattop is Ensign Arthur “Moe” Mollenhauer, 21, of Santa Barbara. On Oct. 12, during a strike on Formosa, Moe shot down five Jap planes—a bomber and four fighters. That’s a good score in any league but in Moe’s case it shows that you don’t need a college education to rate the pilot’s seat in a carrier based fighter. Moe was in high school when the war began and after he graduated he enlisted in the Navy and following boot training was stationed in Chicago where he was an aviation machinist 2/c, giving gunnery instruction. But he wanted to fly and finally prevailed upon his commanding officer to recommend him for flight training. He was sent to Corpus Christi, Texas, where he graduated and was commissioned in October, 1943—just a year ago. Then he went to Hilo for fighter training and later to Kaneohe to complete the course. His squadron joined this carrier in August.

Moe was a natural from the start. Since joining this carrier he has been on 22 strikes over the Palau Islands, Philippines and Formosa and prior to his one-man victory at Formosa he had destroyed five Jap planes on the ground in the Philippines and with another flier, Lt.(jg) “Poncho” Mallory, destroyed a Jap convoy of 14 small cargo ships off the Philippines.

“That was really fun,” he grinned. “We had been on a recon flight and a storm forced us off our course coming home. By luck we spotted this convoy sneaking down the coast toward Leyte and we swooped down so low we could see the vessels were loaded with trucks, tractors, etc. Boy, did we let ‘em have it with our 50’s. Those bullets really ripped ‘em apart. We were flying so low we barely skimmed the water. I’ll never forget the speed boat that was leading the procession. I let him have it and literally cut the boat in two. It was a great show. There was a lot of valuable Jap material that went down that day. When I cut that speed boat in half I was thinking of my brother-in-law Gary Wiedner [sic] of Maywood, Ill., a Seabee who was killed by strafing while going ashore at Saipan.”

Then came Columbus Day—Oct. 12—when Moe really went to town. His squadron was scheduled to hit the barracks and hangars near Shinchiku on Formosa while planes from other carriers were pounding bases elsewhere on the island.

“We were all carrying bombs that day,” Mollenhauer said, “and crossed over the mountain range of Formosa (some of the peaks are 14,000 feet) through a heavy overcast. We headed for Shinchiku on the west coast and seeing it through a rift in the clouds we went on out to sea and turned to come in over the target out of the sun. The AA [anti-aircraft fire] was really coming up but we made a successful run and then headed out to sea to rendezvous for another target. But we never got there. Passing over Koro someone saw a group of bombers starting to take off. I spotted one that had just turned out over the water and went down pumping lead into him. He started smoking and went right in. I pulled up 200 feet from the water and started to climb back to rejoin my section.”

“By this time the sky was filled with enemy fighters as well as our own and there was a general melee over the area. I got into it and saw a Jap on the tail of one of our planes. I got him right through the meat-ball (Jap insignia) and he went down. Another pulled up in front of me and did a slow roll. I gave him a burst and he fell in flames. Another came at me and I soon had him smoking. He rolled over and went down. I followed to make sure he hit and this time another Jap got on my tail. I was in a bad spot and my heart was in my mouth but a plane from another carrier spotted him and knocked him off. I finally found my section leader and we saw a Jap sneaking out of the clouds. We boxed him in and forced him out to sea. Then I maneuvered and poured lead into his cockpit. He went into the water without burning, but boy, did he make a splash!”

“Our gas was low as well as ammunition so we started home. Then the reaction came. I was scared to death and my hand was shaking so I could hardly hold it on the stick, I got heated up so during the fight and when I saw one of our planes go down I was so mad I didn’t give a damn for myself and waded in. But when it was over, gosh, was I scared.”

Postscript: A couple of days ago Moe came in for a night landing. He had just made the deck when another plane also came in. Its wing scraped over his cockpit, smashing the windshield and knocking Mollenhauer out. They took four stitches in his head. But he’s up and around again and the doctor says he can fly again tomorrow. He’s glad because there is a strike scheduled against Leyte in support of ground operations there.

The Navy knew what it was doing when they made Aviation Machinist 2/c, Arthur “Moe Mollenhauer” a pilot.

Moe’s injury didn’t prevent him from flying. He was right back out there on subsequent strikes. Ray Coll wrote about him again on December 4, but this time the tone of the article was drastically different. By combining a few of Coll’s pieces together, we can get a sense of how Moe’s mission on October 29 played out from the point of view of his fellow pilots waiting in the ready room.

“In the ready room are a number of pilots who didn’t go out this morning. They will get their chance later in the day. Right now they are sweating it out for their buddies. Someone puts on a record and the phonograph grinds out a catchy something about San Fernando. Over in the corner an acey-ducey [sic] game is under way. A pilot comes in with a cup of coffee. Others are reading. There is very little conversation but plenty of cigarettes are glowing.”

“Suddenly a metallic voice rose high and clear above the bedlam, “Hey, Rube! Hey, Rube.” Jap fighters were ganging up on him and he wanted his buddies to come to the rescue. Then the tragic voice calling, “They got me, fellows, I’m going in; go get ‘em and good luck!” That was all.”

“You could cut the gloom with a butter knife…On the walls of the ready room, sweaty flight gear hung limp and inanimate. From the squawkbox on the wall came up the word “Send up the names of the missing pilots and men.” There was a stir among the men slumped in their chairs. Someone said, “Bud would have to go in before we finished that last gin rummy game; he already owed me two dollars. I’ll sure miss him.” …There were similar remarks about missing buddies. You could tell it was forced gruffness to cover their real feelings. They were going to miss those guys like hell.”

“It was with profound sorrow that I learned about one chap who was reported missing in action…Ensign Arthur “Moe” Mollenhauer was the name.” “A veteran pilot was talking about it. “That’s the one thing you’ve got to look out for,” he said. “Never let ‘em on your tail. I guess Moe didn’t seen [sic] him. He was a great kid and as eager as a beaver. It’s tough.”

It is an incredible privilege to hear about world-changing historical events from the people who lived through them. Thanks to the Intrepid Museum’s Oral History Project, approximately 200 interviews have been conducted with Intrepid and Growler crew members, providing glimpses into the lives of World War II and Cold War servicemen. In August 2017, Intrepid staff members flew out to California to interview Charles W. “Chuck” deMoss, one of the few surviving members of Fighting Squadron 18. His first-hand account of “Two-a-Day 18” is one of only a handful in existence today.

At almost 96 years of age, Chuck could still recall some of his adventures—and misadventures—in vivid detail. The following narrative is going to let Chuck do the talking. Where possible, I will quote directly from the transcript produced by the excellent team at Intrepid. Without further ado…

Charles William deMoss was born Nov 10, 1921 in Fullerton, CA. The Navy definitely left an impression upon him at an early age. “I would see the Navy down at, I guess it was L.A. Harbor or Long Beach, essentially. And that is particularly what made me want to go flying.” While enrolled in junior college, Chuck entered the Civilian Pilot Training Program (CPTP) for two summer courses. “…Primary was in the Piper Cub; a little 50- or 60-horsepower bird. Rather flimsy, but it was a good little airplane. And then in the second summer…I trained in a bi-plane, it had several-hundred horsepower…” That was enough to get Chuck hooked.

“I wanted to become a naval aviator…but they would say, ‘No, you’ve got to come back when you’re 20.’ So, by gosh, on my 20^th birthday I went down to the naval reserve station and signed up for naval aviation.” Chuck had no problem with the early phases of training thanks to his prior CPTP flight experience. Soon he was off to Naval Air Station (NAS) Corpus Christi for intermediate and advanced training. “By that time it was, I think it was very early January of ’42.”

Training was fast and furious. As reported in Collier’s Magazine soon after the base opened, “The Navy needs pilots and isn’t dawdling about getting them. Down in Texas it has built a factory that is turning them out, ready for anything, in 6 months.” Chuck received his naval aviator’s certificate right on time, in mid-July 1942. His dream was coming true.

In terms of assignment, Chuck said, “I really wanted fighter, but they gave me dive bomber.” “I had some dive bomber training right at Corpus, in a Curtiss-built biplane if you can imagine a biplane headed straight down at ever-increasing speed.” Of course, no front-line carrier squadrons were still using bi-planes in 1942. Chuck’s next step was advanced carrier training in Norfolk, VA, where he’d gain experience in faster, heavier, more modern aircraft before completing carrier qualification and receiving assignment to an active squadron.

At Norfolk, Chuck was in for a surprise. “Wade McClusky,” one of the foremost heroes of the Battle of Midway, “was our instructor.” He had commanded a whole carrier air group, won the Navy Cross and no doubt had high expectations of young ensigns like Chuck. One day while out on a training flight, Chuck couldn’t resist “flat-hatting” in his monoplane SBN bomber. He started buzzing the ground, flying as low as possible. Everything was going fine right up until he barreled headlong into a haystack. “Hay, stuff everywhere. So I came back to the field at Norfolk, and I had all this stuff all stuffed up in the, behind the propeller in the cowling…I thought I was going to catch holy heck, you know.”

McClusky’s response upon seeing the hay-stuffed plane? “Chuck, next time, fly a couple of feet higher.”

Chuck completed training and had no problem acing carrier qualification on the Wolverine. He reported to Dive Bombing Squadron 11 (VB-11) in Hawaii in early fall 1942. Even after joining the squadron, Chuck knew he still had a lot to learn. One day, he heard the more experienced men in the squadron talking about advanced maneuvers like ‘snap pull-outs.’ Chuck remembered, “I’d never really wanted to pony up to them and ask them, “What are you talking about?” But I surmised. So I got in the SBD [Douglas Dauntless] one day…I got it up to 12,000’ probably; put her in a good full flat vertical dive. Down I came. And I got about as low as I dare, and I braced both feet on the rudder pedals…came back on that stick…”

His plane hurtled straight up into a stall. Fortunately for Chuck, he had enough time and altitude to regain control of the aircraft. He landed safely, though perhaps a bit shaken. Given the stress he put on that poor SBD Chuck half-expected to see paint peeling around the rivets or signs of stress in the metal. “It had not any damage to it…that SBD was one, pardon the expression—hell of an aircraft.”

After squadron training, VB-11 was all set to embark on a carrier bound for the Pacific. It was a big moment, the culmination of about a year of rigorous flight instruction. One slight problem: there weren’t enough carriers to go around in the fall of ‘42. In the course of fighting the Japanese to a standstill, the U.S. Navy had lost most of its flat tops. As a result, VB-11 didn’t ship out until February 16, 1943, and when they headed out they were assigned to land-based duty.

“…We were stationed in Nadi, Nadi in the Fiji Islands for about maybe a month and a half before we flew…on up to Guadalcanal.” The two islands were as different as night and day. According to one of the Air Group 11 squadron war histories, on Fiji, “Baseball diamonds and movie facilities were set up for both officers and enlisted men. Repair and maintenance facilities were inadequate.” On Guadalcanal, “Recreational facilities were very poor due to the fact there was no demand for them. Repair and maintenance facilities were adequate…” Fiji was a backwater training facility free from Japanese harassment; Guadalcanal—though the Japanese had been successful beaten back—was still a warzone.

Being stationed on Guadalcanal was considerably less glamorous than carrier duty. Carriers had washing machines. Guadalcanal had ‘Washing Machine Charlie.’ “He was given that name, [because of] the way he sounded. I think it was a twin-engine aircraft from the Japs. He’d come almost every night…” The sound may as well have been an air raid siren. “… [W]e had to dig our own dugout, if you will.” “It was big…maybe 10, 12 people, we could get into it. And we got some coconut logs from somewhere…and covered over the top.” “We were never hit real close. Although there was one little scare, yeah. But the bomb was quite far away.”

Chuck was flying every 2 – 3 days while stationed at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal. There was the occasional Japanese ship to attack, but opportunities were few and far between, and enemy aircraft were rarely encountered on the scout-bomber missions Chuck was flying. “It wasn’t all too dangerous.” The one time he recalled a major Japanese strike, Chuck was on the ground watching fighter planes swirling overhead in wild combat. “I was a bomber pilot, I couldn’t go up and shoot aircraft down.”

A few men in VB-11 followed the action, sprinting through palm trees out to the beach to watch the fight unfold. “And we were getting a great view of, a pretty good view of what was going on. Down the damn water, down the beach, came a Zero… And we both dove for the sand; the best you could do. And then immediately he went over…there was a P-40 shooting at him. His shells were coming into the sand too.”

“That really convinced me I wanted to be a fighter pilot for sure.”

He didn’t have to wait long for an opportunity to make the change. In late June 1943, the squadron packed up and headed back to the U.S. to bring in replacement pilots, re-train and re-form in anticipation of a second deployment. Chuck had a couple friends in VB-11 who also had the fighter bug, and one of the guys knew someone who could help. “We flew down to San Diego and to Com[mander], Fleet Air, West Coast, as it was; and talked to the detailer and he, instead of re-assigning us back into Bombing 11…he put us into Fighting 11. And so we became instant fighter pilots.”

If Chuck was slotted into VF-11, how did he wind up aboard Intrepid with VF-18? It came down to pure happenstance. Ships were being commissioned faster and faster between 1943 and 1944. One striking example is in the number of escort carriers (CVEs) launched by Kaiser Shipbuilding Company in these years. Between April 5, 1943 and May 27, 1944, Kaiser launched a whopping 50 CVEs— a rate of almost one carrier per week. This new arsenal of “jeep” carriers needed aircraft as quickly as possible, so trainees awaiting deployment were often given temporary duty ferrying planes out to their new homes. This is how Chuck recalls being chosen for ferry duty: “You, you, you. Go.” He went aboard the escort carrier Nehenta Bay in March 1944, and when his temporary assigned duty was complete, Chuck was dropped off in Hawaii. VF-18 was one of the squadrons training there, awaiting a carrier. They needed to fill out their roster and Chuck was in the right place at the right time.

While serving aboard Intrepid, Chuck got to pilot another remarkable aircraft: The F6F-5 Hellcat. The newest iteration of Grumman’s top-of-the-line fighter came complete with water injection, which boosted the plane’s performance for short periods of time. Those precious seconds of added speed could make all the difference. On one mission, Chuck recalled, “…we [had] just left Clark Field. And way out ahead of us…was the whole strike force of ours heading back to the carrier.” “And we were lollygagging along, saving fuel…all of a sudden here come a bunch of tracers right by us. That got our attention in a hurry…so we went into water injection.”

If the Japanese pilots chasing Chuck and his wingman thought they were about to pick up some easy kills, they were sorely mistaken. “I don’t think I’d ever been in water before…we just—pfffwwwt, like that! Look back, these guys… they turned around and gone home. They had been right back there on our tail, by gosh sake!”

Chuck participated in many of the actions previously written about in this column. He was part of the initial fighter sweep over Formosa on October 12, 1944. “…I really got into it…it turned into immediately, a real dogfight. And I was lucky; I got two. I saw several others get shot down…in fire, smoke, whatever. Parachutes in the sky… It was something you’ll never—a scene you never forget.”

On the morning of October 24, 1944, he was assigned to help search for Japan’s main battleship force as it steamed towards San Bernadino Strait. Chuck’s route was yielding nothing but placid water as he headed further and further west. He was running low on fuel and ready to turn around when he heard one of his squadron mates excitedly transmitting a sighting report. Chuck was close enough to fly out for a quick peek at the parade of ships on the horizon before returning to Intrepid, making him one of the first witnesses to the unfolding Battle of Leyte Gulf.  

Two days later, Chuck put his dive bombing experience to good use against some of these same ships as they attempted to escape Japan’s disastrous rout at Leyte. He scored a crippling hit on the fantail of a wildly maneuvering battleship, a feat which earned him the Navy Cross.

Perhaps his most memorable run-in with the Japanese came a couple weeks later, on November 5, 1944. This mission was nothing like Formosa or Leyte Gulf. The goal was to hit some planes on the ground at Legaspi airfield in southern Luzon, Philippines. There were no enemy planes in the air and no targets of vital importance. Nevertheless, Chuck had a mission to perform, so he went out with the air group to engage in the thankless—and dangerous—job of strafing targets on the ground.

There were no heavy antiaircraft guns booming below, but the chattering of Japanese light artillery was constant as Intrepid aircraft roared overhead. Bombers dropped fragmentation and incendiary bombs, burning and blasting parked aircraft; fighters flew low time and again to use their .50cal guns, hoping that in the call-and-response of gunfire, no unlucky bullet had their name inscribed on it.

Then it happened. A noise. A shudder. Chuck’s wingman broke the bad news: Chuck’s Hellcat was “pouring oil out, copiously.” There was no way he was making it back to Intrepid, but he could at least get ‘feet wet,’ out over water, to await rescue from a submarine or a ‘dumbo’ seaplane.

Landing a multi-ton carrier plane on an active body of water is an impressive feat in the best of circumstances. Water landing, however, is typically reserved for the worst of circumstances. Chuck kept his cool. He undid his chute and double-locked the cockpit hatch in the open position to keep it from slamming shut during landing. He was ready when his engine started to quit on him.  “—plunked her in [the water]. No problem…I got out, stepped on the wing, jumped in the water, pulled my Mae West, and pulled my boat out from under me…I was lucky.”

Unfortunately for Chuck, his luck ran out as soon as he hit the water. He got into his raft, turned the air valve, and… “Nothing happened. Turned it, turned it, and turned it—nothing happened. Turned it back the other way; well, maybe it’s supposed to be…nope, nothing.” At this point his backpack was soaking up water. It was beginning to drag him down. Shrugging the pack off allowed Chuck to stay afloat in his Mae West, but it also meant he had to watch virtually all of his survival equipment slowly sink from sight.

The biting cold of the water seeped right through his thin flight suit, stinging his skin. “I was the coldest I’ve ever been, before or after.” The one mercy granted Chuck was that his division leader, “Bob” Brownell, escorted him out over the water and circled above protectively. When Brownell noticed that his friend was floundering in the water, he rolled back his canopy and threw down his plane’s raft. “Made a beautiful drop! I mean…I thought it was going to hit me on the head. Beautiful.” Fortunately, Bob’s raft worked. Chuck hauled his tired, soaked body inside and awaited rescue.

And he waited. And waited. “We had a dawn launch, real early. “Come afternoon—why aren’t they coming to get me?” Any chance of being rescued evaporated when a storm front rolled in. Chuck spent the night being pitched about in the unstable, cold raft; he may have slept, or he may have just lost consciousness from cold, shock and exertion. Either way, when he came to the next morning, he couldn’t believe what he saw: land! When he put his plane down he figured he was at least 8 miles from shore. It was a miracle. “…the raft wasn’t 50 feet from the beach.” Chuck’s luck was back, and this time it was here to stay.

Filipino fisherman in a small boat saw Chuck coming ashore. They approached him in a hurry. “Get in the boat quick. There’s a Jap outfit, it’s just up the beach here, on the island.” Chuck remembered, “Well…I lost no time getting in.” “…I’m laying in the bottom of the boat, and they take me to their village.” When Chuck got off the boat, he was asked to hand over his pistol. Troubling thoughts began to cross his mind, but what choice did he have? “Well, if they’re going to hurt me, they’re going to do it whether I got my pistol or not, you know.” He quickly handed over his gun. In short order it was returned to him, carefully cleaned and properly oiled. That moment defined Chuck’s experience with the Filipino people. “Thank God for them…I think they saved our bacon, really.”

The villagers contacted a nearby guerilla group to help get Chuck back to American military forces on Leyte. It was going to be easier said than done. As the crow flies, it’s about 160 miles from Legaspi, where Chuck went down, to Tacloban, the first city in the Philippines liberated by MacArthur’s men. The longer Chuck stayed in any one village, the more likely it was that the Japanese would catch up with him. It also exposed the locals to the wrath of occupying forces. Every time a Filipino helped get Chuck another mile down the proverbial road, they put their lives in jeopardy.

Chuck’s slog through the jungle, meetings with other American airmen and gun-point standoffs with rival guerilla factions lasted 30 days. As he moved from village to village, townsfolk “…always knew where the Japs were. It was amazing.” “One stop we made in a village, they gave us something to eat. I had a little chicken leg…and that’s all they had to give, you know.” Shortly after Chuck finished his meal, a boy came running into the camp. “‘The Nipponese, Nipponese.’ …he’d been sent up ahead…an early warning for us.” “…we dashed for the boat…got in and paddled…I hope they didn’t take it out on the villagers…” The moral of the story: “If we just stopped there, and they hadn’t had the sense to send that little kid up the trail…we wouldn’t have gotten out of there in one piece. It was, that’s the whole story.”

At the end of the war, Chuck decided to pursue a career in the Navy. He pivoted off aviation and towards intelligence. It was a good fit. Chuck served a total of 25 years in all manner of positions at the Office of Naval Intelligence, the Pentagon, CINCPAC staff and as XO of a training unit before retiring with the rank of Commander. As a civilian, Chuck continued to work in intelligence during the Cold War as a CIA and DIA analyst. His specialty was Soviet strategic weapons systems.

The men of Fighting Squadron 18 accomplished remarkable things during their lifetimes. Some of their stories survive in written form and photographs, which allow us to try to imagine what they must have been like, or tease out aspects of their personalities. Fewer stories survive in the reminiscences of their loved ones, which capture personal but fragmentary aspects of these men that may not make it into the written record. Oral histories—evidence of mannerisms, voice and personality—are rarer still. They represent an integral source of information for understanding how individuals responded to the world-historical events of World War II.