Robert Nate – Torpedo Junction, New Georgia, Mindoro and Iwo Jima
Robert Nate, Motor Machinist Mate Third-class (MM3)
United States Navy
Written by Jeff Ballard
Interviewed by Jeff Ballard, December 3, 2017
Robert “Bob” Nate was born in Denver, Colorado, July 26, 1924, but raised in Beverly Hills, California. He was a sophomore, at that now famous high school when he learned the United States was at war. Forty-eight hours after graduation (1943), Bob reported to his receiving ship in San Pedro Harbor, California. He chose the Navy because “I hated wool clothing,” and was afraid if he joined the Army I’d be “itchy day in and day out.” After basic training at the Naval Training Station, San Diego, California, Bob completed the diesel mechanic’s course at the University of Missouri. “My career in the Navy lasted two-years, eleven months and nineteen days,” the ninety-three years-old Nate cities with perfect memory and clarity. “Six months of that was in a hospital, not exactly what you wanted to have happen to you.”
The newly rated Motor Machinist Mate Third-class (MM3) returned to San Diego and reported to the only ship he would serve aboard. USS PC1128 was a steel-hull patrol craft and as a “Snipe” Nate was responsible for maintaining the ship’s two 12-cylinder diesel engines. This versatile warship performed many missions, but its primary role was anti-submarine warfare (ASW) and convoy escort. Arriving in the Solomon Sea PC 1128 jumped right into its ASW role in the dangerous waters known as “Torpedo Junction.”
On one such “killer-sub hunt” Nate’s ship encountered a Japanese submarine on the surface recharging its batteries. PC1128 took the sub under fire with its Mk. 21 pedestal mounted 3-inch 50-caliber deck gun, but the submarine dove before a shell struck home. The patrol craft next attacked with its primary ASW weapons, the 600-pound “ashcan” depth bombs. Pools of fuel oil bubbled to the surface, but Nate never knew if PC1128 sunk the sub or if the Japanese were playing possum. On another sub hunt, Nate was injured when, in heavy seas, his leg became trapped and he was in danger of being sucked into the bilge. Nate grasped an overhead bar and pull himself free, but friction burns on his left leg required surgery.
On Tulagi, Nate mingled with the local fauna. At night “tarantulas would hit the floor of the hospital, and you could hear their movements … it was a terrible feeling,” he recalls. While hobbling down a jungle path to the Red Cross tent, Nate, armed only with a cane, “[I] ran across a giant lizard. It was going north, and I was going south.” I always had an odd feeling in that particular area,” Bob remembers, “because the Marines had not cleared out all the Japanese … As long as they didn’t take a life, they were permitted to remain there. I suspect that they were looking for food. There was no one that would come to take them off of an island when they lost the battle, they were there to commit suicide or exist,” the battle-hardened veteran concluded somewhat wistfully.
While Nate was out of action, the war had moved north up “the Slot” and PC1128 with it. On the last day of June 1943, the Allies landed on New Georgia Island in the central Solomon Islands with the objective of capturing the Japanese airfield at Munda. Bob recalls making a number of “snooping trips” to the islands farther up the chain to check on Japanese movements. Allied planes made moving in the daylight too dangerous for the Japanese, who resorted to transporting troops in armed barges at night and hiding in inlets and mangrove swamps during the day. PC1128’s Mk. 1 40-mm Bofors twin-mounted machine guns amidships were the ideal weapon for “barge bopping.” Bob remembers destroying a barge and plucking three officers out of the water, interrogated them and threw them back into the water. “That was our first real contact with the enemy … in that group of islands. It was on that same trip we ran into the president’s (Kennedy)PT boat … I didn’t get a chance to meet him, but our officers met him.”
PC1128’s escort duty took Nate all over the south and southwest Pacific, in 1944, from the shark-infested lagoon of Green Island to Hollandia, New Guinea, to Mindoro Island, Philippines. Military censorship prevented Bob from explicitly telling his family where he was, but he communicated his whereabouts with prearranged codes based on fictitious family members he ran into during his travels. “I would say, I saw your brother’s son Ron, and my father would know exactly where I was in the South Pacific.”
In November 1944, just before the operation which triumphantly returned General Douglass MacArthur to the Philippines, Bob finally connected with his brother, also in the Pacific. Roger Nate was a Coast Guard signalman who hailed every Navy ship he encountered looking for his brother. The two finally connected on Thanksgiving 1944 but Bob’s time in the Navy changed him so much that Roger did not recognize him. “When I joined the Navy,” recalls Nate “I was five-foot-six and a half and a hundred and thirty-eight pounds probably. I had gained seven and a half inches and went from a hundred and thirty-eight pounds to two-hundred and fourteen pounds.” Its no wonder his family did not recognize him.
While at General Quarters, Nate was a 20-mm Oerlikon gunner at one of the three machine guns on the bridge-level of the ship. Official Navy records credit PC 1128 with shooting down one Japanese plane, which is no small feat given that their anti-aircraft battery was miniscule compared to just about every other type of ship. The diesel mechanic turned gunslinger remembers, “[the] Japanese aircraft passed over us … and I started firing; then I stopped firing because my 20-mm rounds were going awfully close to some of the small landing craft, so I stopped firing … our 40-millimeter actually hit it and brought it down. It was another experience like something you’ve never seen before in your life, you know.”
Nate stood a fender watch when the Special Sea Detail was set, like when PC 1128 came alongside another ship. Such was the case when, just days before Iwo Jima landings, he suffered the injury, which ended his naval career and required months of agonizing rehabilitation. With mounting irritation Bob remembers, ”Our skipper had friends on an Australian minesweeper, and Australian ships always had alcohol. So, we came alongside the minesweeper in a terrible wind. I was fenderman, and I was ordered forward to, you know, receive their vessel. Their bow hit our bow and hit the 3-inch 50-caliber gun and wiped it out. I got pinned against our Mousetraps, hitting my left arm and fractured it at the wrist, fractured it at the forearm, and compound fractured it above my elbow.” With no doctor aboard, all the pharmacist mate could do for Nate was inject him with morphine and wait for medical help to arrive. Shipmates erected a tent over Bob, and a well-meaning cook fed him Coca-Cola and cherry pie as he waited four-and-a-half hours for assistance.
Relief came in the form of the hospital ship USS Bountiful (AH-9). “I have no idea how they got me aboard; I eventually went to sleep on the deck.” Nate underwent surgery and emerged with an upper-body cast to support his spine and his left arm raised above his shoulder. Bob’s final recuperation destination was the Santa Margarita Naval Hospital at Camp Pendleton in Oceanside, California, by way of an Army hospital on Saipan and Honolulu. While in Hawaii Bob spoke to his father when he answered a ringing random pay phone. A one-in-a-trillion occurrence that is too fantastic to believe, except it happened. Next, a converted ocean liner transported him to Oakland Naval Hospital, Oakland, California and finally by train to Oceanside. Bob’s body cast was so unwieldy that he could not walk aboard the train. A window had to be removed, and he was passed in and out of the train by hand through the opening.
The war ended for Bob Nate while he was recuperating at Camp Pendleton when the war ended on August 15, 1945. “When the war was declared over, all of those who were ambulatory, went to Oceanside to celebrate. My situation was a little different; I had no clothes that would fit the cast around my body.” Bob would have to wait seventy-one years to celebrate V-J Day and receive the recognition he so richly deserved.
In 2017, Bob accompanied by his daughter Debbie, joined thirty-five World War II veterans, all but two (Bob and another) wheelchair bound, aboard the Honor Flight. On this trip to Washington DC, the vets, and their guardians, visited the World War II Memorial, Vietnam Memorial Wall, Korean War Veterans Memorial, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and Arlington Cemetery to reflect at their respective memorials.
With tears in his eyes, Bob told me, “[T]his was probably the fifth most important thing that ever happened to me in my life. My first marriage, my second marriage, my daughter and my son being born. [The Honor Flight] made me feel like … I wanted to receive at the end of World War II – V-J Day. Great people. If you ever have an opportunity to the donation to Honor Flight don’t hesitate, magnificent group.” (https://www.honorflight.org/)
“Bob,” I said closing my notebook, “I cannot think of a better way to end this conversation than with that. Thank you very much for your time and your service. It’s is my pleasure to know you.”
“I loved the military, I really did.” – MM3 Robert Nate, USN, 8781265
Rear Admiral Richard Lyon – Scouts & Raiders – Navy SEAL
Born i
n the summer of 1923, Dick Lyon was destined to become an extraordinary waterman. Initially, while only a junior in high school, he became the #1 nationally ranked swimmer in the 50- and 100-yard freestyle. In 1940, Dick made the US national Olympic team. Mentored by the formidable Yale coach Bob Kiphuth, it’s no surprise that Dick entered Yale in the fall of 1941.
He enlisted in the Navy on October 9, 1942 while an engineering major at Yale, and entered the accelerated program, graduating after only two years and nine months. While taking a tough course load, Dick never let up on his training in the pool. The whole time he competed at Yale the swim team never lost a meet. During Dick’s junior year he anchored the 400-yard freestyle relay team which set a new world’s record, stealing it from the Japanese national team who had held the record previously. Hearing the patriotic crowd roar with excitement at the prospect of Americans beating the Japanese, Dick got his best-ever split on his leg. When he touched the wall, his teammates jumped in with him and yelled, “We got it!” As soon as he could, Dick sent a telegraph to his delighted parents telling them his relay team in essence had “just broken the world’s record, ho hum.” They weren’t fooled for a second by his low key message. They were all over the moon. Finally, he capped off his swimming career by captaining Yale to the NCAA Division 1 National Championship in his senior year.
After graduating with honors in 1944, Dick went on to Columbia Midshipman School in New York City for three months. After the first month he was selected to take command of the entire regiment (2,400 midshipmen). Three weeks before he was to graduate as a 90-day-wonder he saw a notice “Wanted: Volunteers for Special Warfare Unit Involving Demolition of Explosives. Must be Strong Swimmer.” The assignment to the Scouts and Raiders (forefathers of today’s Navy Seals) was just his calling.
Sent to Ft. Pierce, Florida, Dick went through Class 8 of the Scouts and Raiders along with 56 other tough naval officers. Scouts and Raiders was the Navy’s first special warfare unit, developed to conduct reconnaissance on potential invasion beaches. They were soon followed in 1942 by NCDU’s (navy combat demolition units), and in 1943 by “frogmen”, the Underwater Demolition Teams (UDT’s), who were responsible for blowing up natural (reefs) and man-made obstacles on beaches to clear a path for invasion forces.
The Scouts and Raiders were the first to endure such trials as “hell week”, a week with almost no sleep or rations, which is today a standard part of training for Navy SEALS that prepares them to find ways to survive on their own behind enemy lines. Three months later, Class 8 were sent to Europe, the China-Burma-India (CBI) theater, and the Pacific. Dick landed on the Pacific side, where he joined the Administrative Command Amphibious Force Pacific Fleet.
Hopping from island to island primarily in the Philippines, Dick got to do his first reconnaissance mission of the war at a beach a little bit outside of Davao, one of the larger cities on Mindanao. Dick found and reported that it was clear of natural and man-made obstacles, a good place for a landing. Exactly five days after he did the recon, the first atomic bomb dropped on Japan.
The Amphibious Force picked up elements of the Army’s 33rd Infantry Division, then went on to Japan’s Honshu Island. There, inside Sagami Wan, a large curved bay west of Tokyo Bay, near the village of Wakayama, Dick did another recon of a beach. The town looked abandoned, but as Dick looked out of the water towards the small town center he saw three people walking down the main street to the beach. It soon became clear they were waiting to talk to him. So, Dick walked out of the water and up the beach towards the men. The leader of the little group said in clear English, “I want to let you know that I and the people of this city are so glad that this war is over.” Somewhat surprised to have met his first Japanese, and one who spoke English so well, Dick said he was glad the war was over too, “And I think you will find the occupation a peaceful one.” His new acquaintance replied, “I am sure you will find that the case in Wakayama.”
After several minutes, Dick asked how he spoke such good English. The Japanese man said, “I’m a graduate of Harvard.”
Not one to let that slip, Dick immediately expressed his regrets, “Well my heart goes out to you, because Yale always beats Harvard at football.”
They made an appointment to meet again on the beach in three days, and his now Japanese friend brought Dick to his house as a guest, where they had a delightful evening. Dick’s gift of two cartons of Lucky Strikes could not have been more enthusiastically received, and as he left he was presented with a portfolio of 23 antique prints with detailed hand appliqués of Samurai warriors…priceless!
Still not able to return home because he had so few points, Dick was somewhat at loose ends. Then he heard through the grapevine that the Commander of the 7th fleet based in Shanghai wanted a Scout intelligence officer on his staff. He spent the next year in northern China reporting on the activities of Mao Tse Tung’s armies on the Shantung Peninsula in an effort to hold off a Chinese civil war, an incredible experience for a very junior officer.
Leaving active duty after that assignment, Dick joined the Naval Reserves and had completed his first year of a Stanford MBA when he was recalled for Korea. Reporting in 1951 to Beach Jumper Unit 1, he again volunteered for NavSpecWar, UDTRA Class 2, and as a Navy Lieutenant became a Plank Owner (original commissioning member) of Underwater Demolition Team 5. That grueling training that UDT5 experienced was the beginning of what is now the 55-week SEAL training. Since then 281 additional classes have endured the training, and in early 2012 Class 287 will graduate.
After just a three-month training, UDT5 was sent immediately to Korea. For the first time they took mission responsibility beyond the mean high-water mark. In fact, UDT5 went in and blew up rail lines and tunnels. Dick worked in North Korea, above the 38th parallel, inside Won San harbor, recovering a new type of anti-amphibious assault mine. His job was to dive in 36-degree water in a dry suit (before SCUBA and wetsuits existed), under fire, swim under the mine, and cut its mooring line with a pair of 24” bolt cutters. After 20 minutes he had to be pulled out due to the cold. Working out of a little yellow raft with the explosive ordinance disposal expert, they would tow each mine to an island within the harbor and “render it safe” (defuse it). The mines were then sent back to Indian Head, Maryland, Navy Mine Warfare Headquarters, where all were determined to be Russian-made!
Dick eventually attained the rank of two-star Admiral in 1974, the first special warfare (SEAL) officer to do so. In this rank he was recalled for three more years of active duty as Deputy Chief of Naval Reserve, the senior reserve officer in the Navy. He has the distinction of holding the title “BullFrog 1”. “BullFrog” is that active-duty SEAL with the longest tenure in special warfare. When Admiral Eric Olson (BullFrog 14) retired, Admiral William H. McRaven, and Commander Brian Sebenaler (a Mustang) jointly inherited the title of BullFrog 15. Both graduated from BUD/S Class 87.
Retiring from the Navy after nearly 41 years of service, Dick became actively involved in community affairs. He was a founder and trustee president of Children’s Hospital, Orange County (CHOC). He also was a strong and cheerful supporter and advisor to the World War II History Project, as well as serving as mayor of Oceanside, California for eight years. A proud representative of the Scouts and Raiders, Dick lived on the beach and swam in the ocean in the summer. He enjoyed a very full family life with wife Cindy, nine children, 12 grandchildren and two great-grandchildren until passing in February, 2017.
Captain Jay Walker – B-17 Pilot, 384th Bomb Group
When Jay gave a ride to a friend who wanted to join the Army Air Corps in early 1942, he never imagined he’d be the one who would eventually be flying lead on missions over Germany in 1944 and 1945. On that fateful day while Jay waited for his friend, the sergeant in the waiting room handed him a stack of papers and tests to fill out. Although Jay balked at the expected timeframe of two to three hours – he had to get back to work – he tackled the tests and finished in 20 minutes. When the sergeant graded the papers, he was astounded that Jay had aced the tests.
Soon Jay found himself going through physical exams before returning home. It wasn’t until the fall of 1942 that he was invited into the Air Corps’ cadet program. After a few months cramming a university education in Minnesota followed by primary, basic and advanced training, Jay moved to B-17 bombers.
Seeing the huge plane for the first time up close, Jay could hardly believe such a massive plane could actually fly. It wasn’t long, though, before Jay was flying it, and well. A natural pilot, Jay and his crew won the top award when graduating from the B-17 training at Rapid City, South Dakota in September, 1944.
Jay and his crew picked up a new B-17 and flew alone from the heartland to New England, Goose Bay, Iceland and finally England. Assigned to the 384th Bomb Group in Grafton Underwood, Jay flew his first mission on November 1, 1944 over Gelsenkirchen, Germany.
By their 10th mission, Jay and his crew in the SCREAMING EAGLE were flying squadron deputy lead, and soon thereafter group and finally wing lead. On the 14th of April, 1945, Jay and his crew flew their 30th and last mission over Royan, France, their only mission NOT over Germany.
Jay flew an additional 11 missions in a B-17 stripped of armament to analyze captured airfields in newly-liberated territory, or supposedly newly-liberated territory. One time, when he saw Germans diving for their guns in their revetments upon his landing approach, he decided landing there would be premature and returned instead back to England.
After separating from the Air Corps, Jay built the Bellflower Airport before going on to produce in Hollywood and own multiple car dealerships nationwide. He served as an Ambassador-at-large after the war, and flew a restored Collings Foundation B-17 across the country for many years while in his 70’s.
Jay was president of the governing board of the World War II History Project. He passed away on May 2, 2016 and will be sorely missed.
Bob Watson – Beachmaster Omaha Beach
A native of Lynn, Massachusetts, Bob was 18 years old when his Company B6 of the Sixth Naval Beach Battalion participated in one of the first waves to Omaha Beach on D-Day. The battalion consisted of 445 men who served as Beachmasters – those who coordinate traffic, police, medical, communications, engineering, hydrographic and underwater demolition.
On the 6th of June in 1944, D-Day, the weather was drizzly, cold and rainy, complicating a horrific scene of chaos. About 1,000 yards from the beach, Bob’s landing craft – an LCM (Landing Craft Mechanized) holding 71 Big Red One (1st Infantry Division) troops and four Navy Beach Battalion crew – hit a Teller mine and exploded. 55 men were killed instantly, body parts flying, and Bob was thrown out. He credits his training for giving him the ability to immediately inflate the flotation device under his armpits. After submerging for some time due to the heavy kit all soldiers and sailors hitting the beach were wearing, his flotation device brought him back to the surface gasping and in shock. Quickly he was picked up by a Zodiac ferrying floaters to the beach.
Responsible for 1/18 of Omaha Beach, which is a little over five miles in length, the 6th Beach Battalion lost 25% of its personnel on the way to or on the beach.
When Bob touched the sand it was about 7:47 a.m. Terror and chaos reigned. Saving Private Ryan’s depiction of the scene could do only faint justice to the true horror American servicemen were experiencing on the beach. Everything was on fire. Landing craft were burning, their ammunition blew up, bodies and parts of bodies littered the beach, and the Germans, who had excellent equipment and training, poured on the machine gun and artillery fire.
The young men on the beach, most experiencing their first combat, were devastated, confused, and shocked. These were the designated leaders of the Great Crusade. They understood that if it the invasion were to succeed, they would have to overcome this traumatic entry into the war. They had to get up the hill.
Bob’s first mission was to get up to the dune line. He started on his hands and knees, bullets flying over his head. Wounded all around him screamed and cried for help, for a medic. Half way up the beach he ran into an army medic who had lost all his first aid supplies except several morphine syrettes draped around his neck on strings. To help him Bob started collecting pressure bandages from dead soldiers’ first aid kits and giving them to the medic.
Finally reaching the dune line, Bob was exhausted. An Army captain ordered Bob up to the firing line, even though Bob protested that he was Navy, and a Beachmaster. The captain was not swayed. Some Germans could be seen moving around, delivering ammunition, and firing the open field pieces. Bob shot off 40 rounds of ammunition and went back. The captain told him to get another belt and get back up to the firing line.
A naval officer turned up and prevented Bob from going back up to the firing line. Now, well after 9 a.m., the Navy Beach Battalion finally had a chance to start getting their people together. Ensign Jim Allison took over command from their missing Sixth Company Lt. JG. Their job was to get and keep everything – troops, materiel, equipment and vehicles – moving up the beach and inland.
Right after 10 a.m. Ens. Allison sent Bob and his good friend Dick Wayent to put a bulldozer – whose Army driver was been badly hit – into operation. Hauling the corporal to a medic, they returned and took charge of the running bulldozer. Dick was a farm boy, and between the both of them they figured out how to work it.
With a crew of six or eight Big Red One engineers who removed the Teller mines, Bob would use the bulldozer to pull the beach obstacles off to the side to make a driveway for the incoming 30,000 troops and 11,000 vehicles. On one occasion Ens. Allison came to ask Bob to help push an empty LCVP (Landing Craft Vehicle, Personnel) back into the sea with the bulldozer. Bob agreed only on the condition that it be fully loaded with wounded.
Later, Dick went to push a landing craft out, but only got half-way there before returning. Seeing an American soldier carrying a wounded man, and then fall to a hail of German bullets, Dick was devastated when the fire then decimated the nearby landing craft and all the wounded already inside. He returned with tears in his eyes, but there was little time to mourn.
Bob and Dick made an aid-station by pulling timber off the beach and placing it on top of sand bags on the dunes. When Germans walked their 88-mm artillery fire up and down the beach, Bob and Dick would abandon the bulldozer and run for cover. Twice they lost bulldozers, which were immediately replaced by the vehicles brought in steady streams by Rhino barges.
With their third bulldozer, they had longer-lasting luck. They ran it heavily for the rest of the afternoon of D-Day and much of D+1 before almost running out of fuel. For his tireless good work during the day, Ens. Jim Allison asked Lt. Emmett Hall, head of B Company, to promote Bob to Coxswain.
Ens. Jim Allison, who was married and had a small child, was a very beloved officer with his men. Working through D-Day and D+1 with no rest, he stayed on the beach directing landing craft with red flags while Bob and Dick left the beach to refuel their bulldozer. Looking down, they saw Ens. Jim Allison hit by artillery shrapnel. Rushing back they dragged him to the medics, but there was nothing they could do to save him. He had been killed instantly
As they returned to their machine and headed towards the fuel dump, they hit a Bouncing Betty anti-personnel mine. The blast threw the dozer up and sent Bob flying again. This time, he landed on his left side, bruised and sore but luckily without any major injuries.
After waking up on D+2, Bob was assigned to handle the prisoners of war. Driving a Jeep with an Army corporal manning a .30 caliber machine gun in the back, Bob and some Coast Guard guards would escort 200-300 prisoners at a time to the beach.
Bob stayed on Omaha Beach for 28 days before being sent back to England. Upon his arrival he turned 19 years old. After an appropriate naval celebration, Bob woke up one morning with a tattoo of an anchor but with no recollection to this day of how he got it.
For their efforts and accomplishments on Omaha Beach, Bob’s naval unit was awarded the Navy and Army Presidential Unit Citations. Bob also has two purple hearts.
The Beach Battalion was loaded onto the USS Monticello and sent back to New York and ten days of leave at home. Bob then went on to beach battalion school in Oceanside, California, training for the Pacific. There he met his future wife, Margie, at a USO dance.
Assigned to Oceanside instead of going back into combat, Bob was able to date Margie for a year and a half before they got married and had three boys. They are still happily married today.
After the war Bob went into the construction business and ran his own successful company in north San Diego County for 30 years. Now retired, he spends a good part of his time giving presentations about Omaha Beach and his experience there to school children and visitors at the Midway aircraft carrier museum in San Diego Bay.
Grant Young – Torpedo Bomber Pilot – Sank the Yamato
Surviving Against the Odds
By Michael Fink
Grant C. Young inscribed his name in the history books on April 7th, 1945, when he became one of the last torpedo bombers to score a hit on the Japanese battleship Yamato. Shortly after his torpedo struck, Yamato rolled over, exploded cataclysmically, and sank. The sinking of the Yamato—one of the two biggest battleships ever constructed, the pride of the Japanese fleet—was the death knell of the Imperial Japanese Navy. The story of Grant’s successful torpedo run capped an incredible WWII saga and marked the beginning of three decades’ service in the United States Navy.
Grant was born on November 8th, 1921, in rural Dixon, Illinois. He enlisted in the Navy on August 26, 1940 at the age of 18. Grant’s boyhood experience repairing tractor engines and transmissions on the family farm landed him a job as an Aviation Metalsmith at Naval Air Station Pensacola. Though he advanced rapidly through the ranks, Grant’s real dream was to fly planes, not fix them. He applied for flight school shortly before the attack on Pearl Harbor, after which he was quickly accepted as an aviation cadet.
To earn his wings, Grant had to take off from and land on the converted carrier Wolverine as it steamed through the waters of Lake Michigan. His qualifying flights took place in December 1943; temperatures hovered in the mid-20s. During one of his landing attempts, Grant’s engine quit, forcing him to crash into the icy waters of the lake. He almost froze to death before the rescue boat got him back to shore. Despite this close call, Grant finished qualifying the very next day. His wedding date was just a couple weeks away, and he wasn’t going to let anything stand between he and his future wife, Ethel.
After he was assigned to a torpedo squadron, Grant came down with chicken pox. He had to be held back while his assigned squadron left to conduct anti-submarine patrols along the west coast of the U.S. Once he got better, Grant was slotted into a new unit, Torpedo Squadron 10 (VT-10), which was busy taking the fight to the Japanese in the Pacific. He was thus moved from a stateside billet and relatively safe flight duty, right to the front lines of combat.
Grant started flying bombing missions in late June 1944 while VT-10 was assigned to the carrier Enterprise. On one of his first strikes he hit and sank a Japanese trawler, earning him accolades in his hometown newspaper and further strike assignments with his squadron. He stayed with Enterprise through July 6th, the end of VT-10’s first deployment. At the dawn of 1945 Grant and the rest of Torpedo Squadron 10 went aboard USS Intrepid for a second tour of duty. Their target was Okinawa, a stone’s throw from Japan itself. In a last ditch effort to stop the Allied advance, the Japanese decided to send Yamato south on a one-way mission to beach itself on the shores of Okinawa, where it would serve as an unsinkable coastal artillery battery.
On April 7th, 1945, while steaming south to complete its mission, Yamato and her consorts were spotted by U.S. carrier forces. 12 men from Torpedo Squadron 10, including Grant Young, were sent out from Intrepid to join a multi-carrier strike against the behemoth battleship. Carriers closest to the sighting report got their planes over the target quickly, wracking Yamato with bomb hits and torpedo strikes. Intrepid’s pilots had to cover a whopping 275 miles to the Japanese ships; they were last on the scene. Though the weather that day was overcast and stormy, the site of battle was plain as day: flashes from Yamato’s guns were still visible from 12 miles away.
Intrepid’s Avenger crews were supposed to execute a coordinated torpedo attack on a cruiser escorting Yamato. As they approached the enemy ships, descending through thick clouds into the open air below, they traded the buffeting of the storm for the buffeting of flak bursting all around them. It was incredible that 11 of Intrepid’s planes stuck together through such rough treatment. Grant, however, became the one pilot bounced out of formation. When he pushed through into clear skies, his Avenger was pointed right at the broadside of Yamato. He was all alone against the biggest battleship on Earth.
Grant pressed the attack. Yamato, bristling with anti-aircraft guns, threw up a veritable hail of gunfire in response. Despite doing his best to dodge incoming fire, Grant’s plane sustained hit after hit. And yet he still continued closing. At 1,000 yards he dropped his torpedo and circled back just in time to see its blast heave Yamato over to one side. Soon after Grant headed back to Intrepid with the other Avenger crews, Yamato rolled over on its beam ends and exploded. The doomed ship threw up a mushroom almost 4 miles high—one which could be seen 100 miles away on Kyushu, the southernmost island of Japan.
Grant went on to fly jets during the Korean War, and served as a carrier air officer during the Vietnam War before retiring in 1970 after 30 years in the United States Navy. He was awarded a slew of medals over the course of his career, including multiple Air Medals and Navy Commendation Medals; a Purple Heart for being wounded as a result of a kamikaze attack on Intrepid; and, for scoring a hit on Yamato, the Navy Cross. Despite these achievements Grant remained modest. He chalked success up to a team effort: after all, it took almost a dozen torpedoes and 6 bombs to sink Yamato.
Grant and his wife Ethel returned to Illinois in their later years, settling close to the farm in Dixon that started Grant down his path as an aviator. His life’s arc had been almost unbelievable. He went from a kid in rural Illinois fixing tractor transmissions on his family’s plot, to surviving plane crashes in freezing lakes and shell fire from the largest guns ever mounted on a warship. Yet he survived—even thrived—and became one of the many men who contributed to Allied victory in the Pacific.
Art Mercer – Doolittle Raid, Guadalcanal, Salerno, Marianas Turkey Shoot
Art Mercer, United States Navy, Chief Gunners Mate
Interview by Heather Steele, January 9, 2011
Profile by Jeff Ballard
Arthur Mercer was born in Frazer, Kentucky February 3, 1921. Art had greater expectations for his life than rural Kentucky promised, “I just did not like farm life.” “I was tired of using a mule’s rear end for a compass.” So, he traveled to Louisville and enlisted in the United States Navy in November 1939.
Mercer attended boot camp at Great Lakes, Illinois completing his basic training in March 1940. The Navy assigned Art to the USS Salt Lake City (CA-25) a heavy cruiser and part of the Hawaii Detachment of the US Pacific Fleet, stationed at Pearl Harbor. Rated a gunner’s mate, Mercer’s battle station was in the No.2 8-inch/55 caliber gun turret just forward of the cruiser’s bridge.
Salt Lake City was at sea, escorting the carrier USS Enterprise (CV-6) when “We got the word on December the 7th that Pearl Harbor was under attack.” [We] came in early in the morning [December 8, 1942], stayed there all day and all night, loaded ammunition, and supplies … we was back out at sea the next morning.” That must have been a terrible sight? “It was, yeah, I still remember it very vividly. “[A] lot of ships on fire, and the Oklahoma was capsized. I’m familiar with some people that spent forty-two hours in an upturned battleship.”
A personal friend of Art’s had the misfortune of being aboard the battleship USS Arizona (BB-39), but survived after he was blown overboard during the Japanese attack. Picked up by the USS Nevada (BB-36), he did not get very far because her captain beached the damaged battleship lest it sink in deep water. He was then transferred to the aircraft carrier USS Lexington (CV-2) which sank from beneath him at the Battle of Coral Sea. Transferred to the USS Yorktown (CV-5), he found himself aboard another sinking ship when the carrier sank at the Battle of Midway. Finally, the Navy gave him shore duty and “he did 30 years and never spent a day aboard another ship because the Navy said they couldn’t stand the attrition rate.”
Mercer’s first war-time cruise (January to March 1942) was to Australia which had been at war since 1939. Under constant threat of Japanese invasion, the Australians were grateful to see their first American warship after many years. The local ladies welcomed the young American sailors as the nation’s young men were away fighting with the British 8th Army in North Africa.
There were parades, free drinks and invitations to dinner in private homes. A photographer selected him and three of his shipmates to have their pictures taken at the zoo in Brisbane with koalas. The newspaper publicity led to the invitation to join an Australian family, also named Mercer, at their home for dinner.
In April, the Salt Lake City was part of Task Force 16 that launched the daring Doolittle Raid. We asked Art what he thought was the proudest accomplishment of his life, to which he replied, “I believe [it was] being part of the Doolittle Raid on Tokyo. Cause the people, in the United States, back here…their morale was boosted up considerably. So was ours, on the ship. I think that was my highlight.”
That summer, the Salt Lake City sailed to Wellington, New Zealand, where it joined the task force that delivered the First Marine Division to Guadalcanal, the battle which began the long road to Tokyo and victory in the Pacific.
Luckily for Art, the Salt Lake City was elsewhere when the Navy suffered its greatest defeat in history at the Battle of Savo Island (August 8-9). Mercer was present, however, when the Navy exacted a measure of revenge at the Battle of Cape Esperance (October 11-12). Salt Lake City and eight other ships, closed to within 1,000 yards of the Japanese fleet, at night, and took them by surprise. Art remembers that the concussion of the 8-inch guns was so strong that he had to wrap his pant legs with string, lest the force rip the bottoms of his pants. “If you knew you were going into battle, you had to remove all the light bulbs,” otherwise the concussion would blow them out. The Salt Lake City lost only seven men while sinking one Japanese light and one heavy cruiser.
In November 1942, Art traveled to Miami, Florida where he received “two or three weeks of training for depth charges,” and then assigned to oversee the construction of his next ship the USS SC-1043. This 110-foot long wooden submarine chaser, with a crew of only three officers and twenty-four enlisted men, could not have been more different from his last ship. “We crossed the Atlantic on its power in March 1943.”
After making ports-of-call in North Africa, SC-1043 joined Operation Avalanche, the invasion of the Italian mainland at Salerno in September 1943. “We had plenty of action,” recalls Mercer, but he never saw a German U-Boat the entire time he was in the Mediterranean. The barrels of the ship’s 40mm, 20mm and 50-caliber anti-aircraft guns blazed white hot, however. In one fourteen day period, SC-1043 survived twenty-nine separate raids by the Luftwaffe.
At Salerno, the soldiers and sailors of Mercer’s task force witnessed the dawn of a new era in modern warfare. Between September 11 and 13, German high-altitude bombers dropped at least three Fritz-X radio-controlled bombs over the Allied fleet. His Majesty’s Transport Rohna was sunk by this new Nazi weapon. Two days later, the light-cruiser USS Savannah (CL-42) was heavily damaged by another glide-bomb. A near miss lightly damaged Savannah’s sister, the USS Philadelphia (CL-41).
On duty in the Mediterranean until December, Art returned to the States on a Liberty Ship, landing in Baltimore on Christmas Eve 1943. He remembered clearly that dinner consisted of “Vienna sausages as the main entrée, and … pumpkin pie.” After a short leave where he “went back to visit the folks at home on the old farm,” Art attended Electrical-Hydraulic School in Washington D.C. Once trained on the most modern 6-inch gun technology he was transferred to the light cruiser USS Pasadena (CL-65). The brand-new Pasadena (Commissioned June 8, 1944) had twelve sophisticated 6-inch/55-caliber Mark 16 in four-triple turrets.
Sent to the Pacific via the Panama Canal, the Pasadena fought “a lot of smaller actions with the big [carrier task] forces like Task Force 58 and 38.” Mercer took part in the Battle of the Philippine Sea (19-20 June 1944), better known as the ‘Great Marianas Turkey Shoot’ where the American’s completely decimated Japan’s remaining air force. “That’s where supposedly the Japanese lost about 350 planes in one day. The number may not be exact, but it was a huge number,” Art remembers.
Christmas 1944 found the Pasadena rolling in the monstrous Typhoon Cobra off Leyte Gulf in the Philippines. Also known as Halsey’s Typhoon, “we lost three destroyers; the Hull, the Spence, and the Monaghan, with the loss of about seven or eight hundred officers and men.” Retreating below decks, Art and his friends had to hold on to their [playing] cards when the shipped rolled to 40-degrees lest they lose them. When asked if he was ever scared during his time in the Navy, Art answered, “Well, at our age you don’t get scared. That’s the thing. Nothing could happen to you, Man, I’m eight-foot-tall, 10-foot-wide, or whatever. But it was a very exciting time.”
After the war ended, Art transferred to the heavy-cruiser USS Oregon City (CA-122), where he stayed for three years. Next, the Navy assigned him to the Naval Training Station in San Diego where he was an instructor from 1948 and 1949.
“I got back to sea duty again, on the USS Henrico (APA-45).” Mercer’s ship was on its way to Pt. Barrow, Alaska when he learned the Korean War had begun (June 25, 1950). Henrico then “loaded parts of the First Marine Division and took them to Pusan, South Korea. They repelled the North Koreans. Pushed ’em back.” In September of the same year, United Nations forces landed at Inchon. It was “a very successful invasion because nobody thought it could happen” referring to the twenty-seven-foot tidal sway, “the second highest, in the world.”
After Korea, Mercer did another tour at the Naval Training Center, San Diego, as Commander of Companies No. 172 and No. 326 in 1953 and 1954. Art finished his Navy career with two sea tours, the first aboard the USS Bayfield (APA-33), and the last aboard the Fire Support Ship-1, USS Carronade.
Art married Elise Mae (“Betty”) Dobbs of Somerset, Kentucky, on August 20, 1945. They had two children, a son, and a daughter before Art retired from the Navy on December 3, 1959. They remained in San Diego, and he worked for the City twenty-five years. Until his death on August 21, 2016, Art lived in a suburb of San Diego. He will be missed by his son, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, whom he enjoyed babysitting. He said in 2012, “I’m probably the oldest babysitter in Santee, California … I look forward to it. Lot of free popcorn.”
Fred “Buck” Dungan – Hellcat Pilot – Ace – Nightfighter
By Michael Fink
Few inventions had as profound an impact on the course of World War II as radar. Whether deployed ashore, on ships at sea or planes in the air, radar gave the Allies a decisive edge in combat. Fred Dungan joined the Navy just as this fledgling technology was being tested in aircraft. Though he didn’t know the purpose of Project Affirm when he was first told to report to Quonset Point, Rhode Island, he would soon find himself at the very tip of the Navy’s night fighting spear.
Fred Leroy Dungan, born in Los Angeles on June 27th, 1921, was a veritable workhorse of a man. He was an enthusiast of all things mechanical—especially things that went fast. While attending school full-time and participating in the Civilian Pilot Training Program, he also built and raced hotrods. It wasn’t enough for Fred to push the limits at school or during his free time, though: he also got a job working nightshift for Lockheed on their P-38 assembly line.
Normally Fred would have been exempt from military service due to his work in war industries, but he was not about to miss out on his chance to fly. Before the United States’ entry into the war, he regularly took trips down to Naval Air Station Los Alamitos to ask if any openings were available for students. None were. He returned over and over again hoping for a break. On December 8th, 1941, the day after Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, men were lined up around the block to enlist in the Navy. The recruiter at Los Alamitos noticed that Fred was back again and waiting at the front of the line. He liked that. The recruiter happened to be Wayne Morris, a movie star and future fighter ace himself. Wayne immediately took Fred inside to get him enlisted. Soon Fred had his orders. He was free from work and school and on his way to ‘Wings of Gold.’
Becoming a naval aviator was just the first step. After a year of training Fred was told to report to Quonset Point to participate in Project Affirm. While being briefed on the program, he was asked by its leader, Bill Taylor, what he knew about the assignment. Fred admitted he didn’t know much of anything, and Taylor reportedly said, “Good, because if you knew something I’d have to shoot you.” Project Affirm was the Navy’s attempt to work with the MIT radiation laboratory to equip single seat carrier-type aircraft with radar. It was top secret stuff.
On December 19th, 1942, Fred was chosen to assist in the first ground control approach experiment. He was put in the back seat of an SNJ two-seater trainer whose canopy was totally papered over. It was up to the pilot up front, Fred in the back and “coaches” on the ground to bring the plane down to a successful blind landing. When all was said and done that day, the aviators had made history. They proved that with the right combination of training and technology, Navy fighters could operate during all hours of the day—and even in the pitch black of night.
Though he was relatively young and only a newly-graduated ensign, Fred fit right in with his fellows. He picked up a couple of nicknames including “Gunga Din” due to his last name, and “Buck” as a result of his Buck Rogers-esque personality. After initial training, the Navy’s first radar-assisted pilots were broken up into squadrons for carrier training. Fred went to Night Fighting Squadron 76 [VF(N)-76] in 1943. His detachment started aboard USS Yorktown early in 1944 and followed the ship’s skipper, Joseph J. “Jocko” Clark, to his flagship Hornet for a spring–summer 1944 deployment.
To say that Fred’s combat service was exciting would be an understatement. His detachment of VF(N)-76 picked up the nickname “Jocko’s Boys” due to their familiarity with the famous skipper-turned-admiral. Because of this relationship, and because of their desire to fly as much as humanly possible, Fred and his companions convinced the powers that be aboard Hornet to let them fly both day and night. It was during these sun-up hours in the cockpit that Fred got his chance to make history.
His first opportunity arrived on April 23, 1944, during a routine Combat Air Patrol (CAP) mission near New Guinea. A Japanese G4M “Betty” bomber on course for Hornet’s task group spotted Fred and his fellow fighters too late. By the time its pilot started to turn tail and run, Fred in his Hellcat fighter was easily overtaking the lumbering land-based bomber. In fact, Fred had to chop his throttle and weave so he didn’t overshoot his target. Fred opened up with his guns. The Betty plummeted into the waters below, cartwheeling itself to pieces. The plane’s pilot miraculously survived the crash, was subsequently picked up by U.S. Navy carriers, and later met Fred Dungan, the man who shot him down.
Fred’s next scoring day became one of the most famous in Navy history: June 19, 1944, the “Marianas Turkey Shoot.” Though that day is best remembered for the clash between American and Japanese carriers, Fred’s mission was to bomb Orote Field on Guam. After dropping his ordnance, he returned with his squadron mates to polish off some aircraft hidden on the ground. As they did so, the men noticed that a huge number of Japanese planes—50 to 60 of them—were in a landing pattern attempting to use the freshly pockmarked field. Though they were almost comically outnumbered, “Jocko’s Boys” attacked and managed to destroy 8 enemy planes before the fight fizzled out. Fred was credited with knocking two of them down.
The last major engagement of Fred’s career could make good Hollywood blockbuster material. He and his colleague John W. Dear took off from Hornet under the cover of darkness to launch a sunrise strike against Chichi Jima. They left their ship with 500lb bombs slung under their wings for the attack, and auxiliary fuels tanks centerline for their long return trip home. Despite the fact that the Navy had hit Japanese facilities in the Bonin Islands the previous night, enemy ships at Chichi Jima were at anchor with their lights on; nobody seemed to be on high alert. The sun rose just as Dear and Dungan began their bombing runs. Suddenly there were A6M2-N “Rufe” floatplane fighters milling about below them, glinting in the sunlight. Fred ditched his auxiliary tank and bombs, shedding the dangerous weight for the coming fight.
He came tore into the first Rufe with his machine guns and quickly eliminated it before the balance of power suddenly shifted. Fred found at least three Japanese planes on his tail. He radioed “Johnny” that he was about to cross his path with some planes in tow. As soon as Fred’s plane passed through his field of fire, Johnny Dear opened up with his guns and dropped two more of the Japanese fighters into the drink.
As the engagement wore on and Dear and Fred fought an outnumbered air battle, Dear’s picked up damage from enemy guns. Fred might have made it through the fight unscathed, but an enemy managed to get on his tail from above. Bullets clattered into his Hellcat. One bullet managed to slip through his plane’s armor and into the cockpit. If not for a buckle on his parachute harness it could have been much worse; as it was, he was hit in his shoulder. The bullet fractured his collar bone. It was to be Fred’s last combat mission. He’d shot down four enemy planes, bringing his final tally to seven aerial victories.
Fred “Buck” Dungan was awarded the Navy Cross and Distinguished Flying Cross. After the war, he retained the workhorse drive he exhibited in his youth well into his gray years. After he lost his beloved first wife, he found love again late in life. He was a volunteer sheriff; a member of the Golden Eagles—an elite organization that includes pioneer aviators and astronauts—; and active in the Legion of Honor, the Distinguished Flying Cross Association and the American Fighter Aces Association. In his capacity as a representative of the Fighter Aces Association, he met with President Obama in 2014 for the signing of the American Fighter Aces Congressional Gold Medal Act. His was a life well-lived. To all this Fred would simply say, “I’ve been so lucky.”
Fred Dungan passed away January 2, 2018 at the age of 96.
Jim Scotella – Fifth Marines – Iwo Jima
Jim Scotella was born in 1925 in Detroit, Michigan to parents who had immigrated to the US from Italy. His father joined the American Army in 1915, shortly after arriving in the States. He served in a field artillery unit in World War I. Unfortunately, Jim never learned much about his father’s time in the Great War. Many First World War veterans were reluctant to talk about their war experiences. They passed their stoicism on to their sons, the veterans of the Second World War, who also seldom spoke of their war time.
Jim had a great childhood, but like in so many other families, money was tight during the Depression. When he was six-years-old, he and his seven-year-old brother sold newspapers on the street to help support his family. He learned to be street-wise navigating his Italian neighborhood. When he was twelve, he got his own paper route, and in 1941 when he was sixteen, he was hired by the Detroit Times to be a branch manager. So many young men were joining the service at that time that openings were being created at the paper, and Jim was able to take advantage of the situation to move into a good office job. It didn’t hurt that he was also ambitious, hard-working, and smart. He did well.
Despite the fact that he hadn’t finished high school yet,* when Jim turned eighteen, he decided to join the Marines with a neighbor. After they had their physicals, however, his neighbor didn’t make the cut. In fact, a lot of hopeful applicants didn’t have what it took to get into the elite corps. Jim found himself with just five others destined for the Marines. About another 300 ended up in other branches of the service, including his friend.
Jim was transported to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego for boot camp. Due to a medical emergency that put him in the hospital for over a week, he graduated with a new unit. That new unit (A41) ended up becoming a part of the 28th Regiment of the Fifth Marine Division.
The Fifth trained at Camp Pendleton for about nine months, taking in veterans from Guadalcanal and Marine paratroopers, before shipping out to Camp Tarawa on Hawaii. Jim was assigned to Communications where he learned to encode and decode messages. He trained with the Navajo code talkers, as well as radio and signal men. In combat the Navajos had to be protected and shielded because their code talk was never broken by the Japanese. While they used a special version of their language to encode and decode messages, Jim learned how to use a cylinder to do the same.
In early 1945, the Fifth shipped out for Iwo Jima. Just a couple days before arriving at the island, the men were briefed on the invasion. Jim learned that he would be in the 8th wave, slated to land 35 minutes after the initial invasion boats hit the sand. Once they were on the beach, the 28th was ordered to take the sector closest to Mt. Suribachi
On the morning of the invasion on February 19, 1945, Fourth and Fifth Division men filled the Higgins landing boats, with the Third Division in reserve. Jim put on his pack and climbed down the rope ladder, being careful to grip the vertical sides of the rope to avoid getting his hands stepped on. Each Higgins boat held about 25-30 men.
The water was calm, and as they moved toward the beach Jim had no fear. The tension started to increase as the landing ramp went down. Wounded were waiting to be transported back to the ship. Jim and his unit reached the beach, but sunk down to their knees in the lava sand. They had a tough time getting traction, taking a step up the first incline, and immediately sliding back down. It was a grind to get up the 15-20-foot hill, and then they had to cross another 100 yards of lava sand.
After Jim crested the first hill, he saw an immobile Marine in an exposed position at the top of a mound. When he realized that the Marine was dead, the reality of combat sunk in. On a small island only seven miles long and five miles wide filled with thousands of landing Marines, the Japanese could lob anything over and be sure of hitting someone. Jim just tried to get as close to the base of Suribachi as he could.
Once he and his unit reached Suribachi, they dug in. The next morning, Jim and some of his unit returned to the beach to pick up batteries for the radios. A couple of close friends stayed back. There was still a lot of firing at that point; the men were always a target. It didn’t matter where they were on the island, nobody, even officers, was safe.
When Jim and the others came back to their positions, they found a mortar had hit their foxhole while they were gone. One friend was killed and another had his arm nearly torn off.
On the second night another of his friends, Ray, took a message instead of Jim, and while doing so got hit. Jim finished taking the message and made sure it was delivered, and Ray was sent to the hospital ship. Ray survived the war and died in 2011.
On the fourth day there, Jim saw the flag go up on Suribachi. He and the others cheered and yelled. It was an especially meaningful and inspiring moment in a tough battle that continued on for weeks.
Two weeks in, the Marines discovered that the Japanese had miles of sophisticated tunnels throughout the entire island. Many Marines went into an area they thought had been secured, including pillboxes, only to be killed when Japanese infiltrated from underground. Jim was there when one of his friends, Iggy, who had been captured, tortured, and killed by Japanese in tunnels, was discovered naked and mutilated in a cave. The tunnels were so well camouflaged, no one knows where he was taken down. Knowing that you could be hit from above the ground or snatched from below it into a hellish death anytime only increased the nightmare for these brave young men.
Eventually, after 26 days of hard fighting on the island, the frontline rifle squads needed replacements, and some were drawn from Communications. One of Jim’s friends literally drew the short straw, and was sent to up front. He wound up dead shortly thereafter. .
Jim was extremely fortunate throughout whole campaign, but many were not. There were 19,000 American wounded and 6,138 killed on Iwo Jima, the bloodiest battle of the Pacific. The great accomplishment of this tremendous sacrifice was that over 2,000 airmen lived because the crucial airfields on the island were now in American hands. Iwo Jima’s key strategic location was desperately needed for bombers and fighters who were attacking mainland Japan. Iwo Jima brought Americans one step closer to the heart of the Japanese empire.
On his last night there, after 36 days, Jim was on north end of the island with some airmen and pilots. He traded one of them a Japanese flag for a silver-plated .45 and jumpsuit. That night the Japanese, about 400, executed a Banzai attack against the airmen. Ray Kessler, a P-51 pilot, was there at the time, but did not meet Jim until 2011. (Read Ray Kessler’s hair-raising account of surviving this attack)
When Jim came back he decided not to go to college, but to return to his good job at the Detroit Times, where he by then had five years of seniority. Later he moved to California, working for papers in Los Angeles, and then became a successful entrepreneur. Now he spends his time investing in the stock market and enjoying retirement with the girl he married when he got back from the war.
*Jim did receive his high-school diploma while in the Marines.
George Naff – Hellcat Pilot VF-18 – USS Intrepid – Four Victories
George Naff: Knocking ‘Em Down on Offense and Defense
by Michael Fink
George Naff (June 13, 1923 – March 23, 2017) served as a fighter pilot with the United States Navy’s mighty Third Fleet. His carrier unit, Fighting Squadron 18, went aboard the Essex-class aircraft carrier USS Intrepid to strike Japanese targets from the Palaus to the Ryukyus between September and November 1944. In that time, George participated in the Formosa Air Battle—one of the largest aerial engagements of the war—and the Battle of Leyte Gulf, the largest naval action of the entire conflict. He also bore witness to the birth of the Kamikaze, as Intrepid was one of the first carriers stricken by this menace. Through it all George Naff stood tall, shooting down enemy planes where he found them, no matter how trying the conditions.
His first test came on October 14th, three days into Admiral Halsey’s daring raid on Formosa. The Japanese did not take carrier strikes on “Fortress Formosa” lying down. They sent out planes by the dozen to attack the fleet. Torpedoes churned through the water, slamming into USS Canberra and USS Houston. A formation of 25 enemy dive bombers was planning a similar welcome for Intrepid and its sister Hancock when Japanese pilots ran into George and the rest of Intrepid’s 12-plane Combat Air Patrol.
George and his fellows were outnumbered more than 2-to-1. Fighter pilots scattered to cover as many planes as possible, chasing Japanese bombers from 1,000′ right down to the wave tops. George attacked his first opponent from the side, peppering the bomber’s fuselage and wing root with .50cal gunfire. There was no time for celebration when it crashed down to the water below—George climbed for altitude then dove for speed, coming down atop the next enemy to “splash” it as well.
Still more were coming. One in particular caught his eye as it popped up from the ocean’s surface to begin its deadly parabolic dive. Gunners aboard U.S. ships noted the danger, too, and filled the skies with flak in a desperate effort to knock the bomber down. Heedless of the guns now trained his way, George chased the bomber into the storm of anti-aircraft fire until the enemy plane completely filled his gun sight. He scored hits at the wing root, where the wing met the fuselage, and literally sawed off the bomber’s wing with machinegun fire. As the Japanese plane spiraled out of control George pulled up and away from friendly ships still firing towards him. He zoomed his way out of gun range as quickly as possible, returning to his station protecting the harried ships.
George’s fourth and final victory came two weeks later on October 29th, when he and his wingman “Whitey” Ford encountered a lone enemy fighter over Manila Bay. The plane remained aloof, always keeping position next to a large cloud. George led the way in from above. When the Japanese pilot attempted to turn inside George to get on his tail, Whitey blocked him, forcing the enemy to change course. That was all the opening George needed. He whipped around and chased the Japanese fighter pilot down, leading his target so that gunfire ate through his enemy’s engine and cockpit. The Japanese plane veered crazily after the hits, plunging from 7,000′ down in a straight line into the bay below. As George and Whitey fled the scene, the hackles stood up on George’s neck. It was likely that behind that seemingly harmless, puffy cloud lay a gaggle of enemy fighters waiting to overwhelm the 2 Intrepid fighters.
After his ship was crippled by kamikaze attacks on November 25th, George served briefly aboard another carrier until his squadron was recalled to the U.S. for a brief respite. He stuck with Fighting 18 for its reformation and planned redeployment, which was canceled with the unconditional surrender of Japan in August 1945.
Ed Iglesias – Naval Aviator – Wildcats, Hellcats, Corsairs
by Michael Fink
Liberty. Justice. Fraternity. Equality. Victory. Peace. Light. America. For Edward Iglesias, World War II Navy fighter pilot, these words were more than just associated concepts: they happened to be the names of his 8 sisters. Edward’s father, Santiago Iglesias, was a prominent Puerto Rican labor activist, a member of the first Senate of Puerto Rico and a leading proponent of Puerto Rican statehood in the interwar period. Besides blessing his daughters with the names of these sacred ideals, Santiago Iglesias raised all his children to exemplify them. Edward’s long tenure in the Navy attests to that fact.
Edward “Ed” Iglesias was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, on April 4th, 1921. In early 1928, he caught a lucky glimpse of Charles Lindbergh flying the home stretch of his Latin American tour. “That’s what I want to be when I grow up,” Ed told his sisters. At 12 years of age, he and his large family moved to the United States to settle in Washington, D.C., where his father served as Resident Commissioner of Puerto Rico (an appointment to the U.S. House of Representatives).
Ed’s enthusiasm for aviation found an outlet in college. He began flying in 1939, during his freshman year at Virginia Tech, and as soon as he passed his course Ed signed up with a Navy recruiter on campus. By December 1943, Ed was commissioned an Ensign in the U.S. Navy and on his way to a fighter squadron. He spent his war years in Fighting Squadron 47 (VF-47) aboard the light carrier USS Bataan (CVL-29).
He was an exceptional pilot with a knack for gunnery. Ed was regularly chosen to fly as the fourth man in the strike leader’s division, which meant that he saw more than his fair share of action. Fighting 47 went aboard Bataan in the beginning of March 1945, as the mighty Fifth Fleet continued to push its way to the very doorstep of Japan. Ed got his first taste of air combat only a month later, on April 3rd.
Per the strike report, “As U.S. Marines and the Tenth Army forces pushed across Okinawa on the third day of the invasion…it was increasingly important…to prevent Japanese air attacks from the islands to the North and from the Empire itself.” To that end, 12 F6F Hellcats of Fighting 47—including Ed’s—took off from USS Bataan with bombs slung beneath their sturdy frames. The bombs were intended for runways dotting Amami Oshima and Kikai Shima, two of the tiny islands in the Ryukyu Archipelago dangling beneath Japan’s 4 principal islands. Though the aerial bombardment did minimal damage to facilities on the ground, it did stir up a beehive of activity from Japanese fighters. Close to 20 enemy planes pounced on the offending Hellcats.
The timing was particular bad for Ed. He’d been unable to locate his section leader after his bombing run and was now alone in the center of a swirling melee. To make matters worse, his plane was having serious mechanical difficulties. It shuddered and sprayed oil whenever he tried to apply full power to the engine, forcing him to slow down in a situation where speed often meant survival. Fortunately, just as a column of enemy fighters began closing, Ed spotted a fellow VF-47 pilot to join up with.
The odds were still against the Americans at two against four, but the Japanese pilots decided to break off pursuit in favor of bullying a lone Navy pilot who’d become separated from the pack. Ignoring his engine trouble, Ed dove down after the lead Japanese plane to knock him off the imperiled Hellcat’s tail. After chasing the enemy down to a mere 200’ above the waves, Ed started scoring hits that shred chunks off his adversary’s aircraft. The Japanese plane began belching smoke. Then it went belly up and nose down, crashing into the waves below.
One week later, over the nearby island of Amami Oshima, Ed and his VF-47 peers traded bombs for rockets in an attack Japanese shipping. Though the rockets proved minimally effective against targets that were already burned or burning, the Japanese again contested the attacks. This time it was a daring fighter pilot, all by himself in a Mitsubishi A6M “Zero” plane, who tangled with Ed’s 4-plane division. The Zero pilot missed his initial pass against the first 2 planes. He flew headlong into Ed and his section leader, Lieutenant Calton, who both peppered the back end of the Zero so liberally that its tail broke off. The plane went hurtling down into the waters below and exploded on impact. Ed and his section leader split credit for the kill.
Ed’s last confirmed aerial victory came on May 11th, 1945, on a Target Combat Air Patrol (TCAP) over Okinawa. Because their mission was defensive, the men carried only .50 caliber ammunition—no ordnance. They’d need every bit of it, too: more than 20 enemy aircraft were inbound. There were Japanese fighters, Japanese bombers, and even specially equipped aircraft carrying manned suicide rockets. The Japanese dubbed this weapon the “Ohka,” or cherry blossom. The Americans, on the other hand, called it the “Baka,” Japanese for idiot.
Ed spotted the threat first and inaugurated the action by opening up with his six wing-mounted machine guns. The first enemy fighter dodged out of the way, only to be taken down by other men in Ed’s division. Now Ed, again flying with his leader Lt. Calton, turned hard to starboard to chase after three more enemies. Calton’s plane was leaking oil, so he had to pull back, giving Ed the lead in the fight. The Japanese planes scattered before him, but Ed doggedly pursued one of them, turning with it, following his enemy in crazy up-and-down maneuvers as the Japanese pilot tried to shake him. It was to no avail. Ed clung tenaciously to his enemy and fired at just the right moment, lacing gunfire straight through his cockpit. The out-of-control plane spun wildly into the sea, giving Ed a finally tally of 2 ½ kills.
The end of the war came soon thereafter, and Ed participated in one of the iconic moments of the ensuing celebration: the massive show of U.S. airpower over Tokyo Bay. Given the sheer number of aircraft crowding the skies that day, flying wingtip to wingtip through wake turbulence, with no margin for error, Ed found that flight scarier than any of the combat that had come before. But soon it was back to the U.S. and into the peacetime Navy.
From World War II through Vietnam, Ed’s career in the Navy spanned 30 years and an array of commands that ended in his retirement as a Captain in 1969. He commanded jet fighter squadrons from multiple carriers in the early 1960s, served on carrier commands staffs, and even commanded a boat as part of Operation Market Time during the Vietnam War.
Though Edward’s name may sound more prosaic than that of his sisters—recall Liberty, Justice, Victory and Peace—his actions spanning three decades went a long way to contribute to the realization of these ideals in the country his family loved so much.
Date of Interview: March 13, 2011
Interviewer: Heather Steele
Format: Standard Definition Video
Length: 50 minutes
