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.
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.
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.
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
