The Eagle and the Osprey

By David G. Weaver

WWII 1944 The Pacific War Zone

In the Pacific Fleet Replacement Pilot Pool at Pearl Harbor, Ensign Bruce Weber receives training in the new Grumman Hellcat fighter planes. He is then assigned to a fighter squadron aboard a carrier. Bruce demonstrates exceptional airmanship skills, shooting down several enemy aircraft.

After he has accounted for more than a dozen enemy planes, squadron enlisted personnel repaint their heros plane with white engine speedring and tail to resemble a bald eagle.

During the first few months of the deployment, three of Bruces close friends are shot down by Kenji Okada, a Japanese super ace known as The Osprey. Okada flies a Distinctively painted Zero. Bruce swears vengeance and searches for the Osprey on every flight. The two aces eventually meet. The dogfight is long and difficult but Bruce
finally shoots Okada down. Returning to the carrier, Bruce lands almost out of fuel just before the ship is disabled by a Kamikaze. Fire decimates the aircraft and the ship is out of action. Both are ordered back to the states, their fighting days over at least for a while.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468573596

David G. Weaver

David G.Weaver, author of Nav Cad and The Eagle and The Osprey, is a retired Naval Aviator and school teacher. Before enlisting in the Navy, he served a three year apprenticeship as a shipfitter at the Charleston Naval Shipyard. His duties and training as a shipfitter involved helping to build several destroyer-type vessels as the US Navy expanded to meet the threat of German U-boat raiders. Although exempt from the draft, Weaver enlisted in the Navy in 1942, became a Naval Aviator flying fighter planes off carriers in the Pacific and later flew more than 20 missions in Grumman F9F Panther-jet fighters during the Korean War. He then spent 22 years as a teacher in California, but remained active in the Naval Reserve until his 60th birthday. He retired with the rank of commander in 1981, having devoted 40 plus years to the naval service. He earned a BS from the Univ. of Sou. Calif and an MS from Calif. State Univ. at Los Angeles. He now lives in Florida.

Book preview

THE EAGLE

AND

THE OSPREY

David G. Weaver

US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by David G. Weaver. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/25/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7361-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7360-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7359-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012905705

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

To the memory of a dear friend

Capt. Cecil E. Harris, USNR (Ret)

The US Navy’s No. 2 WWII ace with 24 kills

The model for my fictitious hero in this novel

And

To the officers and men of CVEG 60 and the

USS Suwanee CVE-27

Who were killed by a kamikaze attack during the

Second Philippine Sea Battle

Prologue

62805.jpg

A warm breeze wafted in from the southeast causing ripples to dance across the shimmering, calm waters of the slough. It was mid-October—Indian Summer—and, so far, the harsh nor’easters had not yet come to pay their annual visits to the South Carolina coastline.

Bruce and Stormy Weber, spending their belated honeymoon at the desolate beach on Seabrook Island, walked in silence, hands clasped, bare feet splashing in the shallow tidal pool left behind by the receding ebb tide. Bruce had completed the three month Operational Training program at Daytona Beach, flying Grumman F4F Wildcat fighter planes. Now he had orders to report to Commander Fleet Air Pacific (ComFAirPac) at San Diego, California. This would be their last day together for God knows how long. Tomorrow Bruce would board a transcontinental passenger train that would take him to the West Coast and the terrible war raging in the far flung Pacific. Stormy, a bride of less than four months, would have to remain in Charleston to care for her ailing widowed father while Bruce went out to meet the enemy and to determine his own destiny.

Immediately after Bruce had graduated the V-5 Naval Aviation Cadet program, the couple had married at the base chapel at Naval Air Station, Pensacola. Bruce’s cadet roommate and close friend, Tim Duffy, served as best man. Tim and Bruce had served together since their first days at the University of Georgia’s Athens Pre Flight. Charleston County magistrate, Judge Wade Hampton Bleese, the man who had sponsored Bruce and caused him to enlist in the V-5 program, drove down from South Carolina to see his protégée receive his golden wings and had agreed to give the bride away. Linda Weathers, known as Stormy to her close friends, accepted the ride down from Charleston with the judge and became very fond of the old gentleman as they got to know each other along the way.

There had been no time for a real honeymoon after the wedding in the chapel at Pensacola. The heated up combat in the western Pacific theater, along with the launching of several new aircraft carriers, placed a high demand on the air training command and Bruce had been required to rush directly from Pensy to Daytona Beach for operational training in fighter planes. Now that that phase of training was completed he had been issued orders to report to Commander Air Forces, Pacific Fleet at San Diego, California. Those orders granted a delay of ten days in reporting, but at least four of those days would be involved in travel on the cross country railroad. The young, recently married couple had less than one week of togetherness before duty would call Bruce away.

They’d rented a two room cottage nestled in the sand dunes of this remote sea island and had spent every precious moment compiling memories, memories that might have to serve a lifetime. They diligently avoided any mention of the upcoming separation that raced toward them. Basking in each other’s love, filling each second with tenderness, they swam in a pool of warmhearted, caring affection. During the past few days they had spent many enjoyable hours talking about the past as well as their hopes for the future. There was no need to discuss the present; they were living in it, filling every moment with memories to be cherished and relived during the oh-so-lonely days and nights of the imminent separation that crept steadily toward them.

Stormy liked to talk about the many evenings they had spent cuddled together in Bruce’s green Ford hotrod before his enlistment and their wedding. Each evening, they had almost subconsciously gravitated to the seawall at the south end of the city—the Battery. She also recalled the long rides down almost deserted country roads where long streamers of Spanish moss draped live oak trees and helped form tunnel-like arches over the lanes. She specifically avoided any mention of the immediate future, a future she dreaded to face, a future which would see her loved one involved in armed conflict with a terrible, savage enemy.

For his part, Bruce tried to recall only the lighter, happy things of the past; the stock car races he’d participated in and sometimes won, the cuddling in the Ford, the many fishing excursions to this same isolated beach and, more and more often, the hope-filled flying experiences he’d gone through during cadet training.

Both of them often mentioned the aging justice of the peace, Judge Wade Hampton Bleese, who had become a father figure to orphaned Bruce and a dear friend to both of them. Knowing the Navy’s V-5 Aviation Cadet Program did not permit its members to drive automobiles, the judge had forced Bruce to enlist or face felony charges. He had issued the ultimatum to underage, accused bootleg-runner, Bruce: Join the Naval Aviation Cadet Program or face a long jail sentence. He had also been the friend who drove Stormy down to Pensacola for Bruce’s graduation/commissioning ceremony and the wedding in the base chapel.

Now, strolling along the beach hand in hand, both were lost in their own thoughts, contemplating the ominous near-future with the thought that this might indeed be their very last night together, ever. They had walked this stretch of the coastline many times during the past few days but this, they realized, might well be the very last time they would ever walk together. This last stroll on the beach was filled to overflowing with moments neither would ever forget, memories each would treasure forever. No words were needed. The electric contact of their hands and the aura of love that surrounded them was all that was necessary.

As they rounded the bend of the shoreline at the mouth of the North Edisto River, where the wide stream rushed out into the Atlantic, Bruce heard a scream coming from overhead, a sound very much like that of a woman shrieking, It hurrrrts, it hurrrts! He looked up into the brilliant late afternoon sky a hundred yards or so off-shore and saw two circling birds of prey, the larger, darker one about 100 feet above the smaller grey and white one. The lower bird was an osprey, a fish hawk. It twisted its head from side to side as if searching the surface 40 feet below its plane of orbit. Above the osprey, a great bald eagle circled majestically, impatiently watching every move of the fish hawk. Bruce then realized it had been the eagle’s cry that had attracted his attention.

As Bruce watched in rapt attention, the osprey tightened its circular orbit, concentrating on something on the surface below. Suddenly the fish hawk set its wings, tilted downward and skimmed its talons along the foam laced sea water. Seconds later it rose on struggling beats on over-loaded wings, a foot long fish clutched in its clawed feet, head forward so the streamlined body presented minimum wind resistance. The gray and black bird turned toward shore, heading for its aerie in a tall pine a quarter of a mile away. The eagle continued its overhead orbit, its golden eyes locked on the laboring hawk. The white-headed raptor extended its orbit in order to remain above the slowly climbing osprey.

Bruce was fascinated by the drama taking place above. When the burdened fish hawk reached a height of about 30 feet, the eagle emitted another piercing screech, folded its pinions and plummeted down directly at the smaller bird. The terrified osprey released its catch and, bent solely on self preservation, beat the air violently in an attempt to escape the diving fury from above. The bald eagle seemed to ignore the panic stricken osprey. It concentrated on the falling fish. Barely two feet above the ocean surface, it suddenly spread its huge wings, swooped out of its dive and deftly plucked the stolen repast out of the air just before it would have struck the water. The triumphant eagle then climbed a hundred feet into the sky and headed for its own aerie in the top of a towering pine, its powerful wings easily lifting itself and the purloined fish now firmly clutched in one clawed talon. As the eagle swept away into the blue sky its brilliant white head and tail feathers were sharply defined against its dark brown body. Even in its criminal act, the national bird was a thrilling sight.

Bruce continued to stare in fascination at the villain as it departed the arena overhead, leaving the hapless osprey to seek out another catch. He recalled paintings he’d seen, pictures of eagles representing the might of the nation and the American victories in wars fought in the past. The triumphant eagle and the vanquished enemy. It was as it should be, he moralized. If one was to lose an aerial battle, it should be the weaker one. Certainly not the eagle, the emblem of America. The bald eagle and its cousin, the golden eagle, had represented America’s strength and the glory of victory over her enemies ever since the days of the Revolutionary War.

Chapter 1

62799.jpg

Green water sloshed across the forecastle deck when the great ship drove her bow through a gigantic wave. The frothy spume swirled about on the steel deck then spouted out through the scuppers as the prow rose clear of the sea into the indistinct, nearly invisible horizon. On the bridge, Captain Oliver Grayson peered through the thick-glass, round ports, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot from a lack of sleep. Ollie Grayson had been at his post for the past 34 hours, taking his meals there and downing gallons of black coffee. The captain left his duty station only to answer calls of nature in the small water closet just aft of the pilot house.

The USS Stono Sound, hull number CVE-45, classified as an escort carrier, was weathering a freak storm, a terrible tempest, in an area of the eastern Pacific normally free of such meteorological disturbances. Hurricane force winds were almost unheard of between San Francisco and Honolulu, but now, in late December 1943, the CVE was being battered by 65 knot wind and churning, 30 feet high seas.

Helluva welcome for a guy who has been flying an LMD for two years, Grayson griped to his Officer of the Deck.

The OOD under weigh, Lt. Harold Cass, USNR, looked questioningly at the captain for a long moment, then asked, LMD, captain. What kind of aircraft is that?

Long mahogany desk, son, Ollie quipped. As you know, I’m just coming off two years of shore duty at Pensacola. Can’t say I’m not getting my feet wet right off the bat, can you?

No, sir, Cass said, casting a sidelong glance at his new skipper. He went over to the port side of the pilot house where he could look down at the huddle of aircraft secured to the flight deck. Looks like our deck watch is getting pretty well soaked too, captain, he offered.

Grayson spun his canvas-seat swivel chair around 180 degrees and gazed intently down at the lone seaman battling the storm on the exposed flattop deck below. Hang on, lad! he exclaimed as the sailor, clad in cumbersome foul-weather gear, slipped on the wet decking and grabbed at the doubled-up tethering cable of an F6F—Hellcat, fighter plane. Atta-boy! the captain cheered when the young sentry caught hold of the braided steel wire and peered sheepishly upward through the gale driven rain spray.

Lifting out to the nor’east, captain, the quartermaster at the wheel commented.

Thank God for little favors, Grayson growled. He turned again to face the pitching prow and said, Better call Aerology, Mister Cass. See what those weather guessers have to say. We’re a day late at Pearl already and Admiral Westmore will be anxious to bring his staff aboard. I wonder if our air group had to delay their flight to Ford because of this little blow. Better check with communications on that too, will ya?

Aye, aye, captain, Lt. Cass said smartly as he turned to the bank of telephones attached to the rear bulkhead of the wheelhouse.

•••••

In their ready rooms at Naval Air Station, Hilo, on the big island of Hawaii, the pilots and aircrew men of Carrier Air Group 70—CVEG-70—frittered away the boring hours playing cards or acey-deucey, reading paper-back books, listening to the radio or record playing phonograph or just simply goofing off. None of them dared express any opinions regarding the up-coming deployment to West Pac. The enemy waited in the waters of the western Pacific, but it was considered unmanly to show evidence of concern, anxiety or apprehension.

Many of the aviators in the two-squadron air group were preparing for their second tour of duty in the combat theater. They were veterans who had learned the perils of battle with the Japanese airmen. They knew the heart-stopping fright of a moonless-night carrier landing as well as the stark terror of the new enemy weapon; the screaming, diving, suicide kamikaze attacks. They also were well aware of the tedium and the dreadful tension of the unbearable boredom of long waits between spurts of combat action.

In the fighter ready room, the new squadron CO, who also had the responsibility of air group commander—CAG—rolled a pair of dice, then moved the red checkers on the acey-deucey board. He looked up smugly into the grinning face and sparkling eyes of Lt. Ron Mc Clusky across the table. Your move, Ron, Lt. Cmdr. Jim Hoe said to his squadron operations officer. I’ve got you blocked ’cept for the 7 and 8 notch. What’cha gonna do?

Ha! Just hang on to your left ear, boss, Mc Clusky chided. Now you just watch this and see how it’s done. He rattled the dice in his right hand then, blowing onto the clenched fist, shouted, Come on dice, acey-deucey, babies.

The eyes of half a dozen kibitzers watched the ivory cubes as they dance a lively pirouette for a tension-filled moment before settling on the board-one showing a single pip, the other with two spots on its upper surface.

Luckiest damned fighter jockey in the whole frigin’ Pacific Fleet, Jim Hoe exclaimed disgustedly. Only darn play he had and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t pull an acey-deucey out of his cockeyed hat!

There was a tap on the door frame and a dungaree-clad sailor stepped into the ready room, a clipboard in his left hand, white hat in his right. Dispatch from Pearl Harbor, sir, he said, shoving the message board out in front of him. Sign here, please, captain. He handed Hoe a pencil and tapped the receipt slip attached to the clipboard.

Jim scribbled illegible initials on the chit and unfolded the yellow-paper sheet. He skimmed the short note then shouted, Pipe down, fellows! Here’s the skinny. When they were all quiet, he said, The storm held up our ship but she’s expected to dock in Pearl Harbor tomorrow afternoon. We fly out of here at 10 hundred. Get your gear packed now. I’ll have Chief Murphy send a truck over to both BOQs to pick up your cruise boxes and other stuff at 20 hundred this evening.

We’re still short handed, Jim. Ron McClusky said. We need six more F6 pilots and the torpeckers are shy three.

I know, Ron, Hoe returned. We’re going to pick them up from the pool at Ford before we shove off for West Pac. It’s all arranged.

What ship, skipper? Lt (jg) Roger Wilcox shouted from the rear of the room. CVE or CVL? One of those damned Kaisercrafts?

"She’s a CVE, Rog. A converted oil tanker. Same kind you guys had on the last tour. This one’s spankin’ brand new—the Stono Sound. Skipper’s an old sea dog. One of the Langley flyboys. Captain Ollie Grayson."

I heard that we might have a flag aboard, Jim, Lt. Russ Garvin, the fighter squadron’s executive officer asked in a low voice. Anything to that?

That’s the word I got, Russ, Jim said, nodding. Admiral Jaw Westmore and his staff will be coming aboard just before we sail. He’s a crusty old devil, so you guys had better watch out for him while we’re at sea. Has a bad habit of dropping into ready rooms unannounced. Make darn sure our SDOs are aware of that, Russ. Okay? Don’t want our squadron duty officers screwing up in front of the two-star admiral, you know.

Where the hell did the old boy get a nickname like that, boss? Lt (jg) Fred Rafferty asked. He got a whoppin’ big jawbone or something?

Well, the way I heard it, Fred, Jim began, the middies at Annapolis hung that monicker on him when they spotted his initials—J. A. W.—on his foot locker. They really stand for James Aloysius Westmore. But, come to think of it, the old boy does have a fighter’s jaw, a kind of a lantern jaw. I better get over to the VT readyroom and give the torpedo boys the word. Jim stood up and most of the pilots got to their feet in respect but a few didn’t stir. He went to the door, stopped and turned around to face the group. Need a special invitation? he demanded. Get that gear packed!"

They scrambled as one to follow the air group commander’s order.

•••••

In the big lobby of the Transient Officers’ BOQ (Bachelor Officers Quarters) at Ford Island in the center of Pearl Harbor, nearly 40 unassigned naval aviators lounged about in bored anticipation of the day when they would be attached to an operating squadron and have some purpose in their young lives. There were pilots qualified in several types of aircraft; fighter, torpedo, patrol, dive-bomber, even a couple who were trained to operate the catapult-launched scout planes from capitol ships. This was the Pacific Fleet aviator pool.

Sprawled lazily in rattan lounge chairs, Tim Duffy and Bruce Weber sat at a circular table on one side of the lobby with four other casually dressed pilots. Tim and Bruce knew each other very well. They had been together since way back in their flight training days. As cadets they’d suffered through primary training at Lambert Field—NAS St. Louis, Missouri—then endured the hardships and the pleasures of advanced training in the huge complex at Pensacola, Florida. They’d received their gold aviator’s wings and their commissions on the same day and were overjoyed to be sent to the same operational training base at Daytona Beach where they became fighter pilots—VF jockeys—flying Grumman F4F Wildcats.

In the little base chapel at Mainside, Pensacola, Tim had stood beside his friend as best man at the wedding of Bruce and Linda Stormy Weathers. Tim, a confirmed bachelor, had admired the lovely auburn haired beauty from the moment he first laid eyes on her in the lobby of the San Carlos Hotel in Pensy the night preceding the commissioning ceremony. Stormy was gentle, ladylike and beautiful, the exact opposite of the nickname classmates at Memminger High School in Charleston had saddled her with. He had to admit that he had actually felt a tinge of envy as he and Bruce watched Judge Wade Hampton Bleese escort the bride down the chapel aisle.

Bruce had confided in Tim how Bleese had given him an ultimatum as he stood before the magistrate in the courtroom in Charleston accused of speeding and possibly transporting bootleg whisky. Bleese had presented one option—Join the Navy Aviation Cadet Training Program or go to jail. Bruce told how he had resented, almost hated, the old gentleman at first but, as he wrote mandatory monthly reports to the judge, he had slowly begun to think of Bleese as a sort of father figure.

Bruce, an orphan, had invited Stormy and the judge to attend the graduation ceremony then later he had asked the judge to give the bride away. Wade Bleese had brought along Bruce’s court records and had given the bundle of papers to the new groom as a wedding gift along with instructions to the awestruck youngster to burn them.

•••••

The six men seated at the round game-table were strongly attracted to one another by a common bond. They were all fighter pilots. Most of the other aviators in the room were pilots, true, but they were not fighter pilots. That made them different. Their attitude toward life and flying was different too. Fighter pilots considered themselves a notch above the men who horsed around bombers, cargo planes or PBY long range patrol planes.

Bruce twisted his head slowly and looked at each of his friends seated around the table. Besides himself and Tim, there were three other boot ensigns, and one full bull lieutenant. One of the newbies was a very blond man destined to be saddled with the nickname Whitey even though the Minnesotan’s Christian name was Verne Olsen. Dean Worth was kibitzing as Dave Darnell spread out the cards for a game of solitaire. The sixth man was a slender, dark haired veteran of the fighting in the Pacific, a full lieutenant who answered to the name Delbert Finger. Bruce had grown to like all five of the fighter pilots and wondered if they might all be assigned to the same squadron when, and if, Commander Fleet Air Hawaii called on the pool to supplement a fighter squadron. He certainly hoped so. That would be great. The six of them had been flying together now for weeks.

•••••

The Operational Training base at Daytona Beach in Florida had used F4F Wildcat fighter aircraft, but, as soon as they had checked into the pool at Ford Island, the newly trained fighter pilots had been given a cockpit checkout in the Wildcat’s new big brother, the F6F-3 Hellcat. They had spent hours each day boring holes in the sky and practicing field carrier landings (FCLP) as they learned the new aircraft and prepared themselves for assignment to fleet squadrons as replacements for lost or transferred members. Each of the six pilots had logged almost 50 hours in the Hellcat. Then they had been sent out to sea to get in three carrier landings. They were now considered qualified and all six eagerly looked forward to being part of a gung-ho fighter group.

•••••

Tell me, Del Verne Olsen asked as he watched Dave flip the cards into a stack. What’s it really like to make a carrier landing at night?

Are you telling us you never had to night qualify? Finger asked. How the hell did you luck out like that?

I did my Car-Quals on the Wolverine out of Great Lakes, Olsen said. I got in six landings and they sent me out San Diego right away. He turned in his seat slightly so that he was looking directly at Finger. What’s it really like, Del? Huh?

Del Finger, promoted to lieutenant only two weeks earlier, was the only man among them with previous fleet experience. He had completed a tour of duty flying SBD Douglas Dauntless dive-bombers off the Saratoga then, after a 30 day leave, he’d been sent to Florida to re-train in fighter aircraft. Now Del was returning to the battle zone. This time, he insisted, he had a much better chance at surviving the war than he had had in the slow old Speedie-Dee.

Well, gentlemen, Finger began in his crisp mid-western twang, I once heard a fellow say it’s kinda like this; you toss a postage stamp on the floor, turn off all the lights and dive at it. The idea is for you to try to lick the stamp with your tongue as you pass.

Aw come on, Del! It can’t be that bad. Is it? Dean Worth demanded, glancing around the table with raised eyebrows.

You a Great Lakes sailor too? Bruce asked and got a nod from Worth.

Yeah, Dave, Del continued, it’s just about that bad. It’s pretty hairy when you return from a strike on a moonless night with a high sea running. Picture this. You have no horizon at all. All the ships are completely blacked out ’cept for the itty-bitsy little dustpan lights marking the edges of the carrier’s flight deck and you can’t see those damned things until you’re in the groove. Got it?

Wow! Dean exclaimed. I guess you really mark your laundry with a puckered up a-hole at times like that, huh?

You can bet on it, buddy, Finger said, but the alternative ain’t that great. Would you rather ditch in the inky black water and feel sharks tickling your toes? A wry grin spread across his handsome face.

I reckon I’d rather take the chance on the flattop, Bruce put in. I can’t wait to get an assignment to a squadron so I can get the hell out of this dad-blasted place. I’m sick and tired of just sitting around here and waiting for something to happen. We’ve been here almost two months now. When are they going to put us in squadrons?

Don’t be so damned eager, Brucie boy, Del commented sagely. It’ll be that way out there too. Days and days of just sitting and wondering. That sometimes is the worst part of this goddamned war. I guess it’s the Navy way. You know, ‘hurry up and wait’. As he said the last sentence, all the other five chorused in. He looked around the table, chuckled and asked, Any of you studs feel like going into Hono to see what’s cookin’? Maybe get lucky and round up a little poontang or something?

Bruce and Tim got to their feet and looked at the other three. They simultaneously rocked their heads in the positive.

Okay then, Del said with a slight shrug toward the others. We’ll see you panty waists later. Let us know if anything turns up when we get back to the Q.

•••••

In downtown Honolulu the three aviators boarded a city bus and found seats directly behind the driver. The vehicle was nearly full. Most of the passengers were sailors clad in undress white uniforms. On the broad rear seat sat a lone marine, his khaki outfit standing out like a sore thumb among the white suited sailors. The three aviators, clad in open collar shirts and cotton summer khaki trousers, were on the opposite end of the vehicle from the marine.

Just as soon as the bus pulled away from the curb, the white hats began to deride the leatherneck in good natured, but unmerciful, ribbing. Where the hell would you glory hunting gyrenes be if we didn’t get you safely ashore on the beach? one seaman chided. Yeah a comrade added, How do you jar-heads ever find time to fight when all you do is sit around polishing your shoes, buttons and belt buckles? What makes a guy a marine anyway? a third heckler chimed in. Oh, you know, a buddy shouted, Don’t you know a marine ain’t nuthin’ but a swabbie with his brains knocked out?

The sailors all hooted and laughed, getting a big kick out of teasing the solitary marine. It was all in fun. The sailors taunted in good humor, but the marine sat grim faced apparently seeing nothing funny in the situation. He sat, staring icily ahead, jaw set, trying to ignore the jeering, pestering Navy men.

When the bus braked to a stop at a green-painted curb and a marine corporal stepped aboard, the sailors quieted down momentarily as the newcomer made his way directly to the rear of the bus and took a seat beside the other leatherneck. The victim of the hecklers then got to his feet and in a loud voice, shouted, All right now, you goddamned, candy-assed, panty-waist swab jockeys, we got you out numbered. Wanna make somethin’ of it?

The ridiculously boastful challenge was stated in such sincerity that the throng of sailors sat dumfounded for a long moment. Then, as if someone had punched a button, the entire bus rocked with the gleeful laughter of the passengers. White hats slapped their knees and pounded each other on the back. The ticklish situation was suddenly converted from high strung tension to comic opera glee.

Bruce had felt his abdominal muscles tighten when the marine issued his challenge. He had no idea what might happen. Would one or more of the white clad sailors pick up the gauntlet? Hearing the joyful laughter, he relaxed. It’s astonishing how fighting men can delight in such tough fun at another’s expense one minute and laugh at a joke on themselves the next. What a great life. It’s wonderful to know that Americans are able to find something to laugh about in just about any situation.

•••••

At Kochi, a small airfield east of the city of the same name on the island of Shikoku, Lt. Kenji Okada taxied his Mitubishi A6M Reisen (Zero—named for the year 2600 [1940] in which it became operational) fighter plane onto the parking ramp. He had just returned from a practice gunnery flight over the open sea. Kenji was feeling good. He was pleased with the efforts of the young pilots in his flight.

Lt. Kenji Okada, IJN was on duty in the home island for just one purpose. Due for promotion in the very near future, Kenji was on orders to train the aviators assigned to his newly formed fighter squadron. He was preparing the young warriors for combat duty aboard a light carrier undergoing refurbishing and outfitting at the great shipyard at Yokosuka. That carrier was a lucky survivor of the great battle off Midway Island. However, at the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands in late October, SBD dive bombers from the US carriers had seriously damaged the light carrier (CVL) Zuiho. Two direct 500 pound bomb hits on the flight deck had put the ship out of action. Now, the IJN Zuiho was nearing the end of the repair work and would soon be re-commissioned in the Emperor’s Navy.

Kenji brought the sleek Zero to a stop and waited until the mechanic gave the signal that the wheel chocks were in place. Nodding his head in reply to the mech’s gesture, the ace fighter pilot flicked off the ignition switch then sat impatiently until the powerful 14 cylinder rotary engine sputtered to a full stop. Next he unfastened his seat belt and shoulder harness straps and stood in a semi-crouched position as the mechanic scrambled up onto the plane’s wing to assist the war hero out of the cockpit. Beneath the Plexiglas canopy there was a row of sixteen miniature American flags and two Australian ones. On each side of the engine cowling were painted the Japanese hiragana characters for Misago, the osprey or sea eagle, text.jpg .

Kenji Okada was one of Japan’s leading aerial aces. He actually had more than the eighteen kills represented by those tiny flags stenciled on his plane’s fuselage. In typical modesty, the veteran aviator refused to claim four probables that had gone down smoking and out of sight. Nor would he declare the two US Navy SBD dive-bombers he had shot down at Midway after all the other members of his flight of Zeros had been killed by Wildcat fighter plane pilots from the carrier Enterprise. Kenji did not claim those two kills because he had no eye-witnesses and no camera film to substantiate the downings.

•••••

With six positive kills on the morning of June 4, 1942, Lt. Okada had earned the title of The Misago, the lightning eagle. Kenji had been truly magnificent in aerial combat that day. He shot down an Army B-25 Mitchell bomber over Midway Island on