Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age by Walter J. Boyne Page A
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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cooler. Tom had thrown his Wildcat into a dive as waves of oil covered his canopy to run along the fuselage side. The two Zeros followed him down, snap shooting, when his engine froze. The reduction gear exploded and the prop ran away in a fantastic crescendo of noise. One of the Zeros, accepting the victory, pulled away, but the other edged in and blew his wing off with a closely spaced pattern of 20mm shells.
The rugged Wildcat went into an uncontrollable rolling dive until it broke up at about six thousand feet, throwing Tom out of the cockpit. Shaken but conscious, he delayed opening his parachute until he had fallen to about four hundred feet. The jerk of the parachute opening separated him from his shoes, and he saw that he was dropping straight for a cartoon-like island, a three-hundred-foot-wide circle of sand with a cluster of palm trees in the center. He hit far up the narrow beach, landing without even getting his feet wet.
Tom gathered his parachute and hid in the clutch of palm trees, certain that the fight had been witnessed by the Japanese soldiers in the supply camp three miles away on the southwestern tip of Guadalcanal. He spent the entire day huddled on his parachute canopy before deciding that he must have landed unseen and that the little island held no other interest for the enemy. For the next seven days he had remained almost motionless while itwas light, hiding under the trees, surviving on the handful of coconuts he harvested and the few strange shell-fish he plucked from the rocky coastline at night. These had tasted terrible the first day, better on the second, and, as they grew scarce, downright delicious by the sixth day.
This was the second Catalina he had signaled with his handheld mirror. Four days before, a PBY had dipped its wings in recognition and set up a pattern to land when it was struck by a gaggle of Zeros en route back to Rabaul. They blew it up in a single pass, arrogantly doing victory rolls as they climbed away from the smoking debris. Tom felt guilty, for the crew never had a chance. The PBY crews were incredible, flying long missions alone in enemy territory and never failing to attempt to pick up a downed American flyer, no matter what the odds. Now another one was coming for him.
Tom moved out to the water’s edge, hoping that he’d have the strength to swim to the Catalina when it landed. He watched approvingly as the flying boat touched down smoothly, then turned to taxi at high speed toward him. The artillerymen at the Japanese camp suddenly woke up and artillery shells began to explode, a few around the Catalina but most well over his island, as if the gunners could not depress their guns enough to target the PBY. Lighter guns began firing, hitting the PBY almost immediately.
The PBY taxied past him, then turned to bring him up just off the left waist gun blister, its lower Plexiglas visor already raised. A sailor, dressed only in his skivvies, plunged over the side to help him, while another hung out from the blister to pull him in. The first sailor had just placed his head inside the hatch when the pilot applied full power for takeoff.
After a quick check to see if he was wounded, the gunners moved Tom forward through the narrow door separating them from the bunk compartment and on forwardto the navigator’s compartment, where they dumped him unceremoniously on a mound of Mae West life preservers before scurrying back to their guns. He lay there, watching the rest of the crew attending to their duties, the tension high as the long, bouncing takeoff continued. The navigator handed Tom a canteen of water and a sandwich—thick slices of Spam between two rough-cut pieces of GI bakery bread—and Tom had never tasted anything so delicious. The radioman tossed him a headset, so he could listen on the intercom.
The PBY, its twin engines mounted high on the parasol wing, seemed to bounce along the water forever, salt spray slashing over the windscreen. The pilot leaned
The rugged Wildcat went into an uncontrollable rolling dive until it broke up at about six thousand feet, throwing Tom out of the cockpit. Shaken but conscious, he delayed opening his parachute until he had fallen to about four hundred feet. The jerk of the parachute opening separated him from his shoes, and he saw that he was dropping straight for a cartoon-like island, a three-hundred-foot-wide circle of sand with a cluster of palm trees in the center. He hit far up the narrow beach, landing without even getting his feet wet.
Tom gathered his parachute and hid in the clutch of palm trees, certain that the fight had been witnessed by the Japanese soldiers in the supply camp three miles away on the southwestern tip of Guadalcanal. He spent the entire day huddled on his parachute canopy before deciding that he must have landed unseen and that the little island held no other interest for the enemy. For the next seven days he had remained almost motionless while itwas light, hiding under the trees, surviving on the handful of coconuts he harvested and the few strange shell-fish he plucked from the rocky coastline at night. These had tasted terrible the first day, better on the second, and, as they grew scarce, downright delicious by the sixth day.
This was the second Catalina he had signaled with his handheld mirror. Four days before, a PBY had dipped its wings in recognition and set up a pattern to land when it was struck by a gaggle of Zeros en route back to Rabaul. They blew it up in a single pass, arrogantly doing victory rolls as they climbed away from the smoking debris. Tom felt guilty, for the crew never had a chance. The PBY crews were incredible, flying long missions alone in enemy territory and never failing to attempt to pick up a downed American flyer, no matter what the odds. Now another one was coming for him.
Tom moved out to the water’s edge, hoping that he’d have the strength to swim to the Catalina when it landed. He watched approvingly as the flying boat touched down smoothly, then turned to taxi at high speed toward him. The artillerymen at the Japanese camp suddenly woke up and artillery shells began to explode, a few around the Catalina but most well over his island, as if the gunners could not depress their guns enough to target the PBY. Lighter guns began firing, hitting the PBY almost immediately.
The PBY taxied past him, then turned to bring him up just off the left waist gun blister, its lower Plexiglas visor already raised. A sailor, dressed only in his skivvies, plunged over the side to help him, while another hung out from the blister to pull him in. The first sailor had just placed his head inside the hatch when the pilot applied full power for takeoff.
After a quick check to see if he was wounded, the gunners moved Tom forward through the narrow door separating them from the bunk compartment and on forwardto the navigator’s compartment, where they dumped him unceremoniously on a mound of Mae West life preservers before scurrying back to their guns. He lay there, watching the rest of the crew attending to their duties, the tension high as the long, bouncing takeoff continued. The navigator handed Tom a canteen of water and a sandwich—thick slices of Spam between two rough-cut pieces of GI bakery bread—and Tom had never tasted anything so delicious. The radioman tossed him a headset, so he could listen on the intercom.
The PBY, its twin engines mounted high on the parasol wing, seemed to bounce along the water forever, salt spray slashing over the windscreen. The pilot leaned
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