Roaring Thunder: A Novel of the Jet Age by Walter J. Boyne Page B
Authors: Walter J. Boyne
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over the control wheel, visibly forcing the overhead throttles forward, the copilot bending low in his seat, as if bullets wouldn’t pierce the thin aluminum as easily as the Plexiglas windows. Once the navigator looked over and shot Tom a thumbs-up.
After an eternity in which the bounces turned into long skips and finally a tiny dribbling run that seemed to hold the plane to the water with a gossamer spray, the PBY lifted off, just as a Japanese battery at last got the range, the shrapnel punching holes along the length of the fuselage and into the wings. Fuel began leaking immediately, running back in a fine white spray.
The navigator passed Tom a note, written on a crumpled sheet of paper in big black pencil strokes: “Congratulations; we’ll be back at Henderson Field in ten minutes. Drink all the water you want, but slow down on the sandwich—you’ll get sick.”
Tom nodded and put the headset on to listen to the intercom chatter.
“Nav, this is pilot. Is the passenger wounded?”
“No, they checked him when they hauled him in. He’s just hungry as hell.”
A gunner broke in: “Here come two Zeros; the first one is shooting!”
The Catalina shook under an initial barrage of 7.7mm machine-gun fire followed by a massive series of blows from the first Zero’s 20mm cannon. Ten seconds later, the noises were repeated, this time punctuated by the eerie shriek of a runaway propeller.
The pilot yelled, “Feather number two,” and Tom looked up through the copilot’s windscreen to see the two Zeros climbing away. He watched his Catalina pilot boot in hard left rudder and bend the left throttle forward, easing the nose down to keep flying speed.
Grunting, sweating, totally concentrated, the pilot flew on at treetop level, desperate to reach Henderson and plant the Catalina firmly on the ground. Tom couldn’t see all that was going on, but he knew exactly what was going through the pilot’s mind: keep the speed well above the stall, delay putting the gear down until the last minute, don’t put in any flaps until he was sure he was in position to land—and pray that the gear either came down all the way or stayed retracted; the worst thing would be a partial extension.
The navigator motioned Tom to a seat belt fastened to the floor next to the aft bulkhead and pointed his hand down. He had barely strapped in when the Catalina slammed down, bounced, then smashed into the pierced steel planking of the runway again, the Catalina’s gear screeching and flexing but holding together. When they reached the end of the runway, the pilot kicked the rudder, spun the Catalina off the taxiway into the shrapnel-chewed dirt, shut down the engines, and, reverting to his Navy upbringing, yelled, “Abandon ship!” as he rang the alarm bell.
The crew helped Tom run away from the PBY, stopping when they felt they had enough distance between it and a possible explosion. As soon as the motley set of rescue vehicles rolled up, they pushed Tom into what passed as an ambulance before he had time to say more than thanks. He was in the primitive aide station grandlymarked “Hospital” for two hours when his squadron commander showed up, a big grin on his face.
Major Delaroy was carrying a bottle of beer and some more Spam sandwiches, saying, “I knew we couldn’t get rid of you! Just three more Wildcats and you’ll be a Japanese ace!”
Tom winced—it was the second time he had been shot up by Zeros; the first time he had limped back to the field, but his badly damaged Wildcat never flew again.
“Never again! I’m transferring to bombers, where I can get a little peace.”
They talked for another hour, Delaroy filling him in on the victories and losses of the past week.
“We’re getting to the point where we can replace some of our people; do you want to go home for a bit and recuperate?”
“Never! I’m ready to go back on operations right now.”
Delaroy smiled. “Let me talk to the flight surgeon; I’m
After an eternity in which the bounces turned into long skips and finally a tiny dribbling run that seemed to hold the plane to the water with a gossamer spray, the PBY lifted off, just as a Japanese battery at last got the range, the shrapnel punching holes along the length of the fuselage and into the wings. Fuel began leaking immediately, running back in a fine white spray.
The navigator passed Tom a note, written on a crumpled sheet of paper in big black pencil strokes: “Congratulations; we’ll be back at Henderson Field in ten minutes. Drink all the water you want, but slow down on the sandwich—you’ll get sick.”
Tom nodded and put the headset on to listen to the intercom chatter.
“Nav, this is pilot. Is the passenger wounded?”
“No, they checked him when they hauled him in. He’s just hungry as hell.”
A gunner broke in: “Here come two Zeros; the first one is shooting!”
The Catalina shook under an initial barrage of 7.7mm machine-gun fire followed by a massive series of blows from the first Zero’s 20mm cannon. Ten seconds later, the noises were repeated, this time punctuated by the eerie shriek of a runaway propeller.
The pilot yelled, “Feather number two,” and Tom looked up through the copilot’s windscreen to see the two Zeros climbing away. He watched his Catalina pilot boot in hard left rudder and bend the left throttle forward, easing the nose down to keep flying speed.
Grunting, sweating, totally concentrated, the pilot flew on at treetop level, desperate to reach Henderson and plant the Catalina firmly on the ground. Tom couldn’t see all that was going on, but he knew exactly what was going through the pilot’s mind: keep the speed well above the stall, delay putting the gear down until the last minute, don’t put in any flaps until he was sure he was in position to land—and pray that the gear either came down all the way or stayed retracted; the worst thing would be a partial extension.
The navigator motioned Tom to a seat belt fastened to the floor next to the aft bulkhead and pointed his hand down. He had barely strapped in when the Catalina slammed down, bounced, then smashed into the pierced steel planking of the runway again, the Catalina’s gear screeching and flexing but holding together. When they reached the end of the runway, the pilot kicked the rudder, spun the Catalina off the taxiway into the shrapnel-chewed dirt, shut down the engines, and, reverting to his Navy upbringing, yelled, “Abandon ship!” as he rang the alarm bell.
The crew helped Tom run away from the PBY, stopping when they felt they had enough distance between it and a possible explosion. As soon as the motley set of rescue vehicles rolled up, they pushed Tom into what passed as an ambulance before he had time to say more than thanks. He was in the primitive aide station grandlymarked “Hospital” for two hours when his squadron commander showed up, a big grin on his face.
Major Delaroy was carrying a bottle of beer and some more Spam sandwiches, saying, “I knew we couldn’t get rid of you! Just three more Wildcats and you’ll be a Japanese ace!”
Tom winced—it was the second time he had been shot up by Zeros; the first time he had limped back to the field, but his badly damaged Wildcat never flew again.
“Never again! I’m transferring to bombers, where I can get a little peace.”
They talked for another hour, Delaroy filling him in on the victories and losses of the past week.
“We’re getting to the point where we can replace some of our people; do you want to go home for a bit and recuperate?”
“Never! I’m ready to go back on operations right now.”
Delaroy smiled. “Let me talk to the flight surgeon; I’m
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