For the next three days Princeton and Task Group 58.3 maintained the southwesterly course and while en route conducted training for its surface ships and the Air Group. Spars were trailed by ships to be bombed and strafed by airplanes. Target sleeves were trailed by airplanes to be shot at by ships. Radars were tweaked and calibrated. The FDO ran aircraft interception and detection problems. The black shoes practiced and critiqued fleet formation maneuvers. The new OTC, prudently, wanted to know what he was dealing with.
Again, the War Diary makes no mention of where the next combat operation will take place. A glimpse at the map hints that perhaps the Japanese still holding out at the once formidable but now desperate stronghold of Rabaul could be the destination, or possibly the various Japanese outposts dotting the northern coast of New Guinea.
16 APR 44
During the day, Princeton launched 24 fighters and just 9 bombers in three separate cycles, all before noon, for CAP and ASP missions respectively. Despite there being virtually no Japanese threat in this part of the Southern Pacific, the flying events kept both the Air Group and flight deck personnel current, but perhaps not proficient.
In my day, particularly during times of budgetary limits, currency versus proficiency was often a topic for spirited discussion in the squadron. It stands to reason that the more one flies, the better ones' skills. And vice versa, of course. The Navy had guidance, notably OPNAV 3710 and LSO NATOPS (Naval Air Training and Procedures Standardization) which provided direction regarding how many flight hours and what manner of training was a minimum to remain current and qualified. But, as hinted at above, currency does not necessarily equal proficiency. One brief example:
Landing on the boat at night was never fun. Rewarding if done well, yes. Fun? Rarely, if ever. For me anyway. There were, on occasion, brilliant nights when the full moon seemed immense, the air a plush velvet carpet and the seas serene, when the experience was not entirely unpleasant.
What was unpleasant was maintaining night currency by getting a night trap once every 7 days. Which was the minimum requirement. No doubt dreamed up by someone who held a grudge. As much as I disliked night carrier landings, I would much rather have flown every night than once a week. Because, in this case, practice makes adequate.
But I digress. The point is that by now I think it is apparent that the men of Air Group 23, especially the Ensigns and Jaygees, could use all the practice they could get. So it was good that they were flying during the transit southwest. Even if it would never be enough.
April 16th ended with the Task Group approaching the southern hemisphere once again.
17 APR 44
In 1899 the United States Naval Institute published its first book, Log of the Gloucester. In the linked article describing the book is the following brief passage:
The log entries are succinct and colorless as one might expect, with many notes on the current weather, course and speed changes, navigational points, tides and currents, lookout sightings, periodic coal replenishments, and various administrative matters, such as personnel transfers, judicial punishments, and crew injuries. Despite their brevity and paucity of adjectives, the entries nonetheless present a “you are there” experience that is both edifying and entertaining.
Princeton's War Diary is no different than Gloucester's. Personally, I too have found it "edifying and entertaining."
With that in mind, April 17th was another day of more of the same. The trailing wakes of Task Group vessels the only indication that somewhere ahead was a destination, known, for now anyway, to only a few atop the chain of command.
The bridge team did, at 1415, sight "a friendly PBY search plane, bearing 315˚, distant 12 miles."
There were other indications that something was afoot, as Avengers began dropping messages, and sometimes launching from one carrier but landing on another, ferrying certain personnel to and fro.
And of course, there were the normal occurences:
"At 1755, VF No. 10 crashed into barrier wires and fell into port walkway; plane suffered minor damage; pilot unhurt; one gasoline fueling station to flight deck demolished; slight damage to 40 mm. Mount VIII."
The struggle for proficiency is never-ending.
18 APR 44
By 0800 on the morning of April 18th, Princeton was 240 miles north of Rabaul and 450 east-northeast of New Guinea.
Rabaul, once a bastion of Japanese force in the southwest Pacific, had been attacked consistently since 1942 by American land and sea-based air power. In fact, planes from Princeton had played a significant role in reducing Rabaul to near irrelevance by April of 1944.
Rabaul strike, 5 November 1943. Planes from USS SARATOGA and USS PRINCETON hit shipping at Rabaul, including several cruisers. One CA, at right center, has been hit. This view is looking west, taken from a SARATOGA plane. Cruisers and DDs are standing out of Simpson Harbor into Blanche Bay. Other landmarks: Vulcan Crater (upper left), Sulphur Point (lower right), Matupi Island (right center) with flak overhead.
Rabaul, New Britain, November 1943. B-25 Mitchells of the 5th Air Force's 3rd Bombardment Group bombing Imperial Japanese Navy ships and transports in Simpson Harbour.
"At 0827 left station to conduct flight operations, completing catapulting of 1 VF to take Air Group Commander to USS ENTERPRISE for conference. USS LANGLEY and USS LEXINGTON also launched aircraft."
Things were definitely happening.
"At 1330 the Air Group Commanders were launched from USS LEXINGTON and landed aboard USS LANGLEY at 1337." ... "At 1449 Air Group Commanders from all carriers were launched from USS LANGLEY, landing aboard this vessel at 1454."
"At 1527 an unidentified aircraft was reported bearing 080˚, distant 64 miles. CAP from this vessel directed to investigate."
"At 1630 steamed into a heavy rain squall...Flight operations delayed due to sudden variable shifts of wind direction and intensity in heavy squalls."
Which reminds me of a story...
When I arrived at Naval Air Facility, Atsugi, Japan in May of 1994, I was excited to be operating in a "Forward Deployed" environment as one of three Air Wing Landing Signal Officers (LSO). For 2 1/2 years, we worked hard — and sometimes played hard. Our primary job was to ensure that Air Wing aviators were trained and assisted to safely land on the carrier, day and night. Without going into obscure minutiae, we had technical limits within which we had to operate with regard to considerations such as aircraft weights, speeds, etc. We also had environmental requirements which needed to be adhered to in order to make each aircraft landing attempt "legal" and "by the book."
One of these requirements dictated the amount of permissible crosswind allowed to land an aircraft safely. The majority of the time, the carrier being able to maneuver accordingly, the wind was straight down the landing area. This was the ideal. Occasionally however — other surface ships being in the way or restrictions due to designated sea space boundaries — the ship could be limited in its ability to turn into the wind.
"Winds out of limits" (we had a wind gauge on the LSO platform where we could monitor wind direction and speed) was a pretty straight forward consideration. We used to joke that as lowly Lieutenants we had the power to "drive the ship" by simply "waving off" aircraft attempting to land when the winds weren't right. Once the bridge heard us transmit "Wave off winds," more often than not the ship would immediately turn to put the winds "down the angle," or aligned with the landing area centerline. To our minds, this cause and effect relationship was obvious and amusing proof positive that even though we were just stupid pilots, we were, undeniably, driving the boat. There were rare instances when, I must admit, the Officer of the Deck on the bridge thought it not as amusing as we.
There was one time, we were operating just off the coast of Honshu, when the winds would not cooperate.
Me: "Wave off winds."
Ship: <turns to port>
Me: <next jet approaches> "Wave off winds."
Ship: <turns further to port>
Me: <next jet approaches> "Wave off winds."
This went on for 5 or 6 jets, the winds staying consistently out of limits to port. I am not making it up when I say that the ship did a full 270˚ of turn before the Air Boss in the tower finally buzzed me on the bat phone.
Air Boss: "Oyster!"
Me: Yes sir!
Air Boss: "I have no #$%@ idea what's happening. I think we're in a cyclonic front!"
Me: Uh, roger that sir!
Air Boss: <click!>
Eventually we escaped the Final Countdown cyclonic front...
...and successfully recovered all our airborne shipmates. When I think back on my experience operating in that part of the world I think of great friends, amazing flying, and truly horrific weather.
Truly. Horrific. Weather.
As in the worst weather ever.
Typhoons.
Yellow Sea fog so thick a fellow LSO saved the rescue helicopter from having to be rescued by dropping a trail of salt-water activated flares in the ship's wake for it to follow before it ran out of gas.
Rain like you find in the Amazon. Or in Mississippi.
Weather so memorable, I edited our "LSO Guide Book" accordingly:
NNNN
Comments