McWhorter strafed a Japanese destroyer at Truk on February 17, 1944. That action was captured by the reconnaissance cameras aboard his wingman’s aircraft. (U.S. Navy)
Chapter 19
We left Kwajalein on February 4, 1944, and retired to the newly operational fleet anchorage at Majuro to take on fuel and provisions and to sneak a few days of rest. When we stopped like this, one of the most popular diversions was swimming. The ship would drop anchor, a shark watch with a rifle was set up on the flight deck, and we all took to the water, paddling around or diving off the hangar deck or the small-boat mooring boom, which was swung out perpendicular to the ship. The boom had rope ladders hanging down so that we could climb back up. It was great fun and a very welcome respite from the daily grind.
All through this combat tour we were blessed with the company of Life magazine photographer John Florea. Making war from the deck of an aircraft carrier was relatively new, and the magazine wanted to bring home to America a portrait of the men who were doing it. Florea was the perfect choice to compose that portrait. Not only was he an expert photographer, but he had an engaging personality and was fun to be around. Technically, he was assigned to cover the entire air group but he spent most of his time with VF-9—quite a bit of it in the ready room playing cards. John came to be considered almost part of the squadron. He demonstrated his mettle by actually flying in SBDs or TBFs on some of the air group’s missions. And of course, we were fortunate to have him aboard to record on film much of what we did. Many of his photos from this period were published by Life, and of those that weren’t, many ended up in our air group cruise book, which was similar to a school annual.
We departed Majuro on the night of February 12, 1944. We had been in the Pacific for nine months and were sure that we were finally headed to Pearl Harbor and then back to the States and home. But we weren’t.
About ten days earlier, a flight of two four-engine Liberators led by Marine Major James Christensen had made a 2,000-mile round-trip from the Solomons to Truk. They spent 20 minutes over the atoll at 24,000 feet taking pictures. For whatever reason, they encountered no opposition from the Japanese. During their short picture-taking stint, which produced the only photos we had of Truk, they observed many warships and support ships anchored in the lagoon. This was too tempting a target, so the task forces were ordered to attack it.
Truk was home port to the Japanese Combined Fleet and its flagship, the super battleship Musashi. Additionally, it served as a base for submarines, freighters, and tankers, and as a staging point for airplanes flying from Japan to bases in the South Pacific. In fact, 173 naval airplanes were flown to Rabaul from Truk in late October. These made up many of the aircraft we had encountered during our strike there on November 11, 1943.
Truk was the devil’s den as far as we were concerned. A collection of about a dozen mountainous volcanic islands and many smaller ones, ringed by a stereotypical tropical reef, it was a wonderful natural anchorage. Often called the “Gibraltar of the Pacific,” Truk was reputed to be the most heavily defended Japanese base in that part of the Pacific. When we heard that we were going there someone penned a cartoon of the Essex with the caption: “This is the captain speaking. The Essex has been given the greatest privilege yet; we are going to hit Truk Island.” The cartoon showed sailors and airmen diving off the deck, petrified at the thought of striking so deep into enemy territory. It wasn’t too far off the mark.
***
Following a rendezvous with fleet tankers north of Eniwetok, we refueled and sailed at high speed for our launch point, about 100 miles southeast of Truk. When we were launched early on the morning of February 17, 1944, more than 350 enemy aircraft were waiting for our 3 task groups. Our first wave of 72 Hellcats from 5 carriers executed fighter sweeps—without bombers—over the enemy airfields at daybreak. They were met by approximately 80 fighters, and the Hellcats shot down more than 30 of them. After destroying or chasing off the airborne enemy fighters, they strafed and burned another 40 aircraft on the ground. The flights of carrier bombers that followed the fighter sweep were only barely harassed by enemy airplanes.
Again, as during the Japanese counterattack at Rabaul, I was stuck flying a combat air patrol over the task force, far from the action. We saw nothing. This frustrated me, but I didn’t complain too much. For all I knew, the bullet with “Hamilton McWhorter” written on it could have been waiting for me at Truk during the first strike. Fate played a big role in determining who came back and who did not.
McWhorter strafed a Japanese destroyer at Truk on February 17, 1944. That action was captured by the reconnaissance cameras aboard his wingman’s aircraft. (U.S. Navy)
Japanese shipping under attack by Navy aircraft at Truk on February 17, 1944.
Two of our pilots in VF-9 nearly didn’t come back. After shooting down three planes during the morning sweep, Chick Smith dropped down to strafe the airfield on Eten Island. While he busily attended to his work—racing back and forth over the runways, shooting up everything in sight—his plane was hit by antiaircraft fire. Chick managed to get out to where one of our submarines was on station, ditched alongside, and was rescued.
George Blair’s airplane was also hit by antiaircraft fire. Not quite as lucky as Chick, George had to ditch in the lagoon, smack in the middle of a dozen enemy-held islands. Some of our Hellcats maintained cover over him until an OS2U Kingfisher floatplane from one of the cruisers arrived. They strafed and sank a Japanese patrol boat which persisted in going after George.
Once he arrived, the Kingfisher pilot expressed some reluctance to land in the middle of Truk lagoon, but Jack Kitchen—who was flying overhead—suggested that he might shoot the man down if he failed to pick George up. When George got back, he related that the rear seat of the Kingfisher became rather crowded when he squeezed in with the observer. But then he allowed as how he really didn’t mind at all and that, actually, it was the finest ride he’d ever had.
George Blair, a VF-9 squadron mate, was a resourceful pilot. He once knocked a Japanese aircraft out of the sky with his drop tank, and forced another into the water when out of ammunition. He was shot down over Truk Lagoon on February 17, 1944. (U.S. Navy)
George Blair was rescued out of Truk Lagoon by a Vought OS2U Kingfisher from the USS Baltimore flown by Denver Baxter. Observer Reuben Hickman stands on the wing. Baxter returned to the Baltimore essentially out of fuel. (U.S. Navy)
George Blair rides a bosun’s chair back to the Essex. (U.S. Navy)
***
Later that morning I was sent with my wingman, Bud Gehoe, on a photo-reconnaissance mission. We were to overfly the lagoon and the airfields to determine the damage our morning strikes had inflicted. The intent was to provide photos for damage assessment in order to determine where follow-on strikes were required. I was finally putting to use the training I had taken with Jim Feasley almost two years earlier.
As soon as we landed from the CAP Bud and I were launched on our very first photo-reconnaissance mission. Bud was flying the photo plane, a version of the Hellcat designated F6F-3P. Although I was leading, I was actually flying cover for Bud. My task was to drop back and cover him while he made his photo runs over the target area.
Just as we arrived over the atoll, I spotted a destroyer beached on the coral reef. I thought that it was an old bombed-out hulk and paid it only passing attention until flak started popping all around us. Only then did I realize that the “old bombed-out hulk” had taken us under fire.
Almost indignant, I thought to myself that two could play at that game, and I told Bud to cover me while I went down. I double-checked that my guns were armed and rolled into a steep dive. As I dove, I could see antiaircraft fire reaching up at me from the destroyer’s gun tubs. I didn’t care. When I came in range, I fired my guns and watched the tracers arc down and spatter in a sparkling shower all over the deck of the grounded ship. Take that!
I zoomed low and fast over the destroyer, then climbed back up to altitude, where Bud was covering me. Once rejoined we set course for the enemy’s anchorage and his airfields.
McWhorter strafed a Japanese destroyer at Truk on February 17, 1944. That action was captured by the reconnaissance cameras aboard his wingman’s aircraft. (U.S. Navy)
It wasn’t long before I spotted a three-plane formation at my nine o’clock position, about two miles away. They were headed directly at us, and for a moment or two I couldn’t tell if they were Hellcats or Zeroes with drop tanks. Until that time none of the many Zeroes that I had seen had drop tanks, whereas our F6Fs carried them all the time. Still not sure what they were, I turned into them; you do not take chances in combat. A moment or two later I could tell that they were painted in a strange, mottled, orange-and-black camouflage scheme—just like Halloween. They were definitely not Hellcats.
At this point, I had no choice but to continue my head-on attack against the Zeroes. It was our .50 caliber machineguns against their twin 20-millimeter cannon. An alarm in my brain went off. This was definitely not a desirable position to be in—flying straight into six 20-millimeter cannon that had double the range and hitting power of our machineguns!
I will never understand why they never opened fire on us, but I am eternally thankful that they didn’t. We closed to firing range very quickly. I put the pipper of my gunsight on the nose of the lead fighter and squeezed the trigger. My rounds flew straight into his engine, cockpit, and wing root. He started to burn and then exploded. Immediately, I put my pipper on the next Zero, and barely had time to squeeze the trigger a second time. This Zero caught fire instantly. I passed close by him almost as soon as I let off the trigger. I turned around and saw three flaming wrecks tumbling down—Bud had blasted the third. An instant before the second airplane exploded in a ball of orange fire, I saw a parachute open alongside; its pilot had jumped clear just barely in time. I had shot down two Zeroes in about five seconds, and we had knocked down all three in less than ten seconds!
From there we crisscrossed the lagoon a couple of times—taking the photos the task group needed so badly. We came under fire as we made our passes. I could see that there were definite disadvantages to this line of work.
Most of the enemy warships, tipped off by the sighting of our reconnaissance bombers a couple of weeks earlier, had left the lagoon by February 17, but there were still a few combatants at anchor as well as a large number of support ships. These had suffered severely during the morning strikes, and many lay burning or foundering.
After photographing the shipping in the lagoon, Bud and I turned our attention to the three airfields—Eten, Moen, and Param. These also had been hit hard, and many airplanes and support buildings lay in ruins. As we had over the lagoon, we received a warm reception from the antiaircraft gunners. Once we had what we needed we turned back toward the task group. And again, I spotted an enemy plane.
I am sure that my visual acuity—about 20/15—was one of the most important keys to my success. Typically, I spotted enemy airplanes long before my squadron mates. This ability enabled me to take the time I needed to properly set up my attacks. I was the predator much more often than the prey, and so I didn’t have to take whatever situation was forced on me. I don’t know why I was able to do it—born to it, I guess. At any rate, it was a godsend.
This Zero was ahead of us, passing left to right in a very shallow dive. I started after him, and as I closed the distance from behind he surprised me by starting a series of perfect slow rolls! I was startled. What was it with the Japanese and their penchant for doing aerobatics when they should have been trying to shoot us down?
Perhaps he was trying to shake me. Well, it didn’t work. A Hellcat could do slow rolls all day long, so I just matched his rolls and followed him through his maneuvers until I was well within firing range, about 600 feet. Then I opened fire. Like every Zero I had ever shot at, this one caught fire quickly and went down in flames.
McWhorter and Lou Menard (second from left) watch as finishing touches are made to VF-9’s scoreboard in early 1944. (U.S. Navy)
From there we had an uneventful flight back to the ship, where the film was immediately taken to the photo lab. That was the last we heard of it; no one ever bothered to tell us if the photos were okay or not.
***
That night we came under heavy attack from enemy torpedo bombers for about four hours. Several of them were shot down, but the Intrepid (CV-11) was hit and had to retire with a dozen dead sailors.
The next day, we encountered no airborne Japanese opposition and made several more strikes against enemy shipping in the lagoon. We departed the area about noon on February 18. In the end, 2 auxiliary cruisers, 2 destroyers, 2 submarine tenders, 6 tankers, and more than 40 support ships—totaling more than 200,000 tons—were sunk. To top it off, VF-9 added 36 aerial victories to its record. The Japanese had taken a beating.