Chapter 29

The last year of the war saw the Navy’s night-fighter concept reach operational maturity. Attached to VF-12 aboard the Randolph was a detachment of eight night-fighter pilots and six of the new F6F-5Ns—essentially standard F6F-5s with the addition of the APS-6 radar. The small radar—it weighed only about 250 pounds—was mounted on the starboard wing and was the distinctive external difference between the standard Hellcat and the night version. Though the pod looked a bit ungainly mounted out on the wing, it penalized performance by only about 10 knots or so.

Our night-fighter pilots were viewed as the “redheaded stepchildren” onboard the ship—as night-fighter pilots were aboard almost all aircraft carriers. They were on duty during the hours of darkness, when the bulk of the crew was at rest, and launching and recovering them often seemed more trouble than it was worth. (Balancing that, however, they were often called on to fly normal missions during the day, when there weren’t enough regular airplanes or pilots to meet demand.)

They were skilled and invaluable airmen. They could do what none of the rest of us could—find enemy airplanes in the dark and kill them. When there were kamikazes about at night, the ship’s crew somehow didn’t seem to mind so much the inconvenience of launching and recovering our contingent of night fighters. Their training, 29 weeks beyond what the normal fighter pilot received, made them particularly valuable in experience alone, if nothing else.

When they talked night fighter tactics around the rest of us, it was almost a foreign language. We could only shut up or ask questions; we had little to contribute. The nature of their specialized flying made their job much more dangerous and demanding than normal flight operations.

Typically launched for a four-hour shift over the fleet, the night-fighters operated under the control of shipborne radar. When enemy aircraft came within range of the ship’s radar, the F6F-5Ns were vectored into a position behind the contact and within range of the APS-6 radar—about five miles. Once the night-fighter pilot established radar contact he drove into a position—usually inside a couple hundred feet—from which he could confirm that the bogey was an enemy airplane. Then, if he hadn’t been seen, he dropped back into a firing position and shot the enemy airplane down in flames. If the enemy airplane maneuvered at all, intentionally or not, the process became more difficult by orders of magnitude. It required more than the ordinary dose of precision, nerves, and situational awareness.

Our detachment of night-fighters scored their first kill early in the morning on April 14, when Lieutenant Donald Hypes splashed a snooping Paul—an Aichi E16A1 long-range reconnaissance floatplane—just beyond the task group’s screen of destroyers. The detachment continued to score, but like us they suffered losses. In fact, their loss rate was the highest in the air group—a reflection of the danger inherent in that type of flying.

***

Personnel replacements arrived for all of our losses. By now—despite the incredible numbers of aircraft carriers we had in the fleet and despite our losses—the Navy was actually producing more pilots than it could use. Where there were fewer than 3,000 pilots in the Navy when I joined in 1941, there were now 60,000! The war had become, for better or worse, more impersonal.

This impersonality extended even to the airplanes we flew. Painted a dark, glossy, navy blue with stark white insignia and identification codes, they seemed sullen and unromantic compared with the brighter, tricolor blue aircraft we had flown from the Essex during 1943 and 1944. What’s more, it was forbidden in Air Group 12 to personalize our aircraft in any manner—including the painting of Japanese flags below the canopy rail when we scored aerial victories.

***

It was around May 10 that we learned of the surrender of Nazi Germany. I remember that I was in the wardroom briefing a mission when the word was passed. The war in Europe had been a world away from me. It was a war that other friends fought and died in. It hadn’t been a less important war than mine, it was just a different war. I was happy it was over, of course—and even happier that we had won—but I wasn’t sure what it would mean to the Navy’s part in the war against Japan.

After all, it wouldn’t free up many carriers for the fight in the Pacific. Most of the carriers the Navy had used in the war against Germany were the smaller escort types. Though they were useful, the little jeeps weren’t nearly as capable as the big, fast fleet carriers.

I guessed that what the end of the war in Europe really meant to those of us still fighting in the Pacific was that the entirety of our nation’s effort would now be focused on finishing the war against Japan. Although it would certainly be bloody—and perhaps a year or two in coming—the outcome could hardly be in doubt.

***

The tragedies never stopped at Okinawa. On May 12, Commander Ralph Embree, the still-new commander of Air Group 12, was killed. While flying an F6F and serving as a strike coordinator directing attacks against an enemy ground position, he made the mistake of flying a consistent, predictable, racetrack pattern. His plane was hit by a single burst of heavy antiaircraft fire and began to disintegrate immediately. Falling from 3,500 feet, his airplane shed its wings, and the remaining wreckage was engulfed in flame. At about 300 feet, a parachute was seen to blossom partially—but not fully—before it hit the ground. Accompanying airplanes searched the area, which unfortunately was well behind enemy lines. The parachute was spotted draped across a hilltop, but no sign of Ralph was found. He was never heard from again. It had been less than two months since he had taken over from Charlie Crommelin.

Again, I dreaded what Ralph’s death would do to my Louise. She was very close to Ralph’s wife, Eleanor.

Ed Pawka—who only five months before was just a squadron executive officer—became the new commander of Air Group 12.