In the Groove
THE LAST COMBAT OCCURRED THIRTY-FIVE minutes later as, at 1900, a VF-51 division made an intercept thirty miles from the task group. Lieutenant Junior Grade Stuart H. Bobb got a shot at a single-engine bandit and claimed a probable. Shortly thereafter, dusky shadows stretched across the 145th meridian.
The last homing Hellcats dropped into the racetrack patterns over their ships, steaming upwind to receive them. Four to a division, the pilots took landing intervals—about thirty seconds apart—and flew down the starboard side, dropping tailhooks and slowing to 120 knots.
The landing checklist had been learned at Pensacola or Corpus Christi, shortened to the acronym GUMP. Gas: fuel selector on most full internal tank. Undercarriage: wheels down and locked. Mixture: auto rich. Prop: low pitch, yielding twenty-three hundred to twenty-four hundred rpm.
Pilots locked their canopies back and cinched up their shoulder harnesses. A perfect carrier landing was a violent sensation: It was widely described as “a controlled crash.”
Crossing ahead of the ship, pilots lowered flaps and wheels, the F6Fs’ noses bobbing downward slightly in response to the increased drag. Throttles came back, airspeed dropping toward a hundred knots.
A good carrier landing began with proper speed in the pattern. Flying aft down the port beam, division leaders were careful to provide sufficient distance from the ship so a steady, descending turn would place them “in the groove” for landing approach. Too close and the pilot had to roll hard left to avoid overshooting the groove. That could lead to other corrections that might result in a wave-off. Too far out and time was lost, upsetting the interval and perhaps running somebody out of fuel.
Turning final, the Hellcats made about ninety knots, slightly nose-high over the churning white wake. On the LSO platform, spotters put their binoculars on each plane in turn, calling out the litany: “Wheels down. Flaps down. Hook down. All down, sir.” A glance behind him told the sailor the most important thing of all: “Clear deck.”
The LSO extended his arms from his shoulders, beginning the pantomime routine with the Roger signal.
Judging the approaching plane in the groove, the LSO had seconds to signal any changes in attitude or altitude. With wings level, a quarter mile out, the pilot lost sight of the ship beneath his nose. His focus was entirely on the LSO, waiting for the slashing Cut signal.
When it came, the pilot chopped his throttle, bunted the nose slightly, counted “One potato,” and brought the stick back. If his timing was right, seven tons of Grumman dropped onto the wood deck and the tailhook snagged a wire. The plane was lurched to a stop, tossing the pilot forward against his straps. Feet off the brakes, he allowed the aircraft to roll backward under tension of the retracting cable while a teenaged “hook runner” sprinted from the catwalk to disengage the tailhook. Then the sternmost plane director was signaling in the “Come on” motion, directing the pilot out of the landing area, as the next aviator was rolling wings-level half a minute behind him.
The greatest air battle of the Pacific War was over. It was a lopsided victory for radar, communications, and the Grumman Hellcat.