The Hollandia Combat Air Patrol: Chapter 1
Udvar-Hazy Center, National Air and Space Museum
March 19, 2006
They wheeled me in, but I didn’t like it. I wasn’t accustomed to being wheeled anywhere. But, having worn out my knees backpacking with my sons several years earlier, I knew I’d enjoy the museum much more if I wasn’t hurting. Hence, this blankity-blank wheelchair. But still…The three of us are at the Udvar-Hazy Center, near Dulles airport. It’s got a great collection of aircraft, including the space shuttle Discovery and a supersonic Concorde. The late model aircraft are all very impressive with their GPS capabilities, computers, fly-by-wire controls, and over-the-horizon standoff weapons. But I have to admit as an old fighter pilot, I kind of consider the standoff weapons to be a form of cheating, far removed from looking at your enemy through a gun sight, up close and personal.
I was told the museum had a selection of World War 2 aircraft, and I’m looking for a particular one—a Grumman F6F, officially and affectionately known as the Hellcat. That old warbird and I went through a lot together from ‘43 to ‘45. When you survive intense combat with a close friend, tracers zipping past like harbingers of death, flak exploding and peppering your fuselage like hail on a tin roof, you bond together pretty doggone close. I was pretty bonded to my Hellcat back in the day.
We wandered through the museum enjoying the modern aircraft on display, beautiful aluminum and composite marvels of ingenuity and engineering, but before we knew it we were being stalked by a couple of the volunteer museum workers, several older fellows. Apparently they noticed the Hellcat insignia on my baseball cap.
 |
| Dad, the Hellcat, and the wheelchair |
“Yes, I was deployed to the Pacific—three tours.”
“What squadron?”
“VF-5, on the Yorktown in ‘43 and ‘44, and VF-30 on the Belleau Wood in ‘45.”
So for the next ten minutes or so we swapped war stories. They were Vietnam vets, a little younger than me. It was fun to compare notes, but after a few minutes they had to attend to other duties and we continued exploring.
“Ah, there she is,” I said, pointing at a Hellcat suspended from the ceiling. “Well, I’ll be! Look at that! It’s one of the Yorktown birds,” I said. “See the diagonal stripe on the tail? That’s what distinguished the Yorktown squadrons. Man alive, does that bring back memories!”
I studied the aircraft, struggling just a little with the surge of emotions it provoked. The ‘Cat had been declawed—the six 50 cals had been removed. Its paint job was fresh. It had a couple of minor dents in the fuselage but no battle scars that I could see. The Grumman F6F was a beautiful airplane, one of the finest fighters of the war. It had a 19:1 kill ratio, and was credited with over 5200 kills, more than any other aircraft during the war.
 |
| Lewis M. Cobb in his Hellcat |
So I’m sitting in that blankity-blank wheelchair, studying that Hellcat, and I start noticing an odd smell. I sniffed a couple of times, shook my head. “You boys smell anything odd?”
My boys looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “No, Dad,” replied my eldest, “I don’t smell anything odd. What’s it smell like?”
I glanced over my shoulder at them. “Avgas,” I muttered. I looked down at the museum guidebook on my lap to see where they acquired this particular Hellcat. But what I saw, strapped to my right leg, was my old pilot’s kneeboard! Confused, I looked back up at the Hellcat, but found myself looking at a grey bulkhead and a chalkboard full of strike and combat air patrol (CAP) flight assignments. My name was written in one of the slots.
“What?” I exclaimed. Feeling disoriented, I turned around looking for my sons. Not only had they disappeared, but the whole museum was gone.
“What’s what? Didn’t you hear the man? He said, ‘Pilots, man your airplanes!’ So, get off your butt, Cobb, and let’s go.” The fellow grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my wheelchair, only it wasn’t a wheelchair, but one of those comfortable seats in the pilots’ ready room.
I looked at his face, and the hackles on my neck stood up. Shocked, I exclaimed, “Jonesy, it’s you! My word! I haven’t seen you in—”
“Of course it’s me, Slick. Who’d you expect, Betty Boop?”
“I—I don’t understand. What’s going on, Lieutenant?”
He grabbed his gear and headed for the door. “A war’s going on, Ensign, or haven’t you noticed? For crying out loud, quit the stupid act and let’s move, Lou. We’ve got CAP and radar has picked up a couple of inbound bogies in our assigned patrol sector.”
I grabbed my Mae West and my war bag and followed him out of the ready room onto the flight deck. My ears were assaulted with the discordant clang of the General Quarters gong, calling the ship to battle stations.
We ran toward our aircraft. I shouted to Lieutenant Jones, “What’s the formation, sir?” Lieutenant Jones had recently taken over as the skipper of our squadron.
He glanced sideways at me as we approached the F6Fs and stepped close. He put his hand on my shoulder and studied me. “Lou, are you okay? This isn’t like you. Do I need to call your alternate?”
My boys looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. “No, Dad,” replied my eldest, “I don’t smell anything odd. What’s it smell like?”
I glanced over my shoulder at them. “Avgas,” I muttered. I looked down at the museum guidebook on my lap to see where they acquired this particular Hellcat. But what I saw, strapped to my right leg, was my old pilot’s kneeboard! Confused, I looked back up at the Hellcat, but found myself looking at a grey bulkhead and a chalkboard full of strike and combat air patrol (CAP) flight assignments. My name was written in one of the slots.
“What?” I exclaimed. Feeling disoriented, I turned around looking for my sons. Not only had they disappeared, but the whole museum was gone.
“What’s what? Didn’t you hear the man? He said, ‘Pilots, man your airplanes!’ So, get off your butt, Cobb, and let’s go.” The fellow grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my wheelchair, only it wasn’t a wheelchair, but one of those comfortable seats in the pilots’ ready room.
I looked at his face, and the hackles on my neck stood up. Shocked, I exclaimed, “Jonesy, it’s you! My word! I haven’t seen you in—”
“Of course it’s me, Slick. Who’d you expect, Betty Boop?”
“I—I don’t understand. What’s going on, Lieutenant?”
He grabbed his gear and headed for the door. “A war’s going on, Ensign, or haven’t you noticed? For crying out loud, quit the stupid act and let’s move, Lou. We’ve got CAP and radar has picked up a couple of inbound bogies in our assigned patrol sector.”
I grabbed my Mae West and my war bag and followed him out of the ready room onto the flight deck. My ears were assaulted with the discordant clang of the General Quarters gong, calling the ship to battle stations.
We ran toward our aircraft. I shouted to Lieutenant Jones, “What’s the formation, sir?” Lieutenant Jones had recently taken over as the skipper of our squadron.
He glanced sideways at me as we approached the F6Fs and stepped close. He put his hand on my shoulder and studied me. “Lou, are you okay? This isn’t like you. Do I need to call your alternate?”
 |
| Ensign Cobb, 1943 |
The confusion faded from my consciousness and suddenly I was solidly in the moment, April 19, 1944. “I—no, I’m fine. I must have fallen asleep in the ready room, sir. I forgot to look at the assignment board, that’s all. Really, I’m fine, sir. Where am I in the lineup?”
“You’re good to go? You’re sure of it?”
“Ready and rarin’ to go, Lieutenant.”
He nodded. “Okay. I’m leading the Patrol Station CAP. Lieutenant Gill will be your skipper today—he’s the flight commander of the Intercept CAP, the BLUE team. You’re his wingman, and your call sign is BLUE-3. Lieutenant Bozard is leading the second section in your flight, and McClelland is his wing, call sign BLUE-4. BLUE FLIGHT is spotted right behind mine, so man your aircraft before Commander Crommelin chews us both out for holding up the parade.”
I nodded and trotted to my aircraft. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time, but somehow I knew exactly which plane was mine. I climbed up on the wing and punched the canopy release button under the windshield and, sliding the hood back, climbed into the cockpit. One more time, Lou, you can do this, I told myself. The one more time thing is just a survival tactic. It’s not helpful to think ahead and worry about the multiple strikes I am scheduled for the rest of the week. One day at a time, one sortie at a time, that’s all I can think about.
I ran quickly over all the controls, making sure every switch, lever, and control was in the proper preflight position. Plugging my headset in, I adjusted the VHF and UHF frequencies, and set the Nav receiver to the frequency of the day. After a moment, the command from Pri-fly came over the loudspeaker on the flight deck, as well as through my headset, “Fighters, start engines!”
I wiped my sweaty hands on my flight suit and waved to my plane captain, receiving a thumbs-up from him in return. I knew that he had half an eye on the airedales lying on the deck next to my wheels, ready to remove the wheel chocks on signal. The Yorktown’s flight deck was an excellent place for one’s head to be separated from one’s shoulders by a spinning propeller. Strictly disciplined choreography was practiced at all times in an effort to prevent accidents and stupid mistakes.
“You’re good to go? You’re sure of it?”
“Ready and rarin’ to go, Lieutenant.”
He nodded. “Okay. I’m leading the Patrol Station CAP. Lieutenant Gill will be your skipper today—he’s the flight commander of the Intercept CAP, the BLUE team. You’re his wingman, and your call sign is BLUE-3. Lieutenant Bozard is leading the second section in your flight, and McClelland is his wing, call sign BLUE-4. BLUE FLIGHT is spotted right behind mine, so man your aircraft before Commander Crommelin chews us both out for holding up the parade.”
I nodded and trotted to my aircraft. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time, but somehow I knew exactly which plane was mine. I climbed up on the wing and punched the canopy release button under the windshield and, sliding the hood back, climbed into the cockpit. One more time, Lou, you can do this, I told myself. The one more time thing is just a survival tactic. It’s not helpful to think ahead and worry about the multiple strikes I am scheduled for the rest of the week. One day at a time, one sortie at a time, that’s all I can think about.
I ran quickly over all the controls, making sure every switch, lever, and control was in the proper preflight position. Plugging my headset in, I adjusted the VHF and UHF frequencies, and set the Nav receiver to the frequency of the day. After a moment, the command from Pri-fly came over the loudspeaker on the flight deck, as well as through my headset, “Fighters, start engines!”
I wiped my sweaty hands on my flight suit and waved to my plane captain, receiving a thumbs-up from him in return. I knew that he had half an eye on the airedales lying on the deck next to my wheels, ready to remove the wheel chocks on signal. The Yorktown’s flight deck was an excellent place for one’s head to be separated from one’s shoulders by a spinning propeller. Strictly disciplined choreography was practiced at all times in an effort to prevent accidents and stupid mistakes.
 |
| F6F-3 Hellcat |
The checklist for engine startup had become instinctive, and I could have run through it blindfolded without missing a lick. After setting the throttle and fuel mixture, I turned the supercharger switch to neutral, and turned on the battery and auxiliary fuel pump switches. I did a careful visual check around the prop, then looked again at my plane captain. He nodded, still giving me the green light, thumb still up. “Here we go again,” I muttered to myself and punched the primer switch, holding it for about four seconds before hitting the starter.
With a loud bang, followed by a guttural cough, the 2000 horsepower Pratt and Whitney belched black smoke, stuttered, then settled into a smooth 1000 rpm, firing on all eighteen cylinders. Oil pressure looked nominal, and the oil temp began to crawl toward its normal range.
There’s something about the raw power of that engine that gets your blood running. My nervousness evaporated, and I began to anticipate the mission. “Let’s get this show on the road! I hope there’s enough bogies for all of us!” I muttered to no one in particular. No one could have heard me anyway—by now the noise level of all those engines drowned out even your unspoken thoughts.
I studied the big marquis board on the side of the island, which informed me that the ship’s current heading was three hundred forty-five degrees, and the wind over the bow was forty-three knots. Finally, the command came over my headset, “Launch aircraft!”
With a loud bang, followed by a guttural cough, the 2000 horsepower Pratt and Whitney belched black smoke, stuttered, then settled into a smooth 1000 rpm, firing on all eighteen cylinders. Oil pressure looked nominal, and the oil temp began to crawl toward its normal range.
There’s something about the raw power of that engine that gets your blood running. My nervousness evaporated, and I began to anticipate the mission. “Let’s get this show on the road! I hope there’s enough bogies for all of us!” I muttered to no one in particular. No one could have heard me anyway—by now the noise level of all those engines drowned out even your unspoken thoughts.
I studied the big marquis board on the side of the island, which informed me that the ship’s current heading was three hundred forty-five degrees, and the wind over the bow was forty-three knots. Finally, the command came over my headset, “Launch aircraft!”
 |
| Grumman Avenger TBF |
When launching a full strike, the fighters are always spotted farthest forward, because they don’t require much of the deck to achieve take-off speed. By the time the fighters have launched, there’s enough deck space for the heavily laden torpedo bombers, and last of all the dive bombers, to lift off as long as there’s a stiff breeze over the bow. Since our flight was a CAP, there were just sixteen Hellcats spotted on the deck and we had plenty of take-off room. Not only did Pri-fly want us to get moving and check out the bogies, they also wanted us out of the way so they could recover the returning CAP. I could see those fighters orbiting overhead, waiting to land.
Lieutenant Jones’ flight launched first. Once they were away, skipper—Lieutenant Gill—was next and then me. To my left I saw Gill’s plane crew pull his chocks and roll out of the way. The launch officer guided Gill to the centerline, where there was enough room for the deck crew to unfold and lock the Hellcat’s wings into flight position. Then the flight officer twirled his baton in a circular motion over his head, and in dramatic fashion, pointed it forward toward the bow. Gill gave it full throttle, stood on the brakes for a brief second, then the Hellcat leapt forward, going airborne before it reached the end of the flight deck. In a matter of seconds, I followed him.
Once I was in the air, I fastened my shoulder straps, closed the canopy, and plugged in my oxygen and my headset (which I had unplugged just before takeoff). Most people find it odd that we save all that fussing around until we’re airborne. The reason is simple: if something goes wrong with the launch and your plane goes in the drink, you need to get out of the cockpit lickety-split before the plane sinks. You’re not going to have time to undo all that claptrap before the plane submerges.
 |
| CV-10, the USS Yorktown |
I joined up with Gill, just off his right wing. In less than a minute, Bozard and McClelland joined our formation on the other side of skipper. We ascended to 10,000 feet and orbited, waiting for the rest of the fighters in the CAP to form up. Once everyone had joined the party we separated, each four-plane group going to its assigned CAP station. Since we were flying the Intercept CAP, we climbed to 20,000 as we hustled to our assigned patrol station. We were the lucky ones: skipper’s assigned patrol area placed us right over the spot where the radar had detected the bogies.
[Editor's Note: Stay tuned for chapter 2, coming in two days. If you are wondering how much of this story is true, and how much is fiction, I will post an epilogue after chapter 3 explaining what was actual history, and what was fiction. Most of it is history.]
Wonderful! Looking forward to the next installment!
ReplyDelete