The Hollandia Combat Air Patrol Epilogue

What was fiction, what was fact?

Lewis and Helen Cobb

Lewis M. Cobb is my father, Helen is my mom. They were married in July of 45. Dad retired in 1966 as a Commander in the regular navy, having survived many, many carrier landings (his planes normally survived his landings, as well!). He served in combat in WW2, Korea, and Vietnam, on several different carriers. He passed away in 2011 after serving his country and his church with honor.

Theater Map, showing movements of USS Yorktown in 1944

The principal activity in the Hollandia Strike story is historical. On April 19, 1944, the carriers of Task Force 58 were softening up the defenses of Hollandia in preparation for landing the marines. 

All the data pertaining to aircraft (American and Japanese) are factual, including the positions of switches and controls. All the names in the entire story with the exception of Ray Wilson (whom I invented) are factual, including their positions and ranks in VF-5 on April 19, 1944. All of the dialog in the story is a product of my imagination but is based on research.

I hope it is not too far off from how these pilots would have communicated at the time. My dad’s use of the word “swell” is quite accurate—it appears in his diary many times!

My apologies to actual pilots in case I managed to scramble some of the details. I’ll welcome your corrections.

In Chapter 1:

The visit to the Udvar-Hazy Center with my brother, L. M. Cobb, Jr., was real, complete with the Yorktown Hellcat hanging from the ceiling, The flashback was not real. I invented it as a means of launching us into dad’s world on April 19, 1944.

The Combat Air Patrol (CAP) in which my dad was launched is factual, and as near as I can tell from records the flyers named were actually flying with him. Several inbound bogies had been detected on radar. All the information on deck and launching operations is factual, to the best of my ability to research it.

In Chapter 2:

The early-morning loss of the TBF by collision with a cruiser is actual, but according to dad's diary it  happened on 4/22/44. I conflated it into the tale.

Dad’s initial concerns about Lieutenant Jones, followed by his tremendous respect for the man, are true, and are taken from various entries in dad’s diary. The entire story about Ray Watson is a fabrication, intended to make the historical point that naval doctrine was slow to shift from large surface engagements dominated by battleships to a carrier-based air war. This constituted a major shift in both budget and priority during WW2. I added this piece also to help the reader get the sense of urgency regarding finding the snooper before it found the carrier, which in fact would be a huge concern at the time.

The detection and shootdown of the Betty (two of them, actually) did occur on 4/19, but was accomplished by a different CAP, not dad’s. My tale of dad’s engagement with the Betty on his CAP was pure fiction. However, it is true that dad’s CAP was launched because of radar-detected bogies, they just did not locate them. Consequently, there was no damage on dad’s plane when he landed on the carrier.

In Chapter 3:

As can be seen in the photograph of the upside-down Hellcat, dad did not jettison his drop tank—probably because everyone was anticipating a normal landing.

The story of dad creaming a Hellcat a week before is factual (it occurred on 4/14/44), and I might turn it into another short story. The description of the weather during that event came from his diary.

It is very likely that there were several photo-recon TBFs launched on 4/19/22. I have an original copy of the Yorktown’s Air Group Plan of the Day for 4/21, showing such launches. Whether the TBFs actually interfered with the landing of dad’s CAP, I do not know. The photo-recon guys did have both landing and launch priority, however, as the Task Force needed reliable info to plan the next strike. Whether or not the carrier would have communicated to BLUE FLIGHT the way it did I don’t know. They very likely would have been using an early form of IFF (Identification Friend or Foe).

The various descriptions of operations in the Task Group (ditching, recovery of pilots, Bosun Chair, etc.) are pretty accurate, based on my research and discussions with dad.

And that brings us to The Crash. First—it actually happened. The photos are authentic. The Bureau Number of the upside-down Hellcat is stamped on the backside of the large official photo. It matches the Bureau Number in Dad’s pilot log for the 4/19/44 CAP. How or why the crash happened—I don’t know. My description of the crash is what I envisioned might happen on a hard, tail-first landing if the hook did not catch.

Lewis Cobb's diary entry for April 19, written on April 21, 1944

Dad says his hook skipped the #5 and 6 wires, and the Hellcat tore through the first two barriers. He sustained several injuries and was taken out of the flight rotation during his recovery. The aircraft was pushed over the side.

A big thanks to my brother Lou for encouraging me to write the tale and for helping me sift through the records that dad kept. Lou and I typed up dad’s diaries from his ‘44 tour on the Yorktown, and his ‘45 tour on the Belleau Wood. It was an honor and a privilege.

The Hollandia Combat Air Patrol, part 3

Chapter 3

Returning to the Yorktown

April 19, 1944

As we flew back to the Yorktown, it was time to jettison our empty drop tanks. In the event of a crash landing on the carrier, the tank—full of avgas fumes—could contribute to a nasty conflagration. Reaching my left hand down, just outboard of the throttle quadrant, I triggered the drop tank release switch and felt a brief bump as it fell away.

The airspace above the carrier resembled hornets buzzing around a nest that had been kicked. There were sixteen of us in the returning CAP, waiting to be recovered. I hoped it wouldn’t take too long, as I was getting low on fuel. Chasing the Betty had taken more gas than I realized.

“BLUE FLIGHT, this is CAIRO. Descend to three angels and enter the holding pattern. We’ll get you boys down as soon we can.”

“CAIRO, this is BLUE FLIGHT. Descending to three angels and holding.”

As we descended to the holding pattern altitude, I looked below and saw that the Yorktown was busy launching the afternoon CAP. The recovery evolution had not begun, and couldn’t until the current launching operation was done.

Landing a plane on an aircraft carrier takes an immense amount of skill, teamwork, and luck. There’s a reason why the Navy calls it “recovering” aircraft and not “landing” aircraft. From one perspective, you really don’t land an airplane on a carrier, you fly it into the deck and hope that the hook catches a wire and the landing gear doesn’t collapse.

Grumman Avenger TBF, 1942

Just a week earlier I’d creamed a Hellcat’s landing gear. Twelve Hellcats and sixteen Avengers had been launched on a practice strike. I was flying wing on Jonesy. We’d already flown two hundred miles from the task force when suddenly the weather closed in. Squalls, driving rain, the ceiling down to three hundred feet. We couldn’t see a thing and had no idea where the task force was. It certainly wasn’t where we left it because it moves at about thirty miles an hour.

The Flight Leader finally pulled the plug on the mission, figuring it was foolish to risk life, limb, and aircraft on a practice strike. Flying in formation in that kind of soup can lead to midair collisions. We finally picked up the Yorktown’s YE, and were able to fly the vector back to the task force. When we got back to the carrier, we found the weather was just as nasty.

WW2 Landing Signal Officer, aka "Paddles"

The Landing Signal Officer (LSO), himself an expert pilot, was standing with his paddles at his station, buffeted by squall winds and soaked to the bone by rain and sea spray. He was desperate to get us down safely, knowing that rescuing a ditched pilot in a turbulent sea was unlikely to be successful. Consequently the LSO might have signaled a cut now and then when he should have given a wave-off. When it was my turn, he brought me down a little steep and a little hot. My hook caught, but the impact twisted my landing gear and buckled my fuselage. Believe me, I was just happy to be back on the good old Yorktown. In light of the horrible conditions, there was no blame assigned to anyone. I promised to buy the LSO a beer next time we were in an anchorage.

My headphones crackled, bringing me back to the present. “BLUE FLIGHT, BLUE FLIGHT, this is CAIRO. The aircraft approaching from two-six-five degrees are friendlies, repeat, friendlies, the TBF has landing priority. Acknowledge.”

“CAIRO, this is BLUE FLIGHT. Copy that, aircraft approaching from two-six-five are friendly, the TBF has landing priority,” skipper acknowledged.

Now, who would that be, I wondered as I scanned my instruments. My eyes settled unhappily on the fuel gauge. Adding more aircraft ahead of me in the landing pattern was not helpful. I might have to ditch, I thought. I wasn’t going to bellyache about it, though, because there were probably several other Hellcats in the holding pattern that were also on the verge of a dead-stick landing. Get ready for a swim, boys.

Orbiting in the holding pattern was pretty boring, so I kept my eyes pealed along the vector from which the newcomers were approaching. Finally I spotted them. It was a Grumman Avenger with four Hellcats escorting him. Then I remembered: a photo-recon mission had been launched ten minutes before our CAP. This particular TBF was configured as a scout plane and outfitted with a high-resolution camera. His mission was assessing strike damage on Hollandia. I watched as he landed smartly on his first approach. He didn’t really hold up the parade for very long, and his four-plane escort entered the holding pattern a thousand feet above us.

Finally our CAP began landing and not a minute too soon. With anxious eyes on my fuel gauge, I began descending little by little as the Hellcat swarm began to enter the landing pattern, one aircraft at a time. If I run out of fuel while waiting my turn to land, there’s only one option available—a water landing. And boy, do I hate the thought of ditching. It provides the perfect opportunity to drown—that is, if the sharks leave you alone. If I survive the dunking, hopefully I’ll be picked up by a destroyer or submarine, but then I’d have to endure the crazy carnival ride on a Bosun’s Chair to get back to the carrier. You’re transferred like a sack of potatotes between ships that are underway and making some twenty-odd knots. Not my idea of fun. And besides, ditching is a waste of an otherwise perfectly good airplane.

Pilot being transferred in a Bosun's Chair

Thankfully, the Pratt and Whitney was still roaring along under power when I entered the upwind leg of the landing pattern, about three hundred feet above the sea. There was the Yorktown on the same heading, steaming away from me at about twenty-five knots. I backed off on the throttle, opened the cockpit hood, and dropped the arrester hook. As I drew abeam the starboard side of the ship, I safetied my guns. So far, everything seemed normal. I was on my reserve tank, but was pretty confident I wouldn’t be making a dead-stick landing after all.

And then I noticed that the arrester hook light was not glowing. That’s not good. I pushed the circuit breaker reset, and cycled the switch again. No change. I did it again. No dice.

I had just enough time remaining on the downwind leg to try the arrester hook emergency control, a T-handle behind my seat on the left side. Reaching across my waist with my right hand, I grabbed the T-handle. Four slow pulls should do the trick, and I shouldn’t be able to complete a fifth pull if the hook is fully extended. Six pulls, seven pulls, and nothing is happening.

“CAIRO, this is BLUE 3. I don’t have a hook light. Please advise.”

“BLUE 3, this is CAIRO. I can see that your hook is deployed. Have you tried the emergency control?”

“Affirmative. And I’ve reset the breakers, twice. No light.”

By this time I was on the final approach, but decided to take another lap until Pri-fly got back to me. As I roared over the port side of the carrier, I began to wonder if perhaps the tangle with that Betty had produced a little more damage than I realized.

“BLUE 3, this is CAIRO. The air boss is encouraging you to proceed with a landing, but it’s your choice. Your hook is extended, and will probably catch a wire.”

“This is BLUE 3 acknowledging. Gonna keep my feet dry.”

I reviewed the landing checklist again as I turned back onto the downwind leg. As I began the turn for final approach, I throttled back to ninety knots. The LSO brought me right in with minimal corrections and signaled “cut.” I killed the throttle and the plane dropped onto the carrier. I felt the tail wheel hit first, followed immediately by the harsh slam of the main gear on the deck. I tensed, expecting the sudden stop of the arresting wires, but it didn’t come. The hook didn’t catch! Without the restraint of the hook, the tail of the aircraft bounced up.

Time immediately slowed down. With agonizing inevitability I could see the first barrier approaching in slow motion while my aircraft slowly pitched nose down. At this point, I was not a pilot, but a passenger, a spectator caught in the immutable laws of physics: momentum, inertia and kinetic energy. I could see the blue-jerseys beyond the barriers, the plane handlers, scattering, mouths open, expressing warning and horror in equal quantities.

The first barrier caught my Hellcat in a slight nose-down, tail-up attitude, which caused the plane to pitch-pole over the barrier. Although my shoulder harness was tight, it was not tight enough to protect me from physical forces this extreme. I was slammed around in the cockpit like a rag doll, my head colliding with the instrument panel.

Rotating over the first barrier, my Hellcat was airborne again, tail first and upside down, just high enough to clear the second barrier, as I later learned. Slamming onto the deck, still upside down, the aircraft skated into the third barrier, which finally stopped its momentum. Everything went black—

Ensign Cobb's Hellcat

Rescuing the pilot

**********

“Dad! Dad!”

I opened my eyes. The museum guidebook lay on the floor. My sons were crouched down, peering into my face with worry. Several museum volunteers stood about looking concerned.

“Should we call the squad?” one asked.

I shook my head vigorously. My mouth was dry and my hands were sweaty. “Water,” I croaked.

Someone gave me a bottle of water, and I took a pull on it.

“No. No squad. I’m—fine. I’m fine. Guess I just fell asleep.”

“Are you sure, Dad? Are you okay?” my eldest asked.

“Oh, yeah. Ready and raring to go.”

“Okay,” he said dubiously, studying my face.

He put the guidebook on my lap, and I said, “C’mon, boys. Let’s go look at the shuttle.”

As they wheeled me away in that blankity-blank wheelchair, I glanced back at the Hellcat and smiled.

Ensign Cobb in the Ready Room several days after crash. Damage to right eye and nose visible.

**********

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Epilogue

**********

[Editor's Note: Stay tuned for the epilogue, to be posted in several days, in which I'll take a few paragraphs to discuss what parts of this tale are actual history, and what parts are fiction. Most of it is history.]

Photo Credits:

• Grumman Avenger TBF: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grumman_TBF_Avenger
• Landing Signal Officer: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/f/f0/Paddles_ww2_bw.jpg
• Hollandia Damage Assessment:  Cobb family collection
• Bosun's Chair: http://www.ussbush.com/flyer1.jpg
• Ensign Cobb's Hellcat: Cobb family collection
• Rescuing the pilot: Cobb family collection
• Ensign Cobb in the Ready Room: Cobb family collection