John M. Neuhauser Bellows Field |
By the time I learned how to take a .50 caliber machine gun apart and put it back together blindfolded, and could mount a .30 caliber machine gun in the wing of a North American O-47 observation plane, it was announced that the 86th was being moved to Bellows Field, on the east side of Oahu, for gunnery practice. The squadron moved as a unit on April 1, after we loaded our personal belongings, armament, tools, office furniture, cooking gear and supplies into two-ton trucks. We went in convoy past Pearl Harbor, through the City of Honolulu and along the south shore of Oahu, past Makapuu Point, then turned right and went through the main gate at Bellows Field, an auxiliary air strip complete with a large aerial gunnery range. The main gate at Bellows was just south of the village limits of Waimanalo, a tiny village with about 40 houses for sugar cane workers, a Philippino theater and a small restaurant. We were billeted in four-man tents, rimming a large typical army parade grounds, about 300 yards from the ocean. Our armament, ammunition and tools were stored in a small room next to the Operations office located along the main east-west runway. This was to be my home for the next several months. Within a week, gunnery practice got underway and I had my first airplane ride. The commanding officer of our unit was a stickler for precision formation flying, so he sent half the planes aloft to practice formation flying while the other half started gunnery practice. The plane I was assigned to was scheduled for formation flying that day. As the aerial gunner assigned to an O-47, I rode in the rear seat, facing backwards my canopy was open so I could swing the twin .50 caliber machine guns in a semi-circle to protect the rear of the plane from an enemy attack. The pilot rode in the front seat and the radio-operator-photographer rode in the center seat. I wouldn't do any shooting that day, but the twin 50's were mounted. My pilot was Capt. Messerschmidt, a seasoned veteran who had been in the Air Corps for two years. As this was my first ride, the crew chief helped me into my parachute and he showed me how to fasten my seat belt and how to unfasten it in the event I had to bail out, heaven forbid! "Don't bother to hook up the intercom radio, it don't work in this plane," he said. I was both nervous and excited as we taxied to the end of the runway, the last in a row of six planes to take off. The pilot revved up the engine to check the magnetos, then went roaring down the runway, heading east over the ocean, when he got the green light from the tower. By the time we were halfway down the runway, the plane lifted off and all of a sudden the sensation of speed disappeared and it felt just like the earth was moving beneath us. When we were over the ocean, I could look backwards and below to a breathtaking sight. I could see the breakers rolling onto the beach and the water was so clear one could see the sea turtles cavorting beneath the waves. We were airborne and it was a sensational feeling. We kept climbing until were up about 3,000 feet, then the pilot leveled the plane. I swiveled around and looked up to see the other five planes in step formation ahead of us; what a breathtaking sight! Later we switched to a tight formation, side by side, with wing tips almost touching. We headed for the north shore climbing continuously until we were at 9,000 feet. I looked to the side and there was a lone O-47 flying alongside, with a camera man pointing a speed graflex 4 x 5 camera at us. "Hey, this is great! We are being photographed!" I yelled, but there was no intercom and my voice was lost amid the roar of the Pratt & Whitney engine and the whistling wind outside the cockpit. I reached around and tapped the radio operator and he nodded. The pilot kept his eyes ahead, watching the wing tip of the plane on our right. We flew in tight formation for several miles with the chase plane alongside taking photo after photo, when all of a sudden there was a loud, high-pitched sound and the pilot pulled back abruptly on the stick shooting our plane up and away from the formation. The pilot leveled off and pointed south to us. I had no idea what he meant and I was scared to death. "Oh, my God, my first plane ride and we are going down," Not the best of feelings, believe me! But, we seemed to be holding altitude and the pilot headed south, over the mountains and toward Bellows Field. He started to descend as we flew over Kaneohe Bay, about 12 miles north of Bellows. He came in low over the sugar cane fields and landed on the runway with the noise still howling in our ears. After we taxied to our parking apron, the pilot cut the engine and I was able to climb out on the wing and breathe normally again. "Thank God we are down safely, and all in one piece." Apparently the pilot sensed my apprehension and laughed. "Were you scared?" "Was I? What the hell happened?" "The latch holding the landing gear up came loose and our wheels dropped down, so I had to pull out of formation rather abruptly," the pilot explained. "But what was that awful noise?" I persisted. "Oh, that. No wonder you were scared, but you'll get used to the noise. It's the wind whistling through a venturi tube on the landing gear to give the pilot a signal that the gear is down. You'll always hear it when I drop the gear and come in for a landing." "Oh, is that all!" I said jokingly, "you coulda' fooled me!" That was my first plane ride they got better after that. The next day it was our turn for gunnery practice. I loaded the wing guns and we took off over the ocean again, circling to the left. Capt. Messerschmidt headed for the mountains west of Bellows, made a turn, then pushed the nose down and we dove in from about 800 feet over the firing range. When the target was lined up, Messerschmidt pushed the firing button on the control stick to fire the wing guns, aiming by maneuvering the plane. After we crossed over the target at about 50 feet, he hauled back on the stick and we shot almost straight up. He leveled off at 800 feet again and we repeated the same maneuver four more times. We landed, reloaded the guns, then made four more runs at the target before calling it a day. The bullets on each plane are marked with colored wax, so the men on the ground can keep track of each pilot's hits. Gunnery practice for the pilots continued almost a month before we switched to give the aerial gunners a chance. First, we mounted our two .50's on a tower and fired at a ground target to get the feel of the recoil (it is strong enough to ruin you aim if you don't apply the proper pressure). When we were good enough to handle the balky .50's, they were mounted on the O-47's and we got to fire them in the air, shooting at a long cotton sleeve towed by a B-18 bomber. Every 10th bullet is a tracer so the gunner can follow the flight of the bullets and aim accordingly. Our cartridges were also wax coated so we knew who hit the sleeve. Gunnery practice, formation flying, high altitude photo practice and observation work (locating ships at sea several miles from the island) continued all summer and into early fall. It was exciting work and each time I went aloft I marveled at the thrill of flying and at the beauty one can see from the air. I especially enjoyed one flight, a ship locating mission that took place on a very dark night. There was no moon and when we took off one could see all the city and auto lights below it was a beautiful sight! We headed west over the mountains, over Honolulu and Pearl Harbor, and flew about 50 miles out to sea. There we flew over a destroyer (our target), made a turn and returned to Bellows. One flight in early September, near my 19th birthday, was a thrilling one, but it had an unhappy ending. The operations officer came into armament that day and asked for a volunteer to ride in the rear seat during a test flight on a recently overhauled O-47. When no one spoke up, I volunteered because I needed another 20 minutes to complete my hours for flight pay (an extra one-half of our base pay of $32 per month). I had a cold, but didn't think it would hurt. The pilot, a Lt. Joe Tully from Texas, was an easy going young man, considered to be one of the best aerobatic pilots in our squadron. I soon found out why. When we took off, Lt. Tully held the plane in a straight line, building up speed, then abruptly he pulled back on the stick and we shot almost straight up. From my vantage point facing backwards, I was given a breathtaking view of the retreating ocean below. In a matter of seconds, the tail began to shake and quiver when we went into a power stall, the plane rolling over and dropping back toward the ocean. Expertly, Lt. Tully, rolled the plane over and we roared along about 5 feet above the rolling waves. Tiring of that scary maneuver, Tully pulled back on the stick and we climbed at a 30° angle, gaining altitude rapidly. When he leveled off, he came on the intercom: "We're at 12,000 feet. Hang on to your hats, I'm going into a steep dive. When we reach 380 miles per hour, I'll do some loops." After we had fallen about 6,000 feet my right ear began to hurt and it felt as if someone was driving an ice pick into my head the pain was excruciating! I grabbed my head with one hand and the gun ring with the other and held on for dear life when the O-47 started to vibrate. Suddenly, Tully pulled back on the stick and looped the plane several times. It is quite a weird feeling doing a loop riding backwards. At the bottom of the loop the G-forces are enough to push one down in the seat and the skin on one's face begins to droop. At the top of the loop, it's as if the earth rolls above you and you are hanging from the seat. Tully flew for another 20 minutes, doing about every maneuver the plane is capable of and a few that should be confined to smaller, faster pursuit planes. All this time my right ear was filled with piercing pain. After we landed, I told L. Tully about my ear and he said: "Better head for the dispensary, young man." The medical corpsman looked in my ear and found that the ear drum was bulging out. "Looks like your Eustachian tubes are plugged up. Do you have a cold?" "Yes," I answered. "Well, I don't know how to handle this, so I'll schedule a trip to the hospital at Schofield Barracks tomorrow. It's too late today." He put some warm oil in my ear, gave me two aspirins and told me to go to bed. During the night, my ear drum broke and with the pressure gone, I was able to sleep. When I awoke, the pillow was soaked with blood and pus, reminding me of the days I had scarlet fever. The kindly doctor at the hospital whistled the next morning when he looked in my ear. "Wow! It looks like you just had an eruption in here. Have you been flying?" "Yes, sir. We dove from 12,000 feet, then did several loops." "The only thing I can figure out is that your Eustachian tubes are plugged up from a cold and the pressure wasn't equalized." He cleaned out my ear and put a piece of cotton inside. "Keep cotton in your ear until the drum heals and you are over that cold, then you can fly again." I continued my flying again in late September and had only occasional pain when landing. In mid-October, the squadron received word that top intelligence had lost track of the Japanese Navy and we were ordered to do 'dawn patrols,' and search for Japanese planes. Six or more planes were sent out each morning and they went out to sea as far as the gasoline would allow, then returned. One evening, one of our new radio operators found me playing poker and asked: "Are you scheduled for dawn patrol tomorrow?" When I told him I was, he asked if he could take my flight to complete his time for flight pay. Since I had already completed my required hours, I agreed, welcoming the chance to sleep until reveille at 6:00 a.m. The plane I had been scheduled to fly on that morning crashed in the ocean on take-off when the pilot became confused and took off down-wind, against the red light from the tower. The plane nosed in about 2,000 yards offshore, killing the pilot and the radio operator instantly. The armorer, a good friend of mine who had switched with another radio operator, was thrown out on impact and he was able to swim to shore. If I had been in that back seat, I probably would have drowned, since I can't swim. I attended the funeral for the two men and it was scary realizing that someone had taken my flight and died. "There, but for the grace of God, go I," I thought as the caskets were lowered into the ground. My days as an aerial gunner ended in mid-November when we returned from a long dawn patrol. As we approached Oahu, a heavy rain front moved in and the pilot had to climb to 9,000 feet to break out of the clouds. We broke in the clear after crossing Honolulu and the mountains and we could see Bellows directly below. The plane was low on gas so the pilot came down fast and that same sharp pain hit my right ear. The ear drum broke before we landed, sending fluid down my cheek and staining my flight suit. The pilot took one look at me and sent me to the dispensary. This time I spent three days in the hospital and the doctor sprayed sulfa powder in my ear in an attempt to form a scab over the drum. He sent me back to the squadron with a note saying that I was to be taken off flight duty immediately. He told me that my Eustachian tubes were full of scar tissue, making air pressure equalization difficult. "You can fly normal flights, but no more fancy maneuvers," he said. Later that week, I was assigned to the transportation section as a dispatcher. My aerial gunner days were over. As dispatcher, I learned to type and was shown how to keep records of all trips by the squadron trucks, Jeeps and command cars. I enjoyed my new job and even learned how to drive a semi-truck. On Monday, Dec. 1, word came that all units in the Hawaiian Islands were to be placed on Class 'A' Alert, which meant that a certain number of men in each unit had to be on duty 24 hours a day and only limited numbers were allowed passes to go to town. I worked on and off during the week on night shift, then agreed to work all the night shifts, covering for a friend in transportation who signed up for a sailing trip to the Island of Molaki. I had a friend cover for me from 6:00 until Midnight Saturday, December 6, and I hitchhiked to Kailua where I attended a movie. I made it back to Bellows a little before Midnight and worked in the transportation office until I was relieved at 6:00 a.m. I ate breakfast three pancakes and two fried eggs, plus two cups of coffee, a departure from the scheduled cream beef on toast only because my friend, Elmer Munson, was on duty cooking. I went to bed in my tent behind the transportation garage at 6:30. While I slept, two events occurred at Bellows that were a prelude of the horror to come. Shortly before 8:00 o'clock, a lone Japanese plane buzzed the tent area, strafing the dispensary and wounded a soldier inside. Moments later, an unarmed B-17 landed downwind at Bellows and crashed into a gully at the end of the runway. The plane was part of a convoy of B-17's being ferried to Hawaii from San Francisco, which had been attacked by Japanese planes several miles out to sea. The plane was riddled with bullets and contained several wounded airmen. At a little after 8:20, 'Lucky' Cornelius, a good friend of mine and one of the truck drivers in transportation, came to my tent and shook me awake, telling me about the B-17 and said: "The Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor, Hickam Field and Wheeler Field." When I rolled over and said: "Quit kidding, I'm tired," he reached under the mosquito netting and shook me "It's true, it's true!" I threw on a pair of coveralls and we took the section's 1937 Plymouth coupe and headed for the gully where the B-17 was resting. When we reached the top of the hill overlooking the main runway, there was the B-17 resting on one wing, its propellers bent from a wheels-up landing. We suddenly saw planes coming in low from the north. I don't remember how many there were, but I can still see those tracer bullets tearing into our squadron's O-47's, plus all the P-40's belonging to the 44th Pursuit Squadron, lined up wing to wing, along the runway. While we watched in a daze, we saw tracers hit and ignite a large gasoline tanker truck parked in front of the operations office, sending a pillar of dense black smoke into the sky. After the Japanese planes made several strafing runs, we saw a pilot run for his P-40, apparently with the idea of getting it into the air. He never made it and was hit by a spray of bullets as he clambered up on the wing, crumpling him up like a rag doll. When one of the Japanese planes headed for our hill and bullets started ricocheting off nearby rocks in our direction, we yelled in unison, "Let's get the hell out of here!" When we got back to the garage, we found several buddies already huddled under the protective cover of an old Liberty engine in an old fire truck at the north side of the garage. While lying under the truck, we could hear the bullets flying all around and I kept thinking, "Will it hurt if I get hit by one of those bullets?" A stupid thought, I know, but apparently that was my reaction to the stress. From time to time, one of us would get out from under the fire truck to watch the action, but ducked back under the truck when the bullets came too close. One of the P-40 pilots got his plane started down the runway toward the ocean and four Jap fighters pounced on him. The pilot was killed and the plane crashed near the end of the runway. Another P-40 managed to get off the runway, but was shot down about 1,000 yards offshore. I have no idea how many passes those planes made, but our airfield was reduced to shambles. During the attack, Don Shonkwiler, ran out to the road and shook his fist skyward in an impotent gesture toward a plane roaring overhead and he yelled obscenities at the pilot. Shouts from the rest of us brought him back to reality and the protective cover of the truck. Your life doesn't really flash in front of your eyes in times like these, but one does have strange thoughts. In addition to wondering if bullets would hurt, I kept thinking about what will happen next. "Is this the beginning of a war will the Japanese land and take us prisoners? Will I ever get back home?" I couldn't help thinking back to the quiet days working for Dad in the shoe and harness shop and the wonderful, peaceful days working with Uncle Gilbert and Uncle Edwin on Grandpa's farm. "What am I doing here?" Then I felt calm and peaceful when I answered myself: "You'll make it, just live like your gentle Mennonite family and nothing will happen to you." When I crawled out from under that fire truck, my knees shaking from the ordeal, I raised my eyes and offered up a small prayer, thanking the Good Lord for protecting me. They say there are no atheists in a foxhole I guess one can say the same thing about a fire truck! At the tender age of 19, I grew up that day "December 7, 1941, a date which will live in infamy." |
Information provided by John Neuhauser |
