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Ray Machalinski's Devastator adventures

I grew up in Erie and always felt myself an Erieite.

I was born May 1919, the youngest of four children. We lived at 1408 E. 8th St. until my father, Francis X Machalinski, was fatally injured at the GE locomotive plant in April 1926. I was six.

My sister Rose, my brother Max and I were placed in St. Joseph's Home for Children. My brother Alois joined the U.S. Navy as soon as he was able.

Al went on to retire from the Navy as a commander after nearly 30 years of active service. Rose graduated from Villa Maria Academy in 1933. Max graduated from Cathedral Prep in 1934. I attended Cathedral Prep for two years when my grandfather Max Machalinski moved me to St. John Kanty Prep for my junior year.

Meanwhile, a younger brother of my dad's, Brother Theophilus, Brother of the Holy Cross, was able to get Rose into nursing school in Evanston, Ill., and got Max into the grocery business with the National Tea Co. By the time I was ready for my senior year in high school, Rose and Max had an apartment in Chicago, where I was able to finish high school.

In Chicago, I sure missed Cathedral Prep and the only teacher I remember, Sister Cornelia with her irregular verbs. And I missed St. John Kanty Prep, but Rose and Max were a big help. Rose had graduated from St. Francis Nursing School and Max had become a manager for the National Tea Co. After graduation from high school, I went to work at the National Tea Co. as a clerk/inventory man, and I got my own store. The stores were mom-and-pop type and numerous in Chicago. These were the days when there were no grocery carts. The clerk's apron became the cart if the shopper needed any help.

Joining the Navy
I got interested in flying and thought I'd join the Navy, as personal aviation was too expensive. In May 1940, I went through boot camp at Great Lakes, Ill., and I was transferred to Aviation Radio School at Naval Air Station, San Diego, Calif. After radio school, I was transferred to Torpedo Squadron 5 (VT-5) operating off of the USS Yorktown (CV-5). We operated out of Pearl Harbor at that time. We used to fly air patrols near the islands while the PBYs flew farther out.

In April 1941, the squadron and the Yorktown had orders to proceed via the Panama Canal and report to the Atlantic Fleet. We operated on the North Atlantic patrol, convoying ships and supplies from Canada to Great Britain to protect them from German attacks. Even though the United States was not at war then, we carried depth charges on the TBD Devastator aircraft with orders to drop the charges if any sub was sighted.

On Dec.7, 1941, we were at the naval base at Norfolk, Va., where the Yorktown was in for repair and maintenance. A young seaman, just assigned to the squadron while we were at Norfolk, came running into the barracks crying out that the Japs were attacking Pearl Harbor. I told him to him to get lost - this was another Orson Welles story, just like the attack of the Martians in 1939. I told him the Japs could never get near Pearl as we always had air patrols out when we operated out of Pearl. In a few days time, as we were proceeding via the Panama Canal back to the Pacific, I realized how wrong I had been - the Dec. 7 attack was for real.

As the Yorktown approached Pearl in January, I was airborne and looked down on the harbor to see the utter destruction of the Pacific Fleet below me. I couldn't believe this was the same Pearl Harbor where we had operated from in 1941. Dirty, thick oil covered the waters. We normally tied up at Ford Island but the battleships had been there to catch the brunt of the attack. This is the place where all the carriers would have been, but, luckily, they all were out to sea at the time of the attack. This was to be an aircraft carrier war and with the carriers afloat this allowed the fight to be brought to the enemy much sooner.


First strike
Our first attack against the Japs came at the Marshall Islands on Feb.1, 1942. This was the first U.S. carrier attack of World War II.
We were launched in the dark that morning with a lightning storm ahead. We joined up with our section of three planes, flying a very close formation. I received a blinker message from the lead plane and I asked for a repeat as our wings interfered with the reception and the lightning masked the signal. I finally read the message as "Your wheels are down." Earlier that morning, the pilot asked me to look around as he smelt an acrid odor and was concerned about the probability of a fire aboard. I told him that everything appeared OK. Now, he asked that I send a blinker message that we were unable and he surmised that we had experienced a hydraulic line failure.
After I had sent an "Unable" (to raise the wheels) signal to Radioman Dalzell in the lead plane, he sent another message to us. We were operating under strict radio silence and though we had radio equipment aboard, we were not allowed to use it. After requesting a repeat again of Dalzell's second signal I was able to read, "Return to ship."
We promptly pulled out of formation to head back to the Yorktown. I always had my Aldis lamp ready to send the identifying letter to alert the force that we were friendly. All it would take was for one eager gunner on one ship to start firing and all hell would break loose. Our plane silhouette was not that different from that of the Japs' torpedo planes. We had no IFF (Identification Friend/Foe) electronic equipment at this time.
We found the Yorktown. The ship turned into the prevailing wind and we landed OK. Thank God, the wheel failure was in the down position, otherwise we would have had a barrier crash on the flight deck.
Capt. Buckmaster was not too happy to see us as he realized his fighter screen had been unable to be vectored to challenge us when we were out here. The Yorktown had one of only seven radars aboard any U.S. Navy ship at the time the war began. The unit had a crude "A" scan where a blip indicated a target. Modern radars have the PPI, Planned Position type screens whereby one gets a pictorial view of distance, and bearing and speed can be calculated.

The other two planes never made it back, and the crews became among the first POWs of World War II. I recall the day before that flight, the executive officer of VT-5, H.T. Johnson, getting us together on the flight deck and telling the pilots and radiomen his concern about having sufficient gas to execute the mission.

He stated that if, after making the bombing run, he felt he did not have enough gas to make it back to the Yorktown he would elect to ditch somewhere off any island rather than ditch at sea. Other pilots could elect to do whatever they felt best. The crews of those other two planes that did not come back from that Feb. 1 raid survived the war and were liberated after the Japanese surrender.

Second strike
Our second attack of the war was to take place at Salamaua-Lae in New Guinea on the morning of 10 March 1942. It was a 125-mile run with the carrier Yorktown steaming into the Gulf of Papua west of New Guinea. The Douglas Devastators were to use horizontal bombing rather than torpedo attacks and carry three crew members.  With the uncertain weather and limited amount of gas carried in the planes, the plan was to fly through a mountain pass of the Owen Stanley Mountains.
In the event that the weather would deteriorate, we were to listen for the "Hey Rube" call on our radio indicating that the weather was closing in. We would then immediately jettison our ordnance and haul back through the pass. The air group commander stood watch over the pass. The "Hey Rube" call was an old trouble call from the circus. No call was issued, so we flew on to the Huon Gulf where the Japs were operating.
We leveled off and looked for shipping. Normally, the lead plane in each section of three planes carried the Norden bombsight. We found a ship streaming in the gulf and prepared to bomb it. I noticed blinking lights from the ship and at first tried to read the Morse code then realized that with the puffs of black smoke bursting around us, they were shooting at us. The blinking lights were the antiaircraft guns firing. We made several passes over the ship when our pilot asked over the intercom if we had a Norden bomb sight aboard the plane. The bombardier said he had one and also was checked out to operate it.

We dropped out of formation to take over the lead, flying in a stepped-down formation. The bom-bardier quickly set up the Norden bombsight and let the pilot know he was ready.

Now the lead plane radioman was to give the "Standby" signal to the other planes by waving a red flag when he heard "Standby" over his plane's intercom. Everyone was to watch for a red bulb in the second cockpit to flash and have the other pilots in the section drop their four 500-pound bombs. Everyone was looking forward intently, except for me in the third cockpit. I was facing aft. Since we were not originally supposed to be the lead plane. I did not carry a red flag with me but I always carried a white handkerchief and started to wave it when the "Standby" was given.
As I was waving my white handkerchief, I saw a Jap seaplane -- probably a Zero on floats -- strafing us from the rear. I immediately dropped my handkerchief, which got caught on my gunner's ring in the slipstream. I fought to get my .30 caliber machine gun out from where it was stowed. Quickly charging it, I let out a burst. The wing pilots dropped formation while the other radiomen also started firing. The red light went off in the plane and the wing pilots dropped their bombs. The Jap broke off the attack as we watched it lose altitude. Smoke trailed from it as it went down. We did not get credit for downing the plane because we didn't stay around to see it crash.

The weather remained good at the pass through the Owen Stanley Mountains for the return flight. We found the Yorktown steaming into the wind in the Gulf of Papua and safely landed aboard. An aviation metalsmith in the VT-5 squadron was given the job of patching the vertical stabilizer of my plane. He asked about the Jap plane attack and when I mentioned the attack was all from the rear he noticed that all the punctures appeared from the front. Our guns had no stops as we fired past our rear section to prevent hitting our own tail, and I must have put a couple of slugs in the vertical stabilizer.

One plane, an SBD divebomber off the carrier Lexington, was lost with the crew in the attack at Salamau-Lae. History shows the bombing and torpedo attacks were ineffective. But give us another three months of getting our feet wet and, in time, the Battles of Coral Sea and Midway would change the course of the war and avenge the attack at Pearl Harbor -- this in the first six months of the naval war in the Pacific.

Some R&R
After the attack at Salamau-Lae in New Guinea, the Yorktown continued to operate in the Coral Sea area. We had been at sea since 14 Feb. 1942 -- about 53 days. We were in need of supplies and ship upkeep. The crew also needed to get some R&R, Rest and Recreation, on some some island away from the prying eyes of the Japs. 

We headed southwest for Tongatabu Harbor in the Tonga Islands, which lie northeast of New Zealand. The islands were governed by a queen whose name I've forgotten. It was said that she had gathered up all the young maidens and sent them safely away from the port area before we got there.

The recreation consisted mostly of just getting ashore to stroll around, observing the inhabitants and buildings. For the crew who smoked, it was relaxing to realize they could light up a cigarette without worrying about the "smoking lamp" condition. Smoking aboard the ship was not permitted at times when fuel and munitions were being transferred. I didn't smoke; I just enjoyed the fresh air and scenery. I did miss a good beer, but there was none to be found. Unlike the Brits, who had a daily ration of grog, we were not allowed any spirits aboard any Navy ship.

Coconut trees were all around and I watched with fascination as one of the natives would get a fresh coconut from one of the trees and dehusk it in seconds. A sharpened stick was driven into the earth and the coconut was impaled on the sharp end of the stick. With a twisting wrist motion, the husk was quickly removed. The coconut was then carved and ready to be enjoyed. The milk of the coconut was refreshing.

Dried coconut milk was a ball of solidified milk that tasted like a bar of soap. I remember the coconuts in the grocery store in Chicago and never realized the thickness of the husk. In a few weeks, while marooned on an island I would recall the coconuts of Tongatabu.

Early in May, the ship left these beautiful green islands and headed for the Coral Sea area again. That May, the ship would be severely damaged by an armor-piercing bomb and I would become listed as "missing in action" after my Devastator plane failed return. The attack this time was a torpedo attack against Jap shipping in the Solomon Islands.

The third strike
On 3 May 1942, we were getting reports the Japs were landing troops and equipment at Tulagi in the Solomon Islands. I often wondered, later on, if the reports of the Jap movements were due to the coastwatchers of the Solomon. An excellent book, "Lonely Vigil" by Walter Lord, on the coastwatchers details the information passed on by them.

I had no idea of the location of Tulagi or even the location of the Solomon Islands in the Coral Sea area. This attack on 4 May was a torpedo attack, unlike the previous attacks, which were horizontal attacks at altitude.

Twelve Devastators were launched that morning and we flew in formation for the Tulagi harbor off the Florida, B.S.I. We arrived over the hills of Tulagi and split up for the torpedo attack. As we roared in, flying down the hillside, one of the TBDs flew over the water and got a hit on a nest of Jap ships moored together. Our torpedo exploded harmlessly off the beach area.

It was a strange torpedo run, flying down the hillside and pouncing on the Jap ships nearby before we had the opportunity to really get set up for a proper torpedo attack.

We had practiced torpedo attacks in peacetime against our own ships during fleet maneuvers, using torpedo dummy heads. The squadron would split up into 3-plane sections. The section would then fan out about 10 degrees from each other and make a coordinated attack against the target. The torpedoes would then converge on the target. I figured no ship targeted this way would have a chance of escaping such a torpedo attack.
After one of the fleet maneuvers off of Hawaii, I visited my brother, Al, who was stationed on the light cruiser, Helena. I told Al his ship would be a sitting duck from one of those torpedo attacks. As he showed me around the Helena, I noticed the silhouettes of ships stenciled on the bulkheads. I told Al that as an aircrew member I was supposed to be familiar with the USN ships and that I didn't recognize these ships. He told me these were silhouettes of Japanese ships -- and that we would be at war with the Japanese. This occurred when we were stationed in Pearl before the Yorktown left in April 1941 for the neutrality patrol in the Atlantic. Al was aboard the Helena when the Japs made their Dec. 7 attack. His ship had little damage because the brunt of the Jap attacks was against the battleships moored at Ford Island.

Al had been stationed with the Asiatic Fleet prior to his assignment to the Helena. I guess his experience in the Far East, the attack on the riverboat Panay, and the witnessing of the brutal attacks of the Japs against the Chinese would lead him to believe that the Japs would be attacking us next. Others must have felt likewise to have the silhouette of the Jap ships on the Helena's bulkhead. At the time I saw Al aboard the Helena he was a Petty Officer 1st Class, serving with the engineering gang as a water tender. He joined the Navy back in 1927, and retired as a commander after completing almost 30 years of service.

Getting back to practicing torpedo attacks during peacetime, the approach would be at sea, flying at about 50 feet off the water at about 100 knots and maintaining a straight and level attack. We would become the sitting ducks as witnessed during the Battle of Midway when Torpedo Squadron 8 from the carrier Hornet was annihilated without a single plane surviving the attack.

After the torpedo attack of 4 May 1942, we experienced generator problems on the plane and I found myself changing the generator on it. We had only one aviation electrician with the squadron who had plenty of other problems to take care of, so he procured a generator for me to install. Changing the generator was a comparatively simple task. It involved loosening a couple of nuts holding the generator to the engine and had but one electrical connection to it. It was much like a job on an earlier model car, but I had never changed one on either a car or a plane before. The main problem was the hot engine and the tropical weather beating down on the flight deck.

Meanwhile, the squadron's radiomen and the pilots were enjoying sandwiches. I was busy changing the generator and had to get the plane ready for the next flight that afternoon. In retrospect, I should have enjoyed my breakfast of good navy beans, as that was the last food I was to have for a while. We would have to ditch our plane at sea trying to get back to the Yorktown. We were to become survivors on our rubber raft and wash ashore on a tropical Island 8 May 1942.

Fourth Strike
The afternoon of May 4 we headed back to Tulagi to destroy the remaining Jap ships. As usual, the torpedo squadron took off last, with my plane being the last to clear the flight deck -- "tail-end Charlie." The plane crew consisted of a pilot and radioman, leaving the second cockpit empty. That was standard procedure for torpedo attacks -- less weight, better mileage.
As the squadron of Devastators flew on toward Tulagi, we encountered a large Jap ship fleeing to the north. I heard Lt. Commander Joe Taylor, the commanding officer of VT-5 break radio silence to radio we were going to take on that large ship. I observed the planes of VT-5 break formation and head down for a proper torpedo attack -- low (50 feet) and slow (about 100 knots). This was more like the torpedo attack should be -- not like the morning attack roaring down the hillside at Tulagi. As we were the last plane at higher altitude I could not make out the other planes, the wartime camouflage made it difficult to observe them against the sea. I did notice splashes in the sea as the planes were making their attack.
The large Jap ship continued steaming to north. It was now our turn to maneuver in for the attack. Lt. Ewoldt (now a retired Navy captain) elected to make his attack on the port beam of that ship. The previous VT-5 panes had followed each other to attack the starboard beam. In event of a successful attack by an earlier plane in the formation, we were to look for other targets of opportunity. The large Jap ship steamed on with no evidence of explosions and we got down to start our attack flying low and slow.

Sitting ducks at 50 feet, 100 knots.
Ewoldt bored right in with shell splashes erupting all around. It is said if you were to hit a geyser of water from the shell splashes that it was like hitting the proverbial brick wall. I don't know how true that is but once settled down for that low-slow approach, one must fly level on a constant heading. Launching the torpedo at too high an altitude or too fast a speed would not do the torpedo any good.

We broke off the attack about 1,500 yards from the ship. Ewoldt climbed out and made a flat turn away from the approach, trying to reduce our target exposure. Over the intercom he opined that maybe we had been hit, as the plane was not responding properly. I loosened up my seat belt to stand up to have a look around. To my amazement, the first thing I saw was the torpedo still stowed in the bomb bay. We had a glass panel in the bay for when the bombsight had to be used in bombing attacks. I quickly reported "the torpedo is a still aboard."

The Jap ship continued to steam on that northerly track. We still had a torpedo. Ewoldt turned back to make another approach. Again we bored in, the splashes again erupting around us. He continued farther in and I wondered when he was going to drop that damn torpedo. He got it away this time, probably using a back-up mechanical pulley system. I could follow the trail of the torpedo -- the Jap ship steamed on. Eleven Devastators made 12 attacks (We made two), but not a single torpedo made a hit.

Meanwhile, the rest of the squadron had disappeared. I wondered about those splashes - were they planes that had been shot down? We were not to be outdone. As we headed toward a large island, we spotted a small schooner not to far off shore. Ewoldt shot at the schooner with his fixed .50-cal. machine gun firing through his prop while I fired my movable .30-cal. machine gun.  I asked that he bank the plane allowing me to get off a shot. The small schooner sailed on.

Lost
We overflew the island and headed out to sea to find the Yorktown. I got the YE homing signal turned on so that we could hear the Morse code signals to set a course to find the Yorktown. As we left the islands behind, the YE signal abruptly stopped. 
The YE transmitter had been installed aboard the Yorktown while we were anchored at Tongatabu. At the same time, we radiomen in the squadron, installed ZB adapters in our planes. The adapter allowed the VHF-YE signal to be recovered in the ZB unit and then coupled to the High Frequency (HF) receiver. The ZB adapter operated in the VHF band of the radio frequency spectrum.

It was our first use of the VHF frequencies. The fleet had operated in the HF band of frequencies. The ZB adapter/receiver was a simple, fixed-tune unit that only received the Yorktown's signal. It was our first use of coaxial cable, much like present day TVs except that the insulated material was bedded, not solid, insulating material. (The early TV receivers needed an adapter box, usually setting on the top of the TV set, to convert the higher signals to a frequency compatible with the TV set.) This is an example of an adapter. The YE transmitter on the Yorktown used a directional rotating antenna slaved with the ship's compass through the use of a directional gyro. Knowing the sector Morse code, the pilots flew the reciprocal heading to reach the ship.)

Getting back to our predicament, we were high enough in altitude to be able to receive the Morse code signal (VHF signals required altitude-line of sight to get the signal), but only silence greeted us and no land was in sight.

Suddenly, over the intercom Ewoldt called out, "Fighters ahead."

I looked ahead and high above and sighted four fighters screaming down at us. I didn't recognize them at first, but I instantly turned on my Aldis lamp to flash the proper coded blinker signal. I don't know if that did it, but they did a wing over and joined up on us. Thank God, they weren't a trigger-happy bunch of pilots; otherwise we would have been goners. Two fighters were on each side of us flying in formation.

What a beautiful sight! I felt, I suppose, as the mayor of New York City must have felt. riding down Broadway with motorcycle police escort. Thumbs up were exchanged all around with the beaming fighter pilots.
 
The Jap torpedo plane was almost a dead ringer for our TBDs but the VF-42 fighters didn't fire a single shot. At this happy point, I began to clean up my cockpit, rounding up the empty shells after the machine gunning of the schooner.
Ewoldt asked me to find out from the fighters the Yorktown's distance and heading so we could find the ship. The fighter planes did not operate on our frequency. Many precious minutes later, after changing tuning units for my transmitter and receiver and then re-tuning my transmitter, I got a message to the fighters requesting the distance and heading. I was happy to see the lead fighter pilot pick up his mike to reply.

The reply was not what I had expected. His message to the other fighter pilots: "Did you hear that? They want to know the heading and distance to the ship." They realized they had been following us. The blind leading the blind. They poured the coal to the fighters and climbed away. We were all alone again.

I  knew our predicament and I sent out a Z signal in plain voice rather than keying in the Morse signal message. The Z signal was given to me shortly before we had taken off from the Yorktown. We radiomen always carried a lead-bound book that we took on the plane when we flew. By keying in a 3-letter Morse code signal we could give situation reports using CW messaging. The lead cover was to insure that the book and its classified information would sink if the plane was ditched. 

The message I sent was not composed in the existing Z book. It had just recently made been made up. The message I sent was ZYEN, a four letter grouping. In plain language I sent "ZED YOKE EASY NEGATIVE," the phonetic language used during that part of 1942. The message meant we were unable to receive the YE signal. Please respond with the distance and heading for us to home in on the Yorktown. I listened intently but received no reply. I sent the same message about three or four times. No response.

Actually, I sent this message off prior to the hasty departure of the four fighters.

We had been heading southwest looking for the Yorktown. There was no carrier or friendly ship to be seen. Ewoldt banked the TBD to head back east, looking for an island, someplace to land close to. There were no islands in sight - nothing but the blue waters of the sea.

Ditching
Realizing that we would have to ditch the Devastator at sea, he called out over the intercom, "Get the raft ready." I replied with an "Aye-aye, sir."
The trouble was the raft was stowed in the empty center seat of the cockpit and there was no passageway to it. We had tandem seating. I would have to crawl through the area where the direction finder (DF) had been positioned until the day after Pearl Harbor had been bombed.

Before the war, the DF was our only aid to navigation; the pilots had to rely solely on their plotting boards while they flew. We had been practicing with the DF's before the war to maintain proficiency. The Direction Finders should have been unidirectional but we had to take several cuts, 90 degrees apart to be able to triangulate a good position. We had to have a signal to home in on. A ship would send a series of Morse code MO's that sounded like DA-DA ... DA-DA.DA on the selected frequency. We hated to have to remove the DFs but we were reminded that the Japs could just as easily home in also. The DFs were removed.

I realized I had to remove my parachute and .45 cal. handgun to enable me to squeeze through the opening intended for the DF. I had to leave all my radio equipment behind.

We had no portable radio equipment then. Being small, trim and in good condition, I had no trouble snaking myself through.

Meanwhile, we were losing altitude in a glide to maintain good air speed. I located the raft stowed neatly on the starboard side of the empty cockpit. It was secured by two web belts cinched up by buckles using serrated clasps.
I was all thumbs trying to undo the buckles. I had a perfectly good pocketknife in my pocket but I hesitated to cut the belts, fearing I might puncture the raft. I finally got the raft unstowed and was in the process of removing the cover when the plane suddenly flared above the sea to make a landing. I was thrown into the empty seat with the raft on my lap. I did not have time to buckle my lap belt (we did not have shoulder belts then) or even brace myself when the plane hit the water. I don't know whether or not Ewoldt had ever made a crash landing at sea before, but this one was perfect. And even without a seatbelt and being braced I was not even thrown out of the seat or cockpit.
I quickly jumped out on the port wing, grabbing the raft and bag of rations.

I was facing forward. Ewoldt got out on the starboard wing facing aft. We barely got braced to stand on the wing surfaces when the plane nosed down into the sea. It seemed within the minute I was sliding down the wing on the seat of my pants into the sea. Ewoldt was thrown head over heels when the plane nosed over. I gave my full attention to the raft, letting go of the bag of rations. I tried inflating my Mae West life vest by tugging on a short line attached to it but nothing happened.

In trying to inflate my life jacket I recalled that I had accidentally inflated the right side of the jacket while airborne on that flight. It often happened that the little bead at the end of the short line on the jacket got caught as we moved about in the gunner's chair.

I gave full attention to the raft. That type of raft did not inflate automatically. I grabbed hold of the large CO2 bottle and placed it under my left armpit. With my right hand I turned the valve (grateful that it was not safety wired). With a twist, I could hear the pssss of the gas flowing. The raft started to inflate. I thought of a time back aboard ship, during an inspection, when the mechanic of a plane had to test one of the rafts. I heard that pssss sound as the gas escaped through a hole in the raft. The problem with a raft might occur when the mechanic would have to take an empty raft and try to store it in its cover and then get it placed in the tight space in the plane. The raft was unwieldy; it had to be compressed and put into its cover. The mechanic would gather his arms around the raft and thump it down and try to reduce the volume so it would fit in its cover; at times the heavy CO2  bottle might hit the deck and stove a hole in the fabric.
Fortunately, we had a good, fully inflated raft. I held onto it and inched myself up to the top. Looking around, I noticed Ewoldt surfacing several times, coughing up seawater. He came alongside the raft and I grabbed hold of him to boost him aboard. We both were grasping for air, feeling very exhausted. Neither of us spoke until we could get a good breath of air. We wondered what had happened to the YE homing signal.
Then we had to try to get the raft right side up. It had inflated upside down. I suggested that we try to reach down and hold on as far as possible and lean back to upright the raft. When I reached down, I discovered a line that apparently circled the top of the raft. We got hold of the line, leaned back and the raft went upright, throwing us back into the sea. We promptly climbed aboard. Neither of us was familiar with the raft or survival training. After all, we had gone from peacetime Navy to a full-scale war in just six months.

We took stock of our equipment. The raft had a set of aluminum paddles that we could put together and insert through grommets. It had a small hand pump. That was about it: no water supply, or container to hold water and no provisions of any kind. I had let the small bag of emergency rations go when I gave full attention to the raft. The bag was small, about large enough to carry a towel and pair of sneakers. I never knew what it was supposed to contain.

Ewoldt had some fishing line in his shirt breast pocket and suggested that we tie the line to one of the paddles, to improvise a sea anchor of sorts. The idea was to try to keep the raft floating close by to where we had ditched, hoping someone knew the location to find us.

By now it was getting late afternoon. The seas were comparatively calm. Toward late afternoon we heard and saw a plane. We began waving our life jackets. The plane never wavered from its course, continuing on its flight.

Adrift on the Coral Sea
We had ditched in the Coral Sea: 10 degrees South latitude with no land in sight. I expected the daytime temperatures to be very hot. I had not expected the night temperatures to be as cool. We found by dipping our cloth helmets into the sea we could pour the seawater over our heads and relieve some of the misery of the extreme heat.
The seas were calm at that time but when the sun set it began to cool off rapidly. We found by leaving an inch or so of water in the bottom of the raft, the body heat would warm up the water making it more comfortable. But just as we were feeling better at night we were inundated with seawater as the seas increased. Our helmets came in handy again to bail out the water.
Then a tropical storm blew up and we were drenched with rainwater. We began licking the palms of our hands to relieve our thirst. We decided to remove our undershirts to soak up the rainwater. We found they became drenched but sucking into the cotton fabric didn't help relieve the thirst as the cotton undershirts were so impregnated with the seawater that it didn't help. We had nothing to catch the rainwater and no container in which to store any water. We felt grateful for the water we could catch in the palm of the hand during that short storm. The raft rode the rough seas well and with no threat of throwing us back into the sea.

The morning of May 5, 1942, dawned with calmer seas, but with the clear skies we knew we were in for a blazing sun and blistering heat. I tried to keep my ankle area covered and found myself trying to extend the bottom of my pants to protect my skin. I noticed after awhile the area began to look sunburned.

We tried out our hand pump for a while, even though the raft had not appeared to lose much air during the pounding sea that night. At first we were able to pump air into the raft but after awhile we noticed it became difficult to operate, What happened, being immersed in sea water the wooden part of the pump swelled up and it became im-possible to pump any longer.

At this time I also became aware of sealed instructions, that in the event of springing a leak "Dry surface thoroughly before applying a patch." I didn't investigate the contents any further.

Ewoldt sat up and tried to elongate the wooden hole in the part of the pump using his silver knife; hoping to allow the pump to operate. I tried relaxing in the bilge of the raft. A good sailor tries to relax under the most trying conditions, we would often say.

Suddenly, Ewoldt spoke out. "Look ships out there," he said, pointing. I immediately sat up and looked in that direction. At first I saw nothing. Then I saw what he had pointed out: Two tiny specks on the horizon. We hauled in the aluminum oar used as a sea anchor, got the oars together, and placed them through the grommet.

I began rowing with all my might while Ewoldt stood up waving his life jacket. Soon after, we exchanged positions with Ewoldt rowing with his back to the approaching ship, which was getting larger all the time. Only one ship approached. I stood up waving my life jacket. As I began to discern the silhouette of the approaching ship I recognized it as a destroyer. Mentally I griped: a "can" (destroyer), a rough riding ship. Not like the carriers, with our ocean liner performance, better food provisions - bakers that made fresh bread and occasionally a pie. I'd probably have to swing a hammock for a bunk (as I did when I first reported aboard the Yorktown). I was thinking maybe the beans would be equally as good as I thought of food.
The destroyer continued its approach. At first, I recognized it as a modern type with a single stack. I called out to Ewoldt that I did not recognize that class of destroyer. He looked back over his shoulder saying that it was a new class -- the Fletcher class. I continued to wave my life jacket until I saw the stern of the ship and was shocked to see the Rising Sun flag, not the Stars and Stripes. I stopped waving and sat down, stating it was a new class but not ours. Ewoldt again looked over his shoulder and stopped rowing when he saw that flag.

The Jap destroyer continued to approach while the other speck remained on the horizon. We sat quietly till I blurted out, "What are we allowed to tell them?" We continued to sit in silence. When the destroyer got within 100 yards or so I figured they were going to pick us up. I could see Jap sailors alongside the lifelines watching us. Surely, they probably knew the occupants of the raft were American airmen. Which carrier had we taken off from? At this point in time, I reached into my pocket and unobtrusively got out my pocketknife. Attached to my knife was an aluminum medallion inscribed with my name and initials together with USS Yorktown, VT-5, my torpedo squadron designation. Slowly I reached my hand and arm over the side and dropped my knife and medallion into the sea. I determined I was going to divulge as little information as possible.

The medallion was a souvenir of happier days when I had gone to the amusement park at Virginia Beach while the Yorktown was docked at Norfolk. Va. (I remembered too, when I inscribed the letters on the medallion at Virginia Beach, thinking about the good times at Waldameer Park in Erie, Pa.) The medallion was about the size of a half-dollar piece, with a star in the middle. It cost a quarter. Many of the sailors carried them in their pockets as souvenirs.

The Jap destroyer slowly passed nearby and then turned around to approach us again. I thought they were maneuvering to get a motor whaleboat over the side to pick us up. Maybe a dry steel deck and a ration of rice wouldn't be too bad at this point, I optimistically mused. Instead, they sped away. It looked like they were going to leave us to the sea and the sharks nearby. I'm sure the ship's binoculars noted our haggard appearance and saw the lack of survival gear aboard. As the Jap destroyer sped away, I noticed its rear turret swing to and fro. No shots were fired and it continued on its course to rejoin the speck on the horizon. Then I thought, they were going to play a cat-and-mouse game together with the other ship to try a little gunnery exercise. Nothing like a little fun to break up the monotony of a long cruise. A good bright small yellow target. We often towed a raft astern to let the fighters have a little practice. But that was a lot of trouble to deploy a raft for us. We did not do that once the war started.

We waited quietly, nothing happened, no shots were fired.

Neither of us spoke as the destroyer disappeared. I never knew the other ship type -- a speck on the horizon. The captain of the ship must have known his location. I realized, too, that for a ship to stop was a dangerous thing, as it would be an easy target for a lurking American sub. But no American sub appeared to rescue us, either.  Nothing but the endless seas and the dorsal fins of sharks that circled about a short distance away.

The sharks soon came in closer. One eventually came alongside our flimsy raft. I picked up the lower part of one of the oars and made a jab at it and I felt my hand brush the shark's skin. I felt now that I had only made matters worse as it circled below us. All we were sitting on was a thin sheeting of fabric. I sat very still, afraid that any movement of my body would further attract the shark lurking below. 

Land!
Later that afternoon, Ewoldt spoke out, saying "Land" as he pointed up to the sky where there was grayish cloud far away. He suggested getting the oars together and rowing in that direction. I readily agreed, feeling the exertion would do us good, but I still didn't see anything but grayish cloud as we rowed ahead. In time, I could discern the dark shape of the cloud take shape of an irregular outline of a mountaintop. Land! I increased my pace, but it seemed we weren't making any progress. The night darkened and we could make out a pattern of stars. We continued to row, using the stars as a guide. We alternated at the oars and relinquished turns when we felt exhausted. We continued rowing all night despite the lack of food and only the little bit of rainwater we were able to lick off the palms of our hands. Our lips felt blistered. Our mouths felt swollen, probably from instinctively licking one's lips each time a spray of seawater broke across the raft hitting the face.
Anxiously, we peered ahead as the dawn began to break on the 8 May, 1942. We had ditched our TBD Devastator the afternoon of the 4 May. (Unbeknownst to us, the first great sea battle of the Pacific war, the Battle of Coral Sea, was taking place this day. The carrier Lexington would be sunk and Yorktown suffer heavy bomb damage.) I could make out a huge landmass ahead. Curls of smoke rose from different areas of the island. Japs? Let's get ashore first and take our chances, hoping that no one would observe us as we made our way across the sea.

I began to see what appeared as a huge swampy area ahead. A dried coconut floated by. As we got closer we noticed huge breakers splashing across the reef. Ewoldt took over the rowing and at times rowed back to sea hoping we could ride the crest of a wave and prevent being overturned and thrown into the churning sea.

The swampy area became a coconut grove. Coconuts had milk and meat of the nut to eat. But first we had to get into the lagoon area -- inside the breakers. With skillful handling of the oars, Ewoldt had us deposited into the green waters of the lagoon with a sandy beach nearby. I jumped overboard, intending to get a drink of fresh water from a stream. Taking only a few steps, I collapsed and began crawling in the sand, like a crab heading for that stream of fresh water. I heard Ewoldt caution me as I took a gulp of fresh water, "Remember what they said about malaria." I thought, malaria be damned -- nothing had been told to me of malaria. I rinsed out my mouthful of fresh water and spit it out.

We were safely ashore on an island. I didn't know its name. We were the first Americans to land there during World War II. (It turned out to be Guadalcanal. We were safely ashore on Guadalcanal, the island that would be heavily fought over from August 1942 until the following February.)

On Guadalcanal
We had alternated rowing the previous evening and all night long to finally reach Guadalcanal around noon on the 8 May. I believe it was favorable winds and currents that contributed to our successful landing. We would have had to go another 1,000 miles south to find friendly territory -- Australia. I doubt that we could have made it all the way.
Near the small stretch of sandy beach where we had landed was a grove of coconut trees. Coconut! The milk of the coconut would provide a nursing drink immediately. But from my experience at Tongatabu I knew I must get a fresh coconut. There were hundreds of dry coconuts lying about. I would not be able to climb a coconut tree like a native, not in my condition. Looking about, I spied a small, bent tree leaning into the prevailing winds. Bracing my back against that tree, I was able to reach out and snag a fresh coconut.

I also remember how the natives at Tongatabu would shove a sharpened stick into the ground and with a twisting wrist action, impale the husk of the coconut onto the sharpened stick and quickly remove the husk the fresh coconut. We had no sticks. We had a fresh coconut that we must try to penetrate through the thick coconut husk with Ewoldt's small knife, which would have been excellent as a letter opener. How I wished that I still had the sturdy pocketknife I had dropped over the side of the raft as the Jap destroyer approached that day.

We sat on the sandy beach and began to try to peel the husk off the coconut. After trying for a while and figuring maybe we had reduced some of the thickness of the husk we began to try to stab through and get some of the fresh milk of the coconut. We knew we had hit a soft spot of the nut when the small silver knife almost disappeared into the coconut. We twisted the knife to try to enlarge the slit. I then tried to suck some of the milk from the nut and was rewarded with a drop when I sucked hard enough. Ewoldt tried and was able to get a few drops. There was a coconut log nearby and we lay down with our necks and heads on the log as we stretched out. We took turns sucking at the coconut when I heard a noise coming from the jungle nearby. We staggered to our feet.

A half dozen fierce-looking, tall, black natives appeared out of the jungle. They were clothed only in loincloths. They carried large knives. Some had quills sticking out of their noses and others had their hair bleached white. Most all had tight restriction bands of some sort fastened to their upper arms. They surrounded us as they approached. When they got close I could see that some had their front teeth filed to points. For some reason their mouths took on a vivid red appearance.

Mimicking the scene of a grizzled old character of my days at the Rialato theater, I rubbed my stomach and pointed to my mouth saying "ship sank -- hungry and thirsty." To my surprise, the apparent leader asked "him shipm gom,airm, seam."

Though I had never heard anyone speak in pidgin English before, I understood what he was saying. Is it an airplane or ship which had sunk. To which I instantly replied "Him airm" He grunted "bad." Now I was perplexed. What did he know about airplanes and why was that bad?

One of the natives climbed up a tall coconut tree and threw down a couple of coconuts. Then another of the natives whacked the top off the coconuts with his large knife and presented us with the fresh coconut milk. We lay down on the sand and began to slurp up the milk. I finished the first coconut and started the on the next one with the milk streaming down my chin. Soon one of the natives brought a small watermelon that I ate with great relish. The native watched as I devoured that small watermelon and soon came back with another. I noticed one of the natives had a small hand-woven bag that carried a root of some kind that produced glowing embers when it was blown on. Having no matches, he was ready to build a fire to cook some kind of warm food if need be.

I felt much refreshed after drinking the coconut milk and consuming the watermelon. I stood up and a couple of the natives made a motion to carry me with my arms outstretched across their shoulders. Ewoldt was on his feet by then and shrugged off any attempt to be carried. The apparent native leader asked in his pidgin English if we would like to try walking to his village. But first we decided that we had better put on our shoes. Fortunately, we had tied our shoes to the raft to prevent them from being washed overboard when we encountered the heavy surf coming ashore. My shoes looked hardly usable -- waterlogged with the toes curling upward. I forced my feet into them and decided I could probably walk OK. The natives picked up the raft and we set off.

We came in sight of a small village and I noticed that we did not see any women or children. The leader indicated that we would continue on to the next village, which was his. I had no way of telling distance or time and so we continued. We came upon the second village, which was much larger than the first. It was situated along a river, consisting of small thatched huts. A larger hut, much different from the others, had a checkered pattern woven of green and yellow palm leaves. This was the leader's. We were motioned inside and he indicated that we could rest on pallets of woven palm on the floor. The exertion of the walk soon had me falling fast asleep.
I don't know how long I slept but when I awakened it was still light out. Soon afterwards, I was given a cup of hot, black tea which was very nourishing. I knew that tea was normally not nutritive but this made me feel very refreshed. The leader motioned for us to step and I saw a large gathering of natives -- men, women and children squatting on their haunches. The older natives held short bamboo sections in their hands and with a large toothpick-like stick, kept jabbing into some concoction and licking the toothpicks. I later learned the concoction was made from the betel nut. I felt like a monkey in a cage with the crowed of natives around watching us. Soon it grew dark and we again retired to the hut and the crowd dispersed.

I slept soundly that first night. In the morning, the leader gave me a bar of bath soap, Lifebuoy-like, about the color of our pink soap back in the States and invited us to have a bath. There was no tub or shower but there was a sandy beach alongside the river where he indicated we could take our bath. As we lathered up, again the natives gathered around to watch us. The fresh river water felt good. I wonder if the leader thought we smelled pretty raunchy, suggesting a bath first thing in the morning.

Back on the verandah we were approached by a couple of native men dressed in white undershirts and khaki shorts. They immediately caught our attention. In very excellent English, one spoke out introducing himself, saying, "I am Timothy of the South Sea Evangelical mission." He further went out to explain that his missionaries had fled back to Australia, leaving him in charge of the mission station. As he spoke, the other man unloaded a gunnysack of canned food. Timothy explained that a white man could not possibly survive on the native diet of coconuts, fruits, taros and an occasional bit of meat when a pig might be slaughtered on some festive occasion. He introduced his "cookie boy," stating we could have anything we wanted and the "cookie" knew how to cook anything that needed cooking. He went on to say that he would give a strict accounting of anything we used and report that to his missionaries when they returned. I dug into the gunnysack saying I'd have some of that canned beef stew, canned biscuits and pointed out some other canned food. I'm afraid my eyes were bigger than my stomach, as I quickly filled up. I could not finish everything and felt sheepish realizing I could not eat it all. Timothy suggested following him back to his mission station. We begged off , wanting to have another day of rest and suggested accompanying him tomorrow.

The evening after Timothy and his "Cooke Boy" had departed we were introduced to a grayed, older native who appeared out of the jungle. He was dressed in a pair of shorts and short sleeved shirt. He wore a pair of leather shoes. Dressed so differently from the rest of the natives, other than Timothy, we decided he must be a man of authority. We were made to understand that he was the district Headsman.

He did not speak but nodded as we carefully explained who we were and our desire to get in touch with the British authorities. We wondered if he could help us. He nodded and turned to leave us without speaking a single word. I watched as he departed, and after clearing the village compound, he sat down, removed his shoes and tied them to his walking stick and disappeared into the jungle. At this point I wondered if he had understood a single word we had spoken.

"Make haste"

Early the next morning Timothy and his "cookie boy" appeared at the village where we were staying. After resting the previous night, we decided to accompany Timothy to his mission station. Suddenly a native dressed in a white t-shirt and khaki shorts came running into the village. He was carrying a large white envelope in his hand. He approached us displaying the envelope on which was scrawled "To the American Airman" The runner explained, in good English, that he was from a Catholic Missionary station to the south of our present location.
We were amazed to see the address on the envelope and wondered who knew our whereabouts. We hastily opened the letter to read "We have heard of your plight. It is reported the Japs are reported to be landing on the Island. We have provided two horses for you. Make haste -- God be with you." It was signed. Father Boudard.
We queried the native runner, who told us he had tethered the two horses on the other side of the nearby river. Fathers Boudard and DeDe ran a missionary station along the coast to the south of our present location. We should be able to reach the station before dark if we left soon.
We decided then to accompany the native runner and thanked Timothy for all his help, explaining the good fathers might be able to get us in touch with the British Resident Commissioner (BRC). Earlier, Timothy had explained about the BRC, who was the authority in charge of Guadalcanal Island. All he knew was that the BRC was hidden somewhere in the jungle and Timothy couldn't help us to get in touch with the BRC. We were anxious to meet the BRC hoping he could help us make good our escape. With the report of the Japs now landing on the island, it made it more imperative that we find the BRC as soon as possible.

We were eager to get going. The natives in the village sensed that we would be leaving. The natives, for the most part, did not appear too healthy. A lot of them continually swished a rag around to chase the flies away. The flies were attracted to the open sores on their arms and legs. I understood the natives wee afflicted by jaws, a tropical disease. They formed a line to shake our hands. I grasped each one eagerly, thinking maybe they would remember us as friends and not reveal our whereabouts if the Japs should come looking for us.

We accompanied the native runner, crossed a shallow river, and found the tethered horses -- two of them. They were saddled. I had seen some riding horses before. These looked like a couple non running type horses. I had never ridden a horse, so the runner helped get me in the saddle. The runner (I never learned his name or the name or the names of any of the natives that we encountered other than Timothy.) walked along with the horses. After almost an hour, Ewoldt suggested maybe we could make better time if we would get the horses into a trot. I readily agreed, as at this time I felt comfortable in the saddle. Ewoldt led the way all this time.

Ewoldt's horse broke into trot and immediately my horse took off into a gallop, leaving Ewoldt and the runner far behind. I hung on for dear life. The horse did not respond to my attempt to reign him in. On we raced through village after village. Friendly natives were trying to greet me but the horse galloped on leaving the bewildered natives behind. The trail got narrower and narrower. Thick vines began to hang over the trail and I thought my neck was going to get caught up on one of the ones that practically blocked the trail. The jungle closed in and the horse stopped. The trail had become impenetrable. I carefully got the horse turned around, determined never to get the horse above a walk again.
I retraced the path in the jungle slowly riding the horse back to the nearest village. At that point I met Ewoldt and the runner passing through the village. The natives were offering gifts of fruit and a live chicken as we passed through. The runner accepted the live chicken and promptly rung its neck, tucking it into his trousers belt. We didn't have any bags in which to store the offered fruits so we waved to the people and proceeded on our way.

After riding our horses, the native runner motioned for us to stop, mentioning that he heard an airplane. We listened and told him that we didn't hear anything, so we continued when after a period of 10 minutes or so, we too heard the sound of an airplane overhead. The aircraft appeared to be about 3,000 to 5,000 feet above us. We immediately jumped off our horses and hid underneath some high brush nearby. The plane appeared to be a large 4-engine Kawanishi type sea plane with a peculiar rumbling sound as though the engines were not synchronized properly. The plane continued on its westerly heading and I remounted my horse with the aid of the runner guide, wondering if the plane crew could detect a man or beast in the jungle area.

With the missionaries
It was late afternoon when we encountered some weather-beaten buildings close by the estuary of the sea. As we drew closer, I could see a white man in a gray goatee peering at us. He called out, "Are you the American airmen? Welcome!"

I thought, we had better be, what with the Japs that had been reported as landing on the island. He had better be aware of the fact that there is a war going on, but maybe the Japs would not understand the English greeting.

He introduced himself as Fr. Boudard of the Catholic mission. Soon he was asking about the war in Europe. Was it true that France had fallen to the Germans? This was May 1942, and with no radios he had no firsthand knowledge that France had capitulated two yars before. Fr. Boudard was French and his assistant was Fr. DeDe, a priest of Dutch descent. I did not catch what missionary order they belonged to. They were eager to hear of the war's progress. We told them that World War II had started in September 1939 with the attack on Poland and the Germans had soon overrun most of Europe. The Americans got involved when the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941.

They were happy to finally get some news of the outside world. It was getting late in the evening and we were treated to a sumptuous dinner of roast pork, probably the fatted pig that was kept for a festive occasion. We had traveled all day long and were getting tired. We were given a room to sleep in. The buildings were made of planked wood, unlike the native huts that we had encountered before. The room smelled musty and I wondered if at times the buildings were overrun by surging seas nearby.

The next morning was Sunday and we were invited to attend Mass in a small chapel nearby. The chapel had been constructed by one of their Order's brothers. I didn't catch the brother's name. It was a sturdily built chapel building that could hold a congregation of perhaps of 20. In attendance was a group of six Catholic French and German nuns.

After breakfast, we were invited to visit the good sisters at their house. They promised to wash and clean our uniforms. We must have been a sorry looking bunch with the clothing having been drenched by the seas while in the raft and worn continually ever since coming ashore. I don't know what we must have smelled like. I exchanged my set of blue dungarees for a shirt and trousers of Fr. Boudard's while Ewoldt exchanged his khaki uniform for a shirt and trousers. of Fr. Dede's. Our uniforms were sent over to the nuns' house. We were eager to look more presentable.

We went over to the sisters' house to visit for a while, still dressed in the good padre's clothing when one of the natives from the missionary station came running in, saying that a motor launch was seen cruising down the shore approaching the area. He did not know who was in the motor launch. Our immediate reaction was whether the Japs had also heard of our whereabouts. Were they looking for us? We told the sisters that we would have to get into our uniforms. But they protested that they hadn't had the opportunity to get our uniforms washed.

We took our dirty uniforms with us and returned to Fr. Boudard's house. Yes, he had heard of the approaching motor launch but didn't know whose launch it was or who might be in it.

We hastily got into our soiled uniforms and waited.

Brother Thrift's news
At this point. I wondered what was going to happen to us. I felt I could not survive in the jungle since I had never had any type of training to do that. We were back in our uniforms so we could not be treated as spies. What was going to happen to the good missionaries who had taken us in? Would they be charged with harboring American airmen? Neither Ewoldt nor I spoke as we waited.

Excitement ran through the compound -- it was Brother James Thrift in the launch.

Brother Thrift was from the AvuAvu missionary station to the south where a group of Marist missionaries lived. He was greeted warmly and introduced to us. He inquired if we were the pilots of the two planes that had been reported as having been beached along a sandy strip to the South. The natives had reported this news to him. We mentioned that we were the crew of a TBD torpedo plane, that had ditched at sea on 4 May. Was he aware of any survivors of the two planes? No, only the news that two planes were down along the coast somewhere. He had not seen the planes himself.

Ewoldt quickly inquired of the whereabouts of the BRC, the British Resident Commissioner. Did Brother Thrift know where we could get in touch with him? Yes, Thrift knew the commissioner, Matin Clemens, who could probably be located along the east coast at the government headquarters at Aola. Thrift promised to try to get us in touch with Clemens. We were anxious to get under way with him to find Clemens. But first we had to have dinner with Fathers Boudard and DeDe.

It was a bright moonlit night when we were to get back to the anchored launch. A heavy surf was running. Thrift earlier had come ashore in a skiff. It was decided that the natives would take us back to the anchored launch individually in the skiff. One at a time, they would try to time the heavy surf to get us safely back to the launch. It was a tricky maneuver, but in time we were able to get aboard without being thrown into the churning sea. The launch finally got under way for the AvuAvu missionary station.

While heading south in the launch, Thrift suggested that we rest at the missionary station the next day. He also mentioned that he would like to locate the reported beached planes. I agreed to accompany him to search for the two planes.
The next morning we met the rest of the group at the missionary station. When they found out that I was a radioman they were eager for me to look at their radio which was not working. In the corner of a room was their battery-powered radio. It was sitting on a small table with a bunch of dry cells strewn about the floor nearby. I noticed two crooked wires snaking up to the radio. Making sure they were attached to a battery, I disconnected the wires at the radio terminals and gingerly touched the wires together. There was no spark, telling me the batteries were as dead as a doornail. Thrift was not surprised about the batteries' condition. Supplies from Australia had long stopped coming with the war on. They had no way of hearing about the progress of the war or any outside information.

Search for the downed aircraft
I mentioned to Thrift, if we could find the reported downed planes, that they probably might have some radios with their batteries aboard. I might find the radios in working order if they were not corroded by being immersed in sea water for any length of time. He was eager to get their schooner and with a crew of natives to go looking for the planes.

The schooner had a small diesel-powered engine and the intent was to cruise as close to the shoreline as winds, surf and shoals allowed. As the day progressed, all eyes were focused on the nearby shore but no planes were sighted. Soon after a bag lunch had been eaten, we came around a cove and someone cried out, "There, two planes!" I looked over to where a native was pointing and saw two fighter planes.

The markings were distinctive -- two Wildcat fighters of VF-42 from the USS Yorktown. I became excited, eager to get ashore and find out about the pilots. As soon as we got ashore, I hurried over to the two planes. They had landed on a small spit of beach area. Their positions made me think that they were flying in formation when they touched down with their wheels up. The fuselages and tail sections were complete, with no evidence of any damage. Then, looking more closely, I noticed some bullet holes in the vertical stabilizer. Reading the side numbers of the planes, I recognized them as two of the four planes we had last encountered the day we had ditched, May 4, 1942.

Meanwhile, Thrift had gone up the hillside to talk to some of the natives from the area. They told him the pilots had left the day they had landed. One of them had directed one of the natives to stream the pilot's parachute from the limb of a large nearby tree. Soon that afternoon a large ship sent a smaller boat ashore to pick up the pilots. (Much later on, I was to learn that Pilots McCuskey and Adams were successfully rescued by the Destroyer, USS Hammann, that had been operating with the Yorktown's Task Force.)

I determined that the radio equipment had not been immersed with the planes in the pounding surf and was salvageable. With a screwdriver furnished by Thrift, I figured I could safely remove all the radio equipment. As I took out each transmitter, receiver and junction boxes with cabling, I handed each piece of equipment to one of the natives. The batteries were intact and removed. I found one piece of equipment in one of the planes, the ABA receiver. The ABA was the earliest of IFF equipment, able to identify a friendly plane. The later IFF's were much more sophisticated, able to successfully Identify Friend or Foe by selectively coding the equipment by time and location. The ABA was nothing more than a super-regenerative receiver tuned to the Yorktown's Radar frequency. But the tuned circuit could possibly give the operating frequency or harmonic frequency to the Japs operating in the area. The ABA was able to respond to the Yorktown's radar and emit a signal helping to identify it as a friend. I smashed the ABA with some rocks I found nearby and wading into the surf, threw the ABA into the sea.

After all the radio equipment had been successfully removed, we formed a line of natives to carry it. By this time, it was getting dark and Thrift decided that we would have to stay overnight in the nearest village. About that time, a terrific tropical storm broke, soaking us and all the equipment we were carrying. We got to the village and found a large hut. Soon the natives had a roaring fire going inside and we gathered around the fire to dry ourselves. Some bunks were available for us to try to catch some sleep. It was a miserable stormy night and I tried to catch some sleep in my wet clothing, thinking about how I was going to set up the radio gear at the Aviv missionary station. I hoped we had not lost any of the equipment on the trail.

Radio complications
The next day we gathered up all the radio equipment and headed back to the beach area. Thrift's schooner was anchored in a cove where any surf was minimal and we had no difficulty getting back aboard the schooner with all the equipment.

In my mind I kept wondering if I had recovered all the necessary radio equipment and all the required cabling to connect everything together. Then it struck me -- we did not have any earphones, as they had apparently been taken by the pilots. The earpieces were normally pocketed in the cloth helmets. They had made their escape taking their helmets with them. We had discarded our earphones while in our rubber raft while at sea. We felt at the time, the Bakelite earphone cases might become brittle and puncture the raft while we used the cloth helmets to douse and cool ourselves as we poured the sea water over our heads during the heat of the day. We also had repeatedly used the cloth helmets with the earphones attached, to bail out the raft when the seas got rough.

I thought, too, if the Japs did overrun the area where the Wildcats had been beached, they would not find the radio equipment. This would deny they Japs the possible operating frequencies of the fighter planes. More importantly, I had destroyed the ABA, IFF, equipment which could have possibly divulged the Yorktown's radar operating frequency. Knowing the radar's frequency could have allowed the Japs, with their ECM, Electronic Countermeasure Equipment, to determine the Yorktown's operating parameters -- PRF and PW. The PRF (Pulse Repetition Frequency) would give the Japs the effective range of the radar. The PW ( Pulse Width) would give them an idea of the effective minimum range when the radar would be unable to track any approaching airplane. The recovered batteries, lead-acid, could not be used for the missionary's radio. The batteries from the planes were too high in voltage. At least, in going to search out the native reports of two airplanes, pilots McCusky and Adams had been picked up. The information was given to us by the nearby natives who had witnessed the event.

Meeting Clemens
The next day at the AvuAvu missionary station, Ewoldt was able to prevail and have Thrift sail to try and locate the BRC, Martin Clemens. Thrift thought we should proceed to sail to the east coast to where the government house was located at Aola. With Thrift's crew of natives, we were passengers as the schooner threaded its way through a passageway of small, nearby islands which I felt were to the south of the island of Guadalcanal. I mused, if I had been able to set up the radio equipment and establish communications, this would be a perfect location for a PBY Catalina patrol seaplane, to affect a safe landing in the nearby calm waters, pick us up and end this nightmare.

On the east coast we headed north to locate Aola. In the early afternoon, high on a bluff, I saw a beautiful large thatched building, the government house. The waters were calm on this side of the island. Thrift anchored close in to get us ashore quickly. As we threaded ashore climbing up the bluff, I heard a conch shell blow a signal. Was it "One if by land, two if by sea?" It made me recall when I had read, "The Ride of Paul Revere" in my boyhood.

Approaching the house, we saw no one about, and heard no more signals. Where was Martin Clemens, the BRC? Had he already fled to the jungle? We must find him! He was our only hope of making our escape. We heard a noise coming from the nearby bush. "It's Martin Clemens," Thrift proclaimed as Clemens emerged from the bush. with an entourage of natives carrying Martin's Radio equipment on two poles. Others carried supplies.

Clemens was dressed in khaki shirt and shorts; he was of medium height and for a man living and hiding in the jungle, he appeared lean and in good condition.

Brother Thrift introduced us and we walked into the government house at Aola. Before Clemens had anything to say, Lt. Ewoldt spoke up, "Could you please get us back to Pearl Harbor?" Clemens nodded, and said he'd see what could be done.

At this time I wondered how much Clemens knew about the Japs' sneak attack on Pearl Harbor which had occurred just a scant five months before. How much news did he get on his radio? He referred the radio as his Teleradio. I shuddered to realize that he would transmit and could divulge our location to any Jap radio intelligence network. I wondered how often he got on the air and how long a period of time transmission lasted. When the war broke out we had been schooled in radio silence to minimize any Jap possible interception.
In short time, his cookie, Michael, had prepared a light lunch. We learned that Clemens was born in Scotland and was Cambridge-educated. In 1938, he accepted an appointment as a Colonial Service cadet to the Solomon Islands. As a BRC he represented Great Britain. He had total authority over Guadalcanal, acting as judge, keeper of the purse, collector of taxes, head of the police and in charge of prisoners. We had located the right man. Could he help us to escape?

Later that afternoon he showed us a giant banyan tree where a watch was kept from the top. From this vantage point, the area could be scanned to prevent any surprise visitors. This was the location from which the conch shell signal had been sent when we approached the Aola station. Clemens had climbed the tree on 4 May to watch the Yorktown's squadrons attack the Japs at Tulagi. Clemens invited Ewoldt and me to climb that tall tree but I declined. Ewoldt did climb to the top and agreed the view was excellent. Clemens went on to say the attack on the Japs on the 4th caught them by surprise. and appeared to be devastating. I believe the watch from the top of the tree was kept by prisoners. I hoped the prisoners stayed friendly with the British.

Before dinner, Clemens invited us to have a drink. He apologized, saying all he had to offer was a gin and tonic water. I thought. a beer would have been more my style but I enjoyed the drink Michael had prepared dinner and was dressed in his white LavaLava. I felt pretty grimy in my dirty faded dungarees.

Later that evening, we were invited to sleep in separate rooms where mosquito netting covered the entire bed. Before retiring, I pointed out that I was having trouble with a coral scratch that had become infected. I apparently had scratched my right ankle while getting out of the rubber raft. Clemens mentioned that he would see what could be done for the infection tomorrow.

Great place for an airstrip
Early the next morning we watched Kawanishi seaplanes take off and fan out for their daily search of the area. We counted the number departing from the Tulagi harbor. Clemens suggested a hike to the north along the shore line.
The terrain was altogether different from the jungle area we had previously encountered. The flat grassy area stretched out far to the north. I remarked to Ewoldt the area would make an excellent area to build an airstrip. Somewhere to the north, the Japs had the same idea and had begun constructing one. Several months later, after the U.S. Marines landed, fought over the landing field and gained control of the airfield that became known as Henderson Field in honor of a Marine pilot who died during the Battle of Midway. This day, sometime in the middle of May 1942, we encountered no Japs. We had not, as yet, seen any Japs since landing on Guadalcanal. We had been very fortunate, indeed, landing on the southwest coast while the Japs had been active to the north and east.

On the way back to Aola, we encountered a light-skinned native dressed in khaki shorts and white undershirt. He introduced himself as Jeffory Kuper, a medical practitioner. He had been sent to find me and examine my infected ankle.  (Talk about doctor house calls!) He spoke in excellent English, none of the native pidgin. He had me sit down. took out what looked like a cigarette paper, placed some white substance, sulfa, on the paper and sprinkled the infected area. He dressed it with a gauze bandage.. As we walked along, Jeffory told us about being trained by the British in the Fiji Islands. After completing his training he returned to the Solomon Islands where he was born and raised. As we continued our walk, a native approached and spoke to Clemens.

Clemens got us aside and said that he had a crew of natives preparing to get the schooner ready. The schooner had been hidden in a boggy area and camouflaged with foliage. He said he was eager to get back into the jungle and wanted to ship us out to the island to the south -- San Cristobal. There would be another BRC, Michael Forster, who could help us make our escape. We talked it over, and decided that with the Kawanishis patrolling the area, it would be best to start the journey after all the big reconnaissance aircraft went back into their landing patterns toward dusk. If we sailed close along the coast then we, hopefully, would not be noticed. We would get out to sea during the dark of night. Then by the next morning when the Japs began their patrol, we would be along the coast of San Cristobal and there would be less chance our movement would not be detected. We felt the plans were good.

Back to sea
The native reports filtering in mentioned that the Japs were getting more active and that troops and supplies were coming ashore. I could understand why Clemens was anxious to leave the confines of the government station at Aola. Michael had prepared some sandwiches and we enjoyed a gin and bitters with Clemens. It was time to get down to the wharf where the schooner was moored. Clemens appeared cheerful and did not seem to be worried. He mentioned that the native crew was well trained and we should not have any difficulty making shore the next morning at KiraKira, San Cristobal. We bade farewell to Clemens as we boarded the schooner. Clemens had been a wonderful host and had kept our spirits up all the while.

We did not immediately get under way but waited for the Kawanishis' return. After we counted to make sure all were back in the landing pattern we got under way. The schooner was equipped with a small auxiliary diesel engine. The sails remained furled. It grew dark. I could hear the sound of the waves from the nearby coral reef lapping against the hull. I felt assured knowing that Clemens had mentioned the trained crew of natives running the schooner.

It became pitch black without a glimmer of light anywhere. The sound of the water lapping the hull disappeared. We had left the coast of Guadalcanal. We were out to sea heading southeast for the island of San Cristobal. We felt safe in the darkness, knowing that the Kawanishis flew only in daylight. It had been a long day. I relaxed and dozed off.

When I awakened, hours had flown by. I could see the bright blue skies and realized we were moving down the coast of a large island, San Cristobal. I did not know the time of day as I had lost the use of my wristwatch while in the raft. I became alert and looked around, searching for the sight or sound of a Kawanishi. Hopefully, if one came flying close by, our schooner would not be noticed against the shoreline. We proceeded slowly southeast. A small harbor appeared ahead with many schooners anchored nearby. It was Kari Kari.

The schooner dropped anchor and soon several small boats were heading our way. We were taken ashore where we were greeted by the BRC, Michael Forster.
He had been expecting us. Clemens had sent a message that we were on the way. Radio silence!  I wondered who else knew we were on our way to Kari Kari.

We were greeted warmly by Forster who welcomed us. Lt Ewoldt was soon asking if he could get us back to Pearl Harbor. With the sweep of his arm, Forster told us any of the schooners anchored there were free for our taking. After a bite to eat, Forster invited us to look them over.

From a small boat we looked over the schooners and selected the Hing-li We climbed aboard to look her over and decided this had possibilities of getting us back to friendly forces, The Hing-Li was about 45 feet long with a jib and mainmast. We did not know the condition of the sails but it had a small auxiliary diesel engine. My only experience with a ship was an aircraft carrier like the Yorktown.

We wondered why the schooners were gathered here at Kari Kari. Forster explained that most of the owners of the schooners had evacuated back to Australia, leaving on the last ship to escape the war. Many of the owners had made arrangements to sail the boats here. Many had family members living here at Kari Kari. The schooners had been used by the Chinese for inter-island trade before the war. These schooners sailed between islands and never ventured out of sight of land. We decided that we would have to sail the Hing-Li east to the Santa Cruz Islands and then south through the New Hebrides. Eventually we would have to go as far south to a Free French Island -- New Caledonia.

When the Chinese heard that we intended to sail the Hing-Li away from the Solomon Islands, we were informed that Yip Tim, the son of the owner, protested that it was the family's schooner. Forster explained to Yip Tim that he could select a crew of six of his friends to sail with us. To make everything legal, Ewoldt signed a chit appropriating the Hing-Li for the U.S. Navy.

While we were there at Kari Kari, an English missionary, came out of the jungle and Forster introduced us to one another. He carried a small wooden box containing a sextant. He explained that he had done some commercial sailing in his younger days and as a Christian missionary had no further need of the sextant. We were welcome to it.

I can't recall the name of the English missionary but he said that he had no charts for the area but suggested we contact Henry Kuper for some charts. Kuper, it seemed, had sailed these waters in his younger days and was familiar with Vanikoro in the Santa Cruz Islands. Kuper could provide us with a chart of Vanikoro, Santa Cruz.
Forster was busy getting us some provisions. He procured a 55-gallon drum of fresh water. Fruits, vegetables and a large bag of rice were loaded aboard. Yip Tim explained that he needed a part for the diesel engine. He had a friend who sold parts off a schooner anchored at the south part of San Cristobal. Forster furnished the information that Kuper lived at Santa Anna Island, one of the Three Sisters Islands to the north. Kuper was a German and had settled in the Solomons when the Germans controlled the island chain prior to the end of World War I.
BRC Forster mentioned that no Japs had landed on San Cristobal. Apparently, all the action was taking place up north at Guadalcanal and Tulagi. With the food and water stowed aboard, it was time for us to get under way. Forster presented us with a .30-cal. rifle and a British flag and wished us Godspeed. The remaining stranded Chinese and the natives gathered along the shore to wave us off.
It was decided to first sail to the southern part of San Cristobal to get the part for the diesel engine and then head north to visit Kuper to get some charts. We found the schooner anchored in a swampy area surrounded by dead trees. The sunlight did not penetrate the area, giving it a surrealistic surrounding. Yip Tim got aboard and was able to procure the needed part for the engine. I was glad when we got under way and left that depressed area.
Seas were calm as we headed for Santa Anna Island. The area was surrounded by a coral reef. Yip Tim slowly threaded the schooner through a safe passageway and headed for a small dock nearby.

Help from Kuper
A slim, gray-haired figure stood there watching us as we approached the dock at Santa Anna. One of the Chinese crewmen threw a line to Kuper who was standing on the dock at Santa Anna. Kuper grabbed the line and drew the Hing-Li to the dock and tied it off.

Ewoldt and I realized that Kuper was not privy to the news from the BRC's teleradio. We jumped to the dock and introduced our-selves to Henry Kuper. We mentioned that BRC Forster had suggested that Kuper might be able to provide us some charts to enable us to sail to Vanikoro in the Santa Cruz Islands.

Kuper invited us to his house where his wife fixed us some tea. He was married to one of the native women who was queen of the island, the line of descent was matrlilinear.  

We did not disclose any infor-mation -- the ship and squadron we were from - about ourselves. Kuper was German, having settled here when the Germans lost the Solomon Islands territory after World War I. There was no treaty allowing naturalization while living under the British Protectorate. So once a German, always a German. BRC Forster made us aware that we had nothing to fear from Kuper. It was Henry Kuper's son, Jeffory Kuper, who had treated my coral infection while back on Gudalcanal. (The wound was healing nicely.)

When we mentioned to Kuper our intention to sail the Hing-Li to Vanikoro and beyond he quickly explained the schooner was in no condition to sail beyond the Solomon Islands. Apparently he had noticed the schooner's condition as he observed its progress to the dock at Santa Anna. We remembered that Forster mentioned Kuper was an expert mariner, having sailed these water for decades. We were crestfallen to hear his comments about the Hing-Li. There were no other schooners available. We had banked on the Hing- Li to help us make good our escape.

Kuper explained that he could get the Hing-Li serviceable to sail again. We went aboard the schooner with Kuper and he explained what must be done to make it seaworthy. First thing, we had to get rid of the aft cabin. He said with that cabin, a squall could cause the schooner to capsize. Then he mentioned that we needed more ballast to ride through any rough seas. Last he mentioned the sails were in poor condition.

Kuper assured us that with the aid of some his natives he could rectify the problems and have us ready to sail in a couple of days. We agreed. He mentioned that it was getting late in the day and said he'd have a crew start early in the morning to fix everything. But first he wanted the sails removed so that they could be patched and sewn to make them serviceable.

He invited Ewoldt and me to his house to spend the evening there. His wife had fixed a delicious meal using what appeared to be lobster. The crustaceans were collected when the tide went down and his people gathered them up from the top of the coral reefs nearby.

The next morning we observed the natives tearing off the cabin woodwork; others were busy loading ballast. I didn't notice where the sails were being repaired. We and Kuper walked down to the windward side of the Island to observe the weather. Kuper looked on for a few minutes, remarking the weather would not be suitable for sailing that day. He repeated that weather observation again the following morning, again stating the weather was unsuitable for sailing. For the life of me, I could not hazard a guess about the weather conditions either day. I wondered if maybe he was enjoying our companionship and reluctant to have us leave.

The scene at the beach was repeated again the nest morning when Kuper said it was already for us to depart. The sails had been repaired, the ballast was sufficient and the schooner looked shipshape with-out the cabin. Kuper had prepared a handmade chart for us. He cautioned us about the rocks and shoals we might encounter around Vanikoro approach. He repeated when in vicinity of the island to find a red roof building and head directly north to affect safe passage through the coral reefs.

We got the Chinese crew together and said we were ready to set sail for Vanikoro, Santa Cruz. Yip Tim, acting as spokesman, queried how long the journey would take. After a minute, Ewoldt said three days.

We had not sighted any Kawanishi airplanes. We were aware of the possibility of encountering one of the big seaplanes during our three-day journey. We decided not to display the British flag Forster had given us for now. We set sail in an overcast sky with moderate seas, heading due east for Vanikoro, Santa Cruz.

Final voyage
As we sailed east, the skies remained overcast. Ewoldt had hoped to take a sextant reading at noon but it was not possible with the cloud cover. It was important to check our latitude on the easterly track and not miss the Santa Cruz Islands. There was endless sea beyond.

The Chinese crew had prepared our lunch -- heaping bowls of steaming white rice. This was to be our fare for the rest of the journey. I watched the Chinese as they raised their bowls of rice to their lips and with their fore and middle fingers shovel the rice into their mouths. Soon, without utensils, I found I was eating the rice that way, as well. Fresh oranges were a treat.

The overcast skies continued into the next morning which was good since the Kawanishis would have difficulty spotting us. Toward noon there was a break in the cloud cover and Ewoldt was eager to get a sextant fix. With the pitching deck, we found if we could brace our backs against each other that would give Ewoldt a steadier platform to take a sextant shot. BRC Forster had also provided us with an outdated almanac. With that data, and a correction factor, Ewoldt

felt he had a fix, of sorts. With no chronometer, and only a glimpses of the sun when we felt it was high noon, I wondered about the accuracy of our position. The schooner had a magnetic compass (no directional gyro). I wondered, too, about the compass deviation.

The next day dawned brightly - the overcast sky had disappeared. Ewoldt decided he'd like to get an idea about our speed. We had no log instrumentation aboard. He asked the crew to find him a couple of small pieces of wood. We knew the schooner was about 42 feet long. He had one of the crew go forward and drop one of the pieces of wood at the bow. Several crew members timed how long it took the piece of wood to pass the stern. Again, later in the day, the process was repeated. Several of the crew had wrist watches to do the timing. We had no chronometer to accurately time the process but it gave us a crude idea of our speed -- approximately 4 knots.

Late in the afternoon, I noticed the crew gathered around and talking. At the time, I didn't know what they were saying but I soon realized what it was about when Yip Tim mentioned that we were supposed to make land fall after three days at sea. At this point I felt like Columbus promising his crew they'd soon see land. I didn't know anything about mutiny but I felt uneasy. Ewoldt said nothing, but I felt like telling the crew just as the natives would give distances in pidgin English on Guadalcanal -"hm cm long m by n by m." I remember their talk when we asked about the distance to their village after we first got ashore. I don't believe they knew any definition of distances. We still had time before night fell, but I wondered if we were sailing east-beyond the Santa Cruz Islands.

I sure wished I was back aboard the Yorktown with my Torpedo Squadron 5 buddies again. We would know our latitude and longitude positions accurately. And we would not have to worry about being harassed by the Jap Kawanishis. Besides, at least the diet would be different - a lot of good navy beans and soup. Don't forget the mutton.

( Back to the future. While we were making good our escape, the Yorktown would be bombed, torpedoed and sunk in the battle of Midway early in June 1942. The carrier Hornet's Torpedo Squadron 8 with their TBD Devastators, were all shot down while making their torpedo attacks against a Jap aircraft carrier. All the pilots and radiomen would become MIA's and perish except one pilot. Ensign George Gay, would be the sole survivor of Torpedo Squadron 8. While the Jap fighters were busy shooting down the attacking torpedo bombers, the Navy dive bombers were busy sinking three of the four Jap aircraft carriers. The fourth would be sunk later in the day.)

It was getting dusk now when we thought we were being overtaken by an armada. In the distance we noticed various shapes in the failing light of day. Then we realized there were rock formations scattered about. Ewoldt had the schooner change course and head back out, stating we had better circle safely away for the night until we had better visibility the next morning. Hopefully, Vanikoro would appear the following morning.

As the night faded and dawn broke, we stopped circling and resumed our easterly track. We carefully avoided any rock outcroppings. I was concerned about the shoals nearby, hoping we would not end up a causality in these treacherous water at this time.

To the North we saw the outlines of a land mass. Vanikoro? We made out buildings close to the shoreline. We searched for a red-roofed building-one that Henry Kuper, back in Santa Catalina, had told us about.

There it was! We headed north, keeping our bow on that red-roofed building. I took the wheel. Ewoldt climbed the mainmast and gave steering directions. Kuper had warned us about the only safe passageway to the bay at Vainkoro. One of the Chinese crewmen throttled back the diesel engine We felt like we were literally scrapping off the barnacles of the Hing-Li.

People were watching us as we approached the dock at Vanikoro. We tied up,  feeling relief that we had successfully got through that approach. Ewoldt and I jumped on the dock and were warmly greeted by Samuel Boye who introduced himself. We then met his wife Ruby. They had been looking forward to our arrival. Ruby was the radio operator, a part of the coastwatchers net, and BRC Martin Clemens had called ahead to watch out for us. The Boyes ran a logging camp at Vanikoro.

Learning that I was a radioman, Ruby was eager to show me her radio set-up. I was amazed to see a permanent, more powerful transmitter and receiver installation. This was entirely different from Clemens' portable teleradio. Ruby explained that her son had been trained as a radio operator back in Australia and, in turn, her son had checked her out as an operator. Her son had left at the start of hostilities to join his unit back in Australia. She handled all the radio traffic coming from the coastwatchers back in the Solomons. She, in turn, relayed the messages back to headquarters in Australia -- all in plain language. She was not proficient in the use of a key for CW telegraphy.

I thought again of radio silence. If the Japs had been able to intercept the coastwatchers' traffic they would have been alerted to the coastwatchers' whereabouts. Ruby asked me to check the tune-up of her transmitter. I was able to tweak it up to get optimum power output.

The Boyes' prevailed on us to stay the night with them. Before retiring, she fixed a delicious fish dinner that we enjoyed with them. I was conscious of my soiled dungaree uniform. If only, one time, I had been able to get the uniform washed and cleaned back at the missionary station at Father Boudard's.

Early the next morning we were eager to get going. Samuel Boye arranged to have our fresh water supply topped off. He and Ruby presented us with strings of twist tobacco. They reminded me of the licorice sticks I had as a boy, but much thicker. The Boyes told us the tobacco sticks could be used for barter in the event we would need any more food as we sailed down throughout the New Hebrides Islands. We were told to expect a string of islands and would be in sight of the various islands almost continuously. They warned us the natives were treacherous and not to be trusted. Avoid all contact with them if possible. Ruby said she'd send a message to Martin Clemens, back on Guadalcanal, to let him know of our plans. They waved good-byes We headed south.

It was a beautiful sunny day with calm seas. Up to this point, we had not flown any flag. We felt we were far enough away from the Solomon Islands and had not encountered any of the Kawanishi patrol planes. We decided it would be safe to unfurl the British flag that BRC Forster had given us back at San Cristobal.

Late that afternoon, we saw our first island and continued on our SSE course. We continued on that course as we sailed past many islands. After clearing the New Hebrides Islands we would have to alter our course SSW to reach Noumea in New Caledonia, an island under the control of the Free French and a place where we could expect to find friendly forces.
Back with the Stars and Stripes

Late in the afternoon, several days after departing Vanikoro, we encountered a large motor boat. It was flying the Stars and Stripes! Seeing our British flag, it showed a "Follow Me" sign. We followed into a harbor and saw U.S. Navy destroyers anchored there!

We were in safe waters-back under USN control! The Hing-Li dropped anchor. We sat down and waited for a Navy motor launch to pick us up. Dusk descended and no one approach us. We remained aboard the Hing-Li that night. I figured this must be standing operating procedure and we would have to wait for some authority to clear us. (Years later, I learned the British flag we had been flying was a quarantine flag! I knew it looked different from the regular British flag but I thought it was a flag flown by some yacht club from the Solomon Islands.)

Later that morning, a Navy crew picked us up and took us ashore to a Navy operating base. I learned that we were at Villa Efate of the New Hebrides group. We stayed there a couple of days. This was a forward operating base. The SeaBees were busy building the base and an air strip. I got in touch with the senior radioman who was busy setting up the radio station. We scouted the area to find a suitable location to erect an antenna. The first night at the base, an air raid alert sounded and I almost broke my neck falling into a ditch used as an air raid shelter. The next morning I carefully scouted the area to be more aware of the location of the air raid shelters to preclude any more falls in the event of more air raids. There actually had not been any Jap aircraft but I was told everyone was pretty jittery about the possibility of Jap air raids. At this time, this was the most forward Navy base of operations.

Meanwhile Ewoldt had gone aboard the USS Paul Jones, DD230, a four-stacker from the World War I era. He found several of his 1937 Naval Academy classmates stationed aboard. Later, he told me the Paul Jones had been a flagship of a destroyer squadron of the Asiatic Fleet. The Asiatic Fleet had been the fleet protecting Far Eastern interests of the United States. At the time of the 7 December attack, the Paul Jones had been able to avoid the Japanese fleet. She reached Australia with orders to report to Pearl Harbor.

Ewoldt told me he was able to prevail on the CO of the Paul Jones to take us back to Pearl Harbor. I had no sea bag of clothing -- only my soiled dungarees. But I still had my wallet with a couple of one-dollar bills marked Territory of Hawaii. They were still good at the Navy base at Vila -- good for a couple of beers at the Navy canteen there.

Back to Pearl Harbor
After a couple of days we embarked on the Paul Jones for Pearl Harbor. On the way back, we dropped anchor at Suva in the Fiji Islands to take on some supplies. I was nice to get ashore again. While underway, they had me standing a watch in the crow's nest-atop the mast. I guess they figured I was used to heights as a crewman of a TBD Devastator. Aboard the destroyer, it was an entirely different ride than aboard the Yorktown. I wondered at the time why they didn't invite me to the radio shack. In retrospect, there was a lot of classified radio traffic going on and I guess I didn't have the proper clearance to be in the loop.

We got to Pearl Harbor OK and were dropped of at Ford Island NAS, Naval Aviation station.

We presented ourselves to the OD, Officer of the Day and tried to explain our predicament. He listened to us and suggested that we report to the OD of the Patrol Squadron that was part of the Fleet Air Arm.

We retold our story. He listened and told us we should be reporting back to the OD of the NAS Ford Island. Back we went and I began to wonder if anybody knew what to do with us. All I wanted to do is get back into the USN.

As we approached the OD we heard a cry ring out: "Ewoldt, Machalinski!! What are you doing here?" It was Lt. Furer a pilot of VT-5 Squadron. He got us together and said the squadron was reforming at the Kaneohe Bay NAS. I learned for the first time that our carrier had been sunk in the Battle of Midway. We were not to mention that to anyone - we did not want the Japs to know it.

I got back to my old squadron and all of my shipmates were happy to see me and eager to hear my story. Previous crews had been lost, but we were the only ones who made it back. I still had only my soiled dungarees. One of the radiomen had been advanced to chief petty officer, and invited me to have his seabag of uniforms. As a CPO, he was switching to khakis and had no need of bell bottom blues or whites. I had no records of any kind including any pay accounts.

A radioman, from the squadron, approached me to say he liked my tailor-made blues. Another told me he liked my watch. What happened is that when I was listed as MIAthey auctioned off my possessions. When I asked what they had paid for the watch and uniform, I told them they had gotten some good buys. I had listed my sister, Rose, back in Chicago as my next of kin and the proceeds of the auction were to be sent to her. She never received any of the funds nor was she ever notified that I was an

MIA.
I now had a sea bag of uniforms, but no funds to buy additional clothing like under-wear and socks and personal items.

One of the radiomen suggested I see the station chaplain who could get some funds to tide me over. The chaplain thought my story was great, but since I was attached to the fleet he couldn't help me out.  One of the pilots of the squadron lent me $20 dollars. I told him I would pay him back once I got my records and pay accounts straightened out.

Armed with a $20 bill, I got one of my shipmates to show me the location of the Navy Exchange. I got in line to buy some tooth paste and shaving cream. In those days the paste and cream came in tinfoil packaging. I selected some tooth paste and shaving cream and presented my $20 bill but was asked where my empty tinfoil packages were. "Don't you know there's a war on! You've got to return the empty tinfoil packages." My shipmate saved the day saying, "This guy just got back from the war!"

And so it went. I shipped over for another six years the first chance I got and stayed in for 20 years active continuous service. I liked the Navy.

A full career
There were many other ships and station assignment. In 1957 I was once again assigned to a squadron - a helicopter sonar dipping unit, whose job was to locate enemy submarines. We had new helicopters deployed for the first time. We operated in the Pacific off the Japanese coast.
We had trouble with the engines heating up when we went into a hover and I was unlucky enough to be once again swimming for my life in the Pacific. I suffered four compression fractures and was picked up by another helicopter.

In my post retirement years I taught the electronic system under a US AF contract for the DEW Line, Distant Early Warning, system. I ended up teaching for the electronic schools at Great Lakes, IL. At age 65, I hung up my gloves, finally going into retirement.

Mable and I raised eight children - six girls and two boys. All are university graduates, except one of my sons who dropped out of school to join the USMC. We have a son who practices law in Chicago, a daughter who is a dentist outside of Boston.and other daughters that were teachers. After the great kids were married and had their own homes I decided to take up flying again. Nothing like relaxing in a small plane flying over the Midwest coun-tryside. I had to quit flying at age 77 after a small stroke.