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Naval Aviation Cadet Kasimir K. Kanapicki was taking his final navigation check-ride in a PBY Catalina seaplane. As the seaplane went down the ramp into Pensacola Bay, one day in 1941, the unwieldy wheels were detached by the ramp crew. Kaz settled down at the navigation table and arranged his gear in neat formation in front of him. In those days of celestial navigation, a considerable quantity of equipment was required. There were the navigation manuals, the precision chronometer encased in its highly polished walnut box, and another much larger, equally polished case for the sextant. There were charts, dividers, a straight edge, a circular slide-rule, and a half dozen sharpened pencils.
As the plane churned across the bay preparatory to takeoff, Kaz had the uneasy feeling that all was not well. A quick inventory of his gear assured him that everything was in place. Still something was wrong. His feet were getting cold. He glanced down at the deck and found the problem. His shoes were firmly planted in water—now two inches deep and rising. He leaped off his stool and splashed back to the after station, thinking the tunnel hatch had been left open. It hadn’t, but there were two jets of water coming in from near the end of the aft hull step. Apparently, the tail wheel had somehow punctured the hull during the removal process.
Sitting in one of the blisters with his feet carefully drawn up to stay clear of the water was a young marine private who had come along for his “first airplane ride.” Kaz yelled at the young man, “Why didn't you report we were taking water?” The marine’s answer proved he was all marine. “Why, I thought water was supposed to come in. This is a seaplane.” Kaz didn’t have time to explain. He had to inform the instructor pilot, who was calmly driving well above and in front of the rapidly filling rear of the plane. Kaz splashed forward again. The water was now over the tops of his shoes.
The PBY cockpit sat on a pedestal several feet above the deck level of the airplane. Kaz rushed around this pedestal to a forward turret gun position,
By Commander William H. Huff, U. S. Navy (Retired)
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where, just aft of this turret, he could look up between the rudder pedals and see the pilots sitting in their seats. He reached up and grabbed the leg of the instructor to get his attention. Unfortunately, the ensign instructor was a hard-nosed type, very hig on regulations. He didn’t regard having his leg shaken by an excited aviation cadet as a model of good order and discipline. He retaliated by reaching down and whacking Kaz across the arm and roaring,
. Cadet, if you want to speak to me, use the proper lnterphone procedure!”
Kaz, now with a numb right arm, returned to his navigation station. The water was swirling around his knees. He sat down on his stool, picked up the Aerophone, and pressed the button to speak. Noth- ln8- The water had short-circuited the system.
Kaz sat there for a moment, trying to figure out a solution. Ah yes. He recalled that in one of his raining courses, an instructor had told the class that ^hen the intercom did not work in an emergency Sltuation—such as a dead circuit due to battle dam- nge—then plug directly into the bottom of the ARC- 1 transmitter located near the navigation table and a)k to the pilot on the radio. Kaz unplugged the microphone, felt around under the ARC-1—now a couple of feet under water—located the microphone receptacle and inserted the pigtail. Then he keyed the microphone.
The ARC-1 was about a one kilowatt transmitter, Wlth concomitant high voltage and amperage. The activation of this electrical energy in three feet of ^ater had a wholly natural effect. Kaz received full benefit of the various laws of high-voltage electricity arid body immersion in a conductive liquid. The recant shock knocked him about four feet rearward, emitted a huge flash, arced across his headset, and brought his crew cut to full attention.
Soaked, bedraggled, and dazed, he was a beaten cadet. He crawled onto his stool and for a moment contemplated his imminent demise. About that time, he water level exceeded the watertight integrity 'be, and the plane’s weight simultaneously exceeded the buoyancy limit. Water rose abruptly from around Kaz’s waist to just beneath his chin. Fortunately, the PBY’s hull also reached the bottom of Pensacola Bay at this point. Both forward and downward motion stopped. Kaz’s sextant case floated by, followed closely by the chronometer and his half dozen pencils.
By now, the ensign instructor was finally aware of the problem. The engines were still held out of water by the high wing, but the propellers were kicking up huge quantities of water and drowning out the electrical systems of the power plants. He cut the switches, and for a brief moment the plane was completely quiet. The silence was soon broken by a long tirade of censure, castigation, criticism, and condemnation—all directed toward a cadet who failed to inform his instructor of an impending perilous situation. The stream of verbal abuse continued while the rubber life raft was broken out, and the disconsolate crew rowed back to the seaplane ramp. The skipper of the training squadron was there to receive a full report.
The instructor volubly informed the captain that “. . . this cadet didn’t tell me the plane was sinking . . .” However, the older and wiser commanding officer quietly asked Kaz, “Son, why didn’t you advise your instructor of what was happening?”
Kaz replied miserably, “I tried to, sir. 1 went forward and pulled his leg to get his attention, but he told me to use the proper interphone procedure. I tried that, too, but the intercom was dead.”
The other cadet, who was flying copilot, broke in. “Yes sir, that’s right, and he hit Cadet Kanap- icki’s arm. I thought he broke it.”
The skipper turned to the cadets, saying, “Go back to your barracks and change your clothes.” Then he turned to the ensign instructor. “And you, Mister, lay up to my office on the double!”
No one ever knew what transpired in the privacy of the captain’s office, but from then on the ensign was a much more tractable instructor.
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*’r°ceedings / January 1982