Wake Island, which actually is an atoll, is one of the most remote occupied locations in the Pacific Ocean, lying 1,200 miles southwest of Midway Atoll and more than 1,400 miles northwest of the Marshall Islands. Wake now is administered by the U.S. Air Force as a mid-Pacific refueling stop, but in October 1943, it was a heavily fortified redoubt the Japanese had captured 21 months earlier after a vigorous defense by U.S. Marines. In early October, the USS Lexington (CV-16) and five other fast carriers closed on Wake to begin a two-day bombardment that would mark one of the opening engagements of the Fifth Fleet’s push through the Gilbert and Marshall island groups.
On board the Lexington was Carrier Air Group 16, which included Fighting Squadron (VF) 16, Torpedo Squadron (VT) 16, and Bombing Squadron (VB) 16. As a VB-16 radioman-gunner, I flew in the rear seat of the SBD-5 Dauntless dive bomber piloted by Lieutenant (junior grade) William E. “Mac” McCarthy. I didn’t realize it at the time, but we were headed for the most unforgettable experience of my Navy career or my civilian life.
On the morning of 5 October, Air Group 16 aviators were in Lexington ready rooms waiting to strike a heavy blow to Japanese-held Wake. We were advised a friendly submarine would be stationed in the vicinity of the island and were forbidden to bomb, strafe, or intimidate any submarine regardless of nationality. The assigned sub, the USS Skate (SS-305), was part of the newly formed Submarine Lifeguard League, whose job was to rescue downed airmen. Having one of these brave submarines on duty in the area of the strike was comforting to all of the fliers.
After receiving this important bit of information, we rushed out of the ready rooms; climbed up to the flight deck, where the aircraft engines were warming up; and carefully looked for our assigned planes. With the propellers turning, one had to be extremely cautious because the oily flight deck made footing unsafe. On reaching our plane, Mac and I climbed aboard, hooked up our parachutes to our harnesses, buckled up our safety belts, and waited our turn to taxi forward to the signal officer. He would direct the pilot to rev up the engine and if it sounded right would signal us to start down the flight deck. After taking off, we joined our flight section and headed for Wake.
U.S. aircraft pounded the tiny island with tons of bombs, while our surface ships lying offshore pounded the enemy with salvo after salvo from their large-caliber guns. All targets were hit, as briefed that first day; however, the Japanese were scheduled to undergo the same treatment the next day.
We awoke early on 6 October and ate breakfast. Mac and I were scheduled to fly on the last strike, which meant we wouldn’t take off until afternoon. We waited in a ready room, listening to the radio broadcast of the pilots over the target, and finally heard the command to man our planes. Once airborne, we joined up with our group, led by Lieutenant Roland N. McMackin and his gunner, Aviation Radioman Second Class Spiro “Sak” Sakotas. Flying port wingman were Lieutenant (junior grade) George Glacken and his gunner, Aviation Radioman Second Class Leo Boulanger. McCarthy and I flew on McMackin’s starboard wing. This was the standard “vee” formation we flew at this time.
On the way to Wake, we flew about 1,500 feet above the water to avoid detection by the Japanese. We had been requested to be on the lookout for a couple of downed airmen from another group. This task was pretty much the job of the rear-seat gunners. The pilots had to keep their eyes glued to the lead plane because we flew in a very tight formation with our wings almost touching. We were unsuccessful in our search for the downed aircrew.
As we approached Wake, we began to gain altitude for our dive-bombing run, which usually began at 12,000 feet. After reaching that altitude, we leveled off and circled above the island looking for a suitable target on which to drop our 1,000-pound bomb. Peering down, I saw what appeared to be a submarine in the surf off Wake’s beach. I immediately notified Mac of this great target, knowing full well we had orders to lay off all submarines. I had surmised that any sub that close to the island must be Japanese. He quickly reminded me of the order not to bomb any submarine.
I kept looking at the submarine, saw splashes all around, and realized someone was shelling her. Looking for the source of the gunfire, I saw a muzzle flash and a splash, which told me that Japanese on the island were doing the shelling. When I alerted Mac, he also spotted a flash and dove on it. Mac let our bomb swing free at a fairly low altitude, but it was hard for me to verify a hit because I was busy strafing as we pulled out over the water. I found out later that someone had knocked out the gun. Given that we were the ones who went after it, I’m pretty sure ours was the aircraft that knocked it out of commission. We pulled out, rejoined our group, and headed for the Lexington at an altitude of 1,500 feet.
While I was strafing the island, I’d had a gun malfunction, so I immediately started to field strip my twin .30-caliber machine guns to fix the problem. My guns were still apart when, about 50 miles out, the engine quit. I continued working on the guns because I thought Mac had forgotten to switch fuel tanks, a pretty common occurrence. It was when I heard him say we were going in the drink that I pushed my guns back in the housing, without enough time to secure them, and turned around to brace myself for the impact of the water landing.
We hit the water so hard Mac’s shoulder harness couldn’t keep his face from hitting the instrument panel. His cockpit’s hood slammed shut at the same time. My first priority was climbing out and releasing his hood, thinking he would be trapped in the cockpit. But when I tried getting out, I discovered my guns had come out of the housing, trapping me in my seat. I reached back, searching for the release, and fortunately was able to find it right away and free myself.
Mac had been able to slide his hood back before I could climb out. He already had gotten out of the cockpit and was standing on a wing holding on to the fuselage. His face was covered with blood from a cut he received on his nose. Now my priority was retrieving the two-man raft from the starboard side of the fuselage just behind my seat. After getting it out, I pulled the toggle on the CO2 bottle and the raft began to inflate. When it was inflated enough for me to climb in, I had floated about 30 or 40 feet from the plane.
I got in the raft and looked back, but the plane had sunk and Mac was floundering in the water. With no time to hunt for the oars, I got on my stomach and paddled toward him. He hadn’t removed his harness—with its attached parachute, one-man raft kit, and back-pad kit containing rations and survival gear—or inflated his Mae West life vest. I kept yelling to him to inflate the vest but to no avail. The blow on the head had rendered him semiconscious. He kept struggling to stay afloat but was losing the battle.
By the time I reached him, his head was underwater. I managed to get to him just in time to grab his parachute harness and pull him high enough to get his arms into the raft. We were totally exhausted. About that time, his wallet floated out of his pocket. I released him and grabbed his wallet. We later laughed about which was more important, him or his wallet.
After we caught our wind, I pulled him into the raft. The gash on his nose was pretty deep, and when he would hold his nose and blow, blood would squirt out. I found a first-aid kit, crushed some sulfa tablets, and sprinkled the powder on his nose, which I then covered with gauze.
McMackin and Sakotas had followed us down and continued circling us while other planes from Air Group 16, joined by aircraft from other air groups, slowly flew very close to the water, tossing out life rafts and Mae Wests. We were witnessing one of the most unforgettable acts of camaraderie, unselfishness, and love for your fellow man. I have never forgotten nor will I ever forget that memorable scene.
Most of the things that were thrown to us were too far away to be retrieved, but an F6F Hellcat pilot from the Cowpens (CVL-25) came by with flaps down about 15 feet over us and dropped his Mae West vest close enough for us to retrieve it. Our hearts skipped a beat when he pushed the throttle forward and his engine sputtered momentarily. We were relieved when the engine responded and he flew off toward his carrier.
The planes, getting low on fuel, headed home, more than 100 miles away. It was quiet except for one lone SBD circling above us. It was climbing high enough for the ship to pick it up on radar to pinpoint our location. McMackin and Sakotas, who were in the plane, put themselves in a vulnerable position. They were alone, subject to attack, and using up precious fuel. After reaching the necessary altitude, they headed for the Lexington to get our rescue under way.
It was now time to assess our situation and consider what we had to do to survive. First, Mac estimated we were about 50 miles east of Wake. Our immediate concern was that the prevailing winds and current would take us back to the island. We decided we would need to row the raft in a northeasterly direction. Mac and I also decided we had to help anyone sent out to pick us up. The only things we could find to do so were a smoke bomb and some very small flares with the device to fire them. The larger flares had gone down with the plane.
Because of the approaching darkness, we assumed surface ships or a submarine would be sent our way rather than aircraft. We decided to fire a flare about every 15 minutes and continue rowing in our prescribed direction. We had only six flares. After firing five of those, I decided to save the last one for future use and keep it dry by placing it in my shirt pocket under my flight suit.
Later that night the sea got very rough, and we were tossed about severely until we found a sea anchor, which helped stabilize the raft. A wave would break over us, drenching us, then the wind would make us feel quite cold. As it dried us off a bit, we eventually became a little more comfortable. It was dark now, and the stars shone brightly. Every so often, Mac would see a star close to the horizon and get very excited thinking it was a ship coming to pick us up. Because the raft constantly was moving up, down, or sideways, it made a star appear to be moving. Later, I would make the same mistake.
Thinking positively gave us hope, as did our prayers. I kept thinking, somebody is on the way to pick us up. At no time, I’m proud to say, did we panic.
We continued rowing all through the night and saw many more bright stars that looked like rescuers. Just as it began getting light, a very bright searchlight appeared, made one 360-degree sweep, and went out. It seemed very close, which made us think it was on Wake Island. We rowed harder and faster. Wake was so low we could be very close to it without seeing it. We kept looking in the direction we’d seen the light, but there was nothing more to see.
When the sun broke the horizon and the day became brighter, we checked the rations, which included a small can of pemmican and some small cans of water. We were determined to conserve water and food, anticipating a long voyage. As we continued to row, we amused ourselves by pointing out clouds that looked like people, animals, or anything else. We heard a plane overhead and identified it as Japanese, so we covered ourselves with a provided tarp, blue side up.
Later that day, we discussed the light that we had seen earlier in the morning. We began to wonder if we had done the right thing by not firing the flare. The rescue submarine was supposed to leave the area during the night, but we began to wonder if she had stayed overnight to try and find us, flashing her searchlight once so that we would see it and answer with a flare before she submerged for the day. We convinced ourselves that’s what had happened, and because we failed to fire the flare, she would give up the search. We were disappointed but still didn’t give up hope, thinking that God was still with us.
Continuing to row in a northeasterly direction, we tried our hand at fishing using a line, hook, and pork rind, all found in the survival gear. We were unsuccessful but did have a very entertaining adventure with a small fish about eight inches long that followed us for quite a while and allowed us to touch him while he nibbled on our fingers. Had we caught him, we would have released him immediately. After that, we gave up the idea of fishing but continued rowing and looking for interesting cloud formations.
We ate a couple of malt balls and had a small sip of water during the day. As the sky darkened, we settled down for a night of rowing. Mac and I would take turns catnapping, which was done sitting upright. With two people in that small raft, stretching out was difficult. We always were sitting in water, and our upper bodies would get wet every time a breaker hit us.
Just before sunrise the next day, we again were startled by the same 360-degree searchlight, which seemed much closer than the day before. This time we decided to fire the last flare. I reached into my shirt pocket, retrieved it and the launching device, and quickly fired our last hope of being found.
I was facing the direction of the light, and Mac was facing the sun, which was almost breaking the horizon. I was praying I would see our submarine and not a Japanese gunboat. It seemed an eternity before Mac yelled, “There they are!” I turned around but saw nothing. I told him the searchlight was in the opposite direction, where I was looking. He again yelled, “There they are!” Again, I turned around and saw nothing.
But then I couldn’t believe my eyes; the sun had just broken the horizon and right in the middle of this big orange ball, just like in a corny “B” movie, was the silhouette of the most beautiful submarine in all the world. I hadn’t seen it before because when Mac saw it we were on the crest of a swell, and by the time I turned around, we were in the trough and the sub wasn’t visible.
We yelled and waved our arms, but the boat was too far away to see or hear us. While waiting for the sub to arrive, we discussed the possibility she might be Japanese. There was nothing to do but wait and see. We assumed that if she were Japanese, the crew would treat us better than the garrison on Wake Island.
As the submarine approached, we began hearing voices and making out silhouettes. One was of a short man with slightly bowed legs wearing shorts. I said to Mac, “I think they’re Japanese.” With the sun directly behind them, it was difficult to recognize anyone. As they approached, we could see many guns pointed toward us. Mac and I were disappointed until we heard five of the sweetest words we had ever heard: “Take your helmets off, Navy.”
The guns were put away as the sub approached very slowly. The men threw us a life ring and pulled us to the boat. Mac was the first to be hauled aboard. He found it difficult to stand; his legs were like rubber. I thought he was injured more than I’d imagined. When it was my turn, I told them I didn’t need any help, but they grabbed my hand anyway. As I stepped aboard, my legs also turned to rubber. They all laughed and so did Mac. They then grabbed the raft, pulled it aboard, and punctured it with a knife. We were very thankful our prayers had been answered.
Pharmacist Mate LeRoy Floerchinger led us down the conning tower of the Skate, examined us, and gave us alcohol rubs. Our bodies were covered with immersion sores from sitting in saltwater for three days. After Mac’s nose was treated, the cook brought us some hot split-pea soup with instructions that we were to have only one serving. We sweet-talked him into bringing us another bowl. After we finished the soup, we told him we were still hungry, so he sneaked us a sandwich. We considered him an angel of mercy. So, with full stomachs and dry clothes, we settled down for a long, restful nap.
Later that day, at about 1630, the submarine picked up her final downed aviator, F6F pilot Lieutenant Commander Mark A. Grant, commander of the Cowpens’ Air Group 25. Three other men had been picked up before us. Lieutenant Harold T. Kicker, of VF-25 off the Cowpens, and Ensign Murray H. Tyler, of VF-5 off the Yorktown (CV-10), go down in naval history as the Submarine Lifeguard League’s first rescued airmen. Also saved was another Lexington aviator, Lieutenant (junior grade) Richard G. Johnson, a fighter pilot from VF-16. Over the next 21 days, Johnson and I became good friends. Sadly, he would lose his life on 4 December 1943 during a mission against Roi-Namur.
I quickly volunteered to stand watch, an act greatly appreciated by the crew because I could better identify planes as friendly or enemy. I enjoyed this assignment because it was a way of thanking them for what they had done for us. It also afforded me the opportunity to get a little sunshine and fresh air.
During the days I spent in the Skate, a brand-new boat on her first war patrol, I had many conversations with the crew. I was pleased to learn that the submarine I had noticed as we circled above Wake was the Skate. She had approached close to the island to rescue Kicker and Tyler. Torpedoman Arthur Smith dove from the submarine’s deck and swam out to Tyler with a life ring while the sub was being shelled by shore batteries. Had the guns not been bombed, the sub could have been hit and disabled—unable to save the airmen, who went on to fight the enemy again—not to mention the potential loss of all of the brave and dedicated men of the Skate, who went on to sink many enemy ships and compile a great war record.
I believe Divine Providence had a hand in all the decisions Mac and I made. Early on the morning we were rescued, the sub’s executive officer and navigator, Lieutenant Commander Marion Ramirez de Arellano, went topside in the conning tower to shoot the stars because it had been overcast the night before. The three lookouts on watch were peering through binoculars, skimming the horizon for any mast of an enemy ship. Two were looking forward, each having a 90-degree sector, and one was looking aft with a 180-degree sector. We were behind the sub, but the man looking aft didn’t see the flare. However, Ramirez de Arellano, who didn’t have his sextant up to his eye at that moment, did see it. He said the flare barely broke the horizon, and we were about 17 miles away. The submarine had passed us shortly before.
The Skate had left the area around Wake to return to Midway but was in a position to see our flare because she had received orders to turn around and head in a southeasterly direction to intercept a large Japanese convoy heading toward Truk. To expedite the chase, the boat was to head straight toward the convoy without following the usual zigzag course. This order put the Skate in a position to rescue Mark Grant, Mac, and me. We owe our lives to the submarine crew that had located the Japanese convoy.
The only encounters the Skate had after rescuing Grant were in the vicinity of Wake. Enemy planes spotted us and dropped depth charges without damaging the sub. And late one night, we encountered another submarine. The two boats went around in circles, each trying to get a torpedo into each other, but after the challenge “You” was sent, the proper response “Rat” was received. The submarine was the USS Tinosa (SS-283). The boats pulled close together and exchanged needed items, and we then headed for the convoy.
After 10 or 11 days, the convoy pursuit was called off and the Skate was ordered to return to Midway. The aviators on board had hoped for a successful hunt; we would have earned the right to wear our wings on one side of our uniforms and submarine dolphins on the other.
We arrived at Midway on 28 October and had a publicity photo shoot, the pictures appearing in U.S. newspapers. An admiral from Pearl Harbor flew to Midway in a PB2Y Coronado to return us to Pearl Harbor. He invited me to sit next to him, and we chatted all the way back. The first thing he said to me was: “If this was the Army, I’d have your medal for you right now, but that isn’t the way the Navy does it. You’ll have to wait for yours.” He couldn’t have been more correct; I’m still waiting for it.
After landing in Pearl Harbor, we taxied to a deck full of admirals, officers, and enlisted men all in dress white uniforms. They saluted the admiral and me as we walked to the microphone, while a Navy band played “Anchors Aweigh.” I was thinking it was a bit much for saving Mac’s life. But I learned it was because I had observed the submarine being shelled and enabled the elimination of the gun, which saved the sub from harm and made possible the first successful Lifeguard League operation. Richard Johnson, Mac, and I then went to the Lexington for cake and ice cream and a chat with Captain Felix Stump. After that, we were flown to our air group.
I was informed I would receive a Silver Star for the Wake Island operation, but because of a mix-up, I never got it. I did receive a Distinguished Flying Cross, Navy and Marine Corps Medal, seven Air Medals, a Good Conduct Medal, and a few other lesser awards for my war service. And I’m happy to say my boyhood dream of flying a plane came true. The Navy sent me to flight school, where I soloed. But the war ended, my wife became pregnant, and she didn’t want me flying after I became a father.
