A Tale of Heroes
My friends, Fellow readers, I would like to spend the time
to tell you a story, a story that is as true as the sky is blue. A story of true
patriotism, bravery, and actions that had been taken throughout this country's
history by the men and women in uniform who have served this country with great
honor and pride so that we Americans can live with the freedoms we have today.
A story that in my hopes will never be forgotten so that future generations can
realize that this is just one of millions of stories of sacrifice, honor, and
duty that so many before them have shown in the face of odds that were most
definitely stacked against them. A story of a Marine - yet not just any Marine,
but my grandfather. A man that I will always be proud of, about whom I will
always speak to those who will listen, and who I will always hold in the highest regard.
My grandfather, who had fought in a few wars as a Marine fighter pilot, had
started his career during WW2. Like many of his counterparts he was a young
patriot calling up to join the fight against an enemy who had struck the forces
of America without reason. As a child, I can remember wearing my grandfather's
Marine cover - his khaki one stands out the most in my memory. I always felt so
proud donning it. I remember wearing his test pilot helmets that were three times
my size, and feeling like a grown pilot wearing it instead of the young child I
was. I remember how he would pick up Marine hats for us, his grandkids, and how
he would sternly and quickly correct my aunts when they called them 'Army hats'.
I learned very young that there was a truly distinct difference between the Army
and Marines by one who would know; a Marine. I remember his medals that I had finally
seen after years of having been left in a drawer no doubt; medals that he received
over his career; medals that I felt proud and truly blessed to even look at. I knew
that, like many Marines of his era, he didn't think that he was a hero. Yet in my
eyes and the eyes of many others he was, and still is. The actions and sacrifices
these men had made had secured our existence to this day. I was amazed by some of
the stories I would hear from him and those in my family who knew him well. Stories
of his service through out his lengthy career from which he finally retired in
1992. Yet one tale always caught my curiosity: a tale about a lost squadron, a
tale of desperation, bravery - and at long last, survival. After combing books
and finding out-of-print magazines and articles with the help of my other grandfather
(who is the ultimate authority in airplane history,) I was able to produce a
well-documented story, and this is the story I will share with you today.
My grandfather belonged to VMF 422, which was organized on New Years Day of
1943 in San Diego. Before it was a month old, the squadron was moved to Santa
Barbara where the men were given their full course of fighter pilot training.
From here, they were sent upon the USS Bunker Hill to Pearl Harbor, then off
to Midway, where they went further into training and served as a fighter defense
force. On the 15th of December, 1943, the squadron had been issued the most
famed F4U1D Corsair 'whispering death' nick named by the Japs. This famous
gull-winged fighter was considered a favorite by the many pilots from the
era with whom I've spoken (including my grandfather.) These planes were
equipped with six .50 cal. guns carrying a full 2400 rounds of ammunition,
well prepared for any enemy that the fighter may come across. A Vietnam Huey
pilot veteran told me that the Corsair was given to the Marines because the
Navy didn't want them. Well the Marines ended up turning that fighter into
one of the most greatest fighters of the war, serving on into Korea and after,
fighting for France in central Asia. It was a fighter that could take a pounding
and still give it back - a fighter suitable for a Marine.
On the date of January 25th 1944 VMF422 was about to be baptized by an
uncontrollable enemy: Fate. At 0930 hours, 23 of the 24 F4U's embarked
from Hawkins field on Tarawa atoll. They were going to Funafuti with a
stop over in Nanomea, a distance of 463 miles from Tarawa. (The 24th pilot
didn't end up taking off due to engine issues.) So onward, 23 planes
headed toward Nanomea with great flying weather. Two hours into the flight -
fifteen minutes from the refueling point of Nanomea - the Squadron entered
into what would become an enemy worse than the Japanese, who they had
trained for so long to fight.
I've read that there were many possible reasons for what was about to
happen. One reason was due to Major John MacLaughlin not requesting a
escort plane to accompany the squadron; another reason was a missed
weather report or communications issues between the islands. Nonetheless,
the squadron of VMF 422 entered into a enormous storm front that sent
their way an unbelievable rain, that according to Major Mark W. 'Breeze'
Syrkin was "As if a fire hose were being turned on the front of the aircraft."
I guarantee you that this was absolutely horrifying for the squadron. Yet
being Marines, they pressed onward as the storm ravished the squadron causing
communication break-ups and leaving absolute confusion. Lt. John Hansen had
lost contact of his crew and luckily found the Funafuti radio range - and
after five hours in the air, landed with 80 of his 350 gallons of fuel left.
Lt. Jake Wilson had also lost contact. Flying alone, he found a break in the
weather over an Island Niutao atoll and crash landed in a lagoon. There he was
taken ashore by natives. At this point twenty planes led by Maj. MacLaughlin
flew on.
Lt. Chris Lauesen had radioed that his engine was dying out. Lt. Curly Lehnert
followed him down. He had circled until he noticed Mr. Lauesen was having
trouble with his life raft at this Curly bailed out to help him (which earned
him the Marine Corps Medal.) Yet, by the time Curly was able to inflate his
own life raft Mr. Lauesen had disappeared under twenty foot waves. There Curly
stayed floating in the sea, alone. 48 hours later he was rescued by a PBY. Lt.
Lauesen was never found.
Now only eighteen flew on with Capt. John Rogers, also missing. Over the next
several hours one by one pilots began to drop from the formation - or in Major
MacLaghlin's case, fly into the abyss of the dark and formidable storm clouds.
Lts. Tommy Thompson, Ted Thurneau and Bill Aycrigg were later reported to
have crash landed into the sea. Lt. Bob "Tiger" Moran was listed as missing,
until some time after the long search was terminated the natives of Nui
island had notified the Marine Corps that they had seen him parachute over
the beach but got tangled up in his shroud lines. The Marine landed in the
surf yet with all of his fighting he failed to save himself from the ocean's
grip, and he was drowned before the natives could reach him. The natives gave
him a ceremonial burial and there laid him to rest in their own graveyard.
Completely overwhelmed by the elements and with no place to land safely,
Capt. Rex Jeans made a decision that just may had saved the remaining men's
lives. He ordered the remaining 13 pilots to make a traffic pattern over the
sea and crash land at that point after they would latch their rafts together
and ride the storm out. This way they would not lose contact with each other
again.
The crash landing happened with almost no issue, save for Lt. Mark
"Breeze" Syrkin who barely made it into his life raft with a shark hot
on his tail. Chick Whalen, one of the last in the formation, had struck
his head upon landing and was franticly flopping in the sea. My grandfather
Lt. John "Abe" Lincoln, already in his raft, had left the gathering
formation of rafts and floated himself to Chick, and pulled him into his
own raft. Mr. Whalen had been so frantic that reportedly he had removed
almost all of his flight gear and clothes while flailing in the ocean.
(Soon after this event, Mr. Whalen had grounded himself and was sent back
to the U.S. only to eventually return to Korea as a well-respected ground
officer during the Korean war.) There, almost unconscious, Mr. Whalen and
my grandfather Lt. 'Abe' Lincoln reconnected with the group of eleven,
becoming twelve rafts harboring thirteen Marines from the unforgiving sea.
The ocean opened up its worst on the men: some were bleeding, others sick,
and Lt. Syrkin's shark being joined by two others did not make things any
better. Lt. Don Walker broke into song, "It ain't going to rain no more,
no more." His song was sadly far from the truth.
For the next two days, the sea seemed to pour its worse on the pilots.
They sat, drenched and shivering, through two nights of horrendous
downpours and waves that nearly flipped them over constantly. The relentless
three sharks had continued to swim nearer and nearer to the rafts and the
men would fire their pistols to fend them away. At one point, they had
even given names to the sharks: Oscar, Leroy, and Herbert. They identified
each by the sharks' dorsal markings. During those two days, the men who had
joined up to fight the good fight went through some of the worst Mother
Nature could offer. They lived off of malted milk tablets and even pieces
of a seagull that had landed on Capt. Charley Hugh's raft. They suffered
from the elements and also from the constant transfer of Mr. Whalen: the
rafts made for one man were just not able to hold two for too long, as
it caused not only stress on the pilots but also their rafts.
On the third day as they were preparing themselves for the night ahead,
my grandfather John Lincoln had noticed something in the sky. Flying
above was a PBY Catalina Flown by Lt. George Davidson of the Navy Patrol
Squadron 53. The U.S. forces had been for the past day or two performing
one of the greatest search and rescues of the entire Pacific campaign.
Now above the floating Marines The PBY, their salvation, had spotted them.
The pilots had been firing flares and even their pistols in the air to get
its attention. The PBY flew overhead, tilted its wings, and after a few
circles landed. Yet the plane's landing on the rough seas had cracked the
hull. It seamed as if luck was not on their side. Lt. George Davidson of
the PBY had gotten the thirteen Marines into his hull but with the Marines
and seawater filling the plane there was no way he could take off. He at
once did what he could to keep from sinking and radioed his position back
to base. That evening before dark, the USS Hobby, a destroyer that had
bean searching, had answered their call. Without hesitation, they took
the survivors and their would-be rescuers aboard. In all, VMF 422's
losses were 22 planes and six pilots. The surviving Marines were brought
back to base and they healed up the best they could. Within a short
time, they were refitted with planes, and were back at it again to
do their duty as Marines. Their sacrifice and that of the ones who
didn't make it on this fateful voyage will never be forgotten.
Every day we as Americans should awake and thank God for those men
and their courage, who have secured our rights as free Americans;
and we as free Americans should not and can not allow that freedom
to be taken by anyone, lest their sacrifice be proved vain.
My grandfather, after a long and eventful career in the Marin corps,
retired in 1992. Yet once a Marine, always a Marine. In August of the
year 2000, he lost the fight with cancer. Yet his spirit, the same
spirit that kept him going in the stormy seas of the Pacific, lives
on. I will never forget him or his contribution to this nation of
ours. I ask you, the reader, to do the same. Never forget any of
those honorable warriors who gave it all for our society. Keep their
spirits alive and forever honor them. For in no small way it is they
who we have the honor to thank for our freedoms.
J.King
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