| In WW2, I was an Army Air Force 4-engine bomber pilot, 1st Lt. in the
23rd Squadron, 5th Bomb Group. I made 43 bombing missions in the South
Pacific, was shot down twice, and picked up once by an American submarine,
the USS "Cobia." It was a mission from Samar Island in the Philippine Islands to Saigon, Indochina, nearly a thousand miles across the ocean, with a stop-over on Palawan Island, above Borneo. Being a super-patriot and very adventurous, I volunteered for this mission, flying as co-pilot for Capt. Benson, our Squadron Commander. On most bombing missions, we used 7 or more bombers; but on this one, there was only our B-24 and one other. As we approached our target, an oil refinery, 9 Japanese Zeros attacked us. Each of those 9 planes was shooting at us with 2 machine guns and a 20mm cannon, and we were firing at them with 12 machine guns. In that air-battle, 5 of the enemy fighters were shot down, and 3 of our 4 engines were shot out. B-24s don't fly very far with only one engine, so we headed up the coast, away from the city. Our #3 engine was hit in the middle of the propeller hub with a 20mm cannon shell, and that engine caught fire. We were able to put out the fire with fire extinguishers, but the splayed-open propeller hub allowed the propeller blades to turn almost flat to the wind. This made the propeller spin so fast it screamed like a banshee; and we were fearful that the blades would be thrown right through the cockpit. By tossing out our machine guns, ammunition and everything else that we could to make the plane lighter and fly farther, we made it almost 100 miles up the coast and started parachuting out of the plane. The radar-officer's parachute didn't open and he fell to his death. Another of the crew, 19 years old, was wounded and couldn't swim, but he didn't hesitate a second as he parachuted out and into the ocean. I was next-to-the-last one to parachute out, and I instantly pulled the rip-cord to open my chute. Capt. Benson was the last one out. The deserted plane went into a slow dive, and then circled back underneath me. The screaming blades of the wild engine made a dramatic and eerie death wail as the empty plane ended its circle and crashed into the water not far from Capt. Benson. Then everything was quiet; totally quiet! Floating down in the parachute was actually a delightful experience. I softly splashed down into the ocean, and immediately inflated my little one-man life raft and climbed into it. Since I was about a mile from land, I took out my nickel-size compass and plotted a course, so I could paddle in to the shore after it was dark. It was then that I saw a ship in the distance heading toward me. Since I was in enemy territory I assumed that it was some kind of shore-patrol coming out to capture us. At first, I tried to hide my raft and myself (except my eyes) with a blue rubber sheet covering me and the raft. But the boat kept coming toward me so, under the sheet, I prepared my gun for action. I had determined that I would not be taken prisoner, because I had heard too many stories of the torturous deaths of prisoners. To my great relief, it turned out that the ship was--of all things--an American submarine, with the sailors on deck waving to me. They said I was just one-big-grin from ear to ear when fished from the ocean. In the meantime, Capt. Benson had paddled over to the airplane wreckage. There, he found a big 5-man life raft (with a lot of provisions in it) that had automatically been ejected from our airplane and inflated itself, so he sank his one-man raft and took over the big one. When he saw the boat coming, he thought the same thing that I did, flipped the big raft upside-down and hid underneath it. As the sailors approached the raft, they wanted to get a little target practice with their machine gun, sinking the raft; but one sailor said, "wait a minute" and dived in. He swam over to the raft, turned it over, and there was Capt. Benson. THAT was a close call. We were all rescued, except the radar officer, and spent the next 7 days aboard the "USS Cobia" submarine as it took us back to the Philippines, where we would start flying again. While there were many odd and improbable events of the war, surely this rescue must rank high among them. With millions of square miles in the Pacific Ocean, the possibility that an American submarine would be at that particular location where we bailed out, and stick up its periscope at just the right time... is nothing short of miraculous. [I have a silly certificate from the submarine, stating, "Know ye present, that I, Davy Jones, have on this date delivered up one (1) ZEROED-ZOOMIE, Lt. Jean Vandruff, by name, into the custody of the commanding officer, U.S.S. Cobia, to dispose of as he may see fit. // Signed "Davy Jones", nan-hai-branch. latitude 12 north. // Received in good condition, commanding officer, // (sig. unreadable)." As we were flying lead-ship, the other bomber got off without much damage, and made it back to home base.] In WW2, I was an Army Air Force 4-engine bomber pilot with 43 bombing missions, shot down twice in the South Pacific. It was my duty to bomb enemy installations and equipment of the Japanese. I wanted to be a fighter pilot, but the need was for bombers in the South Pacific. The general policy seemed to be that those who asked for multi-engine bombers were made 1st-pilots and those who petitioned for fighter aircraft (which I had) were made 2nd-pilots. I don't think I ever met anyone who resented being a co-pilot, because in war there is really no noticeable difference. It was very definitely a "team-effort." Flying a B-24 was not a fun-and-pleasure experience. On long missions, some up to 12-15 hours, I got blisters on my hands from flying tight formation. War is a hellish place to be, but I never received a scratch. Many others weren't so lucky. The basic irony and unfairness of war is that one man, or a few men (like Hitler and Hirohito) send their citizens to fight while they live in safety and luxury. The soldiers fight desperately: not that they hate the individuals that they are drawing-a-bead-on, but they find themselves trapped in a kill-or-be-killed dilemma. In the future, instead of fighting by the old rules, perhaps we should put our war effort directly against the leaders? Reagan did this with Kadahfy, and it appears to have worked very well. An extended war against a nation's military and its people should be avoided. Why shouldn't we just keep it simple and concentrate the violence toward the real cause: the leaders? I suspect that this up-front policy would stop most wars before they began. |
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| J. V Vandruff |
| Westminster, CA United States |
| 1st Lt. in the 23rd Squadron, 5th Bomb Group United States Army Air Corps |
