Chapter Headings:
A New Mission
Ready to Go
A Navy Career
Aleutian Posting
Aircrew
Aleutian Patrols
Engine Fire
Ashore
Rescue

I remembered the day we flew a photo reconnaissance mission over enemy-held Kiska Island. Kiska was fortified and protected by float-plane fighters and anti-aircraft guns, so we all manned our battle stations as we neared the island. I took my battle station at the 30 cal machine gun in the tunnel section, fastened my safety belt, and opened the tunnel hatch. We all fired short bursts from our weapons to check their readiness, then waited for the fighters and AA bursts to appear. However our pilot, being an experienced flyer, ducked up into the dense cloud cover when we neared Kiska, and when over the island periodically popped out and took photos. In this manner we avoided the fighters and AA fire on this trip.

One day we took off from Cold Bay's runway for a patrol flight from this location. Near the end of the runway we lifted off, and were about 25 feet in the air when we reached the end. There, right at the end of the strip directly in our path, were clustered about seven huge bears. One of them had reared up on his hind legs, arms raised,, appearing to be ready to smack us down. W cleared them, however, and continued on our way. The event reminded me of the huge Kodiak bear standing in front of the trading post at Kodiak town.

Engine Fire

Suddenly a noisy commotion up forward shattered my mental wanderings People rushed around shouting, but engine noise drowned out what was being said. We had been flying about 30 minutes by this time and it was still dark outside. An excited voice then came over the intercom ordering us to start throwing everything possible overboard to lighten ship. Our starboard engine had caught fire, the fire had been extinguished, but the engine wouldn't restart and we were losing altitude.

Bombs and torpedoes were jettisoned immediately. Then almost everything else that was moveable. Machine-guns and ammunition, spare tools, navigation equipment, our propane cooking stove, loose radio gear, food, even the catwalks on the deck went out. We worked furiously because we were dropping fast. At one point the other blister observer and I struggled to free a 50-cal machine gun stuck in its mount. The jammed gun suddenly broke free and we both almost followed it over the side.

The airplane finally leveled off about 50 ft above the water, in dense fog. Although the fog blinded us, our radar indicated that we were flying along the shore of an island. A tall, jagged spire of rock suddenly materialized out of the fog directly ahead of us, and only the lifting of a wing saved us from hitting it. Following this close shave, the pilots decided that the best chance for our survival lay in making an immediate water landing and running our plane up onto the island's beach. They then made a harrowing open sea landing, in the dark and on one engine, and pushing through large swells taxied the Catalina through the fog towards the island. Several minutes later the PBY ran aground about 40 ft offshore.

Ashore

Day had started to break, and it was snowing lightly. We inflated a rubber raft and took turns paddling ashore, everyone nervous that the enemy might be waiting to 'greet' us. Fortunately, the P-boat beached in a sheltered area of smooth water, and we didn't have to maneuver the raft through surf. I'll never forget the bone-numbing pain of my cold, ungloved hands from paddling the raft and handling its wet lines. After we dragged the raft up onto the beach, Mr. Tetley split us up into two groups to reconnoiter the area.

Luckily, for it was very cold, the scouting group I was in discovered a small, vacant two-room wooden cabin about a quarter of a mile from the airplane. We were very relieved to find it in good condition, with firewood neatly stacked to the ceiling in the anteroom, shelves fully stocked with canned food in the main room, and with a one-seat outhouse close to the cabin. I remember being particularly surprised by the large store of firewood and the amount of wood used to build the cabin, because I had seen nothing but treeless tundra since leaving Kodiak a thousand miles away. A large cast iron wood-burning stove, complete with all necessary cooking utensils, sat next to food shelves along with a small, rustic table and some chairs. A couple of the cabin' walls were liberally decorated with Russian orthodox religious pictures and Russian language articles, and religious icons hung in various places. Several different-sized animal traps hung from wooden pegs on one wall. Four wooden bunks, in pairs, one bunk above another, lined another wall. The offices took the bunks, which turned out to be too short for comfort, while the rest of the crew threw their sleeping bags down on the plank floor. The animal traps and the short bunks led us to conclude that the cabin had previously been occupied by native Aleut fur trappers.

At this point a problem surfaced, in that through an oversight I had not been issued a sleeping bag when I joined the flight crew. After much discussion, Mr. Tetley suggested that I share, simultaneously, the bag belonging to Aviation Machinist Mate Third Class, H.E. Fraley, and Fraley reluctantly agreed. This turned out to be a very cozy, hugely uncomfortable arrangement, one definitely against U.S. Navy regulations. But Fraley was real good about it and never once grumbled. And, of course, without a bag of my own I didn't either. The others must have found it humorous, after we turned in later, watching Fraley and me trying to change positions in the bag, because all our movements had to be coordinated precisely and executed by the numbers. However, our situation was too serious for such humorous comments, though, and none were made.

Our navigation up to this point indicated that we were down on Tanaga Island, approximately 50 or 60 miles west of Adak. So after stowing our gear in the cabin the first day, we returned to our beached craft to try and get the damaged engine running again. To our surprise, we found the Catalina's hull had already become sanded in and stuck. We immediately turned to with shovels and raft paddles in an attempt to free and float the PBY out to deeper water. But after a couple of very strenuous and fruitless hours of digging, when each shovelful of dug sand immediately washed back in, Mr. Tetley gave up the job as hopeless.

Work then turned to stripping gear from the airplane, on the assumption that we would eventually be found and rescued and valuable gear saved. It turned out that there was only limited working room in and on the aircraft, so Fraley, another man and I returned to the cabin to tend things there. We were ordered to keep watch over the bay from the cabin's strategic location overlooking it. When jettisoning equipment earlier, we had dumped all weapons except a 30 cal machine gun with its ammunition and the side arms the officers carried. Back at the cabin the three of us rigged up the machine gun in the event a Japanese landing team tried to slip in and bushwhack us.

After the fog cleared, I saw that Tanaga was little different from the other Aleutian islands I was familiar with. A relatively flat, tundra-covered beach plain rose gradually to hills at the base of a steep mountain, whose top was hidden in low overcast. Off to either side of our location were occasional edgewater bluffs, with rocky outcrops rising out of the water a few yards offshore. The total silence and lack of human activity - conditions completely opposite to those at our busy bases - were eerie and somewhat unsettling. To me it emphasized just how isolated and alone we were.

Surprisingly, I found the next few days at the cabin to be uneventful and relatively enjoyable despite our situation. Fraley, a country boy from Oklahoma, set out traps and caught a pair of silver foxes that he skinned and stretched for their pelts. We attentively followed, with binoculars, the movements of what appeared to be a large bear high up the side of the mountain behind our cabin. At other times we either went fishing with some of the cabin's gear or just lounged around. Even the weather turned milder than usual.

Rescue

The others were still working on the aircraft when a PBY unexpectedly flew over us and wagged its wings. We ran outside our cabin and waved our arms, while the plane banked and made several passes. Each day thereafter, a squadron P-Boat flew over and dropped us food, an operation performed with minimum finesse. The PBY would make several low passes and shove cartons of canned and packaged food out of a blister during each pass, no parachute attached. We kept our distance at these times, because the boxes literally exploded when they hit the ground, spraying cans, bags and loose food items in all directions. We figured maybe ten percent of the food survived the drop, but with the cabin's supplies we still had more than enough for our needs .despite the losses.

Conditions were unfavorable for flying us out of Tanaga, so arrangements were made for a ship to pick us up. A couple of days after we castaways had been spotted by the BY, Yard Patrol Boat YP-55 steamed into Tanaga Bay with horn blasting and took us aboard. It took the better part of another day to load our personal and salvaged gear onto the small ship. As a final act before leaving, we left a note of thanks on the table. Being written in English, though, it was questionable whether or not the cabin's next occupants would be able to read it. Unfortunately, we were unable to replace the precious firewood we had used.

We eventually left Tanaga Island with no regrets, and YP-55 headed out to sea on the Bering Sea side of the island. And as luck would have it, a big storm slammed in on us shortly after we got underway. I stood a radio watch on the ship during the storm, and this turned out to be another memorable experience. The ship's narrow, rectangular radio shack, which lay athwart ship, was barely wide enough for me to squeeze into. The radio gear sat on a small shelf attached to the hull, with a chair fitted with casters in front of it. I commenced my watch at the height of the storm, and was forced to grab and hang onto anything available as I entered the shack. This prevented me from checking my chair's caster locks. Then on watch, as YP-55 incessantly pitched, rolled and plunged in the heaving seas, my chair and I would suddenly catapult down the shack away from the radio. We would then suddenly reverse course and shoot back towards it, with me hanging on for dear life. This was the wildest radio watch I had ever experienced.

After being relieved of my watch I lurched to the other side of the ship via the bridge. As I entered the bridge I was astounded to see the only person on his feet to be the helmsman steering the ship: the officer on bridge watch was lying face down on the deck, groaning piteously. This was one time, I'm certain, that fellow wished he had joined the Army instead of the Navy. Later the next day, in calmer waters, we made an at-sea transfer from YP-55 to a merchant freighter, clambering up its side by a boatswain's rope ladder, to complete our journey. So we arrived back at Adak more than a week after we had left it, somewhat shaken by our experience but none the worse for wear.

Our squadron returned to the States a short time later, and we went home for leave and reassignment. So ended my tour of duty with VP-41 and my Aleutian Island experience.

Patrick Foxen

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