Bunker Hill (CV 17) - Naval Cruise Book

Page 124 text:

RABAUL Dawn-November 11, 1943: the longest day of our life. It all comes back in the form of mental flashes drawn from a brain file of vivid plc- tures that now yellow in an ash-heapnof memory. We won't forget it. In AmCr1C9- Armistice bands played for holiday parades, and strings of confetti fell like well-wishes from Heaven. A cold wind swept the streets of Chicago, and a brilliant, warmish sun lay close to the heart of Texas, the lemon light of East Forty-Second Street was hardly enough to ward off chill winds that swept up from the man-made canyons of Lower Manhattan, and in Georgia the last locks of cotton were being packed into burlap bags by husky Negroes who sang about Glory and Hallelujah as they worked. That was back home. You have forgotten it by now. This was out here: a small force of carriers and destroyers streaked northward and west- ward through warm, tropical waters, their greyish stacks shimmering in the diffused light of a bright moon that sifted its way through a white skein of clouds. It was an hour before sunrise and you could hardly discern where the moonlight ended and the bluish twilight began. Sailors were going to their battle stations, pilots were climbing into their planes, the bell muzzles of dozens of ready guns pointed solemnly into the winey air of a tropical dawn. Everywhere there was an electrical current flowing and ebbing through the blood of a new crew that waited to light a new ship. Through the minds of these 3,000 men there ran a human movietone of mystery and excitement, they were waiting to meet an enemy they had never seen, an enemy they had sailed thousands of miles to face. Today was the first day, it was the beginning of time, it was the epitome of fanfare and trum- pets, of startling noises and sickening smells, of man's roaring mechanics made to fend off his enemies, of a small kid's willingness to pray-even after he becomes a grown man,

Page 123 text:

Th e Battl X1'y7' R.-,gl K ..,4 ..,, .. fl A' A' ' ,I ' H - ., I r:fr.,f,L,,.:,r,? S P, 3,4117 2, fu fm 5f,:,7,l377unC6J in the ff if itf1?iCof2r, war lize ' 'vlfvfll 1 r T 'isa' V-4: x F. 1 4 i'?fsf fi if lftc' ,ffffgo .fm iii Sqyzzzzffrofm. t was the rare privilege, too, of the U.S.S. Bunker Hill to operate during a transitional period that saw the growth of America's might on the seas. Her initial operations were characterized by au- dacity and courage of Naval leadership. With but a few ships and a sound attack, the fight was carried to the enemy. In unbelievably short months the result of a war-spurred America was seen in the tremendous growth of her fleet. A veritable juggernaut took over the Pacific, drove the enemy from its positions, and O swept in conquest from Rabaul to the Philip- pines. The dawn of 1944 saw the U.S.S. Bunker Hill charging to Kavieng-the most daring thrust into Jap-con trolled waters of the war. Through the Gilberts, the Marshalls, against the bastion of Truk, theuunsinkable carriers of the Carolines, this ship sailed and fought and won. We hit the enemy hard and often. This is the story of one ship's part in that conquest, not the story of a Task Force, but possibly typical of the path that many carriers took in the Fight for the Pacific. Emi: M, iw' T 'ig . galiffzi.f,nxe.r,4f-,xwxmafimxsaxaoaaoc

Page 125 text:

gestive qualities: Japanese ships at anchor, hundreds of antiaircraft guns that lined the hook-shaped estuary, and dozens of airfields that, by dawn, would be sending hundreds of the Emperor's finest birdmen soaring into the Emperor's own unchaste sky. Rabaul. There'll never be anything quite like it. That day--that longest day of our life--stands out not only as the ship's first action, a baptism of fire to take its place among the great battles of the war, but for its defensive brilliance. On this ship Rabaul will be remembered most for the manner in which our squadrons and ships repelled wave after wave of enemy planes in one of the most vicious and prolonged attacks then on record. It all came about as an unscheduled side- show not many days prior to the invasion of the Gilbert Islands. Leaving our Pacific head- quarters we were told of the role we were to play in that invasion. You could hardly de- tCCt signs of approaching battle among the crew, it was still something vague and far away. Sun-bathing and flight deck sports- they Were more like reality. Battle was tomorrow, something that likely would never come. Yet in less than two weeks the Baby of Quincy was cutting her teeth in glorious battle against the enemy, having her flight deck drenched with salt water geysered up by near misses, and seeing her own children countered with death and destruction from the onslaughts of the Nippon tide. The day before November ll was strangely monotonous. Routine duties filled our daily schedule. Having never been through battle, the visions of our foe were somewhat unreal, almost nonexistent. At nightfall the atmos- phere tensed up, however, men about the deck saw loading preparations under way: huge bombs, deadly torpedoes, tons of air- craft ammunition-nothing could be left un- done. The Captain spoke . . . that brought us closer still to what waited us tomorrow: We're steaming up the slot tonight, he said, --the slot so famous for its battles for Guad- alcanal Cthe shores of the Solomons had been sighted at noon that dayj-for the chance we've all been waiting for. fTraining days . . . towed sleeves . . . lifeless target sleds . . . friendly dogfights.J We've been asked to help out on a little job at Rabaul, and we'll contact the enemy in the morning. 1QPhotographic planes had given weird des- criptions of this New Britain base, its land- locked harbor, its numerous associated air- fields. Rabaul-it was a fearful name, after all.j I have every confidence that each and every one of you will do his duty . . . It was just after sunset and the twilight suddenly held mysterious fortunes for tomor- row, a day that had seemed vaguely unreal. Pilots had been briefedgdinner was served. Though it was hot and sultry below decks, the battle supper was nothing short of a har- vest feast. Viewing the kingly setting, Ensign Charley Husted was heard to remark: I hope this isn't the Last Supper . . . For Charley it Was, his plane went down in fiames and he was forced to parachute down over the target into a storm of strafing Jap planes. Tomorrow did come. For breakfast all hands had beefsteak, and at 0645 sixty-nine pilots and their crewmen took off in twenty- seven Hellcats, twenty-three Helldivers and nineteen Avengers. Forced to the sidelines because his Avenger engine was skipping, Lieutenant Bob Higley saw his teammates blend with the dawn, thinking that he alone would have to wait and sweat them out . Before the flight had rendezvoused, his plane was in commission, however, he took off, a solitary figure in the cockpit of his plane, a typical American fighting man that he was- and that's the last memory we have of that gallant airman. He was never seen in the vicinity of the target, and it was feared that he fell victim to jackal Zekes on the lurk for stragglers. Friendly planes appeared overhead: Fight- ing Seventeen, our first fighter squadron that was now land-based in the South Pacific, had come out to keep vigil while the heavy air units winged their way over the target. Twelve of them, headed by Skipper Tommy