Priceless Memories - Bob Barker [51]
I managed to find out that Banana River was a big—really big—Mariner base, and that there were many, many Mariners flying out of Banana River. But the Mariner was a huge four-engine seaplane. Why would I, a fighter pilot, be going to a Mariner base? As long as they were stationed at a base on the east coast of Florida, the Mariners would hardly need fighter protection.
When we arrived at Banana River, I and six other gloriously happy ensigns who had just finished operational learned that we were to be the only seven fighter pilots on the base and that our sole responsibility was to fly out over the beautiful Atlantic and make gunnery runs on Mariners. The crews of the Mariners would fire at us with cameras, in preparation for firing at enemy fighters with machine guns. Fighter pilots love making gunnery runs. We loved fighter affiliation. Dorothy Jo could be with me and I loved Dorothy Jo, too. It was a lovefest.
Snug Harbor was our home at Banana River. It was what folks used to call a tourist court, and Dorothy Jo got cabins for us and for Howard Hessick and his bride. Snug Harbor was on the Indian River, complete with a pier, on which Dorothy Jo got a lovely tan, and a sailboat, which Howard sailed downriver and then had to have towed back. Fortunately, Howard was a much better fighter pilot than he was a sailor. Dorothy Jo and I used to go to Miami, which was a very exciting place during World War II, filled with uniforms of every description. We made trips into the fascinating swamps. I even got Dorothy Jo off the pier long enough to go to the beach.
Of course, I had to spend a few hours on the flight line every day, not necessarily flying. We played a lot of hearts. If you had a good hand and your name was called to give a Mariner a bad time, one of the other pilots was always happy to pretend to shoot down that seaplane. Fighter affiliation was the good life, there’s no doubt about it. But as a comedian might say: Seriously, folks, I think I was a better fighter pilot as a result of that duty. I think all those gunnery runs on Mariners improved my skills to the extent that I was better prepared for combat, and it’s a good thing that I felt better prepared for combat because my stay at Banana River was about to become history.
The commanding officer of the base learned that we, the seven gloriously happy fighter pilots, had not been to sea. He ordered that we be shipped out. It seems that the commanding officer thought this soft berth of fighter affiliation should be a reward for fighter pilots who had been to sea and earned it. Who’s to blame him? He was right. That’s why he was the commanding officer of the base.
The first pilot to arrive from the fleet was Jack Lyon, a likable lieutenant, who was followed by Wally Maya, an equally likable marine captain, who had flown in Pappy Boyington’s Black Sheep Squadron, so you know he was a character. I got to know Jack and Wally well enough for Dorothy Jo and me to go out to dinner with them a couple of times before I, to use the commanding officer’s expression, “shipped out.”
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I had known the joy of fighter affiliation for about two months when I received orders to report to Grosse Ile Naval Air Station in Michigan, where I would be placed in a fighter pilot pool to await assignment to a seagoing squadron.
When Jack Lyon learned that I was about to depart, he felt compelled, as an officer and a gentleman, to bid Dorothy Jo farewell. Not in person, however—in his plane. I wasn’t there. I was at the base, but Dorothy Jo described it to me later. She was in our cabin packing and talking with the landlady, who was helping her to get packed. There was a big wooden water tower near our Snug Harbor cabin. She said suddenly they heard an airplane that sounded as if it were headed directly for our cabin. She said that they could hear it getting closer and closer.
The landlady started to panic and began screaming that the plane was cracking up, that it was going to crash right into the cabin. Indeed, Jack was roaring right for the cabin.