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| Serendipity | Sep '07 |
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| By Cliff Robertson |
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Serendipity,I suspect, means different things to different people. Webster refers to the heroes of the Per fairy tale, "The Three Princes of Serendip": "the gift of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought." Far be it for this stumbling writer to contest Mr. Webster's definition, but in my shallow brain, it refers to the unexpected with usually happy and positive results. I would say, looking back over my checkered career, it has been more than just happy, but actually lifesaving. I would not be writing this column today or any day in Airport Journals were it not for a mistake. Maybe an oversight. Maybe sloppy technical work. Or maybe the dear Lord, in his mysterious way, planned it.
Dec. 7, 1941, found this teenager aboard an old Hog Island trans-steamer in the Philippine Islands. We were 200 miles off the port of Ilo with a load of Philippine mahogany. We were returning—we thought—to San Francisco, from whence we had left some three months previous. As an ordinary seaman (the lowest man on the ship's totem pole), I had just gotten off my 4-8 watch and repaired to the stern of the Admiral Cole, where I was enjoying a cigarette with two other members of the watch. I was enjoying my Jack London/Herman Melville/Richard Halliburton teenage odyssey. Little did I know that the odyssey was shortly to be shattered; within a matter of minutes, America would be a committed nation in World War II.
At about 8:15 a.m., near the end of the Camel cigarette's burning embers, I spotted in the distant, clear-blue horizon what appeared to be a fourengine amphibious aircraft. "Look!" I shouted to my shipmates. "Way off on the horizon is the China Clipper."
"China Clipper, hell," said my English shipmate. "That's a bloody Japanese amphibian. Look at the meatball!"
He pointed to the bright red circle on its fuselage.
"My God, you're right," I responded. "Guess the Japs are keeping a weather eye out, even here in the Philippines."
I was referring, of course, to the rather delicate international diplomatic relations being discussed in Washington at that very moment.
"Look, he's turning left, comin' our way," observed the English shipmate.
"Yeah, he sure as hell is," responded the other able–bodied shipmate.
I was excited; it was my first look at an actual foreign aircraft. Until that time, my experience was confined to making model airplanes back in that sleepy little California town called La Jolla. I did, however, recognize that it was a long-range Japanese naval bomber. Four engines, with a cruising range of over 2,000 miles. This Avis aircraft had a crew of 10 or 11 and had likely left the island of Palau, where the Japanese had a naval base.
All we knew was that it was headed our way. I had read of a bombing on the Yangtze River a few years before, on an American gunboat, the USS Panay.
The three of us stood transfixed, watching the lumbering amphibian make a left turn from five miles and 2,000 feet elevation astern. Approximately four miles distant and in direct line, I watched the Avis descend down to approximately 1,500 feet.
Then, to my unbelieving eyes, a bomb bay door opened, and something fell from the aircraft. I was thrilled and too young to be scared at that instant. All I knew was that my adventuresome dreams were coming true. Something exciting was actually happening—to me. At 16, excitement has an almost sensuous identity of itsbown.
The bomb dropped slightly to the starboard side of the Admiral Cole's bow. A huge geyser of water showered the ship, followed with the peppering sounds of shrapnel. Then a dozen monkeys raced across the deck load of mahogany. I should explain: various crewmembers had purchased the monkeys for girlfriends back in the States. Somehow the shrapnel explosion had severed the tether lines holding the monkeys, and they were virtually flying across and over the deck.
I was now "in it." In action—real action—and a piece of history. I dashed down the steps into the bowels of the stern and into my stateroom to awaken the 12-4 watch ordinary seaman who was soundly sleeping. He was a large, fat, robust soul that we called "Joe Bananas."
I shook him violently and yelled, "Wake up, Joe! Wake up, dammit! The Japs are bombing us!" Joe, a heavy sleeper, responded by thrashing a left hook in my direction. "----, ----, ---- off, Robertson. ---- off!"
Naturally he doubted my desperate warning.
I pulled my life preserver from its hook along with my Brownie camera, for in my young would-be journalist's mind, I was about to capture a "national incident" that I would ultimately sell to Life Magazine and make my mark as a teenage journalist. Alas, to my dismay, the Brownie camera was empty of film, and I had lost my opportunity.
I scampered back up the stairs as another bomb hit the bow. At that instant I saw something I shall never forget; one of the more agile monkeys raced across the poop deck five feet from my unbelieving eyes, and with one gigantic leap, jumped to the aft rail. His furry fist clutched the stern rail as he hung precariously over the thrashing propeller wash below. Whether he was debating jumping, I do not know, for I had made a decision to race forward to the lifeboat, to which I had been assigned during previous drills.
Another visual piece of comedy. Racing past me toward the starboard lifeboat was a blurred white vision: Joe Bananas, stark-ass naked, now fully awake and in high gear, had obviously been awakened by the second explosion and was headed for the starboard lifeboat—balls and all!
The Admiral Cole, with a crew of some 30, normally would divide the crew 50-50 at its lifeboat stations. Not this day. Not this time. For reasons I have never understood, virtually all the crew had already climbed into the single starboard lifeboat. I, along with "Chips," the ship's carpenter, desperately tried to man the davits at the port lifeboat. It was far too big a job for the two of us. As we struggled, suddenly Chips looked up at the attacking aircraft, now flying at low level and raking the Cole amidships with machine gun fire.
"Look out, Cliff!" cried Chips as he dove behind a large metal stanchion. My young body responded as I jumped right behind him. We both saw the trail of machine gun bullets peppering the desk where I had been standing. We were untouched, but one of our crewmates by the starboard lifeboat was hit in the neck as he struggled to lower the boat.
At that point, I saw the watery trail the Admiral Cole left. Obviously, someone had left the wheel house (I later found out that it was the third ordinary seaman, Joe, who had abandoned his precarious station for more sensible cover).
The Avis came around for a third bombing run. This time the bomb exploded off the Cole's bow. Awash the beleaguered steamer was more shrapnel, followed by more monkeys.
Thinking that the Japanese were making a very big mistake, I raced aft, grabbed a heavy canvas hatch cover and pitifully waved it as a sign of peaceful intentions. The Admiral Cole's iron plates had been damaged, and we were now virtually adrift as the giant Avis bomber lumbered eastward toward another target of opportunity. Obviously, they felt that the Admiral Cole was of no danger and little concern to the Imperial Japanese Navy. They had far, far bigger fish to bomb.
Sparks, our radio man, then told us that Pearl Harbor had been bombed, just as we had. The captain told us we would try to escape—sailing southward towards Zambonga and much needed repairs. No sooner had we landed in Zambonga than a U.S. Army major rolled up on the dock alongside the Cole and explained that Japan was moving its forces throughout Southeast Asia, and that he was taking his force of some 50 men "into the hills."
"Any of you younger men that want to join me are welcome," said the major, looking straight at my fresh, eager face.
I raised my arm tentatively. Joe Bananas pushed it down and whispered in my ear, "Cliff, stay with the ship. You don't want to go into those mountains. There are snakes in there, bugs and other scurvy vermin. Besides, the Cole has gotten us this far."
My bravado fell with my tentative arm. The major gave me one last inquiring look before he turned smartly, returned to his truck and lumbered away down the wood pier.
Emergency work was done on the Cole's battered hull, and three days later we slipped quietly back into the dark waters of the Philippines, headed south for the Torres Straits and Sydney, Australia.
We were not prepared for the reception we received in Sydney. Evidently, ours was the first American freighter to escape the fast-moving Japanese. We were interviewed by the Sydney press but were not allowed to go ashore.
Two days later, we left in the dark of night for the Tasmanian Sea and Wellington, New Zealand, where my fervent young Melvillean mind was set on a scheme. I planned to jump ship in Wellington and volunteer to train in the New Zealand air force. I had learned that its eye requirements were less strict than ours. With my 20/20 and 20/30 eyesight, I could join these brave "Kiwis" and very soon be flying Spitfires over England and Europe.
That was my dream. I would then be where I belonged: in the cockpit of a British Spitfire. That was the plan, but as Willie Shakespeare warned, "The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry."
Editor's note: Stay tuned.Cliff's harrowing tale will be continued next month.
Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. He was inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored him as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book. For more information, visit www.cliffrobertson.info.
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