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Crew 12
I had a good crew. Our PPC was a tall lanky guy named Novetzke who stayed cool and did all the right things whenever we were
in trouble. Our copilot was named Lina, and the third pilot, who filled in as navigator while he was waiting to become copilot, was a quiet little fellow named Bare. He was one of the few third officers I ever flew
with who really knew how to navigate. The Navy didn't really have such a thing as a navigator in those days. All Navy pilots were supposed to know how to navigate. Usually the radar operator, with the aid of some
sophisticated electronic equipment, did a lot of the navigating, but in our crew, the radar operator watched over Bare's shoulder and learned the fine art of navigation. What I learned from him later got us out of
Russia in one piece.
Ferdy was our radio operator, Lesh was our ECM operator. Porter was our ordnance man, and “Boats” (Short for Aviation Boatswain Mate), his real name was Ellis, was our tail
gunner. The most important man in the crew was the ordnance man/top deck gunner. He also filled in as cook and coffee maker. On ten hour patrols he didn't have much to do when we weren't on station so he was
assigned the cooking chores.
The plane captain, and nose turret gunner, was an AD2
(aviation mechanic) named Stewart. It was tradition for ADs and ATs to be enemies, but Stuart and I were good friends. He was the only one with a ball turret so I'd relieve him occasionally so he could stretch his
legs. I didn't like his nose turret much. I always felt like I was going to roll out the front of the airplane and drop like a basketball into the sea below.
The size of the crew varied from 8 to 10
depending on the configuration of the aircraft. If your aircraft was fitted with MAD gear and a Plexiglas nose, there was no need for a nose gunner or tail gunner. Both models had a top deck turret so there was need
of an ordnance man. The ordnance man was a jack of all trades, one of which was head chef. The average patrol lasted 10 hours but that didn't mean we were to go without food. We were well stocked with everything
from steaks to Spam. We had canned fruit, canned vegetables, bread, butter, lunch meat, and coffee grounds. The steaks, vegetables, and coffee had to be cooked, so a small electric stove was also provided. Our man
was an excellent ordnanceman and an even better cook. About five hours after takeoff he'd start passing out hot plate lunches. He always had fresh coffee brewing. Later, when you least expected it, he'd come around
with sandwiches.
Three of the crewmembers were electronic techs. There was at least one mechanic, an ordnanceman, and usually a metalsmith or electrician in the crew. We maintained our own aircraft
unless it was a big job such as an engine change. Even then one of the crew was on hand. It was a good system. When you knew you were going to fly missions in the aircraft you were repairing, you did it right.
The fact that we flew combat missions didn't mean we were automatically given combat aircrewman wings. We had to earn them. Every man in the crew had to be able to do every other crewman's job
reasonably well in order to get his wings. The electronic techs were already trained in CW and were expected to send and receive more than 10 WPM. Other crewmen were only required to pass a 5 WPM test. In an
emergency, 5 WPM would do just fine. We all learned to fire the guns. We started out with shotguns on a skeet range. We had to learn to lead a target before we were allowed to actually fire the guns at a sleeve
towed by another aircraft. A radio operator in one crew had his own system. He'd hold the trigger down and walk the tracers across the sleeve. It worked, but one time the guns got so hot, when he turned the turret
aft, the shell in the chamber cooked off sending a 20 mm slug right into the leading edge of the rudder. It passed straight through, front to back. The complete rudder assembly had to be changed.
It took about a year to get everyone cross-trained. We felt a lot of pride when we walked up to get our combat aircrewman wings pinned on. It wasn't a gift; we earned it.
Each aircraft
was identified by a number painted across the tail. The first three digits identified the series. Our squadron had three models; the 124 series, the 128 series and the 131 series. The higher number was the later
model. The big difference in the two, in my area, was the type of radar. The 128 series had an APS-20-A and the 131 series had an APS 20-B. The difference in A and B was enormous. The B was a completely new radar.
The A model had two six-inch diameter amber scopes. The B had a huge 14-inch yellow scope with multiple cursors. The main cursor rotated around a point in the center while a second one could be positioned anywhere
on the scope. By placing the start of the cursor on a target and cranking it around so it crossed another target, you could read the magnetic heading from the first target to the second. Not only that, another crank
ran a marker out to the second target, giving you the distance between the two. In our type of work, this was a definite advantage. If you had another aircraft working with you, one without radar, you could give him
his distance and heading to the target the instant you had it on the scope. The APS-20B was the most sophisticated radar I'd ever worked with, and I loved it. Going from the A series to the B series was like trading
in a Chevrolet for a Cadillac.
The radar operator and navigator (third pilot) shared all the equipment forward of the wing beam. Our equipment was situated along the starboard side of the aircraft
starting immediately behind the copilot, extending all the way back to the wing beam. Our seats were mounted on rails so we could scoot fore and aft to position ourselves in front of the necessary consoles. I could
move to the sonobuoy receiver while the navigator moved to my radar. It was a nice arrangement.
The wing beam split the aircraft into two parts. Imagine a simple balsa model airplane with a slot in
the middle of a one-piece fuselage. To mount the wing you push another long flat piece of balsa through the slot until half was on one side and half on the other side. That was how a P2V wing was mounted. To get
from one end of the aircraft to the other, you had to crawl over the wing beam. If you were an athletic type you could dive over the beam, do a somersault, and land standing up on the other side. I learned to do
this quite well; the relief tubes were located aft. I once took my wife on a tour of the aircraft. The guys were thoughtful enough to look the other way when she crawled over the wing beam in her short skirt. Well,
most of them were anyhow.
Just aft of the wing beam was the radio operator’s cubicle. Next to him was the ECM operator’s position. From the pilots’ positions back to the ECM operator, things were
very crowded. From there to the tail it was a little more roomy, but not a lot.
There were two ways to get inside of a P2V. One was up through the nose wheel hatch and the other was through a one
meter square hole aft. Both entrances were in the bottom of the aircraft. The nose wheel entrance had a short ladder that could be pulled down but to enter the rear hatch it was necessary to swing up into it like a
monkey. Nothing like the first-class and economy entrances in a 747.
When you entered through the nose, you had two options: you could crawl forward to the nose turret or crawl aft a short distance
to another hole leading up to the flight deck. The rear entrance needed to be larger because that's where the food entered the aircraft. There was another hatch located on the port side just behind the radio
compartment, but it was used as an emergency exit.
The P2V was not built for comfort. It was designed to perform a duty. For the next year, crew 12 spent a lot of time learning how to perform those
duties.
Next: The Training Phase
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