Tom
Wacht remembers many humorous incidents during the days
on Guam. In particular, the following are most prominent
in his mind:
"The
first thing that comes to mind are the austere living
conditions on Guam. All of the Quonset huts were infested
with good sired rats that kept us company. In an effort
to control the population some of my crew, and other
crews as well, used to shoot the little buggers with
their Colt pistols. This was OK when we were supplied
with bird shot ammo but left holes in the roof when
we were issued tracers. It resulted in omnipresent leaks
during the frequent heavy rain on Guam!
I
think the most amusing contrivance was our primitive
sanitary facilities. Situated at the edge of the jungle,
'these multiple-holers inspired many stories from those
whom they accommodated. David Shaffalo, our radar operator,
had many encounters with the large flies that infested
the latrine. The rest of us, somehow, tolerated these
winged swarms, but not Dave. He referred to them as
'damn dive bombers' They were particularly annoying
to him when he was in the act of doing "#2." Each time
when nature called he would gather all available paper
or other flammable material, set it afire, and drop
it into the pit below - home base of these 'dive bombers.'
We all wondered when these incendiary attacks would
ignite the building, and possibly Dave along with it.
His reply would always be the same, 'Don't worry about
me, and if the whole damn shack burns down, let them
build another.
The
water truck would generally come around at erratic times
to replenish the suspended shower tanks. It would pull
up between two duckboards behind the hut, blow its horn,
and begin the filling operation. He seemed as if the
procedure was purposely limited to one minute. The operator
would then shut off the water and move on to the next
set of duckboards. If a showeree had arrived a little
late, he might have to follow the water truck au natural
to finish rinsing off the suds. This happened many times,
much to the dismay of the bathers.
When
we had our grand opening of the Officer's Club, our
CO selected two unmarried airplane commanders to act
as escorts for two young females to the affair, John
Harvey and I were the chosen two from the 62nd Squadron.
As I recall, John was paired up with a navy nurse and
I with a Red Cross lady. My date was not particularly
attractive - in fact quite the contrary. She had the
proboscis of a puppet in the fairy tale. There were
remarks from my crew about being able to chin one's
self on her nose, and other unsympathetic comments regarding
my predicament. The merriment ceased, however, when
I allowed them to share my pleasure by stepping forth
and dancing with the young lady. Come to think of it,
though, the request came more in the form of an order.
Dave
Shaffalo was the instigator: I see him at most of our
crew reunions.
Then
there was the "Gooney Bird." When, periodically it would
spray DDT, we'd have to hurry out and cover the "lister
bags" to keep the oily chemical out of the drinking water
(so called).
Of
course everyone remembers the outdoor movies and the accompanying
downpours that would drench us every night.
On
the serious side, a mission that comes to mind is the
low-level raid on Tokyo early in May 1945. When the Japanese
blew a king size hole in our left wing near the inboard
engine and we lost over 300 gallons of fuel, it became
clear that we had an emergency on our hands. Iwo Jima
was zero-zero; Siapan and Tinian were so saturated with
traffic we didn't even try to land there, and North Field
made us go around for a B-29 with a dead tail gunner aboard.
We landed at the little field south of there with something
like 100 gallons of gasoline remaining. We learned that
we had received 41 flak holes in our aircraft. Ho-hum
….. "
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