Earlier I wrote about visiting an old relative, the widow of my Uncle Tommy who died during WWII.  (If you plan to read this to the end, get your Kleenex out now.) He was a young Navy pilot; she a nursing student in Minneapolis. In the past six months, my family in Minnesota arranged for a cemetery stone which is now placed at Fort Snelling at behest of my aunt.  We are mildly aggreived that the date of death falls in 1946 and appears that he died after the war. 

My cousin Bobby dug around and provided this account of July 28, 1945 which I post here.  It's interesting on so many levels.  For my family, it is particularly poignant because after decades this is the most information we've ever received about the circumstances of Tommy's death.  And the anniversary of his death, just recently passed, marks 65 years.  Longer than my life by a few decades.   Interesting that the author, who gives a first-hand account, switches between first- and third-person accounts.  Typical when recalling traumatic events, the author makes factual, brief statements almost entirely devoid of emotion.  He betrays his deep feelings only briefly.

The account below is written by Fred Woods and it's titled "IT DID HAPPEN!"  Two and a half type-written pages and part of some sort of book recording maybe the history of his squadron?  I don't really know - but the account falls on pages 114-116.

Fred writes:

It's air strike day -- 28 July 1945 -- and the pilots of VBF 87 are out of the sack by 3 a.m.  After breakfast in the ward room of the USS Ticonderoga they go up to the ready room where they bring their navigation boards up to date. 

The target todayis the Japanes light cruiser Tone in the Inland Sea near Kure Air Base.  Pre-launch preparations include a look at pictures in the area, flak analysis, wing direction and velocity at all altitudes, recognition signals, position of our ship, radio calls and frequencies and a few other incidentals one has to remember.

Now it's time to get into flight gear, which is hanging on pegs on the bulkheads on both sides of the ready room.  Other gear -- parachute harness, oxygen masks, shoulder holsters, 38-caliber revolvers and those ever-beside-me knives are on the overhead.  The overhead also yields backpacks containing everything from soup to nuts that a pilot might need for preservation of life if knocked out of the sky, and a canteen of precious water.

All of this gear must weigh 20to 30 pounds, and pilot fatigue is common while wearing it for four or five hours on the flights to and from the target.

The preparations are over now and, finally, from the ready room squawk box come theorder everyone has been waiting for: "Pilots, man your planes!"

They leave the ready room for the flight deck, plotting boards in one hand and maybe gloves in the other. Dave Mosier, the administrative and personnel officer, starts the Naval Air Corps song on the record player, bringing a smile to the faces of the pilots as they climb the ladder to the flight desk and their assigned planes.

Looking over the weather, if possible at 5 a.m., the pilot takes a casual look at the bridge at Cmdr. W.R. Thompson, Flight officer, or his assistant, Lt. Cmdr. Menuard Jennings.  Sympathy, maybe, but that is doubtful.

All buckled in his plane and maybe a good luck word from his plane captain, the pilot waits.  Finally over the "Bull-Horn" and loud enough to be heard by everyone on the flight desk, the Air Officer comes out with: "Stand by to start engines!  Stand clear of propellers!  Start engines!"  Holding the starter on and a few flicks of the gasoline prime, magneto switch on and battery switch one, -- two or three kicks of the prop, she fires and takes hold!  S few minutes are spent to war up and to test the belly tank.  All set for the take-off!

The signal to launch planes is given by the Air Officer on a "Beetle", so called for its oscillation screech.  The ship turns into the wind and two or three planes are launched from the catapults that are on the Flight Desk bow -- one on the port and one on the starboard side.  Once a pilot gets used to a "Cat" shot, he prefersit instead of a desk launch; that is, with a load and a "Cat" shot, he knows he'll get into the air!

A deck launch usually consists of 24 fighters, fifteen dive bombers and the same number of torpedo planes.  Most of the fighters are deck launched by Lt. G. W. Brooks -- "Red" for short -- the Flight Deck officer, a tall, massive figure, hair cropped next to his scalp, making him look as hard as a nail, but with a heart like a sponge.  Always in a hurry!

The first plane on deck is taxied onto  launching spot.  The pilot gets the rev up signal from Red, who has dispensed with the checkered flag, and twirls his fore and second fingers at the pilot, who immediately gives the throttle a push to its full power, while holding his brakes on.  When all set to go, the pilot gives Red a nod, meaning everything is O.K. and ready to be launched.  Red swings his arms and body toward the bow, the pilot releases his brakes, starts rolling down the deck and into the air.  The next plane is launched in the same manner, until every fighter, dive bomber and torpedo plane has left the deck.

Not many of the fellows on deck -- plane pushers, plane captains, taxi men, gun crews - see a rendezvous because it takes place ten or twelve miles away from the ship.  It takes from half to three-quarters of an hour to get all the planes together and in formation.  All together, the flight leader radios his departure and sets the flight on course for the target. 

On our way to the target we meet smack dab on our course a huge cloud.  The fighters on the high cover did not have to go through much of it, but the base element, dive bombers and torpedo planes, had the worst.  In going through this cloud it was like flying through a bottle of milk and unable to see a thing.  When we finally emerged from it, planes were scattered all over the sky and, of course, out of formation.  In this very bad mix-up and weather we lost a very good torpedo pilot, Lt. (j.g.) P. R. Stephens -- one of the best!  We rejoined our flight and continued on to our unsuspecting target.  We had to go along the rugged and mountainous coast of Shikoku, one of the smaller islands of the Japanese Empore.  We were on a heading of 000 degrees after we hit our first check point, and flew up the inlet between Kyushu and Shikoku to the Inland Sea.  Flying across the sea up between Tanai and Iwakani we had to look behind us as a few bursts of AA bloomed well out of range.  We had been twisting our necks silly for fighter opposition, but I say happily "No luck!" only the few bursts of AA.

Still on a northerly course and following the coast Honshu, nearing Kure and Hiroshima.  At this moment, we had started our high speed approach to our target.  The Japs had now figured out that we were out to get the Tone and started to let u have it.  The first burst of AA came up and to our left.  Must have been shore batteries at Kure -- the Tone was about five miles southwest of them.  It had no effect on us except scared us to pick up more speed.  We closed the gap very rapidly between ourselves and the target.  At 15,000 feet our airspeed indicators read 350 to 370.  I know, I really (and then there's a blank that I can't figure out.)

Lt. V.P. O'Neil's Division was to make the first dive of the run, each carrying two 250-pound fragmentation bombs.  With Ensign J.T. Shearer on his wing, Lt. (j.g.) Burns as his second section leader and Ensign Tommy Schaefer on his wing.  Immediately upon reaching their position of dive they went down on this by-this-time belching cruiser, the dive bombers right on their tails, and the torpedo bombers on theirs.  The rest of the fighters to follow them.

Lt. F. B. Craddock, coming to his position, signaled me for the attack.  I made the cross-under and Lt. (j.g.) H. K. Nelson, as Crad's second section leader, and his wingman Ensign G.E. Doherty, slid over on my left wing.  All of us were in low supercharge and had everything to the firewall.  By this time the AA was pretty heavy, seemingly coming up from everywhere!  That day was the first time I saw red -- that is, red bursts, a beautiful, rich power red.

Crad pushed over, I on his tail as though tied by a rope, and Nelson on mine, with Doherty on his.  While trying to stay with my section leader and pick up my lead, I could see only the bow of the Tone.  The rest was a blurred, grayish color.  Bombs dropped on the stern and amidships, and as I was going down I saw two that exploded on each side.  Crad and I released our 1000-pound general purpose bombs almost at the same time.  At that instant of release I received a scare I won't forget.  I had most of my elevator tab in the forward position to help me in the dive.  Picking up a speed of 370 knots or better, I got on the target and released.  Usually on the release I start to make a pull-out, but this time the nose dropped with a sudden jerk -- so sudden that I thought I had been hit!  I grabbed the stick with both hands and started to pull.  Then I eased back on the trim tab to take the strain from thetail piece.  When I did get it level, I was down around 1,500 feet and I started weaving back and forth with Crad and to pick up the stragglers.

While in my dive I heard someone on the radio excitedly saying "Someone went in!  Someone went in!  I think it was Schaefer!"  It was Burns who was on the radio.  He told us later what he had seen.  As Burns put it:

'Upon my pull-out after release of my frags, I flipped up a wing to see my bomb spot.  Then I saw a plane, and I knew it was a fighter, twisting in a spin, out of control, 500 feet above the target.  It crashed a hundred feet at 12 o'clock of our dive.  After a moment or two a few words on the radio proved it to be Tommy.'

We were to rendezvous south of the target, 180 degrees, 10 miles.  At that moment my radio seemed to be out, or maybe it was my ears.  All Iknow is on join up, Card was motioning me down.  I saw a raft with two men in it.  It was a bomber pilot and crewmen who had been hit over the target.  We were dispatched to stay over them as long as gasoline would permit, to keep away all enemy fighters, of which there werre none.  (Thank God! and to strafe anything that came out on the surface.  Red O'Neil had gone to the coast to call up the Air-Sea Rescue plane, but all to no avail.  Crad called, and I called, and all of us did everything we possibly could, but we couldn't raise a thing!

I had a sinking feeling and couldn't think of how I'd feel in their place.  We found out that the downed bomber pilot was Lt. (j.g.) Raymond Porter and his gunner, Normand Brissette.  Time had elapsed and fuel was getting low and we were forced to leave.  We made a dive at them, rocking our wings as we went down to leave them.  I knew Porter well - a small fellow about 5' 5" with blond hair, and a very cheerful disposition.  I was more than sorry to leave them down there.  I knew that no one would be there to pick them up -- they filled with hope that we would some way get to PBY out there!

We pulled up and gained altitude, heading south.  Returning to our picket of destroyers we circled to the  right and were given a steer of 45 degrees to ourhome base.  Upon arrival, and once again in our ready room, we found that no one had been able to get the PBY on the radio for the rescue of Porter and his crewman.  It was assumed later that they were picked up by the enemy.  We all hope so.

Note: Fred died without learning that Porter and Brissette were victims of the atomic bomb at Hiroshima.  This was written while at sea in 1945 and provide(d) by his widow.  It has been somewhat editted to fit our format."

 And this is all we have.  It was hard for me to read for the first time when I opened my cousins letter and it was hard for me to see through all my tears as I typed this.  I haven't spoken to my aunt, Tommy's widow, yet because that's a conversation I'll need to have lots of time and space for.

Click Here to read part I: Final Days, Preparing to Visit an Old Relative

Click Here to read part II.