(Part two of a three-part series. Read part one here.)
When my father, Lt. Thomas C. Colt Jr., returned to San Diego in 1943 from a leave with his family, he immediately launched into preparations for overseas deployment.
He whittled down his possessions to fit into two suitcases and a steamer trunk. He had a clothing roll, a bedding roll and pack with gas mask, helmet and belt (containing pistol with lanyard and holster, magazine clips, canteen, first-aid kit, compass and knife). The rest of his possessions he boxed up to send home. He wrote Belle a letter with instructions and a code of possible destinations, which she could decipher without violating dissemination of classified information rules. While stateside, my father’s correspondence was not read, but that would change on deployment. He used the boys in his secret code. If he said “How are the kids” it meant he was on the Hawaiian Islands. If he said “How are the two kids” it meant he was at Midway. And on down the islands.
On April 7, 1943, my father was put on four hours’ notice and “stood by all panting and ready.” Just as he was about to climb onto the gangway, he was yanked from the manifest because of lack of room on the boat and his heart sank.
He had to suffer through only two days of “hurry up and wait” before he was given his new orders, which took him to El Centro, California, to the Marine Air Station where he would be a pilot in the Gunnery and Bombardier School and then quickly promoted to captain and assigned the flight officer job combining executive and flight duty.
His worst-case scenario was now a reality – he was going to be an instructor. But the Marines were trying something new, something the Navy wasn’t doing, which would make his job more interesting.
Traditionally the gunners were trained only in simulations on the ground. The Marines decided to implement a new course that gave the gunners training in the air. My father was assigned the task of planning the course of training, designing the flights and organizing everything.
Within a month he was in command of the squadron. In a letter to Belle, he shared some of his challenges:
I’ve got to start flights for training bombardiers, enlarge our gunnery flights, and start a course for advanced gunners in gun turret operation. And in the meantime, I’ve got to get the 54 men of my crews better organized and more into enlarged quarters – as well as getting out our regular flights – and maybe you don’t think pilots can be as temperamental as artists! I’ve got one who can’t be anything but scared stiff of flying on the one hand; and I’ve got two others who occasionally go hog wild, start dog fighting and acrobatics, and bring their gunners passed out in the rear cockpit; another who invariably oversleeps, two who make Army rather than Navy type landings and gum up the formation, etc., etc. What a life! It’s a continuous process of cajoling or bawling out to keep up the flight discipline. And then the 54 assorted types of the ground crews – and then students!
When the Navy did show up to take part in the new training for gunners, my father described their efforts as follows: “Not only did they make the worst score of the whole class, but on the final flight the commander shot up the tail of his own ship, and departed with his tail between his legs!!” There was clearly a healthy rivalry between the Navy and Marines. But ultimately the two would collaborate on creating a standardized curriculum and my father played a big part in that.
In order to keep his skills honed my father flew regularly and flew in the new planes that were showing up at the base. He wrote about a “red letter day” when a new fighter squadron arrived with F4U Corsairs. “I borrowed and flew a F4U (Corsair). Woof – seven tons of dynamite, and I ain’t kidding. Smooth as velvet, but sudden and tricky as a comet – and talk about speed – it’s almost fantastic.”
By the end of September, my father was in command of the school. “I have completed a 15 months’ round trip from one desk to another. I can observe very little difference in them.” But one difference from directing an art museum and commanding a Bombardier and Air Gunners School was the risk to life and limb. On Oct. 17 my father reported the first casualties after a 6-month perfect record. In a letter to Belle, he described the tragedy:
On Monday, we started our advanced flight course in the new SBDs. And on the first flight, in the join up to return to the field, one of the boys pulled into a tight turn, lost flying speed and fell off into a spin, at 1,300 ft. he recovered too fast, fell into a progressive spin, and the ship exploded when it hit. He was not too familiar with the heavier, more powerful ship, and the probable contributing cause, and the particular tragedy of it, was that he had gotten married the day before – to an 18-year-old girl who was already going to have a baby.
Coinciding with this tragedy, my father was worrying about news from home that Tinker had scarlet fever. There is a certain desperation that comes from being so far away and not able to help. Fortunately, Tinker survived and a few months later both Tinker and Jonny got the measles. Belle was under a great deal of stress, taking care of the children, the house and working at the museum. The separation was difficult for both my father and Belle.
During the summer, Belle left the children with her mother and traveled to El Centro to spend a week with my father. That helped ease the tension. My father also got to spend Christmas 1943 at home and a few days at home in February 1944 when he was sent to Washington, D.C., to finalize the details of the new curriculum for the Air Gunners School.
On March 1, 1944, my father was promoted to major and was still commanding the school, which was growing by leaps and bounds. The support personnel grew to 250 men and they had 400 students. Many new buildings were going up, tons more equipment was being shipped in (by then the U.S. was building 7,000 planes a month), a new moving target (rabbit) range was being built in the desert, and they were testing radio-controlled target planes, an innovation designed by Hollywood actor turned inventor Reginald Denny.
But it wasn’t all work and no play, and my father shared in great detail many stories about partying and carousing. Having access to planes enabled him to fly to Los Angeles, San Diego and San Francisco in no time. He made the most of his 36 hours liberty from noon on Saturday until Monday morning. Reginald Denny wined and dined the Marines who were going to make him rich by buying his radio-controlled planes. They would go to fancy restaurants and meet lots of actors and actresses. My father seemed unfazed at being in the presence of Clara Bow, who was holding court in a booth at Villa Nova on the Sunset Strip in L.A.
By the end of April 1944, my father was wondering if he was ever going to “go out” and see duty in the field. The problem seemed to be that the Marines could not find anyone to replace him. Had he become indispensable at his own peril? Sadly stagnation was setting in. “All that exists on this horizon is the feverish training for war, and the even more feverish relation that seems to be its accompaniment.” The level of drinking and carousing seemed to be escalating, and he was falling into a rut.
When the news arrived on May 12 that he’d finally received permission to “go out,” he attempted to ease Belle’s worries by saying, “for your private information, Marine Corps Aviation action in the Pacific is practically at a stand-still. This is not soft soap. Look at a map.” He told her he was going to one of the Marshall Islands to be an operations officer of a wing, to plan and order all Marine aviation strikes and operations on the whole mid-west Pacific.
My father was always candid with Belle and in this moment he wrote: “Half of me is shouting with joy and the other half is trembling at the horrible, gigantic responsibility. Holy smokes but what a job! The old Corps isn’t treating me mildly. If I can only do it!! You can damn well bet I’m going to try.” He ended the letter by saying, “I’m going on the biggest binger ever this weekend.”
Coming Sunday: Part Three – Off to the Pacific
(Susannah Colt of Whitefield is a retired New Hampshire attorney attempting to be a writer. Email: susannahbcolt@gmail.com)