A wonderful weapon of war.
Captain David McCampbell, USN (Retired)
The early morning had seen heavy clouds and rain squalls along the Honshu coast, but by noon the weather had improved. From 50 to 100 miles offshore it was a bright, balmy summer afternoon.
It was now shortly past 1300, and in the previous 90 minutes a half-dozen Japanese aircraft had been shot down approaching the carrier fleet known as Task Force 38. Then, far to the west-southwest, a single Mitsubishi Zero carrying a 550-pound bomb flew boldly towards the armada, hoping to dive into the deck of an American ship. The “Zeke” reflected an electronic beam which illuminated a dot on a radarscope, and an anonymous fighter direction officer radioed short, precise instructions to a few of the many sentries orbiting high in the sky. With more than enough fighters available, the best-positioned flights were vectored to bracket the lone hostile. Within minutes, no matter which way the Zeke turned, it would be trapped.
The end came quickly. Four dark blue Grumman Hellcats sighted the intruder and pounced. No Zeke could outrun a Hellcat; the range decreased, the deflection angle narrowed, and at 300 yards the Zeke filled the ring of an illuminated gunsight. The Hellcat leader waited a few more seconds, just to be sure.
Six Browning M-2 machine guns fired at a combined rate of 4,000 rounds per minute. In a two-second burst, 130 of the 709-grain bullets were loosed, of which perhaps 35 struck the target. The effect was shattering. At a muzzle velocity of 2,840 feet per second, 4.3 pounds of metal impacted the Zero. The .50-caliber bullets tore out chunks of aluminum, severed a wing spar, penetrated fuel tanks, and ignited volatile gasoline. In seconds the delicately built Mitsubishi was falling towards the Pacific Ocean.
It was nothing new or unusual for the young men who flew the angular Grummans. The date was Wednesday, the 15th of August, 1945, and this same lethal sequence had occurred 5,000 times in the past 24 months. But the story had actually begun 15 years before.
The Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation opened for business at Baldwin, Long Island, in January of 1930. Following a series of moves elsewhere on Long Island, Leroy R. Grumman’s firm settled at Bethpage in 1936, and there it would remain. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, the company was already well established as a leading manufacturer of carrier fighters and was working on a successor to its stubby little F4F Wildcat. For in June of 1941, the Navy had asked Grumman to work up an improved version of the Wildcat as insurance against the possibility that Vought’s promising F4U Corsair might be delayed in reaching the fleet.
It proved a wise precaution. The Corsair had first flown in 1940, but due to the loss of the prototype in a crash and subsequent delays, the F4U would not reach combat until early 1943. Meanwhile, the Navy’s concept of an improved F4F was abandoned when the Bureau of Aeronautics decided it wanted more range, firepower, and armor than the Wildcat allowed. The design philosophy was altered accordingly, and Grumman’s chief engineer William T. Schwendler went to work. When war broke out, Grumman Design Number 50 was being built as the XF6F-1.
The new fighter was desperately needed, for the Wildcat, though holding the line, was incapable of reversing the situation in the air. One of its chief drawbacks was insufficient range, and the Pacific Theater was the largest of the war, covering one-quarter of the earth’s surface.
Of more immediate concern to Navy and Marine fighter pilots was the exceptional performance of the main Japanese fighter being encountered. The Mitsubishi firm’s little A6M “Type Zero” fighter, later code-named “Zeke” by U.S. intelligence, had come as a decidedly unpleasant surprise. With phenomenal range, superior maneuverability and climb rate, Zeros were totally unlike anything the Allies had put in the air. Following the carrier battles of Coral Sea and Midway in May and June of 1942, U.S. Navy pilots asked for more speed and better climb from Grumman.
An early production F6F-3 Hellcat, the premier U.S. Navy carrier fighter type from August 1943 to mid 1944. Photo: R. L. Lawson
The new fighter bore a distinct family resemblance to the Wildcat, but was bigger and beefier in every dimension. Lieutenant Commander A. M. Jackson of BuAer’s fighter design desk had an important role in shaping the F6F. He knew the importance of visibility in a fighter, saying “You can’t hit ‘em if you can’t see ’em.”1 As a result, he got the original F6F cowling design trimmed down for better aerial gunnery. This superior geometry would aid Hellcat pilots in combat with Zeros.
Two prototype Hellcats were built, BuAer numbers 02981 and 02982. The test pilot assigned to the project was Robert L. Hall. He had joined Grumman in 1936, and with nearly 1,300 hours logged, he had already made the first flights in three Grumman aircraft, including the XF4F-2 Wildcat.
Bob Hall lifted the Hellcat off the ground for the first time on 26 June 1942 when he took up the XF6F-1 for a 25-minute test. There was nothing unusual to report, but it seemed obvious that the Wright R-2600-16 engine, producing 1,600 horsepower, was inadequate. The Wright Cyclone could not deliver the desired speed and rate of climb, so Grumman suggested a change of engines to the Navy. The answer was Pratt and Whitney’s R-2800-8 Double Wasp, with 18 cylinders in two rows producing 2,000 horsepower. It was the same engine that powered the Corsair, but the addition of water injection for limited use in combat boosted the rating to 2,200 horses in the R-2800-10. Widely considered the best reciprocating engine ever built, the R-2800 was characterized by incredible ruggedness and dependability, plus relative ease of maintenance.
When the XF6F-1 was fitted with a Pratt and Whitney, it was redesignated the XF6F-3. The lone XF6F-2 never entered production because its proposed turbo-supercharger proved unreliable.
Meanwhile, Bob Hall conducted more test flights. On 30 July he flew the “dash three” for the first time, a short 11-minute hop to check the P&W’s performance. But the XF6F-3 came to an inglorious end on 17 August when the R-2800 quit in flight and Hall dead-sticked it into a bean patch, “banging it up real well.”2
Nevertheless, the Navy was satisfied, and the new Grumman was ordered into production. It was easier said than done. Regardless of how important the F6F was to the war effort, Grumman had to stand in line with everyone else for priority material. Chief among these was steel for a new factory building; the airplanes could not be built until there was a plant in which to manufacture them.
Grumman’s general manager, Leon “Jake” Swirbul, demonstrated an early example of the firm’s resourcefulness when he purchased the needed steel from the scrap-pile remains of New York City’s old Second Avenue elevated railway. A corrupted version of this story made the rounds in the fleet, rumor having it that the F6Fs, not the factory building, were made of the old steel. Consequently, early Hellcats were sometimes greeted with the cry, “Here comes a piece of the Second Avenue El!”
Grumman test pilots Bob Hall and Selden Converse who performed the earliest flight checks of the F6F. Hall flew the prototypes and Converse made the first flight in the production F6F-3. Photo: The Grumman Corporation
Production began quickly in the new Plant Number 3. The first flight of a production F6F-3 was on 3 October with Grumman pilot Selden “Connie” Converse behind the stick. By the end of December a total of 12 airframes had been built. After that, production accelerated steadily. Grumman delivered a dozen F6Fs in January 1943, 35 in February, 81 in March, and 130 in April. The firm’s productivity was such that in November 1943 Grumman built more airplanes in one week than it had in all of 1940. That same month saw F6F deliveries reach 400 units for the first time, in addition to 135 TBF torpedo bombers and 20 amphibians.
In all, over 12,200 Hellcats were built from 1942 to 1945. The peak month was March of 1945, when the Navy accepted 658 Grumman aircraft. Of these, 605 were Hellcats. The balance included 48 F7F Tiger-cats, 2 F8F Bearcats, and 3 JRF Goose utility amphibians.3
The primary reason for this exceptional success story was superb management. Equal credit goes to Roy Grumman and Jake Swirbul. They oversaw the efforts of some 20,000 employees working in a 2.5-million-square-foot complex, turning out an average of almost one million dollars’ worth of aircraft and parts every day. Even more amazing is the fact that virtually none of the wartime workers had previous experience in building airplanes. A large percentage were women, but Grumman’s turnover rate was less than 3 percent—half the rate for the rest of the industry. And there was never a strike or work stoppage; the employees saw no reason to unionize.
In short, Grumman was a happy place to work. Though the payroll expanded to more than ten times the prewar figure, the company still functioned like a small, close-knit family. Mr. Grumman (hardly anybody called him Roy) maintained the company tradition of giving a Christmas turkey to each employee. Asked why he didn’t observe the more usual time of Thanksgiving, Grumman explained that it would have made things difficult for Long Island turkey growers.
There were other features: daycare centers for children of working mothers, noon softball games, periodic airshows, frequent dances, even counseling offices. But the best known, and probably the most appreciated, was Jake Swirbul’s “Green Car Service.” The object was to keep people on the job, relieving them of small distractions. A phone call or a word in the right place would send Jake’s Green Car scurrying off to perform almost any kind of service: fix a flat tire, start a dead battery, make sure the oven was off at home, deliver a message. Anything to keep the employee on the job.
Grumman’s production methods were equally imaginative. Probably the best example was demonstrated during an efficiency expert’s tour of the factory. The visitor asked how a supply of hose clamps was maintained on the assembly line. His guide dug into a barrel of clamps and showed the expert with one glance. A quarter of the distance from the top, painted on the inside, was the notice, “See Joe.”4
Eventually Grumman outpaced even the Navy’s demand for Hellcats, and the factory was asked to cut back on production. Veteran Grummanites recall an incident in mid 1944 related to this request. Jake Swirbul decided that with over 20,000 employees, there must be at least 1,000 who weren’t pulling their load. So he quietly told his foremen to arrange for the release of their less-productive workers. When the word got around, the remaining employees thought a general housecleaning was in progress. As a result, next month’s production increased by 20 Hellcats.
The Hellcat production line at the Grumman factory in Bethpage, Long Island, where over 12,000 F6Fs were built from 1942 to 1945.
Swirbul decided that if his people were working harder, he could let another thousand go. But again the plan backfired. After the second thousand were laid off, the other workers decided they might be next. So they worked even harder, and built a few more additional planes the following month! Asked if he wanted to try reducing the payroll by another thousand, Swirbul said no. He didn’t think the Navy could absorb the additional production.
Because of Grumman’s immense energy, the Hellcat went from first flight to combat in little over a year. And it was fortunate that the F6F progressed so well, for the Corsair, with its exceptional speed and combat potential, was considered unsafe for carrier landings. The F4U had four problems which were not solved until 1944, and after the remedies were implemented it was even longer until the Vought operated regularly from carriers. Inadequate visibility was solved in the F4U-1A, with its redesigned canopy, but the other problems took longer to correct. These were adverse stall characteristics, particularly dangerous when turning at low level, plus bounce on landing and frequent failure of the tail hook to engage a carrier’s arresting wires. A wing spoiler solved the stall problem to a large degree, and modifications to the landing gear and arresting hook took care of the deck-landing problems. But aside from small night-fighter detachments in early 1944, Corsairs did not regularly operate from U.S. carriers until the end of that year.
As a result, the F6F’s arrival in combat was doubly important, since it offered a much greater chance than the Wildcat of defeating the Zeke. The big new Grumman would not only be able to engage the Japanese fighter on equal terms; it could dictate the rules of combat. And it had the range to seek out the enemy so he could be brought to battle.
There were differences in performance between the two production Hellcat variants, the F6F-3 and -5, and in the Zero series from A6M2 to A6M5. But general trends were widely applicable. The Hellcat was considerably faster in level flight than the Zero at all altitudes—on the average by 55 mph. Maximum speeds for the F6F-5 and A6M5 were 409 mph (355 knots) at 21,600 feet for the Grumman, and 335 mph (290 knots) at 18,000 feet for the Mitsubishi. Above 10,000 feet the F6 could nearly match or slightly exceed the Zeke’s rate of climb, and in most performance categories was superior at higher altitudes. Because the Hellcat had twice the Zeke’s power and weight, no A6M could hope to escape in any kind of prolonged dive.
However, the Zeke retained its fabled advantage in turning radius right up to the end of the war. At airspeeds below 230 mph (200 knots) the little Mitsubishi’s much lighter wing loading easily enabled it to out-maneuver the Hellcat even though the Grumman airframe allowed more available Gs. But at higher airspeeds the aerodynamic forces upon the A6M’s control surfaces—particularly the ailerons—caused considerably stiffer control responses, and Hellcats could then match turns with their opponents.
When fast, heavily armed Japanese fighters like the Kawanishi N1K George and the Mitsubishi J2M Jack were met in late 1944, Hellcats then fought aircraft similar in design to themselves. But numerically the Zeke remained the most important fighter the enemy had in the Pacific, all through the war.
Similarly, the Hellcat was modified remarkably little throughout its career. The F6F-3s were flown in combat almost until V-J Day. But by the fall of 1944 they represented only half of the Fast Carrier Force fighters, as -5s began reaching the squadrons that summer. Externally, there was little difference between the two models. Tri-color paint schemes on the -3s contrasted with an overall gloss blue on the -5s, but there were also differences in canopy design. The most important changes were internal; there was additional armor plate in the F6F-5, and a reinforced empennage to prevent structural failures which bothered some -3s. And most -5s had R-2800-10 engines with water injection for a limited boost in combat power.
Following its first flight in April of 1944, the F6F-5 was shown to be 15 knots faster than the -3, though rate of climb was variously reported as marginally better or even slightly less. But with the addition of spring tabs on the ailerons, the -5 had greater maneuverability—a quality dear to the heart of any fighter pilot.
The Hellcat’s arch enemy, the Mitsubishi Zero. This model A6M2 was found crashed on an Alaskan island in June 1942 and was restored to flying condition at NAS North Island, San Diego. Information learned from this and other captured Zeros greatly aided in F6F development and combat tactics. Photo: W. N. Leonard
Both models contained ample internal fuel, with 250 gallons, and could carry a 150-gallon belly drop tank. The jettisonable external tank provided an unintended benefit since its distinctive shape facilitated quick recognition in combat.
Perhaps the F6F-5’s primary virtue was its versatility, with the emphasis on increased offensive capability. With more fighters required for fleet defense in late 1944, the Hellcat’s strike potential was needed to offset the reduced number of bombers aboard fleet carriers. Like the -3, the -5 carried six Colt-Browning .50-caliber machine guns, with 400 rounds per gun. And both models could carry 1,000-pound bombs. But the F6F-5’s heaviest punch was six high velocity aerial rockets (HVARs), the equal of a destroyer’s broadside. From late 1944, F6Fs commonly carried bombs or rockets (or both) on all missions except combat air patrols and some fighter sweeps. Hellcats on search missions were usually fully armed.
Thus, originally intended primarily to defeat the Zero in air combat, the Hellcat eventually became the fleet’s “do everything” aircraft, with the exception of carrying torpedoes. Even this specialized role was within the F6F’s capability, as tests demonstrated, but it was never implemented. Otherwise, Hellcats filled in whole or in part every function required of carrier-based aircraft for the latter part of the Pacific War.
The pilots who flew Hellcats in combat were a typical mixture of young Americans. Largely reservists, they ranged in age from 19 to 35. It is probable that a majority of squadron commanders were Naval Academy graduates, but this was certainly not always the case. Nor could it be, with the vastly expanded aviation cadet program.
An early F6F-3 is catapulted from the hangar deck of the USS Yorktown during a shakedown cruise in 1943. In operations, this technique was seldom used.
A fighter squadron invariably had an intriguing assortment of personalities, and a sensitive leader knew which pilots had to be calmed down and which ones needed motivation. A delicate balance had to be maintained between individual initiative and the simultaneous need for mutual dependence and trust. It was not an easy task, but leadership in war never is. There was often little in a pilot’s demeanor on the ground to indicate how he would perform in the air. Personality traits essential to survival and success in aerial combat sometimes lay concealed under disarming exteriors. But in each case, squadron commanders most valued those eager youngsters who understood the need for teamwork as well as the value of intelligent aggressiveness.
The physical skills necessary for success in fighter aviation are easier to define than the psychological. Learning to fly an airplane is a skill which can be learned with approximate uniformity by large numbers of individuals. Aerial gunnery is not so easily taught. Latent ability can be markedly improved with practice, but the inherent hand-to-eye coordination and judgment are in most cases instinctive. Technology, in the form of lead-computing gunsights late in the war, could significantly improve an average pilot’s gunnery. The boy who had grown up hunting pheasant or quail would probably shoot well in nearly any situation. Thus, the top scorers were the best shooters with the most opportunity.
An F6F-3 modified to carry eight High Velocity Aerial Rockets, dramatically increasing the Hellcat offensive potential. Rocket rails were standard on the F6F-5.
The U.S. Navy never consciously accepted the concept of the “ace” system, preferring with good reason to emphasize teamwork. But it is an historical fact that a tiny percentage of all fighter pilots accounted for a hugely disproportionate share of the victories. A case in point is VF-11, which was aboard the USS Hornet from October 1944 to January 1945. Of the 121 pilots attached to the squadron during its four-month tour, only 45 gained a confirmed victory, for a squadron total of 103. The five pilots who gained five or more victories during that period accounted for 33 kills. In other words, only 4 percent of VF-11’s pilots were responsible for 30 percent of the total score. This does not imply that the aces were supermen, but in VF-II’s case, those who experienced three to five firing encounters were all division or section leaders.
Shooting down enemy planes was only part of the F6F pilot’s job. He was also responsible for defending the dive bombers and torpedo planes of his air group, and it was not necessary to destroy hostile aircraft to perform this vital role. Simply by maintaining formation, refusing to be drawn away from the bombers, fighters discouraged enemy interceptors from attacking. Air discipline was rigidly enforced; no kill was worth the loss of a bomber. Some F6F squadrons completing combat tours in the first half of 1944 boasted proudly—with justification—of never losing a bomber to Japanese aircraft. This achievement became a mark for other squadrons to strive for, as it denoted 100 percent efficiency in the escort role.
Hellcats performed numerous other duties, the most popular being fighter sweeps. Usually launched at dawn to catch enemy aircraft on the ground, the sweeps were the fighter pilots’ favorite job because there were no bombers to protect, and purely fighter-versus-fighter combats frequently developed.
A good deal less exciting were the combat air patrols (CAPs) which flew almost constantly over each carrier task group, awaiting instructions from the fighter direction officer (FDO). Naval battles were no longer fought exclusively by big-gunned ships arranged in battle line, pounding each other at several thousand yards, and since May of 1942 the decisive fleet engagements had followed the pattern of the Coral Sea battle. The invisible, Argus-eyed sentry called radar saw what no lookout could ever see, and directed carrier fighters to investigate any suspicious intruder. This concept, known as forward interception, resulted in air battles being fought “below the horizon,” beyond the line where the sea met the sky.
Unless unidentified aircraft, or “bogeys,” were reported by the task group FDO, the patrolling Hellcats orbited until relieved, “bored stiff and stiff as a board,” said one squadron commander.5 A four-hour CAP could be dreadfully dull, for there was little to do except maintain formation, check the instruments periodically, and perhaps recall that last date at the “Top of the Mark” before deploying west. Sometimes it helped to sing, but it was surprising how quickly one could exhaust all the favorite tunes, even those of Miller, Dorsey, and Goodman.
But if radar established a set of blips as hostiles, the “bogeys” became “bandits” and the tedium was instantly gone. Long-range identification was possible by IFF transponders (Identification, Friend or Foe) in U.S. aircraft which “painted” a distinctive blip on a radarscope. If the blip did not paint properly, it was assumed hostile and at least one four-plane division of fighters was vectored out to investigate. Pilots could always tell how urgent the situation was by the command the FDO gave over the radio. If the order was “Saunter,” there was no rush; the bogeys were still far distant. If he said “Liner” or “Buster” they were getting much closer. And if the FDO gave a “Gate” order, throttles were bent to the stops in order to intercept the hostiles before they reached the task force.
Hellcats also flew long-range searches for Japanese ships—sometimes in teams of one F6F and two Avenger torpedo bombers, sometimes in sections or divisions of fighters. The Hellcat’s fuel capacity gave it a search radius of 500 nautical miles under favorable conditions, and in extreme cases search planes could be airborne for over six hours. Most aviators found that long experience tended to negate, or at least diminish, the airman’s natural fear of flying single-engine aircraft over immense expanses of water. Confidence in one’s navigational skill—fabled among carrier pilots, who relied upon their circular “ouija board” plotting charts—left engine failure as the main concern. It was the one factor over which fliers had virtually no control.
Hellcats were also involved in ground-support operations against invasion beaches, where they were called upon to deliver their considerable offensive payloads. Bombs, rockets, and napalm were all used to help soften the always tenacious Japanese defenses wherever Marines or GIs were making an amphibious landing. But this phase seldom developed until air superiority had been won.
Hellcats also performed two special-mission functions—night fighting and photo reconnaissance, as the Fast Carrier Force had to bring its own nocturnal protection and intelligence-gathering aircraft along with it. Radar-equipped F6F-3s and -5s flew from land bases as well, and were effectively used in the Philippines and Ryukyus by Marine night-fighter squadrons. A variety of internally mounted vertical and oblique cameras were installed in F6F-3P and -5P aircraft, with 6-, 12- or 24-inch lenses. A typical combination was a 12-inch vertical and 24-inch oblique K-17 for damage assessment and strip mapping.
There has always been a dash of glamor inherent in carrier operations, and World War II saw this at its peak. The big, handsome Essex-class ships, accompanied by their smaller Independence-class teammates, made an unforgettable sight steaming under the tropical sky as they prepared to launch full deckloads.
Gaily colored signal pennants snapped from their halyards below the Stars and Stripes as the diamond-design Fox flag was hoisted to signal commence flight operations. As the carriers turned smartly into the wind, trailing 30-knot wakes, aviators rushed from their ready rooms. Each was loaded down with Mae West, parachute harness, pistol and survival knife, goggles and helmet with oxygen mask, and the pilots’ ever-present plotting boards. They trooped up steep companionways, emerging topside where the ship’s island, offset to starboard and top-heavy with radar antennae, looked incongruously narrow in comparison to the width of the flight deck.
The Douglas fir decks became a pandemonium of organized confusion as khaki-suited fliers climbed into their aircraft while plane directors in yellow jerseys shouted orders to deck hands who pushed planes into position, unfolded and locked wings, or removed wheel chocks. Red-shirted ordnancemen removed safety wires from bomb and torpedo fuses; asbestos-suited fire fighters stood by while catapult crews in green jerseys waited to see if the wind would remain strong enough for an unassisted launch.
The aircraft themselves—with F6Fs in front, as they needed less deck room than the strike planes—were no less colorful. Three-tone or dark gloss-blue paint schemes vividly offset white geometric air group symbols bodily emblazoned on tail surfaces.
But it wasn’t only color and salt spray. There was noise, too. The incomparable sound of perhaps 60 radial engines turning over, forming the bass chorus for the high-pitched whine of inertia starters, and the punctuation of shotgun-type cartridges kicking over pistons in Pratt and Whitneys or Wrights, was deafening. Three-bladed Hamilton-Standard propellers on blunt-nosed Hellcats and big-bellied Avengers, and four-bladed Curtiss Electrics on round-tailed Helldivers, jerked into motion by fits and starts then blurred into invisibility. The clouds of light blue smoke which seemed to hang over the flight decks never stayed long, for they were swept away in the relative wind and ever-increasing prop wash.
And then, in just a few minutes, nearly all the varicolored tunics were gone from the decks. Only the fire fighters and launch crews remained, for the squadrons were now ready to launch. Hellcats, Avengers, and Hell-divers stood ready on the 800-foot flight decks of the CVs; the 600-foot CVL decks accommodated only F6Fs and TBMs. But regardless of the carrier’s size, the scene was much the same. With crews looking on from galleys, gun sponsons, and islands, pilots taxied into position, their canopies locked open and shoulder harnesses as tight as they could stand. The most important man on each flattop was “Fly One,” the launch officer who would send each plane on its way.
It took nearly a full minute, on the average, to taxi a plane into position, ready it for catapulting, and fling it off the deck. Only half that much time was required for a conventional takeoff. If the cats were not needed, Fly One stood at the starboard wingtip of each plane in its turn and whirled a small black and white checkered flag in circles over his head. When the ship’s bow was just coming up in the swell, he slashed the flag down and forward. At this signal the pilot—with engine run up to maximum RPM, prop in flat pitch, and flaps lowered for more lift—kicked in right rudder to offset the powerful port torque, released his brakes, and was lunging down the deck.
Then the sky was filled with climbing, circling aircraft as sections and divisions and squadrons formed up to combine into air groups. The fighters were paired in sections which became four-plane divisions; dive bombers and torpedo planes flew either three- or four-plane divisions.
And before long, frequently less than 15 minutes after launch commenced, the formations headed out toward their targets. The mission lead was usually rotated among the four air group commanders (CAGs) of each carrier task group, the standard organization of which was two Essex- and two Independence-class carriers. From late 1943 more and more CAGs began flying F6Fs, so it wasn’t long before most strike leaders and mission coordinators were Hellcat pilots.
Usually four hours or more passed before the planes would return to the position known as “Point Option,” where the carriers would be waiting to receive them. In that time, almost anything could happen to a pilot. He might splash into the water off his carrier’s bow with an engine failure on launch. He could collide with a friendly aircraft in the darkness of a predawn rendezvous or with an enemy aircraft in a dogfight. And though very few fighter pilots ever admitted they thought it could happen to them, they might be shot down by a Japanese pilot.
A more likely fate was enemy antiaircraft fire, which was the main reason most fliers hated strafing well-defended airfields and other protected installations. In aerial combat, his shooting and flying skill gave him at least an even chance against his opponent. Strafing at low level in the face of automatic weapons which were often unseen, a pilot took his shake of the dice like everyone else.
Given a choice of being captured by the Japanese or being forced down at sea, most fliers preferred the latter. At least then there was a reasonable chance of being rescued by a friendly vessel or floatplane. But though air-sea rescue received a high priority from task force and task group commanders, nothing was ever certain. Sometimes rescue might come in a few hours, sometimes only after several days. And sometimes, not at all. It was a very big ocean.
But it was a vastly bigger sky. All pilots, and particularly fighter pilots, were trained to keep their heads and eyes moving constantly. Doctrine varied among squadrons, but most of the better ones had a standing policy that any pilot who “eyeballed” a bogey immediately assumed the lead, regardless of his rank or position in formation. It was sound procedure. In aerial combat the victor is inevitably the one who sights his enemy first. “Eternal vigilance or eternal rest” was the way Commander Jimmy Flatley put it.6
But even if you were the most vigilant pilot, you could sometimes be caught unaware. You heard the sudden metallic plink of bullets hitting your airplane, the belated warning in your earphones of bandits overhead. Then came the wrapped-up, gut-wrenching sensation of high G-forces alternately trying to push you through the bottom of your seat or out through the canopy as you maneuvered to get out of the way or bring your guns to bear.
There were glimpses of blue Hellcats and camouflaged Japanese fighters, radio frequencies jammed with shouts, warnings, curses, or cries for help; the heavy pressure of gravity during a steep turn or dive recovery in the days before G-suits, and the attendant partial loss of vision or consciousness as the blood rushed from the brain.
There was also the shock of seeing a friend’s plane tumbling out of control into the water, the knowledge that this wasn’t the time to dwell on it. And there was the satisfying thrill which came as an enemy aircraft slipped into the illuminated reflector sight, and you knew you had a certain kill.
Then there was nothing. An empty sky, impossibly empty after so many planes had been engaged in combat only seconds before. But such is the nature of air battles. They never remain in one place, but cover miles of sky and thousands of feet of altitude in a few minutes.
Your engine had been running at maximum power for most of the engagement, and the task force could be 200 miles away. It was now necessary to reduce the throttle setting to the most economical cruising speed, lean out the fuel mixture as much as possible, hike up the manifold pressure while running at low RPM, and trim the plane for the most efficient flight attitude.
Now, which way is home? A grin at the pilot flying off your wing—perhaps a forced grin—suggests the old joke, “What do you mean, you’re following me? I’m following you!” Tune the Hellcat’s ZB receiver to the carrier’s YE radio navigation transmitter, listening for the Morse Code letter in each 15-degree segment, and home in when within range.
More than an hour passes, and then up ahead are the wakes of the task force. Let down to approach altitude, picking out the appropriate task group and the flight deck which is home. Perform the day’s recognition turns and hope none of the AA gunners is nervous or trigger happy.
Now comes the part of the mission which makes you proud to be a naval aviator. Anybody can take off from a carrier. But you are one of the few thousand men in the world who can land on one.
As the carriers steamed into the wind with plane-guard destroyers trailing in their wakes to pick up ditched fliers, the squadrons broke into divisions. Wheeling overhead in racetrack patterns with 40-second intervals between aircraft, the pilots executed their prelanding check lists: canopy back and locked, shoulder harness tight, mixture rich, fuel on fullest internal tank, cowl flaps partly open for engine cooling, and prop in low pitch at 2400 RPM.
Then the pilots reached over to their left and dropped their tail hooks. The Hellcats slowed to an indicated airspeed of 120 knots before lowering wheels and landing flaps, the latter marked by a slight downward pitching motion. Turning on final approach, the F6Fs made about 90 knots in a nose-high attitude above the wakes of the carriers. Stable and well behaved in this configuration, the Hellcat was one of the easiest-to-land carrier planes ever built. It allowed the pilot to fly by feel while keeping his eyes on the most important man now aboard ship—not Fly One anymore, but the Landing Signal Officer.
Standing on a platform at the after port side of the flight deck, the LSO was protected by a canvas windscreen behind him. This made him easier to see from the air, but the pilots concentrated on the colored paddle he held in each hand. The LSO relayed vital information with his paddles to each pilot by a set of standardized signals. Some LSOs were stylish, waving the paddles with a flair not unlike a busy traffic cop who knows he is being watched by scores of spectators; some were professionally precise. But all used the 13 basic signals. Ten of these told a pilot of some error in technique or procedure, such as his height, wings not level, approach speed too fast or too slow—occasionally even flaps, hook, or wheels not down.
The other three signals were “roger,” “cut,” and “wave-off.” Each pilot hoped for a “roger pass” in which the LSO held his paddles straight out from each shoulder, indicating a satisfactory approach. As the aircraft hung several feet over the flight deck, the LSO abruptly slashed his right arm across his body and dropped his left hand to his side—the “cut” signal which told the pilot to chop his throttle, pull the stick back, and stall the plane in. As the tail hooks engaged the arresting wires, the planes were brought to an abrupt but safe halt. But even a good landing could result in a blown tire or nicked prop blade.
A less than satisfactory approach ended as the LSO waved the paddles over his head, ordering the pilot to go around for another try. There were several reasons for a wave-off, which a pilot might not always know. Imminent enemy attack, a barrier crash farther up the deck—anything unexpected—could result in the abort of even a perfect approach. Regardless of the reason, a wave-off carried the force of law, and to ignore it was a sin.
Despite all the built-in dangers of carrier landings, the F6F maintained as good a safety record as any plane. And many Hellcat pilots would echo the sentiments of Chester Leo Smith, a Marine aviator who flew F6Fs off the escort carrier Block Island in 1945. Recalls Smith, “I was lucky to take my run of the percentages in such a common-sensibly designed aircraft.”7
Pilots weren’t the only ones who grew to appreciate the F6F. So did those men equally important to the war effort—the men who “kept ‘em flying.”
Aircraft maintenance has always been a major concern in carrier aviation. With a limited number of planes available, the “up” or “down” status of each individual aircraft assumes unusual importance. Unlike airports, carriers have precious little room for storing unflyable airplanes, so heavily damaged planes were frequently pushed overboard to make room for replacements.
This is the reason that carrier aircraft have always maintained a higher in-commission rate than land-based planes. And few have ever proved as consistently “up” as the Hellcat. A cross section of Army, Navy, and Marine land-based aircraft during World War II typically showed an average of 75 to 80 percent operational at any one time. Some complex or sophisticated aircraft could run as low as 35 or 40 percent operational. Hellcats commonly maintained a 90 percent in-commission rate, and averages as high as 98 percent over a four- to six-month period were not unknown. But such exceptional maintenance was never achieved without the expenditure of considerable time, skill, and dedication.
Most carrier squadrons had their own maintenance crews aboard ship. For a typical F6F squadron in late 1944, this would involve perhaps 30 enlisted men—machinists, ordnancemen, and radio or electronics personnel. A senior pilot was designated as squadron engineering officer, and maintenance was his collateral duty. The materiel officer was not an aviator, but he frequently possessed an intimate knowledge of the airplane. But as usual, it was the chief petty officers who had the most experience and know-how. They directed the day-to-day maintenance work within their specialties, depending upon whether they were rated in engine, airframe, electronics, or ordnance.
In addition to the squadron mechanics, each fleet carrier had a larger maintenance staff permanently attached. These were Carrier Aircraft Support Detachments, shortened to CASD. They handled the major repairs which the squadrons were unequipped to perform: they manned machine shops, conducted engine overhauls, provided spare parts, and so on. Frequently, air group technicians were absorbed into a ship’s CASD for the duration of a cruise, in order to consolidate all maintenance resources.
Life aboard a carrier is frequently portrayed as easy living. But that is often only in relation to some other methods of waging war. During World War II, few compartments of carriers were air conditioned—usually only ready rooms, radar rooms, and senior officers’ quarters. Mechanics and ordnancemen frequently worked below decks as much as 16 hours a day in sweltering heat with little or no ventilation. Few of these men were professional aviation mechanics, but they learned fast. They had to.
Fortunately for everyone concerned, Grumman built considerable “maintainability” into the F6F. It was a concept which has also been described as the “shoe clerk approach” to aviation. One of Grumman’s field service representatives was Ralph Clark, a young New Yorker who spent over two years in the Pacific helping the air groups get their TBFs and F6Fs operational. “We had shoe clerks building Hellcats. We had shoe clerks working on Hellcats, and mainly we had shoe clerks flying them, too,” Clark recalls. “Not that I have anything against shoe clerks, or any other nonprofessionals. But we had to remember that most of the people involved with the F6F had never met an airplane face to face before 1942.”8
Between them, the Hellcats and the shoe clerks helped win the war.
The following is a guide to the drawings on page 22. Area 1: Radio mast shown in configuration for BuNo 65890 (910th F6F-3) and all subsequent. Mast canted forward on first 909 F6F-3s (BuNo 04775 through 26195). Mast located slightly to right of centerline on BuNo 04775 through 41294 (2,560th F6F-3); located slightly to left of centerline on BuNo 41295 (2,561st F6F-3) and all subsequent. Area 2: Approximately 909 F6F-3s (BuNo 04775 through 26195) delivered with fairing over two inboard gun-barrel extensions on each wing. Area 3: Landing light (underside of port wing) omitted on BuNo 08886 (273rd F6F-3) and all subsequent, except night fighters. Area 4: Lower cowl flap omitted on BuNo 39999 (1,265th F6F-3) and all subsequent. Area 5: Bulged fairing over lateral exhaust stacks omitted on BuNo 40235 (1,501st F6F-3) and all subsequent. Area 6: Access panel for ADI system fluid tank; installed on BuNo 40634 (1,900th F6F-3) and all subsequent (R-2800-10W). Area 7: BuNo 42185 (3,451st F6F-3) and all subsequent with provision for rocket projectiles. Area 8: All F6F-5 with provisions for three .50-Cal. MG, or two .50-Cal. MG and one 20 mm in each wing; all late model F6F-5Ns delivered with mixed battery. Area 9: Rear-vision window on all F6F-3s, and approximately the first 1,500 to 2,000 F6F-5s. Area 10: Dorsal recognition light between stations 112½ and 127 omitted on BuNo 70289 (1,298th F6F-5) and all subsequent. Area 11: All F6F-3s with one controllable trim tab on left aileron, and one fixed tab on right aileron. Area 12: All F6F-5s with one servo tab and one fixed tab on each aileron; left servo tab also controllable from cockpit. Area 13: F6F-3 windshield; the flat, bullet-resistant glass panel was mounted inside the laminated plate glass windshield with space between to allow for heated air to be blown for defrosting. Area 14: F6F-5 and F6F-3N windshield; the laminated plate glass windshield was eliminated, and the flat, bullet-resistant panel was incorporated as an integral part of the windshield.
Grumman maintained cordial relations with the other aviation companies in the area: Republic, Chance Vought, and Pratt and Whitney. The four firms discussed mutual problems and exchanged ideas which would aid in the war effort. It was not difficult, for Republic’s plant at Farmingdale was almost next door to Bethpage. Vought, at Stratford, Connecticut, was just across Long Island Sound, and Pratt and Whitney was slightly north at Hartford.
F6F BuNos in Fabrication Sequence
Reference sources: Erection & Maintenance Manual, F6F-3; Pilot’s Handbook, F6F-3/5; various photographs from National Archives; tabulation, Aircraft Produced under Navy Cognizance 1941-1945.
Drawings by R. M. Hill.
One of Republic’s test pilots was Kenneth A. Jernstedt, a former Marine aviator who had gone to China with Colonel Claire Chennault’s “Flying Tigers.” Jernstedt came back with a bad case of malaria which prevented his return to military service, so he joined the P-47 flight test department.
Republic and Grumman test pilots were well acquainted with each other, and frequently swapped rides. Recalls Jernstedt, “We would exchange flights in different airplanes. When we developed a new model, Connie Converse and some of the boys from Grumman would come over and fly it. Then when they came out with something new, we would go over and fly theirs.”
One afternoon, probably in early 1943, Jernstedt was at Bethpage awaiting his turn to fly an F6F. While in the men’s room he met a tall, middle-aged Corsair pilot. Just then another Republic pilot rushed in, exclaiming, “Hey, Jerny, Lindy is around here someplace.” Jernstedt pointed to the tall stranger and said, “Yes, I know.”
Charles Lindbergh proudly showed off his borrowed F4U, as he was a consultant to both Vought and Pratt and Whitney. But this particular day he was at Bethpage for the same reason as Jernstedt and the others—to fly a Hellcat.
Though Jernstedt was ahead of Lindbergh on the flight list, the Republic pilot offered his boyhood hero the first chance. Lindbergh said it wasn’t necessary, but Jernstedt insisted. “I’m going to drive home, but you’re going to fly when you leave, and it’s getting late so why don’t you fly it first.”
Lindbergh said, “Well, to tell you the truth, I really would appreciate it.” After a thorough preflight check, Lindbergh climbed into the F6F, started the engine, and took off. He returned over the field about 25 minutes later, but did not land. Quickly the word passed that the Hellcat’s wheels were jammed in the up position.
“If you’ve never seen a nervous airplane factory, you should have been at Grumman that day,” says Jernstedt. “Here was Charles A. Lindbergh in one of their Hellcats, trying to land and he couldn’t get the gear down. He had more radio help and advice than any pilot I ever saw. Engineers and mechanics flocked to the control tower. Finally, after three dives and sharp pull-outs, he was able to lock his wheels down and he landed safely.”
As Lindbergh shut down the engine and started to climb out, Jernstedt walked up and said, “Thanks for checking out that F6 for me, Lindy.”
Jernstedt finally got to fly a Hellcat. But he loyally maintained, “It wasn’t as good as the P-47.”9
Roy Grumman unquestionably would have disagreed. For though he never flew a Thunderbolt, he did fly a Hellcat. One day in the summer of 1944, Grumman told Connie Converse that he wanted to fly an F6F. Converse met the idea with less than unbridled enthusiasm, but the boss had already made up his mind. The fact that he hadn’t flown in several years made no difference. Grumman had business problems on his mind, and he wanted to do what he used to do in the old days—take his troubles upstairs and leave them there.
According to legend, Converse gave Mr. Grumman a ten-minute cockpit check. Then the president shooed his test pilot away, started the engine, and took off. He made a smooth turn out of the traffic pattern and disappeared.
About 20 minutes later the lone Hellcat entered the pattern, turned on final approach, and settled toward the runway, Roy Grumman made a professionally smooth landing and taxied back to the flight line.
Rather than praise their employer for his skill, the factory pilots insisted that he pay a dollar to the party fund for taxiing with his flaps down. Grumman replied that it was unfair for him to pay the penalty after only one flight in an F6F, but dropped in a five dollar bill, “for things he’d done in the air that they hadn’t seen!”10
When Roy Grumman flew that Hellcat, he was a 50-year-old executive who had not touched a throttle in a long time. It was a tribute to both the man and the machine.
