Their mission proved to be nuts
The date entered into my flight log was Oct. 29, 1944. We were returning from our 17th mapping mission. I was an aerial photographer in a modified B-24 four-engine bomber.
We carried no bombs. The primary mission of the 20th Combat Mapping Squadron was to photograph the Japanese-occupied islands.
Take off from Moratai was 0545 hours. Our gas load, including the auxiliary tanks, was 3,400 gallons. The target was Mindoro Island in the Philippines. I noted in my log “the weather was bad all the way, but over the target it was clear. Except for a little camera trouble we had a good day, bringing back over 300 pix.”
Because of the bad weather on the way to Mindoro our pilots determined we did not have enough gas to get back. Fortunately, Middleburg Island had been prepared for emergency situations. A small coral island, it was almost completely covered with coconut trees, with a marsten mat air strip cut down the center that ran from the water’s edge one end to the water’s edge on the other. We landed at 1800, 12 hours and 15 minutes after leaving Moratai.
After a fairly good night of rest we had the opportunity to explore the island after refueling the aircraft. Our tail gunner, Fred Mack Jr. (the oldest member of our crew at 42) and I formed a partnership to transport some of the thousands of coconuts from Middleburg to (our home base) Biak, where we had none. At $5 each we would realize a healthy profit and do a favor to our buddies, who had no place to spend their money.
We loaded 80 coconuts in the back of our F7, thinking it best not to mention it to our pilot at the time. Before take-off it would have helped to make adjustments to the additional 400 pounds of weight in the tail section, but we were rolling down the runway. We heard colorful language over the intercom between the pilots about “this blankety-blank” bucket of bolts and “are you sure you put down the flaps?!” Even though we used every inch of the strip and made a very slow climb to cruising altitude, it was a beautiful day for flying. It was, that is, until the pilot came to the rear to use the relief tube and stumbled over the cargo.
He said nothing at the time and was silent when we landed one hour and 50 minutes later.
Mack and I commandeered a truck to haul the coconuts to our squadron area, where we announced that those who wished to part with their money had the opportunity. And they came by the dozens, with cash in hand.
We cracked the first coconut with a machete, but the milk was sour; as was the second and the third. As our prospects began to slip away, someone asked “Where did you get the coconuts, anyway?” and we told them.
It was then we learned we knew nothing about harvesting coconuts. We had seen the photographs and newsreels of athletic, handsomely bronzed natives scurrying up the trunks of coconut trees with knives clenched in their teeth. We thought all of that stuff was some chamber of commerce public relations attempt to lure the public to enchanted romantic places.
The coconuts we picked up had probably been lying on the ground since Pearl Harbor.
As Mack and I pondered what we might do with our inventory – now 77 – a familiar figure approached in the fading sunlight. We immediately recognized the tall Lt. Chandler C. Clover, our pilot. He pointed his finger within an inch of my nose and said “I want to see those coconuts going out with the tide – tonight!” With a crisp military about-face he disappeared as quietly as he had arrived.
It was a beautiful scene: 77 half-round shadows bobbing in the gentle waves reflecting the bright orange South Pacific sun. After all these years I can still see the golden sky with movie-like titles scrolling up – “The Great Coconut Caper of World War II.”