Chapter 1

Edward Martin stood from his chair, came smartly to attention, and saluted. He gazed with fondness as he watched his dark blue beauty towed from the hangar’s shadow at MacDill Air Base into the brilliantly warm summer’s daylight. A group of aviation enthusiasts had spent the past three years painstakingly restoring, into pristine condition an F4U-1 Corsair fighter plane from World War 2.

While the Corsair went through restoration, documentation and flight records revealed that, remarkably, Edward was the only pilot to fly her in wartime action.

Edward stood proudly with his wife, Helen, sons Victor and Tom, daughter Jennifer, and grandson Bill on this special occasion. His girl was parked, waiting for the turn of the ignition toggle switch to bring her to life.

The curve of Edward’s dark blue ball cap, emblazoned in gold stitching with ‘US Navy/Marine Fighter Pilot Veteran, F4U Corsair,’ framed his seasoned face. His name, golden wings, and rank on the right front of his leather jacket and stitched lettering on the back proclaimed him as a World War 2 veteran who flew the F4F Wildcat and the F4U-1 Corsair.

Below the planes were the golden stitched silhouettes and names of the aircraft carriers Edward served on: USS Lexington CV-2, USS Yorktown CV-5, USS Wasp CV-7, USS Hornet CV-8, and USS Essex CV-9, plus a patch of a skull and the Corsair silhouette of VMF-124.

“Is she how you remembered her, Dad?” Victor asked.

“She never looked this pretty, except when brand new, all shinny and without a speck of dirt, oil, or any bullet holes,” he smiled, approaching her. “It’s the same colour, a deep, dark blue, except she had a flat sheen to her beautiful looking body so it wouldn’t reflect the sunlight.”

Edward’s eyes grew as wide as they could be, slightly misty, as he placed his right hand, spotted by age and sun, on the undercarriage of the folded starboard wing. “Hi girl, I never thought I’d ever see you again!” He affectionately patted the metal skin, running his palm over the smooth surface.

His hand resting on the starboard flap, his eyes pooled as he recalled several moments from the war. ”’Get him, John, before he gets me!” ‘Pilot down! Plane down! All pilots report in! God damn it! Ed survived three combat tours, shot down thirteen planes, and dies in a damn training accident? It just isn’t fair!’ ‘Jesus, Skipper, I’m not going to make it back to the Essex! I’m losing too much fuel! Look at those white caps! Those seas are too rough to be rescued! I’ll never make it long enough! Tell my wife I love her, and damn it, I never even got to see my baby boy!’

His hand touched four long metal rails that once carried and launched deadly rockets. Now the wings hold eight dummy rockets.

“Grandpa, I remember you showing me pictures of the planes you flew in the war, but I didn’t realize this one is so small,” his grandson, Bill, remarked.Â

“I imagine it seems small compared to the modern fighter jets of today. They were well built and mostly simple to fly, not with all those elaborate computer-driven gizmos in today’s planes. There is no difference between the fancy-designed jets of today and my plane. Both are built to defend our country, and kill the enemy. The Corsair was the first single engine US fighter plane to fly more than 400 miles per hour.”

Edward slowly walked around the Corsair like he was reconnecting with a long-lost love, then noticed several men approaching.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” A man smiled, touching the right elevator and coming to his side.

Edward inspected the tiny rear wheel and retracted hook used to stop the planes when they landed on an aircraft carrier. “Never seen her looking so good before the bullet holes.”

“Lieutenant Commander Martin, I must tell you what an honor it is to finally meet you. I’m Dave Fletcher, team leader on the restoration of your Corsair,” he said, offering his hand. Edward accepted his handshake.

“And I’m Brent Hastings. It’s a privilege, Sir. My dad also flew Corsairs in the war, but in Europe with the Royal Air Force. It was a pleasure to work on your plane.”

“It is indeed a suprise. If I’d known you were restoring her, I would have gladly helped out any way that I could.”

“I’m so happy you could be here today,” Dave said, admiring the tall, distinguished-looking elderly gentleman. “We thought of contacting you while we brought her back to flying condition, but weren’t certain what memories it would have brought back to you.”

“It’s my pleasure. I wouldn’t have missed this day for the world!” Edward gleamed, admiring the tail and rudder. He took a moment to introduce his family.

Edward continued to inspect his girl as Brent explained the changes they made for her to become airworthy. “The avionics were completely rebuilt. You can’t find 1940s-era flight instruments anymore.”

“You patched over all the bullet holes, dents, and tears? They should show that my girl and I flew into hell and back and survived it all.”

“Sir, if we let the bullet holes and other damage she suffered remain, she likely wouldn’t be able to fly.”

“That’s a fact, Son. I flew this beautiful lady with more holes in her than Swiss cheese, and I had a few of them myself. The little bit of arthritis in my knee is mainly from shell fragments I caught flying my Wildcat in the Battle of Midway.”

Moving around the port, or left side, Edward touched the distinctive engine supercharger intake duct where the wing meets the body, which produced that certain sound associated with her, then the flared cowling covering the engine. The Japanese feared this plane so much that it was nicknamed ‘Whistling Death’ because of the high-pitched noise the supercharger produced. He reached up to touch the scripted letters on the engine cover that spelled ’Helen,’ and smiled at his wife. He gently grasped the yellow-tipped propeller, giving it a slight push.

“When Pratt and Whitney rebuilt the engine for us, they found so many dents on different parts, plus twelve bullets still wedged between the two rows of cylinders. Eight were identified as Japanese, and four were American.”

“You were shot at by your own American pilots?” Bill couldn’t believe it.

“During the total chaos of multi-plane dog fights, it did happen that while trying to shoot down a Zero or other Japanese planes, stray bullets would hit our own planes. Unfortunately, during the war, several of our flyers were accidentally shot down by us, not the Japanese.” Edward remarked on the unfortunate deaths of comrades.

“I can’t imagine what you experienced,” Dave remarked.

“Her first engine had just as much damage. It’s a wonder she still flew. I’ll tell you, those ground crew personnel worked miracles repairing the damage our planes suffered during the war. The twelve bullets don’t include those already pulled from different parts of the hydraulic systems, the oil pan, the wings, and the fuselage. Sometimes a plane was so damaged that it was easier to just push her over the edge of our carrier into the ocean and bring up another spare from below decks than to repair it.”

“She looks pretty, but we never flew with all these decorations stamped on her. It would have made it easier for the Japanese to spot her,” he mentioned of the painted cowling covering the powerful engine and lower half of the rudder. The word, NAVY/ MARINE, in tall white letters beside the star and stripes decal, and her number, ninety-nine, were on both sides of the fuselage between the cockpit and tail. Just ahead of the tail section were her actual identification call letters: 99-N-124.