TWO-THIRTEEN AND THEIR F4U’S

The Colonel came the other day,

And took our F4F’s away.

The Dutchman cussed and bitched and cried.

“The dirty bums!” the poor guy sighed.

“Our tender care all gone for naught;

and now we’ve monsters spewn from Vought.”

                                                             II

His plane mechs griped – and they’d be right-

For each had stolen through the night,

Like bold and hardy crooks of old,

To lift the stuff that Grumman sold.

Both ‘Twenty-One and Two-Fourteen

Supplied our band that crept unseen.

                                                            III

McLaughlin, Twitty, Dutch, an Barr

Had gathered parts from near and far.

They had equipped us much the best

Of all the squadrons headed West,

But ‘twas in vain!  For on that day

All Wildcat parts were sent away.

                                                            IV

So there we were a fighting crew,

Gone was the old, and here the new.

Was it true that it stalled out coming in?

Must ya jump if the damn thing started t’ spin?

And how about that mile-long nose?

Ours the plane that nobody knows.

                                                             V

Complicated! Gadget-ated!

Fleet-winged, swift, and agitated!

Speed and death here concentrated,

To Revenge they’re dedicated.

Born to kill – and consecrated

To the task war indicated.

                                                            VI

Hot stuff, these planes!  A lot to learn,

Studious midnight oil must burn.

“Memorize handbooks!  Get the word!

Learn the features!”  was all we heard.

Hartsock and Kuhn from ‘Twenty-Four.

Taught us a lot of corsair lore.

                         VII

The Majors were the fist that day

To hit the air the Corsair way.

The whole damn crew had gathered ‘round

To cheer or pale as they touched the ground;

To hope and pray that “Ground-loop” Greg

Would keep her straight-no palm tree peg.

                                                            VIII

But the wheels hit true, I’m proud to say;

No loops or whirls to mar the day-

Both Britt and Greg smiled down and said

“There’s nothing to it.  Just use your head.”

So all went up to roll and soar,

And thrill to the song of that engine’s roar.

                         IX

The weeks pass by – the hours mount.

An hour a week.  Christ!  What a count!

Lack of parts- but no lack of rain.

Blood and guts!  Who wouldn’t complain?!

Treffer and Tate have hit the drink.

All hands give thanks, they didn’t sink.

                          X

Only the start has here been told.

The Tale will grow as the year turns old.

Maybe I’m wrong and maybe I’m right,

But I say we’ll win each time that we fight.

As a betting man, the team I’d choose

Is Two-Thirteen and their F4U’s.

                                                Guadalcanal April 4, 1943

---------------------------------------------------------------------

                                                            Brown

Comments:      This poem was also handwritten into Doc Livingood’s log and specifically attributed to Theron Hart Brown, III.  Additionally, it was contained in another collection attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.

The first US Navy F4F-3 was flown on 20 August 1940, powered by a Pratt & Whitney R-1830 engine with 1,200 horsepower. The subsequent F4F-4, incorporating several improvements including folding wings, six guns and self-sealing fuel tanks, was delivered in November 1941. It was then that the name "Wildcat" was first given to the F4F. As war raged around the world, the Wildcat's reputation and utilization grew immensely. It flew with the US Navy and US Marines in all of the major Pacific battles, and in North Africa with the Navy.

            F4U was a single-engine aircraft. The fuselage was round with a small bubble canopy and a tall rounded fin. Fuselage extended past the fin. A radial air-cooled engine was mounted in the nose and was fitted with a four-blade propeller. Low-set wings were inversed-gullwing shaped. They were elliptical with rounded tips. An oval air intake was housed in the leading edge of the wings close to the fuselage. Machine guns were mounted in the wings.

            The F4U was an extremely dangerous plane to Japanese pilots increasingly dependent on the Zero design as the war moved on.  Its inverted gull wing produced a low drag profile, and the Pratt and Whitney R2800 delivered massive horsepower at altitudes most other planes couldn't reach. A Zero pilot faced in the F4U a plane that was considerably faster, had twice his horsepower, could climb much better, was much better armored, and featured the staple American gun configuration of multiple 50 caliber machine guns with lots of ammo. Not surprisingly the F4U generated a massive (11:1) kill ratio rivaled only by its R2800 cousin the F6F, Hellcat.  The Corsair was such a solid design it was used well after the war into the 1950's in a variety of roles.

            In early February 1943, the VMF-124 was the first in the South Pacific theater equipped with the Vought F4U Corsairs, the "Bent-Wing Bird" to the Marines and “Whistling Death” to the Japanese.  The Corsair had real performance superiority over the Japanese combat aircraft and much greater range than the F4F.  Within three months, all eight Marine fighter squadrons in the Solomons were equipped with the Corsair.  VMF-213 received their first Corsair on March 9, 1943.  Lts. Hartsock and Kuhn of the VMF-124 were temporarily attached to the VMF-213 to help with the training on the F4U.

Thought while riding the Tontouta Aviation   Express:        

Why are these god-damned bases

Always in the lousiest places?

                                    --------------------------------------------------------------

                                                   ORDERS FOR TWO-THIRTEEN

Where the mud is up to the hub caps,

And the jeeps are skidding free,

We will send the fighting young pilots,

Of Squadron Two-One-Three.

Where the rain and muck are the thickest,

And the Heavens open up,

Let them pitch their tents ‘neath the palm trees –

Let them slither, slather, and slup!

If there’s ever rain in the tropics,

And it’s dry where they might be;

We must rush these lads to the scene, Boys!

Faithful mud-caked Two-One-Three!

Let their laundry soak in the drying,

Let them sink knee deep in loam.

Always send these lads to the mud-holes;

And, by God!  Don’t send them home!

                                                                                                Guadalcanal, April 6, 1943.

                                                                                                Brown

                   THE BUG OF FATE!

Yes, there’s only one way to explain it,

            I’ve decided it really was fate.

For who’d think that a bug brought together,

            A cadet and a girl who is great?

I was minding my own damn good business

            (It was after my down-check on “B”)

When I started to cough and to sniffle,

            And a gold-brick decided to be.

Spent two days in the Sick Bay Dispensary,

            And I thought I’d be out on the third:

But a pharyngite bug had attacked me-

            Left a cough that was really a bird!

“Hmmm – There’s only one way to defeat it,”

            Said the doc, “So I think we’ll send

This young lad to the kind tender mercies

            Of the guys up on ‘Hospital Bend’”.

Now I won’t say I’m sorry it happened

            For I wasn’t up there very long,

When a wise-cracking cute little female

            Came into my life like a song.

She was standing right there in the doorway,

            (It was easy to see she’s a nurse)

And she said, with a pleasant expression,

            “Cadet Brown! – Are you better or worse?”

Once recovered from child-like confusion,

            And then seeing the chance that I had,

I quick gathered my wits and half muttered,

            “I’ve seen plenty, and, son – that’s not bad!!”

So the days that I stayed were a pleasure,

            (it was hard, tho’, to get magazines)

For she often dropped by isolation

            Till I was up and once more on the scenes.

When recovered and back in the running,

            I soon gave the sweet girl a few calls;

And we spent many pleasant long hours

            At the beach, at shows, and the balls.

There’s a moral that goes with this story:-

            To be safe as a bachelor mug,

I advise – and it freely is given –

            Don’t go fooling around with a bug!!!

                                                Guadalcanal – April 11, 1943.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                                Brown

IN MEMORIAM -                   WADE H. BRITT, Jr.

                                                Major, USMC,

                                                CO of VMF-213

There’s no one can take his place

In the hearts of us one and all.

The high and low, the best and worst

Must go when He gives the call.

And now the best of us all is gone –

And it’s no disgrace to weep.

But we’ll carry on as he taught us to,

While he guides us from his sleep.

Guadalcanal – April 13, 1943.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------                                                                                   Brown

Comments:      This poem appears in another collection of poems attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.

Major Wade H. Britt, Jr., was the Commanding Officer of the VMF-213 and prepared them for combat.  Major Britt died on April 13, 1943, in a runway accident.  The poem and its authorship as being “Lt. Brown” was identified as being placed on a plaque over his grave on Guadalcanal, also known in code names as Cactus and BVEY. 

            WHY?

Death Calls!

Some go-

And in going haven’t time to pause a

                                    bit and think

Of the things they leave behind them:

The sun – a woman’s kiss – a long and

                                    cooling drink.

Death calls!

Some stay-

And in staying pause, ponder a bit and

                                    think;

Then return to the things that are left them:

The sun  –  woman’s kiss  –  a long and

                                    cooling drink.

  Guadalcanal – April 13, 1943.

Comments:      This poem appears in another collection of poems attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.

This death-reflective poem is dated the same day as Major Britt’s death.

“What do you find up there in the Skies?”

                        I said,

He smiled to himself; and then lowered

                        his head.

“There is quiet in the skies.

I know – for I’ve been there.

There is peace, too;

But not now.

“There is happiness in the skies.

I know –  for I felt it.

There is revenge, too –

In our vow.

“There is beauty in the skies.

I know – for I’ve seen it.

There is war, too,

And death, now.

“Quiet, peace, happiness, and beauty –

                        these will last

The many ages through where all hate is past.”

                                                                                    Guadalcanal, April 17, 1943.

Comments:      While this poem did not have the Brown name typed or written on it, it was included in a smaller collect of poems that were specifically attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.  Additionally, neither copy had a title.  The title used herein was taken from the poem’s first line and added to this compilation of poems.

In the Navy it’s proper, and quite alright

And considered the thing to do,

To abbreviate each thing you write

To save a line or two.

There’s the ComNoumea and the ComSoPac

And the BuNavPersonnel,

And, oh – don’t forget the boss of the pack,

The one called Cominch as well.

OpNav and BuAero, and the ComPacFleet,

And the ComTaskFor number Two.

But the one that’s got the whole lot beat

Is the unofficial SNAFU.

With a dignified stance and respectful poise,

Without a grin on your kisser,

Just ask a question of one of the Boys –

You cannot fail to miss ‘er.

“No the time’s not right, and the stuff’s not here;

And the Admiral’s feeling blue.

It’s out of the question, old man, this year.”

There, mister, you’ve met SNAFU.

When your squadron moves to a far-flung base,

And they say with a frown, “Who’re you?

We didn’t expect you.  Dump any place!”

There again, my lad, SNAFU!

You’re waiting in “Dago” in ARS;

You’re mustering three times a day.

You don’t fly – you just sit and wait;

Lord, yes!

SNAFU! – and it’s here to stay.

Yes, the Situation’s normal – All Fouled Up,

And it certainly is a shame.

But you learn it young, when you’re just a pup.

It’s part of the Navy game!!

Guadalcanal – April 20, 1943.

______________________________________________________________

Comments:  While this poem did not have the Brown name typed or written on it, it was included in a smaller collect of poems that were specifically attributed to Captain T.H. Brown, III.

In flight I seek and find fair Heaven’s prize,

As free of care I skim the earth below,

And speeding, darting, playing learn to know

The freedom God created in the skies.

Scenes only Heaven yields can thrill these eyes

Which from on high have seen the sunset’s glow,

The birth of stars and planets row on row,

And beauties God to earth-bound man denies.

For I have lived with birds and clouds and stars,

And shared the secrets known to air-borne things;

And soared far beyond the hold of man made bars,

And felt vast power surging through my wings.

In flying I have transcended man’s estate,

And found through space a path to Heaven’s Gate.

                                                                        A Sonnet

                                                                        Guadalcanal – May 7, 1943.

                        ______________________________________________

Letter To:

Dear Mother, Father, Sister, Wife, and Friend

Of that fine boy who flew away to die,

Who fought for right and freedom in the sky,

And fighting, prove his worth – and met his end;

I write this message Billy asked I send.

The bravery of his words and feeling my

Poor efforts can’t convey; but still I’ll try.

“If I should go, this favor you can lend,”

He said, “please tell them life was not in vain,

For all it’s riches it has showered on me.

I’ve worked and played; I’ve loved, was loved.  The pain

Death leaves with them my one regret will be.

They’ve made my life complete, though short its span.”

He died for his belief.  He died a man.

A Sonnet

Comment:        This poem also appears in a smaller collection of poems attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.

THE PLANE IN FLIGHT

A silhouette against the distant sky,

The sun’s reflection gleaming off a wing,

A moment’s flash, a shining man-made thing:

This is the plane in flight.

A flickering shadow speeding past a cloud,

A silver spectre mirrored by the sun,

The great ambition of the ages won:

This is the plane in flight.

The roaring song of sturdy strength and pow’r

A song of motion, liquid, swift, and pure,

Which sings an answer to this heav’n borne lure:

This is the plane in flight.

There are no words, no phrases knit to toll

The story of the pain – of man’s travail

To mold this dream.  It tells its own great tale:

This is the plain in flight.

                                                                                    Espiritu Santo – August 1, 1943.

                                                                                    Brown

Comment:        This poem also appears in a smaller collection of poems attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.

Dedication to Major Weissenberger upon the event of his

transfer out of the squadron:

They’ve taken our leader away from us,

He’s now got a desk – a boy’s job

Ace Greg’s too busy to fight any more;

He’s clothing the naked mob.

Oh, woe is me!  Alas and alack!

He’ll fight no more in this war.

It’s scivvies and socks and Khaki pants,

And “how are things down at the store?”

But kidding aside – and all that stuff,

We’ll miss “Slim Jim” you know.

A damn good leader, a damn good scout;

We hated to see him go.

He took the place of a man we loved,

And he did it mighty well.

He talked for us and he fought for us,

And he led us through all the hell.

Now back we go, and It’s “So long Greg!”

And “we hope you’ll like G-4!”

Remember us from behind that desk

As we’re rolling up the score.

Espiritu Santo – September 1, 1943

                        ___________________________________________________________

Brown

Comments:      A identical version of this poem was included in a smaller collection of poems that were specifically attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III.  However, that collection has another more elaborate version, although missing the words, “Espiritu Santos – September 1, 1943.”  It contained a formal dedication and was signed by twelve members of the squadron.

            The formal dedication preceding the poem read:

Marine Fighter Squadron

Two Thirteen

                                    In consideration of his qualities of leadership and

                personality which have endeared him to us.  This tribute is of-

                fered to Major Gregory Weissenberger by the undersign-

ed members of the original combat team of VMF-213.  We

wish to express our gratitude of having had the privilege

of serving under him and fighting beside him.  The follow-

ing poem, such as it is, is dedicated to him, and presented

to him at the time of his transfer from his squadron to other

duties.  We bow to the good of the service, but with mingled

pride and regret that the gain to group eleven must be balanc-

ed by the corresponding loss to Marine Fighting Squadron

Two Thirteen.

            The poem was signed by:

                        Ted Brown

                        Milt Vedder

                        W.J. (Gus) Thomas

                        Wally Cloake

                        J. L. Morgan, Jr.

                        Edward O. Shaw

                        James N. Cupp

A.    R. Boag

Bill Livingood

Sterling M. Harrison

George C. DeFabio

L. W. McCleary

There’s a story that needs telling

            Of our friends that don’t come back

Of the boys who’ve left our Hell Hawks

            Of the comrades that we lack.

There was Britt and Tate and Eckart,

            There was Peck and Poncho too.

Every one of them is gone now,

            But their mem’ries follow through.

When the legends that will follow

            Are all spun in years to come,

We will talk of these dead heros,

            They who died to sink the Sun.

Was there ever squadron so gifted

            As were we with Britt to lead?

Was there ever a squadron struck harder

            By a more ill-fated dead?

A man loved as well as respected

            From the low to high in ranks

To have known and followed this leader

            Was an honor.  We give our thanks.

Then of Tate we’ll all remember

            How he grinned and laughed away

All the luck misfortune sent him

            Up until that fateful day.

And of Eckart, unassuming

            With his pipe and quiet way

Of the four who turned back forty

            Its’ for Lee we stopped to pray.

Next of those whose names we honor

            Was a boy in years and ken,

But he flew and fought a veteran;

            Peck was liked by all his men.

There is naught but good to say now

            Of the one shot down in flame.

All the oldest of the Hell Hawks

            Will long honor Poncho’s name.

That’s the story needed telling

            Of our friends who won’t come back.

There are others who are missing,

            Other comrades that we lack.

There is Winnia and Spoede,

            There is “Bluebeard” Votaw, too.

There’s a chance they’ll be returning

            And we fondly pray they do.

Tho’ we’ve gotten 67,

            And we’ve only lost these 8

And these 8 are all we’ve lost

            We’d return the 67,

For not one is worth the cost.

_________________________________________                                                                                                                          Brown

Comments:      In addition to the handwritten name of Brown on the original and its inclusion in the other collection of poems attributed to Captain T. H. Brown, III, this poem seems to chronologically fit the authorship of Theron Brown, who was killed in action on September 12, 1943.  The poem chronicles the deaths of VMF-213 members and those missing in action (MIA) but predates Captain Brown’s death.  Sandra Brown, widow of Sherwood P. Brown, Theron’s brother, specifically identified this poem as one in her collection that had the notation, South Pacific Summer 1943.  The pilots mentioned in the poem are

Name Referenced                    Name                                       Date of Death/MIA

Britt                                         Wade H. Britt                          April 13, 1943

Tate                                         Don H. Tate                             June 29, 1943

Eckart                                      Leland L. Eckart                      April 25, 1943

Peck                                        Milton E. Peck                         June 30, 1943

Poncho                                    Foy R. Garison                        July 17, 1943

Winnia                                    Charles C. Winnia                   July 18, 1943

Spoede                                    Herman H. Spoede                  July 3, 1943