My March Record Eagle column...A tribute to the USS Franklin.
When I walked into the room it was obvious that Death was present. I was accompanied by two combat veterans who had invited me to interview an elderly pilot.
Slumped over in his wheelchair, the Lieutenant Colonel was waiting for us. The walls of his study were decorated with framed black and white photos of himself and his pilot buddies from the 1940’s.
In the corner was a large framed color photograph of the famous aircraft carrier the USS Franklin. Smoke billowed from its deck.
After a few minutes of formalities the interview began. The Lieutenant Colonel’s voice was a faint whisper. His wife often had to interpret for him.
Before we left, my veteran friends posed for a few photographs with the pilot. William beamed.
He passed away a month after I wrote the poem.
Lieutenant Colonel J. William Rogalski
The Marine Corsair Pilot
We were in the ready room
of the USS Franklin aircraft carrier.
I was a Corsair fighter bomber pilot
getting orders with my buddies
for the next flight.
It was March 19, 1945
a few minutes after 7 a.m.
Big Ben was leading a fleet of warships
50 miles off Japan’s coast,
preparing to launch a second day
of naval airstrikes,
the first of World War II
against the enemies’ homeland.
A few Corsairs were already in the air.
The head mechanic said, “I checked your plane
real close last night
and rechecked it this morning.
I found a bent pin in one wing.
If you take off,
your wing is going to flip
and you’ll go into the ocean.
Let’s go down the hall,
it’s noisy in here.”
As we walked towards the end of the carrier
a Japanese dive-bomber
was hiding in the clouds.
It dropped two 500 pound bombs on us.
One landed smack dab on top
of the ready room where we’d been
and penetrated the ship.
The other explosion ignited
36 thousand gallons of gas
and 30 tons of bombs.
We made it up above
to the ruptured flight deck.
Most men were lying down.
The concussion of the two bombs
was so intense
their ankles were broken.
Their feet were going in all different directions,
and some of the men were on fire.
Flames were 400 feet high
and smoke boiled into the sky.
Tiny Tims were whistling around
like birds of death.
Father O’Callaghan was everywhere
helping the wounded
and giving last rights.
He seemed to be in a trance
oblivious to the danger.
I was on the listing ship for three hours
helping pull men out of the flames
and putting out fires,
until the captain ordered all pilots off Big Ben.
The light cruiser USS Santa Fe
pulled up beside us a second time.
There was a small space between ships,
and the wounded were being carried across
on ladders with planks laid on them…
so I jumped the opening.
The USS Franklin was the most damaged ship
of the war
to not sink.
Eight-hundred and thirty-two men were killed,
three-hundred wounded
and my Corsair was blown to bits.
On March 21
Big Ben left for Ulithi Island
under its own power
escorted by the Santa Fe.
After temporary repairs
both ships were sent home.
Twelve thousand miles later
on April 26
Big Ben dropped anchor at Gravesend Bay
near Brooklyn’s Coney Island.
After the war
I received the Purple Heart
with many other men
for my burns.
Father O’Callaghan was given
the Congressional Medal of Honor,
the only member of the clergy
to ever receive one.
Epilogue
This happened 70 years ago
and I’m 95 now.
I couldn’t make it to the ship’s reunion this summer.
I can’t walk anymore,
can barely talk or hold my head up,
and my back is bent crooked
from too many tail hook landings.
When whispering death comes
I hope it’s in the shape of a Corsair fighter-bomber.
I’ll climb up in the cockpit
perched above those gull-wings,
and take off one last time
riding that 2,000 horse power piston driven engine
and 13 foot 4 inch propeller
up through the clouds into heaven.
I’ll join my pilot-friends
you see in all these framed photos
on my walls.
When I walked into the room it was obvious that Death was present. I was accompanied by two combat veterans who had invited me to interview an elderly pilot.
Slumped over in his wheelchair, the Lieutenant Colonel was waiting for us. The walls of his study were decorated with framed black and white photos of himself and his pilot buddies from the 1940’s.
In the corner was a large framed color photograph of the famous aircraft carrier the USS Franklin. Smoke billowed from its deck.
After a few minutes of formalities the interview began. The Lieutenant Colonel’s voice was a faint whisper. His wife often had to interpret for him.
Before we left, my veteran friends posed for a few photographs with the pilot. William beamed.
He passed away a month after I wrote the poem.
Lieutenant Colonel J. William Rogalski
The Marine Corsair Pilot
We were in the ready room
of the USS Franklin aircraft carrier.
I was a Corsair fighter bomber pilot
getting orders with my buddies
for the next flight.
It was March 19, 1945
a few minutes after 7 a.m.
Big Ben was leading a fleet of warships
50 miles off Japan’s coast,
preparing to launch a second day
of naval airstrikes,
the first of World War II
against the enemies’ homeland.
A few Corsairs were already in the air.
The head mechanic said, “I checked your plane
real close last night
and rechecked it this morning.
I found a bent pin in one wing.
If you take off,
your wing is going to flip
and you’ll go into the ocean.
Let’s go down the hall,
it’s noisy in here.”
As we walked towards the end of the carrier
a Japanese dive-bomber
was hiding in the clouds.
It dropped two 500 pound bombs on us.
One landed smack dab on top
of the ready room where we’d been
and penetrated the ship.
The other explosion ignited
36 thousand gallons of gas
and 30 tons of bombs.
We made it up above
to the ruptured flight deck.
Most men were lying down.
The concussion of the two bombs
was so intense
their ankles were broken.
Their feet were going in all different directions,
and some of the men were on fire.
Flames were 400 feet high
and smoke boiled into the sky.
Tiny Tims were whistling around
like birds of death.
Father O’Callaghan was everywhere
helping the wounded
and giving last rights.
He seemed to be in a trance
oblivious to the danger.
I was on the listing ship for three hours
helping pull men out of the flames
and putting out fires,
until the captain ordered all pilots off Big Ben.
The light cruiser USS Santa Fe
pulled up beside us a second time.
There was a small space between ships,
and the wounded were being carried across
on ladders with planks laid on them…
so I jumped the opening.
The USS Franklin was the most damaged ship
of the war
to not sink.
Eight-hundred and thirty-two men were killed,
three-hundred wounded
and my Corsair was blown to bits.
On March 21
Big Ben left for Ulithi Island
under its own power
escorted by the Santa Fe.
After temporary repairs
both ships were sent home.
Twelve thousand miles later
on April 26
Big Ben dropped anchor at Gravesend Bay
near Brooklyn’s Coney Island.
After the war
I received the Purple Heart
with many other men
for my burns.
Father O’Callaghan was given
the Congressional Medal of Honor,
the only member of the clergy
to ever receive one.
Epilogue
This happened 70 years ago
and I’m 95 now.
I couldn’t make it to the ship’s reunion this summer.
I can’t walk anymore,
can barely talk or hold my head up,
and my back is bent crooked
from too many tail hook landings.
When whispering death comes
I hope it’s in the shape of a Corsair fighter-bomber.
I’ll climb up in the cockpit
perched above those gull-wings,
and take off one last time
riding that 2,000 horse power piston driven engine
and 13 foot 4 inch propeller
up through the clouds into heaven.
I’ll join my pilot-friends
you see in all these framed photos
on my walls.
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