“Oh, it’s a long, long
while,
from May to December;But
the days grow short
When you reach
September.”
In history books and
America’s memory, Dec.
7, 1941, lives “in
infamy.” Aug. 14, 1945,
while equally
significant, does not
convey the same
historical resonance.
Yet for Keith E.
Montague, former Navy
pilot and now a retired
Salt Lake executive in
graphic arts and
advertising, the
mid-August calendar
continues to yield
memories of a footnote
in history, nearly a
half-century old, that
will not die.
Those recollections,
indelible and poignant,
are still part of an
enduring bond between
former comrades-in-arms,
and are shared with
Montague across time and
distance by three other
ex-pilots from Navy’s
Air Group 87, of which
VBF-87 was a
bombing-fighting
squadron in World War
II.
In 1945, Japan had been
mortally wounded Aug. 6
and 8 when America
unleashed its atomic
destruction at Hiroshima
and Nagasaki. But the
war did not end on those
cataclysmic notes. It
dragged on while the
Japanese considered the
Allies’ surrender terms.
American forces
continued daily raids
against still-hostile
air and naval forces.
Montague, a Navy
lieutenant, and his
four-plane division of
F6F Hellcat
fighter-bombers were
part of that effort.
Their raids on the
Japanese homeland often
took them within miles
of Hiroshima’s charred
remains.
In the pre-dawn darkness
of Aug. 15, Montague’s
“Ginger” division rose
from the deck of the
aircraft carrier USS
Ticonderoga, positioned
off the island of
Honshu, and turned for
Japan on a routine but
deadly mission. When
clouds obscured their
primary target on the
Chiba penisula east of
Tokyo, Montague led his
Hellcats in a
rocket-and-bomb attack
on Choshi airfield. Just
as they were pulling out
of their dives at 6:35
a.m., an order from the
“Big T” crackled over
the radio:
“Return to base. Bring
your bombs with you.”
There was no
explanation, although
the fliers suspected the
reason.
When Montague and his
comrades landed aboard
the carrier, the ship’s
crewmen were excitedly
lining the flight deck
to watch them come in.
The Japanese had quit,
they were told with
jubilation. At long
last, the war in the
Pacific was over.
In dropping the final
bombs of World War II,
Montague and his fellow
fliers placed their
personal punctuation
mark at the close of the
world’s momentous clash
of arms.
Today, Montague, commonly
known as “Monty,” still
reflects on the
significance of that
long-ago moment when its
anniversary rolls
around. “I don’t dwell
on it,” he says, “but I
do remember the feeling
of relief and happiness
in knowing the war was
over. There was sadness,
too. We lost some
wonderful squadron mates
in those final days.”
Especially painful to him
was the death of the
VBF-87’s skipper on July
24 in action over
Japan’s Inland Sea.
Also, two other
comrades, division
leaders like Montague,
were shot down and lost
the day after the
Nagasaki A-bomb strike.
In Elkington, Md., John
W. “Wally” McNabb has
his own memories. He
flew the last plane in
the attack formation and
is credited as having
dropped the last bomb of
WWII from a
carrier-based plane.
“I really didn’t believe
(the war was over) when
we landed on the Big T,”
says McNabb. “We’d heard
that before, and once
we’d celebrated all
night long.”
When the Ticonderoga
returned to the states
in October and docked in
Tacoma, Wash., Mc-Nabb
was as a celebrity of
sorts. “They sent a
reporter – a woman in
slacks! – to interview
me, but I wasn’t aboard
at the time,” he
relates. “I understand
three or four guys went
down to meet her,
claiming they were me. I
never did see her.”
McNabb served in the Navy
for 20 years before
becoming chief
instructor for flight
safety with IBM.
“Remembering how short
life was for our
buddies, I think I’m the
luckiest one just to be
alive after 41 years of
worldwide flying,” he
says.
In Lewiston, Idaho, W.E.
“Johnny” Johnson,
another VBF-87 veteran,
also remembers – for
somewhat different
reasons. He was
scheduled to fly on that
fateful morning, but the
cease-fire came before
he got off the deck.
His memories, however,
are in some ways even
more piercing. They
revolve around a
little-known story about
the Hiroshima A-bomb
attack: the death of
perhaps a dozen or more
American airmen who were
captives of the Japanese
in Hiroshima at the time
of the detonation. One
of them, 18-year-old
Norman R. Brissette from
Massachusetts, had been
Johnson’s gunner when
they were flying months
earlier in a two-seat
SB2C dive bomber.
Johnson, former roommate
of Monty’s aboard the
“Big T,” is now a
retired journalist who
has previously written
of his recollections: “I
celebrate (Aug. 15)
every year, faithfully.
But not because of the
war. It’s the wedding
anniversary for Pat and
me.
“Also, Pat’s birthday is
Aug. 8, and that’s the
date the second atomic
bomb was dropped.” (The
date is also often
recorded as Aug. 9,
presumably because of
international dateline
differences.)
Johnson has also written
about airman Brissette.
“He was fresh out of
boot camp when I took
him for his first-ever
plane ride. When I was
transferred to fly
Hellcats, Brissette
ended up with a
Hell-diver pilot named
Ray Porter.”
According to several
accounts (“Day of the
Bomb” by award-winning
author and newsman Dan
Kurz-man, and Peter
Wyden’s “Day One,” later
the basis for a
television movie of the
same name that aired in
June), Porter and
Brissette were shot down
July 28. Brissette ended
up a prisoner in
Hiroshima along with the
crews of a B-29 called
“Lucky Lady” and a B-24
dubbed “Lonesome Lady.”
In his book, Kurzman
wrote that Brissette and
another American, Staff
Sgt. Ralph J. Neal,
survived the Hiroshima
A-blast by jumping into
a cesspool but later
died, painfully and
horribly, of radiation
poisoning.
(A footnote in Wyden’s
book says Brissette and
Neal “were the only
known immediate
survivors among 23
American aviators held
prisoner at three
locations in downtown
Hiroshima at the time of
the bombing.”)
Johnson, in one of his
personal accounts,
wrote: “For more than
three decades, it was
denied that any American
lives were lost in the
bombing of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki. Then the
Freedom of Information
Act was passed and
details became
available. Stories and
books began to appear
and I finally learned
the truth.”
In Pocatello, Idaho,
George D. Wood is a
fourth member of VBF-87
who was a
photo-reconnaisance
specialist. Wood was
also on the Aug. 15
war-ending mission, but
flying far above
Montague’s Ginger
division, snapping
pictures of the action
(the squadron scrapbook
contains one of the
photos).
Wood had been recommended
for a Distinguished
Flying Cross. But even
though photo flights
were not supposed to
engage in combat action,
he had twice ignored
orders by firing on
targets of opportunity.
His plane was hit in the
second attack and he
limped home, only to
face the wrath of his
commander – who tore up
the order for Wood’s
medal.
Years later, Wood was
examining his squadron
records in Washington,
D.C., and found a copy
of the still-valid order
for the DFC tucked into
his file. When his
daughter heard about it,
she and other family
members began to contact
legislators and Navy
officials – unbeknown to
Woods – to get the medal
awarded to her father.
In April 1993, at a
surprise ceremony in
Pocatello attended by
his family, city
officials and
ex-squadron mates
Montague and Johnson,
Wood officially received
his DFC – 47 years
“late” but with
appropriate honors.
After the war when the
squadron was disbanded,
Montague designed and
illustrated a historical
scrapbook of VBF-87
called “Another Light,
Please,” and copies were
sent to each member.
(Monty, who shot down a
Japanese kamikaze plane
in action over Okinawa
in July 1945, also wrote
a longhand account of
his Navy experiences in
a personal journal,
illustrated in color
with his own sketches.
Big T aircraft
technicians “bound” the
book in a cover of
Plexiglas, the material
used for Hellcat cockpit
canopies.)
In recent years the
wartime comrades, now
well into their 70s,
have gathered three
times – in Seattle, at
McLean, Va., and this
past June in Pensacola,
Fla. – to reclaim the
kinship that only the
shared experience of
combat nurtures. In
preparation for the
first reunion in 1988,
Montague also gathered
photos and biographies
from each squadron
member for a second
publication titled
“September Song,” the
squadron’s adopted theme
song since the lyrics
seemed to fit VBF-87’s
projected tour of duty
in 1945. The Ticonderoga
sailed from Hawaii in
May and was due to stay
on station until
December.
In the foreword of
“September Song,”
Johnson wrote: “For
VBF-87 the days of
combat duty grew short
with the first atomic
bomb, and they ended
with the signing of the
peace treaty on Sept. 2,
1945, in Tokyo Bay. That
was 43 years ago (at the
time of this writing in
1988). For us the autumn
weather has turned the
leaves to flame and we
have reached the
September of our lives.
We now are in `those
golden days’ when we
look back at the
greatest adventure of
our lives – and the
great and enduring
friendships that grew
out of it.
“This is our September
Song – a celebration of
life land friendship in
those golden days we
were promised so long
ago.”
Each time there’s a
reunion the squadron’s
ranks are a bit thinner.
But the personal bonds
remain, undiminished by
distance. Once summoned
up, Monty’s memories are
still remarkably
poignant, as are those
of his fellow fliers
from ’45. After all,
they had a hand in
history.
