I cut the throttle and put down full landing flaps. I was paralleling the course of the destroyer, but I had too much speed. Instead of dropping down alongside the ship, I was almost three-quarters of a mile ahead of the ship when the plane slammed into the ocean. For a moment I was in a state of panic. The plane tilted up on its nose but still had forward momentum. Water was pouring into the cockpit as I struggled to release my safety belt.

Then, like a cork bobbing up out of the depths, the plane returned to the surface and floated on top of the water. Snapping off my safety belt and shoulder harness, I jumped out onto the wing.

Tommy, who was already out on the wing, asked if I wanted to inflate the life raft. ‘No,’ I answered, looking at the jagged edge of the landing flaps. ‘Let’s go out on the edge of the wing and wait until the plane sinks out from under us, and we’ll cast off from there so that we won’t inadvertently tear a hole in the raft.’

The plane was now settling low in the water. The blades of the propeller were bent back over the cowling. Tommy and I walked to the tip of the wing, inflated the raft and waited until the plane started to sink out from under us. Then, we simply stepped into the raft as the plane went under, nose first. The last thing I saw was the huge, rounded tail, the white triangle insignia and the number, 206.

A group of sailors at the destroyer’s bow threw us a line, but neither of us could hang onto it. We had better luck with a line thrown to us from amidships. Catching it, I was almost pulled out of the raft, but we finally managed to secure the line.

A cargo net was thrown over the side so that we could climb to the deck, but neither of us had the strength left to make the climb. Two sailors quickly climbed over the railing and down the net to help us on board. Then, with sailors quickly pulling up the cargo net, USS Chauncey (DD-667) resumed her position in the screen.

Aboard Chauncey, we met the skipper and then were taken below, where we were given a cursory examination and found to have suffered no injuries. My shoulders were hurting where the straps had cut into me when we hit the water. A radioman came to get our names and other information so he could notify the squadron and our ship that we had been rescued. Chauncey’s log indicates that a total of 2 minutes 45 seconds had lapsed from the time we crashed until we were hauled aboard.

Two days later, Tommy and I were high-lined (transported between ships on a bowswain’s chair) to Ticonderoga for debriefing. It was then that we found out that Hyuga had indeed been sent to the bottom, although her decks were awash and she was still sitting upright because her anchorage was so shallow.

Later, a survey team inspected the bombed hulk and noted that, because of all of the holes, the battleship-carrier had ‘lost buoyancy…and sunk.’ Only five of the original 13 bomber and torpedo planes that went to the target made it back to Ticonderoga. Two pilots and one crewman were lost.

The cost had been high, but the results had been spectacular. The Navy Cross was awarded to each pilot who had made a confirmed direct hit on the ship. I had the honor to be among them.

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This article was written by H. Paul Brehm and originally published in the July 1999 issue of Aviation History.

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