THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 3, 1994 TAG: 9407020143
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 04 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY BILL REED, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 116 lines
Fifty years ago this summer, in the Philippine Sea, somewhere between the Mariana island group and Luzon, the northern-most island of the Philippine archipelago, the biggest carrier battle of World War II took place between the Japanese and Americans.
In the middle of it was a burly young Irish-American pilot named Kieran P. Sullivan, now a Virginia Beach retiree and grandfather, who engaged the enemy, took his licks and survived to tell about it.
The battle was a long-range slugfest that spanned 300 miles and more and began in mid-June as the United States prepared to invade Saipan and Tinian, two Japanese-held islands in the Marianas group, about 900 miles southeast of the Japanese mainland.
American strategists hoped to capture the islands and establish American air bases for B29 bombers, which would be used to hit Japanese cities.
The invasion began June 15, but the Japanese had developed a counter-strategy aimed at drawing off the U.S. carrier force, annihilate it, then wipe out the Marines who had landed on Saipan.
For several days the two armadas, one under Japanese Adm. Jisaburo Ozawa, and the other under U.S., Adm. Mar Mitscher, circled each other like two lumbering heavyweights - each trying to locate the other and land the first and crucial punch.
Ozawa's scout planes spotted the U.S. carrier force first on June 19 and sent four waves of combat aircraft to strike it. Thus began what American naval pilots later would describe as the ``Marianas turkey shoot,'' so called because the Japanese lost 330 planes in the attack.
Once the Japanese had expended most of their carrier-based air power, Mitscher went on the offensive. At 4 p.m. on June 20, with only several hours of daylight left, he ordered an air strike against Ozawa's fleet. More than 200 American aircraft - Grumman Hellcats, Dauntless dive bombers and Grumman Avenger torpedo planes - rose from the decks of 11 carriers and headed for Ozawa's fleet.
Taking off with them, from the carrier Hornet, was Lt. j.g. Sullivan, leading a group of lumbering TBF Avengers toward enemy targets. On board with him were crewmen Bob Falcione, a turret gunner from Boston, and Joe Pabst, a tail gunner from Pittsburgh.
As the sun was setting, they spotted the Japanese fleet. `` . . I could see some smoke from burning ships and bombs drop in the water,'' Sullivan wrote later in a brief account of the battle. ``The ships were churning up large, erratic wakes, which were easily visible (from) higher above. By this time we were on complete radio silence, but I knew we were after the big, bad guys - the carriers, battleships, cruisers and the destroyers. My group was after the carriers only.''
Sullivan's plane was struck by anti-aircraft fire, knocking out the electrical system and radio. He was forced to pull up to open the bomb bay door by hand, then make a second run at another carrier. Steadying his aircraft, Sullivan released his torpedoes and zoomed over the carrier amidships, without taking another hit.
The next move was to form up with other U.S. planes heading back to home base. But darkness was falling and Sullivan and his crew were without lights or radio links.
``The flight for home base was a hard and hectic one.'' he wrote. ``I ran both of my wing tanks dry and switched to the center main tank I had to take my flashlight out to navigate and kept looking at the near-empty fuel gauge. It was hard to fly and so lonely. I took my rosary out and said a few prayers.''
In the darkness he was startled by a sudden tap on the left shoulder. Thoughts of a guardian angel sent to guide him to safety flitted through his mind. The persistent tapping, he soon realized, came from tail gunner Joe Pabst, who had wormed his way forward through a tangle of radio and radar gear. Pabst handed him a note indicating that both crewman were unhurt and had an escape plan in mind in the event the aircraft had to ditch.
About 10 p.m. Sullivan could see a faint glow over the horizon and as the plane neared the source, he discovered that every ship in the fleet had switched on its lights to guide the returning pilots home.
Despite the lights, danger still hovered over the returning pilots.
An airborne panic erupted as fliers scrambled for places to land. Approaching aircraft often flew perilously close to fellow aviators. Many were forced to splash. A few were killed, still others were injured in the ensuing race to land before their fuel ran out.
Without radio contact Sullivan was forced to wend his way through the confusion.He recalls several near misses from other approaching planes.
Finally, he said, it was his turn. He was making his final approach on the flight deck of the carrier Bunker Hill when his engine sputtered to a stop and he had to fight his aircraft into a watery landing.
He was stunned on impact, but his two crewmen had managed to get out on one wing, extract a life raft and help him from the cockpit. They were unhurt, but they realized that they were being left behind by Mitscher's fleet, which was headed west toward the last known location of Ozawa's armada. His aim was to recover as many downed U.S. airmen as possible.
``Suddenly those beautiful lights disappeared over the horizon,'' Sullivan noted. ``Again the awful feeling of being desperately alone.''
Other U.S. pilots were in the water as well and Sullivan and his crew tried vainly to reach them by raft. After bobbing in the ocean for a little over three hours, Sullivan, Falcione and Pabst were picked up by the Destroyer Hunt. Several days later they were returned to the Hornet.
The three were among 100 Americans plucked from the waters of the Philippine Sea before dawn on June 21, 1944.
Sullivan remained in the Navy until 1964, retiring at the rank of lieutenant commander. He and his wartime bride, Helen who, as a Navy nurse served in North Africa during World War II, eventually settled in Virginia Beach. He worked in sales and managerial positions with a national tool manufacturing company and local tire distributor. The couple has five children and 11 grandchildren.
Since the war, Sullivan has seen Falcione only once and lost contact with Pabst altogether. ILLUSTRATION: Staff photo by DAVID B. HOLLINGSWORTH
LEFT: Kiernan P. Sullivan, a retired Navy aviator, is pictured with
his crew during World War II. Sullivan is in the center. ABOVE:
Sullivan joins his wife Helen, a former Navy nurse, at their Bay
Colony home.
by CNB