The Man in the Bubble

"The Man in the Bubble"

The Seaman looked up from the bottom of the seaplane at the rivets in the top of the cabin, the plane gently rocking in the sea. The pain in his right arm was just beginning, but he could tell it was going to hurt badly. He touched it, grimacing, feeling wet and sticky blood. How bad it really was, he couldn’t tell just yet. Adrenaline started to kick in and Mitch started shaking, images of the chain of events that landed him here flashing before his eyes.

In his minds eye, it all happened again, in what seemed a long time but in reality was only a fraction of a second. Seaman First Class Mitch Wallace was stationed on a small rock in the South Pacific whose only value was that it was just big enough to land airplanes on. Officially, Mitch was the top gunner on a TBM-1 Avenger torpedo bomber, with a shipboard rating as an aircraft mechanic. When his plane had been shot down during a routine mission he received orders to report to the small airfield as crew chief of a maintenance depot. Mitch was a Warrant Officer at the time, but had a run-in with one of the newly assigned “90-Day Wonders”. He had been demoted as a result. The Lieutenant in question, on the other hand, had been reassigned, “in order to avoid possible future incidents”. Seaman Wallace’s face was touched with a smile as he wondered if the Lieutenant liked his new duties at the end of the Aleutian Island chain. The Base Commander had a sense of humor, indeed.

One hot morning in April, a flight of Marine Corps fighters came in for refueling and some quick maintenance before heading out to their final destination. After debriefing, an announcement came over the loudspeaker, calling for volunteers to man an air-sea rescue mission. It seems one of the planes had developed engine problems and splashed down in the lagoon of one of the islands in the Tarawa chain. So it was that Seaman Wallace found himself as a crewmember on a seaplane bound for Tarawa, replacing a man who had a recurrence of malaria. Normally carrying a complement of seven, it was a skeleton crew today for the flying boat.

The plane was hot and noisy, but cooled as it gained altitude. Mitch looked out the dome, past his .50 caliber machine gun at the ocean below. Behind them was the speck of rock that was his duty station. In front of the airplane and for as far as the eye could see was empty ocean. Above was a blue and cloudless sky. This was what he lived for, not the hot and dusty island, but the freedom of the skies.

“What’s our ETA?” yelled a too-young Marine across the cabin. The name on his uniform said “Malone” in green and black.

“About 2 hours”, Mitch yelled back over the noise of the engines. “His flight was able to give us a good fix on where he is, so we shouldn’t have to hunt much.”

“Good”, said the Marine, “That should get us back in time for evening mess!”

“And you’re looking forward to that?” Mitch joked, as Malone grinned.

True to their estimates, a few minutes short of two hours later and the airplane was circling over the lower portion of the Tarawa Islands. The Islands had largely been subdued, but the southern half of the chain still held hostile forces, now largely isolated. The plane came in low and fast, and circled over the lagoon of the nearest island, shaped roughly like a huge “J”. As they came in sight of the beach they could see a parachute lying over some bushes.

“There it is! He’s left us a signal!” yelled the Marine beside Mitch.

“The pilot saw it,” Mitch said as the plane banked low and began an approach to land in the smooth water of the lagoon. The plane skipped across the water like a ballet dancer and came to rest. The pilot turned the plane so the right side faced the beach about 200 yards away, and cut the engines. The anchors were lowered, and the rubber raft was carried from it’s storage area and inflated outside the door. As the pilot and co-pilot came to the hatch, the pilot barked his orders. “Seaman Wallace, stay here and man the plane while Lt. Pratt, Corporal Malone and I locate the pilot.” “Aye, aye, sir”, said Wallace as the three other crew members climbed into the raft.

As the raft approached the shore, Seaman Wallace watched through his binoculars. The pilot of the downed fighter had not yet appeared, which greatly troubled him. He should have heard the airplane and come onto the beach. Why hadn’t he?

Mitch scanned the tree line, moving just inside the door. Just then as his eyes passed over a small grove of coconut trees he saw a bright flash and felt a hammer blow at his right arm. As he fell, as though through a fog, he heard the delayed noise of a rifle shot.

As these images suddenly flashed through Mitch’s memory, his eyes refocused. “Aw, nuts!” he muttered as he suddenly realized he had been targeted by a sniper, obviously using the downed flier’s parachute as a decoy. He knew he was out of danger lying here on the floor of the cabin, but his fellow crew members were out there in a rubber raft. An easy 50-yard shot for a sniper! It occurred to Mitch that he had been targeted because the raft was vulnerable and he was the logical one to take out first. The sniper was smart, but because Mitch had moved just as the Japanese had fired, he was still alive.

Mitch rolled across the floor, rose to his feet and stood behind the .50 caliber machine gun. He unlocked the cradle, aware that he was now clearly visible through the canopy. Through the bubble he could see the men in the raft paddling frantically for shore. Then there was a flash and another bullet went through the skin of the sea-tossed aircraft, nearly hitting him and followed by the delayed report of the snipers rifle. Anger welled up in him as he said, “Sorry, but I’m not giving you another chance at me!” He flipped the trigger and the machine gun began spewing its deadly messengers towards the shore, every few rounds a “tracer”. The bullets tore into the coconut grove where Mitch had seen the flash. The grove erupted into a frenzy of smoke, dust, greenery and shattered wood as trees fell to the ground. The heat from the tracers set the undergrowth on fire and smoke began to billow upward. His arm felt as though it was on fire, but Mitch continued pouring rounds into the target until the belt of ammunition ran out. Only then did he stop.

He looked to his left and watched as Malone and the other crew members landed on the beach and approached the grove with weapons drawn, keeping to cover as much as possible. Looking around, they began hunting through the brush. After about an hour they came back down to the beach carrying a bundle between them, got back in the raft and paddled back to the airplane.

“Seaman Wallace, good work!” said the Captain as he came aboard. He looked at Mitch’s right arm, bloody and tied with a cloth from the first aid kit. “How’s the arm?”

“It’ll be alright, sir. I’ve had worse.” He grinned, painfully.

“Hmm. Well, we’ll get you back to base as quickly as possible and you can have the medics take a look.” The Captain started to turn away.

“Sir?” Mitch said. “Yes, Seaman?”, the Captain said.

“Did you find the downed pilot, sir?”

The Captain’s young face turned dark. “What was left of him”, he said. He held up a set of dog tags. “It looks like he was injured during the landing, and then the Japanese found him. Corporal Malone and Lt. Pratt are bringing him aboard now. Which reminds me, Corporal Malone has something for you.” He turned away and went into the cockpit.

Curious, Wallace watched as Malone reached back into the bobbing raft and picked up something wrapped in a small piece of canvas. Malone grinned as he handed Seaman Wallace the package. “Thanks for saving our bacon out there, Bluejacket! I thought you might want this.” Mitch took the package and unwrapped it. Inside was what was left of the sniper’s rifle, the telescopic sight shot off as well as most of the stock.

“This was all we found. We didn’t find his body; it must have been under all that mess you created. Man, you turned those trees into toothpicks!” Malone said, as he pulled the deflated raft into the plane and shut the hatch.

“I was a little upset.” Seaman Wallace replied.

Malone laughed. “Remind me not to get you upset, sailor!”

The engines started with a cough, and the plane began to move slowly away from the atoll, the setting sun casting long shadows. Malone said with a grin, “Let’s go get some supper!” as they settled in for the ride home.



Authors Note:
The above is based on reality. The protagonist, Seaman Wallace (name changed), is my father. To this day he carries the scar of the encounter on his right shoulder. Details are presented in as historically accurate a fashion as possible, but corrections are welcome.