A Different Kind of Hero

Charlie Lawrence
December 13, 2014

Both of my grandfathers served in the military in the Air Force. On

my American side, my grandfather served in the 28th Bombardment Wing
in Vietnam, where he flew a KC-135 supertanker. My Aussie grandfather
flew a PBY Catalina, a Flying Boat, in the Royal Australian Air Force in
WWII in the South Pacific theatre. He flew countless sorties into enemy
airspace, but there is one that stood out above the rest; one akin to the
extraordinary tales of the courageous pilots of the Battle of Britain. Yet,
that heroic mission, like many of its kind, went by quietly without ever
making the history books. Had my grandfather not told my father of what
happened that night, the memory of two incredibly courageous crews, who
played a crucial role in keeping the Japanese out of Australia, might have
been lost.

Not many people know exactly what the men of the Flying Boats did. They
were a handful of men in boats designed for reconnaissance [who] assumed the
mantle of Australias only long range night bombing and mine laying force
(Minty V). Just like the amateur pilots in the Battle of Britain, the men of
the handful of RAAF Catalina squadrons took on a the job that was crucial
to win the war, no matter the odds. The lines were set and the job black-andwhite; they knew that if they did not stop the Japanese, then Australia would be
invaded. They flew daunting missions in planes that were not originally designed
for warfare. They were ready and willing to put their lives on the line every
mission, every time. My father remembers a conversation with his father my
grandfather about one mission to drop mines in Singapore harbor. It was long
and dangerous and only a couple of planes were involved, my dad recalled. It was
one of many missions in the latter stages of the war in the Pacific that helped,
slowly but surely, to beat the Japanese back. My grandfather recalled to my dad
that they were nervous about the mission, worried that this particular sortie was
essentially a suicide mission. That in itself is amazing, given that every mission
in the slow, low-flying, unprotected PBYs was incredibly dangerous. In any
case, this particular night was darker than usual, the crew knew that it would
take them upwards of 36 hours flying low and slow to reach Singapore harbor,
drop the payload of mines and return to base in Port Moresby, Papua New
Guinea. Whats more, they felt certain to meet danger when, or if, they finally
reached their target. And yet my dad recalls his dad not ever saying that there
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was an option to choose otherwise. This was his duty and he and his men were
determined to carry it out, no matter the cost. Through skill, luck, and boldfaced courage, my grandfather and his crew were able to skirt enemy detection
and to both enter and leave Singapore harbor that memorable night without a
single shot being fired. My dad says that his father rarely talked about specific
details of World War II and his role in it, however, this was one specific action
he did discuss. To this day, my father remembers, even though he was only five
years old when he heard the story. The astounding thing is how few of these
crucial, often dangerous missions to drop mines, or to bomb enemy targets, have
been formally remembered. Such was the nature of the war, these men, and the
battles they fought.
My American grandfather has shared some stories of his wartime experience
in Vietnam directly with me. His accounts of hair-raising wartime events are
often kept safely in the past, however, much like those of my Aussie grand-dad.
Thankfully, some stories are shared from one generation to another. Some are
sought out and immortalized by tenacious historians. My Aussie grandfathers
story exemplifies the fragile link between memory preserved and memory lost. It
is difficult to imagine what it would have been like for my Australian grandfather
in those rickety old planes, enduring endless hours of flying at 90-110 knots, fully
loaded with bombs... and fear. It is equally unimaginable to put myself in the
shoes of my American grandfather, soaring above the fray in Vietnam, providing
fuel to fighter jets, occasionally forced to flee to the safety of 40,000 feet. Yet,
both my grandfathers and countless others bravely got the job done without a
thought for recognition or accolades. Luckily some did tell their tales. I feel
blessed and lucky to be told the stories of the contributions my brave family
members made in desperate times. I am struck with a keen certainty that
we should never forget. We should share what stories we are lucky enough to
know. That way, none of the efforts will ever be in vain. The world will know
to recognize the cost my grandfathers and others paid without complaint.
In every war there are tales of heroism, from the 300 Spartans of Thermopylae to SEAL Team Six; there are always those that are bathed in glory for their
actions. But there are so many acts of equal valor that too often go unrecorded
in the annals of history. They are all heroes, each and every one of them. Tell
their stories.