 of the southwest Pacific, enemy waters, sea roads for the passage of Japanese armaments going south to smash U.S. troops fighting for island beaches. Domain of the escort destroyer guarding convoys of anti-aircraft machine guns concrete for pillboxes. Then, one night, suddenly, mysteriously, two ships were wiped out of a convoy. One ship left burning, one sunk. This was only the beginning. In one month, 41,000 tons of Jap cargo vessels were sunk, 43,000 damaged. Next month, 13 ships attacked, six damaged, seven sunk. News of the losses leak out. Radio Tokyo invents alibis. New American superplanes reported in the Pacific surpassing anything known in speed and maneuverability. Reverberations in the Japanese high command, new detachments of night fighters called up. Seat adjustments made more destroyers, cruisers, for convoy escort. The attacker was an unidentified American plane hitting at night. They bombed the destroyers, like cruisers, heavy cruisers. What is this superplane? Anything familiar, that torso with a middle-aged sag? Her speed less than some cars can do. Manuverable, some days all right, on others she brings around like a tin-ton truck. He dives under protests. Wings can't handle half the pressure dive bombers take. Got her? Right. The old cat, Navy Catalina patrol boat, PBY in a black nightgown for night camouflage. A black cat. She hides by day in one of the secret U.S. Navy cat bases, which the enemy would love to know about. It's 8 a.m., base personnel watching for a black cat overdue, last heard from at midnight, attacking a Jap merchant ship. But they don't watch long, here comes the cat. And it's a zoom, a signal that she did it again, one more enemy ship on the bottom. The squadron commander, wanting to know any wounded, 14 hours of flight. Commodore Combs, commander of the task force, arrives in his jeep with Captain Peck in charge of the group. Large freighter made two bombing runs, exploded ammunition cargo. Now off to get details and new plans for the coming night's mission. And that beer, which all hands look forward to. But there's one bottle left over. A Navy cameraman hit on the first run, so no pictures. But tonight's another night with a mate to take his place. As soon as the cat's home, she's groomed for the next prowl. That's a blitz buggy towing her into position for overhaul. Some job for a maintenance officer, keeping an aerial antique, acting like a dive bummer. The bad symptom sheet. Port propeller throwing oil. Nothing serious, but a new part is needed. These cats take plenty. Some here are nearly four years old. Oh, eight bullet holes, starboard wing. Seven, eight. Not so bad. Black cats have wheezed home with more than a hundred holes showing through their sides. That came out here, the shrapnel that nicked our cameraman. Such holes are penciled first, clipped, a plate board, riveted. A leak in the fuel tank plug. Gas goes in. Don't ration it, we'll be up all night and part of the next day. Last night's strain told on the tail assembly. Repaired now, wagging her tail and rare to go. But first she needs her claws sharpened. Black cat's bomb dump. Quarter tonnors. And this, the size Jap cruisers have a weakness for. Fifty calibers defense against Jap fighters tonight. The tail fin screwed on tight. When you swan dive through anti-aircraft, you want bombs that lay in right. Back to the cat. Patrol boats weren't made for bombing. She wears them under her wing because there's no other place. For every pound of bombs dropped last month, one ton of enemy shipping was sunk or damaged. Records like that mean plenty in any language, dollars or yen. How a tin fish for the port wing. And the fifty caliber just in case, but we'd rather not have to use it. Darkness is the cat's best defense. Darkness and her black nightgown. But the guns are checked and the cat stands ready, feeling her years but as fit for combat as good wishes can make her. But first looking for a stowaway aft. Yes, two kinds of black cats at this base. Overside you. In the meantime, the crew we're flying with in an hour is off for a spot of water polo. Coconuts to you. A quick look in on the officer's quarters. Our cat's masters. That's the squadron commander at the mirror. Big game hunters at night, but the housekeeping has to be done. Evening clothes, forty fives, jungle knives just in case luck runs out and you have to walk home. And the picture. Off for briefing. Final instructions. Final warnings. Six black cats will fly tonight. They're pilots and navigators. First discussion. New angles of enemy strategy. To draw more blood from U.S. invading troops. Japan is feeding key defenses with ammunition, guns, concrete for pill boxes. Our objective? To stop them at sea where one bomb can sink what a hundred bombing runs ashore might not destroy. Latest enemy convoy sighting, southbound, one tanker, three freighters, probably artillery and ammunition, estimated position at 0-200. Watch out for Jap night fighters near a stair strip only 60 miles away. Any destroyer escorts? Two cans like this, five inch guns, elevation for anti-aircraft barrage, two aft, one forward, two ACAC topside and you may have a light cruiser on your hands, one sighted yesterday in that area. The search plan for locating the convoy, area A for the command plane, area B. Whoever spots the convoy first will signal other planes immediately, including the two standby planes. Command plane will direct attack. On the way north, the command plane will search enemy held Harbor X where the convoy may have dropped anchor temporarily. Watch out for land ACAC, there's plenty. A nest of six heavies to the north. Two heavies here, four medium south. Last topic, weather. On some nights even more of a headache than ACAC. Storm fronts building up to the north, 30 knot headwinds to fight on the way home. Turn back early. If the night clears, don't make a target out of yourself by getting in front of the moon. A half hour left for some quick chow. Command plane over side in five minutes. Sandwich makings from home, California sardines, Chicago ham spread, orange juice from Florida to wash it down. A squall bearing down from the sea but the cat's leave per schedule. In all of space's history, foul weather has never stopped a flight, all settling deep under bomb laden wings. The gear disengaged, following out for the takeoff. Too many men off the water, too much gas, but she's up on the steps. On these jobs, then the weather kicks up through silhouetting the cat. Enemy fighter planes coming up captain, plowed at sea. Now to get out quick, need to resume convoy search. In a low 200 position was 50 miles, bearing five degrees, ammunition freighter. The signal to five other black cats, 0420 South, 15012 East. The plane beers in one less convoy flying the rising sun. Another loss in losses adding up to billions of dollars in equipment can't maneuver but do. That can't dive, that can't rev up speed to wiggle out of a run but go in anyway for a second try. A third, what keeps them going? Pists among other things, these are American troops grabbing at a beach. A beach guarded by pillboxes and machine guns by Jap Cannon mortars grenades. These things don't grow there, they come in ships that can be sunk and every less ship gives the men who are landing a better break. That's what keeps the cats flying.