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By ROBERT W. EASTHAM
Rappahannock News Contributing Writer
During the years I served as a naval aviator, four Christmas Days came and went between 1942 and 1945. Each was memorable but that of 1943 remains etched in my memory more indelibly than any of the others — even Christmas 1944, spent under combat conditions in the western Pacific, far from home and “peace on earth.”
In October 1943 I received orders to join Navy Carrier Fighter Squadron 3, an outfit with an enviable tradition in the earlier months of World War II and with such outstanding pilots as Thatch, Flatley and O’Hare on its roll of honor. Among the other new ensigns also reporting aboard that day was Ensign Steven E. Spurlin, a young, redheaded pilot from the Texas Panhandle.
Two months later, on December 20, “Red” Spurlin was killed instantly in an accident while we were practicing repeated “night bounce” takeoffs and landings in our new Grumman Hellcat fighter planes. What happened exactly will never be known; his engine could have cut out on him or he could have misjudged his altitude in the dark. In wartime, investigations into such mishaps are short and sweet.
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