Once They Were Eagles

by Frank Walton

  That was the Black Sheep spirit at it best—attack, attack, attack; hit ’em everywhere, anywhere, but hit ’em.

  Bolt got the Distinguished Flying Cross and a personal” well done” message from Admiral Halsey for his action that day.

  On Sunday, 17 October, we were up before daylight and down to the strip and into our ready tent, where we gathered around the hissing Coleman lantern to hear Boyington’s final instructions for this new sort of mission. There was an unusual tenseness in the air.

  “We’ll go up at about 20,000 feet. One division will fly ahead at 6,000 to act as bait and get the Nips to come up and fight.”

  This was not just defense; they were going out looking for trouble. The Marines loved it. The night before, Boyington had had trouble selecting the 13 Black Sheep who were to accompany him. All of them wanted to go. He finally chose Moore, Case, McClurg, Olander, Matheson, Bolt, Harper, Hill, Ashmun, Magee, Heier, Mullen, and Tucker.

  With the Black Sheep were to be seven Marine fighter pilots from Squadron 221.

  “There’s going to be action,” Boyington went on. That’s what we’re going for. If they won’t come up and fight, we’ll make them. Just keep your altitude; if you lose your division, join with someone else.

  “Let’s stay in there. The sooner we shoot down all their planes, the sooner they’ll have to give up.”

  We didn’t know they were to do their job so effectively that Marines would land on Bougainville just 16 days later with virtually no aerial opposition.

  With four Corsiars out in front at 6,000 feet as bait, and the remaining 17 planes climbing, the formation headed north past Kolombangara and Vella Lavella. Through scattered clouds in a now bright blue sky, the Marines reached Kahili without incident and made a lazy circle over the field. Black puffs of AA bursts appeared beneath them. Streaks of dust showed on the airstrip as Japanese fighters began to take off in twos and threes.

  “Here they come, boys,” called Boyington into his throat mike. “Don’t get too eager. Pick your targets.”

  Boyington did a perfect job of tactical organization with his flight. He took two divisions down in big, sweeping S-turns, instructing the remainder to stay on top till the fight began. This the remainder of the formation did, making a slow figure eight turn over the strip.

  Boyington led his eight-plane formation in an attack on 20 Zeros that were climbing to meet them. Above him the remainder of his flight contacted 35 Zeros, and the battle was joined: 21 Marines against 55 Zeros!

  For the next 40 minutes, the sky was filled with heaving, roaring, whining, and straining planes, the chatter of machine guns, flashes of flame—and falling Zeros. The radios went wild: “Look out!” “I got the bastard.” “Coming in at eleven o’clock.” “Watch behind you.” “Watch him burn!” The fight ranged all over the sky from Kahili to Ballale and Fauro Island to the Shortland Islands. The Marines fought the Nips right down to the water. Then the fight was suddenly over as the Marines ran too low on fuel to pursue the fleeing enemy.

  Back at Munda, we tallied up the mounting score as our pilots straggled in.

  The 21 Marines had, without a single loss, shot down 20 Zeros for sure and God only knew how many probables—the battle was too violent to worry about probables. Black Sheep pilots had scored 12 of the kills, to bring our squadron total to 47. Bolt had downed one to make his third. Junior Heier had knocked down his first two. Olander had got his second one, and Burney Tucker had scored a double to bring his total to three.

  Wild Man Magee got two to bring his score to four, and Mat Matheson had downed his first Zero. Boyington had blasted three Nip planes out of the sky. He now had 19 (counting his six in China) and was within sighting distance of the record of 26 held jointly by Eddie Rickenbacker and Marine Joe Foss.

  The Black Sheep had not escaped completely, however. Moore, Matheson, and Harper had their planes shot up extensively; the three aircraft came home with total of 123 bullet holes and six 20-mm shell holes. Both Matheson and Harper had been wounded by 7.7-mm bullets that shattered as they entered their cockpits. Matheson was hit in the legs and Harper in the neck.

  In the midst of a sudden tropical storm, Matheson made a perfect landing despite serious damage to his left wing and elevator. Harper, his hydraulic system destroyed, had to make a belly landing when his wheels refused to come down.

  Nevertheless, our ready tent was a scene of wild hilarity as the victory-high Black Sheep crowded around my table, all talking at once, while Doc bandaged up Harper’s and Matheson’s wounds and dispensed small bottles of anti-jitters brandy. Rain beat down on the roof, blew in under the side of the tent, and muddied the coral floor, but the Black Sheep continued to talk, laugh, and shout like a football team that has just won the big game.

  I leaned my chin on my hand, watching them. To have told them that they were heroes would only have invited a jeer.

  After the excitement had calmed somewhat, Harper came over and stood beside my table. “You know,” his face serious, “I learned something up there today.”

  It was the third time he’d told me this. Twice before he had flown back from Kahili with his plane full of holes, and the men in the squadron were calling him “the Sleeve,” after the tow targets on which they practiced gunnery runs.

  Today, I said, “Did you, Harpo?”

  “Yes, Red, I really learned something up there today. They can’t touch me now!”

  I looked out at his perforated plane, which was being hauled away, and then back to the bandage that Happy Jack Reames had put on his neck. “They can’t touch you, huh?”

  “No, they can’t touch me now.”

  And though he was in several actions after that, in which he shot down a Zero and two probables, no enemy aircraft ever did put another hole in his plane.

  Navy Corpsman “Weavo” Weaver was a big help, not only to the Black Sheep, but to all pilots based at Munda. He set up a tent behind our quarters in the camp area, installed a couple of homemade rubbing tables, and worked most of the night, every night, massaging the tension out of tired pilots’ bodies. We never knew where he came from or how he got started. One night we came in from the strip and there he was, all set up for business. He never had to drum up trade; there was always a string of pilots waiting their turn.

  It was amazing to watch a highstrung, jittery pilot calm down under Weavo’s ministrations. Fighter pilots are sort of like racehorses. They’re an entirely different breed from bomber pilots. Accustomed to hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, they think fast, move fast; their minds and bodies are alert, quick. The mere taking off or landing of a red-hot fighter plane requires the fullest concentration and coordination of mind and body. Add to this the constant threat of death in the air all about them, and it is no wonder the pilots were tense and jittery after a day of combat.

  Weavo would stretch them out and probe into taut nerves and muscles with his capable fingers, and the pilot would loosen up, relax, and often fall asleep on the table. All that Weavo expected for his timely treatments was a signature in his logbook. During the time he was operating, he got signatures and notes of gratitude from all the pilots who flew out of Munda; his logbook was a fine souvenir. Weavo had the last signatures of some Marines who never came back, some of the high-scoring aces, and some who were given up for lost and then incredibly returned.

  At 9:00 A.M. on 18 October, Boyington led 12 Black Sheep to cover a bombing strike on Ballale. The bombing was highly successful and enemy fighters were observed in the vicinity; but none came in to challenge. Bob McClurg’s engine cut out on him at 26,000 feet and he nosed over in an attempt to get it started. He got it running—but running rough—at 15,000 and headed for home. Spotting two Zeros at 2,500 and aware that attack was his best move, he slid down and knocked both out in one continuous run. It was his first positive score.

  At 3:30 the same afternoon, Pappy zoomed off the Munda strip to seek out the enemy once more, leading 11 Black Sheep and eight Marine
s from Squadron 221. Matheson and Harper insisted on going in spite of their wounds.

  Boyington led them up the slot to Kahili, and the blue Corsairs circled the airdrome at 15,000 feet. The antiaircraft batteries opened up, but no Zeros came out to meet them.

  “Come on up and fight, you yellow bastards,” screamed Boyington over his radio. He knew that the Japanese listened in on our frequencies; when he had been up over Kahili only a few days before, a clipped Oriental voice had spoken into his earphones:

  “Major Boyington, what is your position, please?”

  He knew that it was a Nip, not only from the accent but also because one of his Black Sheep would have said: “Hey, Pappy, where the hell are you?”

  Boyington had replied: “Right over your lousy airfield, you yellow bellies. Come on up and fight.”

  This day, he expected a reply to his challenge. He got it. “Why don’t you come down, Major Boyington?” queried the Japanese monitor.

  Instructing the remaining Corsairs to stay aloft, Boyington pushed over and went down in a screaming dive, spraying the field with his six 50-caliber guns. AA fire burst all around him, but the Corsair zoomed up and away, untouched.

  Rejoining his flight, Boyington taunted the Japanese once more: “Now, come up and fight, you dirty yellow bastards!”

  There was no answer. But there is the “oriental face,” and the morale of thousands of Nip troops on the ground must have been rapidly ebbing. The flight of Marines audaciously circling and mocking them was too much for the Nip commander. Japanese pilots raced out to their planes, and one after the other they took off until there were 40 Sons of Heaven.

  Boyington and his flight circled slowly, waiting for them. It was like the moment before the kickoff: mouths were dry, hearts beating fast, palms sweaty even at that altitude.

  Giving the enemy a chance to get well bunched, Boyington waggled his wings and then took his formation down in huge S-turns to meet them. The enemy was brought to action at only 6,000 feet.

  Like the spring on a broken clock, everything fell apart, and the sky was a wild, seething mass of hurtling planes. Results began to show immediately, with Zeros falling into the water “like AA shells,” as one of the Black Sheep put it. In 15 minutes the beaten Japanese scattered, leaving the field of battle to the Leathernecks.

  Once again the Black Sheep stormed hilariously into our ready tent, shouting and waving their arms in the familiar fighter pilots’ gestures, showing with their hands the planes’ positions and going through the gyrations and maneuvers as they talked.

  The final score showed 18 Zeros knocked down with one Squadron 221 pilot missing, the only loss of the day. Boyington’s plan was working: in the two missions on two successive days, Marines had shot down 38 Zeros, with only one pilot missing in action.

  The Black Sheep score jumped eight more to bring our total to 57 planes destroyed since the 16th of September, only 32 days before—55 of them over enemy territory, an important factor. Fighting over enemy territory meant that if you had to go down, there was little chance of being picked up by friendly forces. The fact that all but two were fighter planes was also important; the slow-moving bombers were easier to shoot down. Our score was run up the hard way. Only those planes actually seen to burn, explode, or crash were counted, according to the Navy and Marine system. “Probables” and those destroyed on the ground were frosting on the cake.

  Boyington had welded a conglomeration of casuals and replacements into one of the deadliest aerial combat squadrons in history. He was not only a savage past master of individual aerial combat; he was also an inspiring leader.

  Reames, a broad grin on his face, was circulating and slapping backs, looking the Black Sheep over and passing out his two-ounce bottles of “nerve medicine” as I gathered notes for my official action report.

  Boyington had downed another plane; it made him an even 20. Tall Jimmy Hill of Chicago had made his first kill. Wild Man Magee had become the third Black Sheep ace: he’d shot down three Zeros to bring his score to seven. Moon Mullen got one to become a near-ace with a total of four and one-half planes to his credit. Ed Olander had scored again.

  Burney Tucker, separated from his flight on the way back, made his return count by coming, alone, across a Japanese troop bivouac area in Faisi Island and gun emplacements on Poporang Island in a high-speed strafing run, expending 1,400 rounds of ammunition as he chopped down tents and troops. On his way out, he dodged shells from the AA and coastal gun positions; one of them splashed in the water under his wing.

  It was perhaps this day that Bill Case got religion. Because he was short, he usually raised his seat several inches in order to give him better all-around vision out of the cockpit. On this flight, for some reason, he’d raised his seat only slightly, perhaps two or three inches less than normal. In the melee, Case got his eighth plane but did not escape unscathed. A 7.7 bullet had pierced his Plexiglass canopy, split his scalp as it skidded across the top of his head, and then lodged in his gunsight. Had he had the seat in its usual position, the bullet would have hit him squarely in the back of the head and killed him instantly. He was never able to figure out why he’d flown with his seat lower that day.

  During the afternoon, our relief squadron had come in. We were to go back to the Russells the next day.

  The Japanese aerial defense of Bougainville was in shambles.

  13 | “Your Steeplechase Is Over”

  Waiting for a lull in the celebration, I told the pilots that our relief was in and that we were scheduled to leave the next morning. With a whoop, they pounced on Doc Reames.

  “How about unlocking that medicine cabinet of yours, Doc? It’s time for a party,” they shouted.

  And Doc didn’t have to be urged. We moved out of our tents and gathered in a big Quonset hut (a recent innovation at Munda) that night. We drowned out the lizards and tree toads as we sat, naked, on our canvas cots, babbling about the day’s action, singing, and talking about Sydney, where all squadrons were sent for seven days of R-and-R leave after each six-week combat tour.

  It was about two o’clock when the last of us stretched out and dozed off.

  The beam of a flashlight across my face awakened me.

  “Strafe Kahili!” I heard Doc exclaim.

  Boyington stood beside me, feet wide apart, sweat glistening on his hairy, stocky body. His square jaw was thrust forward; his bloodshot eyes peered out between half-closed lids.

  It was 3:45 in the morning. I rolled over; what the hell was this? Our squadron had been relieved, but here was an operations officer nervously rattling some papers and bringing us news that Operations wanted four planes to strafe Kahili and Kara, the latter another airdrome adjacent to Kahili.

  “What the hell’s the matter with the squadron that just relieved us?” I asked.

  “They’re not yet familiar with the area,” the officer replied. “Fighter Command said to give the Black Sheep the mission.”

  “All right, they want Kahili strafed, we’ll strafe it,” said Boyington. “This is no time to take a regular division. Who wants to go with me?”

  It never entered Pappy’s mind that he could send someone else in his place.

  Pappy selected George Ashmun, Wild Man Magee, and Bob McClurg. The four of them and Doc and I got up, drank a cup of coffee, and went down to the strip. It was 4:25 A.M. when we got there.

  Everything was black night. Strain as it would, even the Coleman lantern gave up after pushing the darkness only a few feet from the table.

  “You fly my wing,” Boyington told McClurg. “We’ll strafe Kahili. George, you and Maggie take care of Kara.

  “We’ll take off, stay together, go up along the west coast of Choiseul, split up into our two sections there, and make our runs at about the same time.”

  The Black Sheep had started out when Doc saw that Boyington was barefooted! “Pappy, where the hell are your shoes?”

  “I don’t need any shoes.” Pappy stamped his feet on the sharp coral
to prove it.

  “You’ll sure need them if you go down.”

  “Don’t worry, Doc. I’m not going down.”

  “I don’t want you going up there without any shoes, Skipper. Here, take mine.” Doc pulled off his shoes.

  “O.K., Doc, if it’ll make you feel any better.”

  They took off at 4:50, headed north, and almost immediately ran into a violent thunderstorm that would have justified their returning to base. They switched on their wing lights in order to stay together, however, and flew grimly on, buffeted about like matchsticks by the squall.

  Suddenly, Ashmun was separated from the others. Afraid of colliding with them in the turmoil, he dropped a thousand feet and continued northward.

  In the meantime, McClurg had joined Magee, thinking he was Boyington.

  Ashmun, believing he was far enough north, began to let down through the storm. He broke into the clear over Fauro Island, too far offshore to get to Kara, so he made a strafing run on the Ballale airdrome. He roared the length of the strip, a little to one side, 40 feet off the ground, and sprayed the revetment areas and the control tower. He had to lift one wing to keep from hitting the tower.

  The other three continued north, managing to stay together in spite of the heavy weather until Boyington nosed over, flicked off his lights, and disappeared.

  Magee and McClurg flew on up the east coast of Bougainville, went down to 2,000 feet and then to 800 feet, and circled inland about a mile north of Kara airfield. When they were sure they had located it, they went down to 40 feet and sprayed the length of the runway. Eight bombers lined up on one end were left burning from their incendiary shells.

  Boyington had made his run from the water, inland over Kahili, but didn’t see anything, so he pulled around in a tight circle and came back down the runway, firing, while enemy antiaircraft shells and tracers lit up the sky.