by Frank Walton
For my first breakfast, I ate 13 eggs, just to break a dozen. After a long diet of doctored-up powdered eggs, they were hard to get used to. One of the boys commented, “No taste to them.”
Walking along the street after breakfast, I saw a sign: “American Milk Shakes.”
“What are ‘American Milk Shakes’?” I asked.
“They have ice cream in them,” the trim little girl, dressed in blue and white, told me.
“What flavors have you?”
“Vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, and pineapple.”
“I’ll have one of each,” I said, and tossed off all four. During the day I drank eight more, but did not let them interfere with my sirloin steak and fried oyster lunch, or my filet mignon dinner.
Butter, tea, and sugar were rationed, and everything had ceiling prices, but we found the usual black market operations. The grocery stores hid out nice big, ripe tomatoes for the customers who would pay double. You could buy anything for money or cigarettes.
Drugstores were “chemists,” and street cars were “trams.” Restrooms usually had coin-operated doors that required depositing a penny; hence the common expression: “I want to go spend a penny.” Desserts were “sweets,” and if you wanted a pitcher of milk, you asked for a “jug” of milk.
Since civilians got three gallons of gas (“petrol”) a month, many cars had been equipped with coke-burners: large, unwieldy devices that looked like washing machines. Others had huge gas bags on top, about 12 to 15 feet long, 6 feet wide, and 5 feet deep. These could be filled with natural gas at a filling station. One filling would run the car just 15 miles.
It was easy to see why the Aussie girls went for the Yanks. I watched a Digger (Aussie) and his girl one day. He was dressed as though he’d come from the trenches. His hat was dirty, he was unshaven, his trousers were baggy, and his shoes were unshined. He pushed out the door of a restaurant, and as the door slammed behind him, his girlfriend got caught in it. He stood on the sidewalk picking his teeth with a toothpick while she struggled out. When she finally caught up to him, the Aussie started off in long strides, swinging his arms, eyes ahead, intent on where he was going.
Nearing the corner, he shouted something to his girl, who was trotting along beside him; he took off in a lope and caught a streetcar on the fly. The girl ran doggedly after it, and the Aussie leaned against the post on the step, twiddling his toothpick and watching as she barely made it—without benefit of a hand from him.
Contrast this with the young Marine sergeant who came out the same door but held it open for his Australian companion, talking to her as he did so. His eyes and his mind were on her; the rest of the town didn’t exist. He matched his step to suit hers, and when he hailed a taxicab, he helped her in, then climbed in and sat beside her, hardly ever taking his eyes off her.
No wonder it is said of the Sydney girls: “Never have so many given so much to so many for so little.” All they wanted was a kind word and a little attention.
It was not until we got to Sydney that we found where the name ANZAC came from: it was made from the initials of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, which fought in World War I. ANZAC troops were now fighting in New Guinea.
We learned that when an Aussie described someone as a “fair cow,” it was quite uncomplimentary, equivalent in meaning to our term “jerk.” And when a taxi driver told me about his “trouble and strife,” he was discussing his wife.
The bar in the Australia Hotel seemed to be the gathering place for all service personnel. It was presided over by Frieda, a buxom, pink-cheeked, friendly gal who reached down and came up with a “U.S. Marines” flag when we walked in.
Naturally we all hit the barber shop as soon as we could, stretched out, and asked for “the works.” Next stop was the turkish bath on the seventh floor of the Australia Hotel. Here, Charlie held forth. When he got through with you, you felt like a different person from the jittery, headachy individual who had stumbled in a couple of hours earlier.
We made the rounds of the department stores, buying and shipping home souvenirs; the sheepskin rugs were especially nice.
There was the zoo, the horse races, golfing, the beach, movies, the clip joints, and the Passion Pit. The seven days flicked by like the riffle of a deck of cards.
Too soon we sat again in the waiting room at the airport. Some of the boys were chattering away; some were quiet. Some looked rested, some tired. Some looked as though they’d just stepped from a warm bath; others, with traces of lipstick, as though they’d just slipped from a pair of warm arms.
One of the weighing officers spotted the case of Australian beer we had brought along to drink on the return trip. “You can’t take that. Too heavy.”
He may have wanted it for himself; not bloody likely:
“Gather round, men. We can’t take this beer,” shouted Fisher. The 12 quarts were gone in a flash. We put the case with its 12 empty bottles before the officer’s blinking eyes and clambered aboard for the long trip back to work.
The huge plane had hardly lumbered off the ground before most of us were sound asleep—sleeping the sleep of men who have played hard and long and said: “To hell with tomorrow!”
15 | New Black Sheep
We got back to camp at Espiritu Santo about ten in the morning. Most of the boys promptly hit the sack and spent the rest of the day there. Having a good time had been tiring.
The next morning we were surrounded by a group of dewy-eyed second lieutenants, fresh from the States.
“What was Sydney like?” they asked.
“Oh, it was O.K.,” Bragdon told them, then deadpanned, “Coming back was rough, though. We ran into bad weather and began to lose altitude. We pitched over everything loose on the plane, but she was still losing altitude, so we had to pitch over three second lieutenants. Too bad. They were nice guys.”
Our 30-man flight echelon had dwindled to 21. Regulations in effect at that time allowed pilots to return to the States after three combat tours. Five (Bailey, Begert, Bourgeois, Case, and McCartney) had had two tours before joining us and were therefore transferred to a squadron due to return to the United States. These five along with our four losses (Ewing, Harris, Alexander, and Ray) brought our pilot strength from 28 to 19; the flight surgeon and I made it 21.
As we resumed training, we learned that a new plan had gone into effect that called for fighter squadrons to be manned by 40 instead of 28 pilots. So on 19 November we got 21 new pilots to add to the 19 we still had.
Twenty-seven-year-old Major Pierre Carnagey, a blond, husky, soft-spoken South Dakotan and a career man in the Marine Corps, had joined in February 1940 after graduating from the University of Southern California. He now called Corpus Christi, Texas, his home. His wife, Mary Jeanette, was a nurse’s aide there. He had had one tour of combat duty and was assigned as squadron executive officer to replace Major Bailey.
Major Henry Miller, a thirty-year-old legal eagle from Jenkintown, Pennsylvania, was a serious, sober-minded, straight-faced stickler for detail. We immediately nicknamed him “Notebook Henry” because, if you asked him to meet you for lunch in 15 minutes, he’d make a note of it; and if you asked him the time, he’d make a note of that, too. He knew the insides of an airplane the way a jeweler knows a watch; with a few moments to adjust his notes, he could no doubt tell you what the plane was thinking!
Henry had had two tours with Marine Squadron 214 before it was broken up and the number assigned to us, and he had won the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for attempting to rescue a pilot from a flaming aircraft. He was assigned as Flight Officer, a perfect choice.
J. Cameron Dustin was a 22-year-old Bellevue, Nebraska, boy who’d had two and a half years at Omaha University before joining the Marines in April 1941. He was tall, husky, quiet, tanned, good-looking. This was his third tour; the first two had been Guadalcanal, Russell Islands, and Munda.
Gelon H. Doswell was 23 years old; he had a wife, Elizabeth, waiting for him in New Orleans, and a seven-
month-old baby daughter he’d never seen. He had had two and a half years at Tulane before joining up in April 1941. He was immediately dubbed “Corpuscle” because his pasty face indicated that he needed some; he continually asked where he could get a pint of plasma. Corpuscle had been with Dustin on his two previous tours.
Twenty-eight-year-old Marion J. “Rusty” March, though he was born in Preston, Idaho, called Seattle his home, and he had graduated from Stanford, where he had been a track man. Rusty was a book hound, and not at all averse to getting in a little sack time when the opportunity arose. This was his first tour of combat duty.
Fred Avey, at 31, was old for a fighter pilot (some weeks older than Boyington). Like several in the first group, he had come into the Marine Corps early in 1942 after a year in the RCAF. We called him “Light-horse” because he was small, and it was said that Fred devoted at least one hour a day to a vain search for the muscles God forgot to give him. He had left the States in December 1942 but had not been able to get in his first combat tour until October 1943, when he scored one and a half kills.
Twenty-one-year-old Jimmy Brubaker had been with Fred on his first tour. His home was in Clearwater, Florida; he had joined the Corps after two years of junior college and a start at the University of Florida. He had left San Diego for ovrseas duty on 22 June 1943, the same day his brother (a B-17 bombardier) was shot down over Germany.
To direct attention from his thinning hair, Jimmy could usually be seen sporting a Pepsodent smile. He generally carried off the honors at bridge.
Bruce Ffoulkes came from San Mateo, California, but his heart was in Portland where Harriet, the girl he was engaged to, lived. After three and a half years at Stanford (gymnastics and golf), he had joined the Marines in August 1941.
“It’s rough ass,” was Bruce’s favorite expression, whether he was discussing flying or any of his other multifarious activities. A photo addict, he spent a lot of his flying time taking pictures of everything in view, including volcanos and Nip AA positions. He had done one tour with Avey and Brubaker.
Henry “Red” Bartl, 22 years old, lived in Sacramento, California, where he’d graduated from Sacramento Junior College. He was the squadron’s jive hound. When he had that faraway stare on his freckled face, you could be sure he was dreaming his way back to the Palladium for a night with Benny Goodman. It was said that more than one California chick was brokenhearted because Red, choosing between her and the Palladium, chose the latter. Red had been out of the States barely a month.
Glenn L. Bowers, 22, had had three years at Penn State as a zoology major. He had left a wife, Betty, in York, Pennsylvania, when he’d shoved off for overseas duty a month before. He had one child and was sweating out another.
John S. Brown, 25, of Indianapolis, was the typical football player. Big, loose, quiet, easy, Brownie had trampled Purdue’s gridiron for three years.
Rufus “Mack” Chatham, 21, was the new Texas boy in our squadron. Beaumont was his hometown, and he’d had three years at Texas A&M before joining the Marines. When you heard “Come Nina Ross, the Winnin’ Hoss,” rise above the clink of glasses at the Officers’ Club, it’d be a fair bet that sackhound Mack was at those galloping dominoes.
J. Ned Corman, 22, from Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, had graduated from Penn State in 1942, where he’d lettered in soccer; he joined the Corps shortly afterward. Like “Open Sesame” to Ali Baba, Sydney was the magic word that put a gleam in his eyes; he couldn’t wait to get down there and see if it was all true.
William L. Crocker, Jr., age 23, hailed from Worcester, Massachusetts. During his two years at Springfield College, he’d lettered in swimming. Whatever you wanted, Crock could get it for you—and at wholesale. He was immediately made a junior member of the Quartermaster Kids’ club and soon was teaching them a new angle or two. Crock was a jungle scout of parts, too, taking off on long jaunts and coming back with tall tales of the strange sights he’d seen.
William H. Hobbs, Jr., 22, was a Missouri lad. Another book man, he plowed through everything readable and spent a good deal of time writing to his wife, Ann, in Webster Groves. Hobbsy had spent four years at the University of Missouri.
Herb Holden, Jr., 23, called Elizabeth, New Jersey, home, and had graduated from Williams College in 1942. Herb put all the squadron in his debt when he joined the Black Sheep choral society, and whipped up an arrangement of “Why Do They Call Me Snowball, When Snowball Ain’t My Name.”
Alfred L. Johnson, 23, of Utica, New York, had spent two years at New York University. “Shorty” ranked with Junior Heier in the realm of quick comebacks, and the whole squadron was waiting to pit him against Frieda, the famous Sydney barmaid.
Harry S. “Skinny” Johnson, 22, had left his wife, Dorothy, back home in Birmingham, Alabama, and if her accent was anything like his, it must have been mighty pretty to hear. We elected him Second Vice-President of the Yamheads. Skinny was at his best trying to speak English in his southern lingo thick enough to cut with a dull knife; his explanation of why he had to fire 3,000 rounds of ammunition to test his guns was a masterpiece of Yamhead oratory.
Perry T. Lane, 22, came from Rutland, Vermont. “When I left home,” Perry confided, “my mother warned me to avoid drinking and gambling, but I can’t see where her advice has done me much good.”
A nine o’clock glance at Perry’s eyeballs, which looked as though he had used a mercurochrome eyewash, verified this observation. We could never figure how he was always able to work up that infectious smile. Perry was always lost: he was never sure which was Kahili, which were the Treasury Islands and which the Shortlands; he even had trouble identifying Choiseul.
Fred S. Losch, 22, of Larryville, Pennsylvania, was one of the preflight “muscle men”; he was always stretching out his stringy arms and inviting one of the boys twice his size to take him on. We understood that he had a string of squealing gals awaiting his return to the States. Mat gave him the nickname “Rope Trick” one night as Fred was squatting cross-legged on the floor, his brown body nude except for a pair of shorts.
“You look like a God-damned Indian fakir. When the hell are you gonna do your rope trick?”
Alan D. Marker, 21, Park Ridge, Illinois, had spent two years at Maine Township Junior College, where he’d played baseball and basketball. A bad landing and a broken arm put him out of action shortly after he joined us, and he was evacuated to a rear area hospital in spite of his protests.
These were the 21 additions to our squadron. Bolt immediately got things rolling by coming up with a fish fry. He took a sack of hand grenades, went out somewhere, and came back with a couple of gunnysacks full of fish. Mo Fisher, Bragdon, Mullen, and Sims rounded up 15 cases of beer. By the time the beer and fish were gone, the new men had become full-fledged Black Sheep.
16 | Trouble at Home Base
Hearing that we were to go north in six days for our second combat tour, Boyington worked the pilots hard, breaking the new men in on Black Sheep tactics and formations, organizing the divisions, and indoctrinating them with the Black Sheep approach to aerial combat: aggression.
No one had been in any trouble since our cleanup episode, so it was an unworried Boyington who went to the Group Commander’s office in response to a summons. He came back to our hut with a long face.
“I’m not going back with you,” he said.
“WHAT!”
“The Colonel asked me how the squadron was coming along, and I told him, ‘Fine’; that we were ready and eager, and that I understood we were to leave in a few days.
“He said, ‘Yes,’ but that I was not going. He said they need a major for operations officer at Vella Lavella and he was sending me. All I could say was, ‘Yes, sir,’ and about face. I knew it was useless to argue with him.”
Boyington shook his head. “Looks like he finally caught up with me.”
“You’re not gonna stand for that, are you?” I asked.
“What can I do?”
“I know what you can do.
You can go over and see General Moore. I’ll bet he doesn’t know it.”
Major General James T. Moore, Assistant Commanding General of the First Marine Air Wing, had been in command at Munda most of the time we were there. He had developed a solid respect for Boyington’s leadership and fighting ability, while we had come to admire and respect the general for his quiet, friendly manner and his calm, efficient handling of his command.
“Yes, that might help. I’ll go over there tonight after chow.”
“You’ll go right now,” I said. “You change your clothes; I’ll get a jeep for you.”
I hustled Boyington into the jeep and off he went, while I sat with fingers crossed and waited. To take him out now would destroy the morale of the whole squadron. When I heard four Black Sheep go into the hut next to ours, I went over and told them the bad news, and the five of us worried together. Other members of the squadron dropped in, and by three o’clock a sizable representation of the squadron was crowded into the 16-foot-square hut.
Around four o’clock, the Group Commander stopped by, and I stuck my head out.
“Is Boyington around?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“When he comes in, I want to see him.”
“Yes, sir.”
At five o’clock, the Colonel was back.
Still no Boyington.
At six o’clock, the Colonel came by once more.
No Boyington.
The Colonel sent a runner at seven, eight, nine, ten, and finally eleven—still no Boyington.
“Be sure you tell Boyington that the Colonel wants to see him when he comes in,” the runner said.
We debated what had happened to Pappy. We knew General Moore well enough to know that he’d give Pappy a straight answer, without sitting on the fence, so we agreed that only two things could have happened: Pappy was either drowning his sorrows in one of the island Officers’ Clubs if he was out, or celebrating in one of the same if he was still in the squadron.
It was after midnight when he finally rolled home, happy, mellow. “I’m back in,” he said, with a wide grin.