Baa Baa Black Sheep

by Gregory Boyington

  Upon inquiring into what traitorous deed or murder this unfortunate had committed, we found to our surprise that he had been caught stealing. Let me remind you that stealing was legal in the Orient; we had visited the thieves’ market in Kunming, which covered several square blocks. The only thing that was illegal was getting caught before the articles were in the market.

  The second revolting spectacle was when we ran into a parade downtown one night. This seemingly endless procession had the paper dragons and disguises of all natures in brilliant colors, moving along in centipede fashion like a long worm through the narrow, crooked streets.

  The part in particular that got me was when two men, naked excepting for loincloths, were brought along in this parade. These two almost nude men had their hands tied and were jerked along by collar-and-leash affairs. They were emaciated and dirty, and their faces were expressionless.

  Upon getting someone to explain this I found that these two men, poor souls, were Japanese prisoners who had survived in captivity for some time.

  So it might be small wonder that I left Kunming for Loiwing, again with no regrets, even if it meant endangering my life.

  We arrived in Loiwing preparing for our strafing mission on Chiengmai, Thailand. The pilots who were stationed there were the Third Pursuit Chennault had just gotten back from talking to in regard to all the strafing at random. They were anything but warm to us when they found we were going. In fact one pilot said: “I knew somebody would strafe. But I don’t think it’s for free, like us.”

  Our Chennault strafers didn’t have to watch the Third Pursuit and their glares that night, because we got to stay in the beautiful American hostel on the hilltop. This hostel had been built for the staff of the Central Aircraft Manufacturing Company, who were supposedly running that farce called a lend-lease factory.

  The hostel where they lived was a gorgeous layout, but the so-called factory didn’t impress me at all, even though I am B.S. in A.E. I never found out whether the factory ever completed aircraft one, but that was not important, I believe. The main idea was that they lived like kings in this hostel, which, for but few differences, might have been a swanky country club back home. The view was ideal, also, as large plate-glass windows overlooked the mountainous valley and winding river below.

  The defending Third didn’t live in the hostel, for they were a little different class than these lend-lease friends. They had been housed in far less pretentious quarters down near a crummy Chinese village. In fact the only reason I can figure out why we were spending the night was that we were going along with Chennault’s program and the Third had refused.

  Whether the phrase “getting the word” is a general one here I do not know. But I do know that in a private sort of informal way the phrase was rather general with us out there in China, and referred to people having a feeling they are not going to live through something.

  U.S.S. Yorktown

  Maybe I imagined it this night in the American hostel, but Jack Newkirk was not the same smiling Jack I had attended a few shore leaves with off the U.S.S. Yorktown prior to the war. Nor was he the same as he was when I had flown with him in Rangoon. Previously always an affable gent, but this night he just didn’t want to talk at all—about anything.

  There was another, “Black Mac” McGerry, who was an unusually quiet sort ordinarily, and I truly enjoyed spending this night in Black Mac’s company at the hostel. Mac and I had pooled our resources and purchased a couple bottles of scotch from our hosts, and settled down in front of the spacious windows to enjoy ourselves. We were very much alone, and as the evening wore on Mac became loquacious for a change. He reminisced, at the time, about how his family would be shocked if it were possible for them to see him enjoying a bottle of whisky.

  Little did I know, while we were drinking, that I would run into Mac’s brother upon my return to the United States and have to leave out part of this enjoyable evening with Mac. For I thought Mac dead, and wanted to give him the part of Mac that I thought he would cherish in his memory.

  Morning came and I skipped breakfast, as I recall. We were briefed by Newkirk and some pilot from my own squadron. We were to leave that afternoon in order to arrive at a lonesome base somewhere in a Burma outpost near sundown to keep the Nips from getting wise.

  The lot of us were to remain in this practically vacated RAF emergency field overnight. On the following morning we were to take off in two groups, Newkirk’s Second Pursuit, and our own First Pursuit, and the take-off was to be in the dark.

  The plan was to arrive over the Chiengmai airstrip in the morning at the exact instant—and it lasts for only a minute or so—when one can see the ground from the air and they cannot see you. Therefore, we had split ourselves into two groups because we wanted to make certain one group hit at the exact time. After strafing the airport and its aircraft we were to return immediately to this RAF outpost, gas, and be gone in a hurry.

  We flew into this base just before dark because the only air-raid warning they had there was a bugler on a hilltop some two miles from the base, meaning that our people were given just sufficient time to flop on their faces in a trench if the Japanese were to come over. So we went into this field of ours at dusk so that the Nips might not see us and come over and strafe our planes when they lay on the ground.

  After we had gassed up our planes late that evening in the dark, we finally went to wash off the caked dust and get a bite to eat before turning it. We were going to have to take off at four o’clock, in the dark, the following morning.

  I was standing beside Jack Newkirk in this RAF washroom, which consisted of a bamboo hut. A little RAF sergeant came up to us and said in cockney: “Hi, fellows. It’s all right to use that water to wash your face and hands in, but don’t drink it or brush your teeth with it because it’s polluted.”

  Both Jack and I said: “Thanks,” and the sergeant walked away.

  But the first thing I noticed Jack do was to dip his toothbrush into this polluted water and start to brush his teeth.

  I looked at Jack and said: “Jack, didn’t you hear what that guy said?”

  Jack grinned at me and smiled, then he said: “Well, after tomorrow, I don’t think it’ll make any difference.”

  They awakened us all the next morning. Morning, hell, it was pitch dark, with no moon. It seemed like the middle of the night to me.

  All we had for bearing on take-off from the rolling dirt strip were a couple of trucks parked on the field with their headlights turned on dim. Everybody got off, all eight in each group. And we joined on our respective leaders, who were to navigate us over the mountains and jungle in the darkness. No running lights. Merely the reddish-blue glare from our own exhaust stacks to fly formation on.

  What was passing by in the jungle below us, or how close we came to any mountains, was in my imagination only. Finally light started to appear in the sky above us. And then I could begin to see dim outlines below me.

  At about this same time our lead planes turned sharp left like they were going to run into a mountain. They started to dive. I wheeled my plane and dove after them, although I couldn’t make out any target as yet. Even before I saw the field I saw tracers from the guns of my mates preceding me. Then the field seemed to take shape in the semi-darkness. I sighted in on the same place where the previous tracers had gone, some of these tracers were visible ricocheting as if being fired from the opposite direction.

  The first pass got three transports ablaze, which, owing to their size, were the easiest to pick out that time of the morning. In turn the burning transports helped to light up our target area as we wheeled around for a pass in the opposite direction. I don’t see how any of us knew which one of us was which.

  The second pass was made under much better visibility, even in those few seconds it took to turn around. It was evident our attack had come as a complete surprise, for I strafed down a line of planes that were parked as I remembered before the war at old Squadron II at the Navy training center i
n Pensacola, Florida.

  I could see blurred forms jumping off wings, out of cockpits, and scurrying all over the field like ants. I made two more passes, witnessing fires all over the Chiengmai airfield.

  By the time we made the last couple of passes the air was so full of black puffs of anti-aircraft fire it was difficult to determine whether the Japs had launched any aircraft, or even to see our other P-40s.

  Radio silence was broken finally when someone yelled: “Let’s get to hell out of here.”

  And as we pulled away individually, I saw a P-40 throwing smoke. This was just a little while after we had left Chiengmai and were over the jungle. The pilot’s engine apparently stopped and he rolled his plane over on its back. In a second or so I could see his parachute open, and see him swing back and forth on the ends of his strings, settle down, and disappear into the jungle below.

  When we got back to our base, I found out that chute had belonged to Black Mac. I knew that he had landed alive. I only prayed that he would be able to find his way through the jungle without running into any Jap patrols.

  Mac was never heard from until after the war, for the natives had turned him in to the Japs, and he was held in Thailand for the duration. I saw him after the war, but if I thought he had been quiet before, it was nothing compared to when I met him after the war. Though I have inquired about him many times since, he appears to have drifted out of circulation on his own this time. I can only imagine that he had it pretty rough, although he did not say.

  Later, when we talked to the Second Pursuit, we found that Jack Newkirk would not be back either. He had not found the Chiengmai field, but had found a line of trucks instead, which his outfit had strafed thoroughly. One of his pilots said that the last he saw of Jack was a ball of flames as his plane plowed into the ground, rolling end over end in a crumpled mass.

  My thoughts couldn’t help go back to the two previous evenings. Jack had gotten the word.

  * * *

  11

  * * *

  By April I became so anxious to get out of Kunming, and all that it meant to me, that I damn nearly would have volunteered to walk back to the United States.

  Chennault had again called us together after more recent developments, and he gave us the lowdown concerning the group’s future. He talked about the imminent “induction” and said that he had been able to stall it off so far. He said that he had told the top Air Corps general in Far Eastern Command that he could not permit the “induction” until the time came when the Air Corps was in a position to supply aircraft, personnel, and matérial.

  There had been a deadline set for “induction”—July 1, 1942. Chennault claimed that he had fudged a bit on this agreed deadline date, that already the Air Corps was in a position to let us have a few P-40s ferried into Kunming, and that it would not be long before personnel and material would be coming.

  I had a regular commission waiting for me in the Marine Corps, as I happened to be the only regular who had gone on the mission; the others were all reserves. I asked: “What can be done in a case like mine?”

  Chennault’s answer to this was concise and positive as he said: “I have my orders. Everybody is to be commissioned in the Air Corps not later than July 1, 1942.”

  I wasn’t satisfied and said: “But how about the written agreement back in Washington? I understand it is legal.”

  “I thought I made myself clear.” He turned, ending the conversation for good. It appeared impossible for Chennault to register any emotion on his deep-lined, leathery face at any time. I gathered the impression that he thought his face was a piece of Ming-dynasty chinaware he was afraid might break if he were to show emotion of any kind.

  My thoughts were really tangled up by this time, beyond belief. Apparently those secret papers lying in Admiral Nimitz’s safe in Washington were to be no help for me in far-off China. I already had plenty to worry about without adding concern for the current predicament I found myself in. The one and only letter I received prior to the mail being cut off by the war had been a bitter one from my mother. I never got completely out of one situation before I was in another.

  My mother hadn’t gone into much detail, but she said that the juvenile court had taken our three children away from my ex-wife in Seattle, but not to worry because they had gone down and picked up the children, and they were on the ranch with her. My arrangement with my parents and a lawyer was being carried out, to pay off my indebtedness, for I had allotted practically my entire salary for this purpose.

  Actually, I had a great deal to be thankful for, and I didn’t realize it. I was an emotionally immature person of the first order, which does not help peace of mind or make happiness. Frankly, this is what makes screwballs and I’m afraid that I was one.

  Regardless of any of my self-manufactured troubles, or any troubles a mature person may have that he solves by himself, there was one thing that dwelled in my mind. If I were forced to continue my occupation for any length of time, I might not survive, for this war had all the earmarks of being a lengthy affair. And if I didn’t survive, there was going to be a slab of marble with Gregory Boyington, USMC, inscribed thereon in Arlington National Cemetery.

  For I had discovered that there are some United States Government-connected careers that pay off handsomely, and I hadn’t chosen one of these. Not that I wasn’t a government worker of sorts. But my chosen field, sitting behind a single engine killing people with six machine guns, was no way to get rich—or, for that matter, even live to a ripe old age.

  Apparently, at this time, I was suffering from something I like to call “mental diarrhea.” This state occurs when a person devotes so much time to working out things that might happen—and they usually do—that he isn’t capable of taking care of his daily thinking worth a damn. So, in desperation from thinking, he usually winds up getting stinking.

  Although this is fairly clear to me now, there were very few who felt free to discuss the subject with me in the past, unless they happened to be affected the same as I was—and were feeling much braver than usual. Occasions of this nature did happen, however, altogether too often to suit me, especially when I was in places where I didn’t try to conceal my emotions at all.

  One night I had held up a Chinese driver for quite a lengthy time outside our hostel bar, while I carried on an endless conversation with some pilot seated in the bar. The driver didn’t seem to mind, but one of our mechanics most certainly did, and said so.

  In answer to a great amount of swearing, finally, I left my bar stool and went outside to get into a waiting station wagon. The mechanic, seated in the back of the vehicle, had apparently been drinking, and shouted: “You Goddamned ex-officers think you can hold anybody up. Don’t you? You’re nothing but a bunch of drunken bastards.”

  I must say that “bastard” was accepted as a word of endearment, but the word “drunken” cut me deeply.

  Then he threatened: “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget,” and out of the station wagon he started.

  I have no idea why my Supreme Power blessed a lug like myself with strength and co-ordination both, but he did. And as my adversary threw open the car door and started to lunge out, my co-ordination came into full play, for I believed that he was going to try to do just exactly as he had threatened to do. He had one hand occupied pushing the door completely open, one foot on the ground, and the other foot on the way down to propel himself in my direction, and that was my time to counter, not after he had swung a punch. So without hesitating, I stepped into him and my right crossed automatically.

  One blow and he crumpled to the ground, but he hadn’t been knocked out even though my blow had struck him flush on the button, I thought. But his leg was broken. On this occasion I felt truly sorry the next day, and went across town to the hospital near Hostel Number One to tell the poor fellow so. He happened to be a good sport, for he held no grudge, and had informed the staff that he had slipped and broken his leg when they inquired.

&
nbsp; We AVG Flying Tigers were invited one night to another banquet in the famous couple’s honor once again at the large dining hall in Hostel Number One. I had gotten dressed up and I had driven over to the hostel with the others, but I didn’t go into the banquet hall, so I spared myself the last of the corny after-dinner speeches that Madame Chiang was so famous for. An ex-Navy flyer, Bartell, and I had decided to remain in the bar while the Madame was blowing smoke like she always had before, so we didn’t go to dinner at all.

  We couldn’t see the dining hall from where we sat, but we could hear hands clapping down the long corridor to the bar. Each time we heard clapping we would re-enact, from past performances, a part of her speech.

  As I recall, Bartell’s and my conversation went like this:

  “I wish to thank General Chennault and his glorious staff, who are seated at my table, for instructing you in tactics.”

  “What tactics, lady? I’ve seen better-looking men in lineups than you got at your head table.”

  “The Generalissimo and I would be willing to give our own lives, if we could, along with those who have so gallantly given theirs.”

  “I would like to get close enough to the mummy she calls the Generalissimo, just once, to see if he is really breathing.”

  The dinner and speech were finally over and Chennault was taking the famous couple through the hostel on a Cook’s tour, when the party ran into Bartell and myself in the bar. Apparently my friend had had so much to drink by this time he had to remain seated, but I jumped to attention. Chennault later complimented me for at least having the courtesy to stand at attention.

  Personally I couldn’t see how Chennault figured them. It was so obvious that the Generalissimo was nothing but a front who never said anything on his own or even thought for himself. The Madame did everything. Chiang Kai-shek just seemed to be led around where she wanted him to be led, and, right or wrong, I was positive that the Madame was a number-one con artist if I had ever seen one.