Baa Baa Black Sheep

by Gregory Boyington

  One tent I entered, with my mind miles away from Munda, caused me to take a walk into the jungle and get away from camp. Here beside a bunk, placed on top of a small wooden box, was a sightless, grinning skull staring from underneath one of Junior Heier’s baseball caps. I asked Junior later: “How can you stand that thing around you? Where did you get it?”

  Junior had grinned and said: “Just outside of camp. And don’t think I didn’t have a time finding one without any extra holes in it.”

  As I walked away from camp, I was reminded of walking along one of the cattle trails in Idaho as a boy, when I walked with my head down for fear I would miss any Indian arrowheads or pretty rocks. My thoughts were evidently back in the peaceful valleys of Idaho, recalling how I used to imagine the battles of the American Indians of yesteryear, for I had traveled miles back into the New Georgian jungle without realizing how far from camp I had wandered.

  All of a sudden I came across the body of a Japanese soldier lying on the trail. No danger of the Japs being about, for this man had been dead for some time, and the maggots were busy taking care of him. Some person, or persons, had smashed his helmet and crushed in the entire face in a little added flurry of hate. Also, the soldier’s rifle lay in broken pieces beside the body.

  I continued along the trail without being able to define any of my thoughts one way or another. Soon I came across two more dead Japs who had been mowed down by a cross-fire action as they were defending a lookout post of some nature, judging by what evidence remained. These too had been clubbed after being shot. Little wonder Junior had such a difficult time acquiring a perfect skull to make a hatrack for his bedside.

  Farther on down the trail I was to learn what the outpost was protecting, for here I came upon a vacated camp in a silent little valley in the jungle. By browsing around I found how the enemy lived in the jungle, and how they slept. There were no dead here, so the outpost had served its purpose, when the camp heard the firing, and was able to move on to a safer place. It was a good thing the Japs had decided to move in a hurry, or for that matter maybe I was walking among booby traps and didn’t know it.

  The thought came to me that this was one hell of a place for a pilot to be, and that I’d better return to the flying field where I belonged, as the sun was better than halfway down to the horizon. There were a number of stray Japs roaming about during the mopping up of New Georgia, so I was doing anything but being sensible. I dog-trotted back to get prepared for my night skirmish with Washing Machine Charlie that evening.

  The engine was purring like a kitten as I rolled faster and faster down the Munda strip, and continued to purr as I climbed in the darkness above the field. Every plane light was turned off, inside and outside, not only to enable better visibility but to minimize Charlie’s chances of spotting the plane. Nothing could be done with the exhaust, but anyone would have to be on top of a Corsair before the glow could be seen.

  Control had agreed not to communicate until a positive image appeared upon the screen, and then I was to remain silent so the enemy wouldn’t get wise. Leaned out to my finest to lengthen the stay aloft to the utmost, I must have been up over an hour before I heard Control directing anti-aircraft and searchlight batteries on a bogey miles out on a certain vector. In easing around without getting any of the quarter moon behind my plane and the reported position, I focused my eyes so as to avoid missing Charlie. The fact that the searchlights were instructed not to light until he was close enough to track was probably reason for him to suspect something unusual. Charlie chose to be cagey, in any event.

  For six hours I was vectored to the fringes of our radar screen, and only twice was I able to catch a glimpse of some object at an altitude different from mine. By the time I changed altitude and tried to close, there was nothing but darkness to be found. Not knowing about flying saucers when I was doing this, I mentioned that it was like chasing ghost riders in the sky.

  Finally I was ordered to land, and even though I had a dejected feeling, there were a number of people who had a good night’s sleep for a change. I had taxied up to the flight line and was enjoying a very welcome cup of coffee and a cigarette just as Washing Machine Charlie returned. Whether it was the same bomber or not doesn’t matter, but for some reason he was no longer suspicious. A string of eggs came whistling down on the field as the Jap decided to let all go at one time and head for home at dawn. My coffee and cigarette sailed into the darkness as I dove into a slit trench with the others and listened to the string of bombs galumph along the strip.

  I was standing in front of the ready shack one morning when I noticed a familiar face from the past. The two stars on each side of his shirt collar were about the only change, and he was the general in command of Munda. A striking man with wild eyes that looked through one from beneath thick, bushy brows, and he had been nicknamed “Nuts” by his buddies many years before. Of course I didn’t take the liberty of addressing him as “Nuts,” though the older officers of his rank did, and I knew that the general was no more nutty than a fox.

  The general was a character, however, who was always seen carrying a cane—for good luck. He had never let the cane out of his sight since the Shanghai Marine days when he had been stationed in China. Once he had been stunting a plane during an air show put on for the benefit of the Shanghai public, and the wings came off his biplane fighter. The openmouthed spectators had watched him as he descended over the stands, pulling a bit of air from the side of his chute to avoid landing on top of them. Just before he sat down in front of the grandstand, he shouted: “Yip Ho-ee,” and the thrilled spectators saw that he was twirling a cane in one hand.

  Nuts was so genuine, in my estimation, that I simply adored the man, and he had always impressed me as a father rather than a superior officer. I recalled years before when I had been standing an officer-of-the-day watch one Sunday at North Island, San Diego, when a colonel had just flown in and I had gone out on the field to greet him. He had just completed a cross-country from Washington, D.C., and I might add that the colonel happened to be the highest rank in Marine Corps aviation.

  I had saluted and started all the folderol procedure I was supposed to do, but Colonel Moore had stuck out his hand, and said: “Hello, son, gosh it’s good to see you!” For he was the kind of a person who could make one feel wanted when I’m certain he barely recognized him.

  Anyhow we renewed our friendship, and the general wanted to know if I would strafe the Kahili airfield the following morning because the bombs didn’t appear to be destroying the enemy aircraft; furthermore he had a deadline to meet. I said: “General, you don’t have to ask for anything; you just name it.”

  “I know it, son, but you are busy now. How about having dinner with me tonight after you secure—about six, let’s say?”

  “Invitation accepted, General, thank you.” As we were not getting enough to eat at this particular stage, I figured I could use a good meal even though I didn’t know how well he was eating.

  My boys gathered around me and wanted to know what this was all about after the general and his cane drove away. About all I was able to say was that I had been invited to dinner at his quarters that night. Their faces looked like little children’s as they said: “Gee, Gramps, that’s great! Will you see if you can bring us back anything?”

  Although I had not the faintest idea of what it could be, I promised just the same. The general had a meal that tasted all right by comparison, but I enjoyed the drinks before and after dinner more while he was talking over the intended mission the following morning. What I appreciated so much was that Nuts Moore told you the problem and then would sit back and listen while you told him how to go about getting it done.

  As he was in the process of wishing us luck, and I was about to return to my brood empty-handed, the general asked: “By the way, how are you lads fixed for whisky?”

  “The whisky situation is rough,” I lied, thinking that maybe I would not have to return empty-handed after all. “We have been comp
letely out of it for some time.”

  I could see the funny look that came into his eyes as he pointed with his cane to a wooden box underneath a bunk. He said: “This must be a coincidence. Here’s a case with no name on it. I don’t know who it belongs to, but take it with you.”

  Not wanting to take a chance on this being an oversight, I thanked the general profusely while in the process of backing out into the darkness outside his quarters with the wooden case clutched in my arms. I didn’t figure that Nuts Moore’s eyesight wasn’t what it had been, for I could plainly see that this case was addressed to another major general whose judgment in fine whisky had been respected for a good number of years. My conscience was clear as I walked back to camp with the heavy box across my shoulder, for the general had given this to me; I had not stolen it. Not until after the war was over did I mention the addressee, then Nuts got that funny little look again and said: “Yes, I was aware of it, but I thought my buddie had been drinking too much.”

  When the boys ran out to greet me upon my return from dinner, I felt that this was the closest I had ever come to playing Santa Claus. They had faith in me, and it showed in their expressions. They must have known far better than I did that I wouldn’t return without bringing them some goodies. We were laughing and joking as we planned the dangerous mission for the following morning.

  Twelve of 214 took off the next morning as planned, and flew low over the water along the north coast of Choiseul. This was according to plan. We didn’t want the Kahili Nips on Bougainville to pick us up on radar, and knew that the long east-west range of mountains on Choiseul would act as a shield. There were Japanese troops on Choiseul, but they would believe that we were on a reconnaissance mission by our flying so low along their coast line—we hoped.

  When past the westernmost tip of Choiseul we were but a short distance over water north from the strong Kahili airstrip, a matter of a very few minutes. At this point eight of the pilots who were to be top cover climbed gradually above the four of us who would strafe. The Kahili strip ran east-west, one end of it being almost on the eastern shoreline of Bougainville. Not choosing to attack the field from the seaside where the Japs would be expecting an attack, we continued on west for a short distance before circling around behind their field, hugging the jungle as we went. Once over land, we added full throttle to pick up all the speed possible before making the low strafing run, as the Nip ground troops would be firing rifles and machine guns.

  When I figured I was close to the west end of the Kahili clearing, I pulled our flight of four abreast up ever so slightly, so I could sneak a last-second check that would enable a perfect line-up with the runways. This gave the maximum amount of target over the full length of the field as we strafed eastward with guns and throttles wide open.

  For my money’s worth things could not have worked any more successfully than they did. The Japs had no fighters in the air, and it was apparent that they hadn’t even heard our Corsairs until they came whistling over the treetops on the edge of the clearing. We had taken Kahili by complete surprise in broad daylight and clear visibility. Our incendiaries and armor-piercing were a special load for this work, and they worked to perfection. But I had to thank the Nips for having the majority of their parked planes lined up for us, as it is almost impossible to change your sights when traveling at any speed over the ground.

  It wasn’t in the original plan, but when Moon, who had charge of the top cover, saw that there were no Nips upstairs, he quickly decided to join the strafing with the rest of the boys. I believe that every piece of equipment on the field got sprayed, at least, and flames were coming out of some twenty aircraft as we sped across the field for Munda. It was a great feeling to be able to report this successful action to General Moore.

  At first I thought we had accomplished all this without anyone getting hurt, but shortly after landing I realized that one of the twelve was missing. Junior Heier was not with us, and no one had seen him crash. We didn’t have a chance to send a search or even worry very long, for news of Junior came in from the new strip being constructed at Vella Lavella. The boy had landed at Vella among the bulldozers, roughly but safely.

  Later I saw why the lad had been delayed, and it was a miracle that the plane ever flew, with thirty-six inches off one wing tip and forty inches off the other. Junior had been so intent on strafing Jap planes that when he finally decided to pull up it was too late, and he was forced to fly between two coconut trees at the end of the Kahili strip. These trees, combined with the plane’s momentum, had done a far better job than Junior could have with a pair of scissors and a model plane. Even though he had continued at full throttle, there was no keeping up and he lagged behind, and finally became so short on fuel he tangled with the bulldozers.

  * * *

  18

  * * *

  As far as I was concerned the Black Sheep were able to write their own ticket through the medium of General Moore after we pulled such a successful job on the strafing mission. However, I certainly hoped Moore would not get a notion that the war could be won in this manner, for Lord knows I should have learned a lesson in China that this is far from true. So I quickly followed up with some ideas of my own, which I was certain would be satisfactory yet not foolhardy, or as dangerous.

  As a matter of fact I was able to talk Strike Command into permitting their bombers to sit out of a few missions so we could go on fighter sweeps and not be tied down with bombers. To my way of reasoning, based upon what I had seen and read, the procedure used by both the enemy and ourselves should have been reversed many times.

  Not only did I present statistics, but in a small way my Black Sheep had provided Strike Command with a couple of concrete examples as well. In the earlier stages of the war the bombers had been sent over heavily defended areas without fighter escort by both sides when they needed escorts in the worst way. The extreme range in many cases made escort prohibitive. But by the time new strips were acquired closer to the targets, the need for fighters had lessened considerably, or in some cases became almost unnecessary.

  If it were possible to send some fighters over a target prior to the bombers arriving there, the enemy would dissipate some of their interceptor aircraft. The outcome would be that the enemy fighters would be short on fuel about the time our bombers arrived, and be forced to land without making contact, thereby adding the chance of our blowing up a few more on the deck. A few results and one swell general, and, I may add, a deadline, all put together enabled the hired men with the clear blue eyes and rippling muscles to have a say in affairs for a change.

  We were on one of these fighter sweeps, and entertaining the idea, more or less, that it might be possible to hold another conversation and a repeat of the time before with the Japs. It was by no means the same. The Japs were talking and asking our position, but our circling around waiting for an interception proved futile, and finally I knew that gasoline had to be the deciding element in any longer wait.

  “Major Boyington, what is your position?” came in again.

  I tried to taunt them off the ground as I knew that soon a fight would be impossible with our gas supply. I said: “Right over your airport; why don’t you yellow bastards come up and fight?”

  It became apparent the Japs were not falling for any more of this, and answered: “Major Boyington, why don’t you come down if you are so brave?”

  As we circled above the strip at twenty thousand feet, the Japs tried their best to knock us down with anti-aircraft guns. The black bursts would start in a little behind and a thousand feet above or below our formation, and after correcting the range and deflection they would start laying the bursts closer to us. Our planes would then reverse course and change altitude quickly, and immediately, the Jap gunners would be presented with an entirely new tracking and range problem.

  When it became evident that words or insults were not going to make them take off, Casey and I dove down and strafed two of the gun positions, leaving the rest of the fighter
s upstairs. We didn’t get too low on this insult strafing because we knew the Japs’ machine guns were extremely accurate at short range. We were content with just spraying the parked aircraft, knowing that if there were any damage it would be more luck than anything else.

  “All right, you devils, I was down,” I challenged. “Now, how about you coming up?” But no Zeros took off this day to accept our invitation. This was a hell of a note, a fellow having to change his tactics daily in order to get a nibble. I should have been thankful the enemy was not in a complete rut, and killing me with monotony.

  This day ended like so many other days, with me scratching my head and racking my brain for the answer: what to do next time. I had lost Casey for a brief spell during our strafe on Kahili, but he finally caught up and was flying on my wing. I imagined Casey had broken his seat, as he was sitting so low down in the cockpit I was barely able to see his eyes over the edge. The reason I had noticed this in the first place was that normally he would have the seat jacked all the way to the top position for better visibility. Casey didn’t happen to be the tallest guy in the world, and I hoped he would be able to land safely, as the Corsair, with its long nose, was as blind as a bat on landings.

  He had made the landing without mishap, and was walking over to the ready shack, helmet and goggles in hand, when I decided to throw a gibe. I said: “Say, Casey, I thought for a few minutes I had lost you.”

  “You damn nearly did, Gramps.” And he wasn’t smiling.

  “When you finally did join up, you were out of sight, I had to fly above you to see if there was anyone in the cockpit.”

  He said: “Take a look for yourself,” offering the removed helmet while he rubbed a knot on the top of his crew cut.