Taking advantage of the sun’s rays was so automatic, as I coasted down, that I almost forget to mention it. It was about as simple as making a landing, as I came down and sent a burst into the climbing Nip, setting the plane ablaze.
Shortly after this I spotted a Corsair and motioned for it to join up, for our fuel was getting down a way on the gauge. Bruce Matheson smiled when he knew I was close enough to recognize him through the plexiglass hoods, and the two of us started for home over the water.
On our way we spotted a dark-colored Zero, circling low over something in the water. I decided to blast this plane out of the sky, so I pointed at it and then looked at Bruce, who nodded “Let’s go.” At close range we saw that this plane was circling somebody in a Mae West jacket, floating in the water. Both of us opened up on the circling Jap plane, which ducked down as low as it could and scooted for Kahili. We didn’t think it was wise to give chase, and therefore we have no idea whether he made it or not.
Actually there was a second reason for not following this Nip, a selfish reason, because 214 was to be relieved the day following, and we weren’t taking any more chances on losing our trip to Sydney for rest and recreation.
As Bruce and I flew back to Munda, we heard a familiar voice, “Where is everybody?”
I knew that this was Harper and tried to give my position as best I could, so he might be able to join us. But we didn’t see him until after everybody had landed. Poor “Harpo” had gotten a slug in his buttocks near the spine, which very nearly ended his career. I understand it was years before he fully recovered.
And talking about getting slugs in the butt, the Black Sheep seemed to have a corner on the market. It didn’t happen on this mission, but a few weeks earlier. Rinabarger, had come in to Munda with a slug that had traveled just under the skin from one hip across to the other, and poor “Rinny” didn’t have too much butt to spare, either. When I was there trying to console him while Doc Ream was probing for the bullet, Rinny said: “You bastards, please get out. You’re just giving me another pain in the ass, besides the one I already got.”
But, this being supposedly our last mission of the busy and tiresome tour, we were more than ready to turn in our chutes that very same afternoon. So we did turn them in, and our bedding as well.
None of us wanted to take the slightest chance on missing the DC-3 out of Munda the following day by attending to any last-minute duties, so we didn’t give a hoot if we had to sleep on a bare cot for one night.
Before the afternoon was over, we talked Jim Ream into parting with all that remained of the issue brandy and medical alcohol. We decided to drink it all up that night, because we were going back where there was more. And besides, we would have an entirely new supply if we came up on another combat tour. The Black Sheep had one hell of a good time talking over the hairy times behind them, and they sat around drinking and singing our own adaptation of the Yale Whiffenpoof song, which we had adopted as our own.
Late in the evening, when 214 had been sound asleep for a few hours, sleeping upon bare cots because the bedding had been turned in already, I was awakened by the telephone in my tent. I had to shake my head. This must be a joke. But no, General Moore orders: “We have to have a flight to strafe Kahili and Kara in the dark.”
I said: “Don’t you know 214 has been relieved? Why don’t you ask the squadron that replaced us to go?”
“They have never been to Bougainville in daylight, let alone at night, and there is a little weather, besides. They would be lucky if they didn’t get lost. It’s a cinch they couldn’t find either airport.”
“Okay, okay,” I agreed without thinking—for I knew that I couldn’t let Nuts down under any circumstances—even before I could clear up my befogged mind enough to realize what was going on.
I walked up and down between the cots for some time, trying to think this out, occasionally looking at some of the nude bodies that were completely crapped out underneath the mosquito netting. These perspiring and motionless forms were dreaming of anything but a night strafing mission, I was positive. I didn’t have the heart to order a flight, or to even ask the members who were assigned to my own flight, to go with me.
As I was thinking, I heard my own voice, not too loudly, and it said: “Are there any three clowns dumb enough to want to strafe Kahili and Kara with me tonight?”
It seemed almost as if a prayer was being answered as I stood there and watched three of these motionless forms come to life and crawl through the mosquito netting without a stitch on their bodies. There was no doubt about this being real when Ashmun, McGee, and McClurg walked up to me, and one after the other said:
“I’ll go with you, Gramps.”
Thank God there was a moon, but there was also a little rain to go with it. I was walking about in the mud with nothing but a pair of rubbers on my feet. The four of us pulled on our fatigue clothes and started down the hill in a jeep in the rain. Jim Ream appeared worried about me, as if I might catch a cold or something, and asked: “Aren’t you going to wear shoes?”
I looked down at the muddy rubbers I was wearing and said: “Doc, if this mission is a success, I won’t be needing any shoes until tomorrow.”
The weather seemed to grow better rapidly as we approached Bougainville. The moon began to stay out nice and bright. Maybe the fact that the brandy was wearing off was making things look brighter, I don’t know, but I do know that I was happy for this change.
I called McGee on the radio, for the Japs couldn’t possibly think anyone could be crazy enough to attempt what we were about to do, and I gave some brief instructions: “Maggie, you and McClurg take Kara. George and I will take Kahili.”
We were flying without running lights, so one airport would have been a bit overcrowded with four of us in one landing pattern. I had to assume that McGee and McClurg had left me; for that matter, I wasn’t able to see my wing man, either. I was able to make out the Kahili strip all right, although at altitude I couldn’t see any aircraft. I could not seem to forget Junior Heier’s clipped wings as I was going down to the field.
As I approached the field I was able to observe parked aircraft with such remarkable clarity it surprised me. It wasn’t possible to line them up as we had done the other day, but I had little trouble in making my pass down the strip, controlling my aim with just tracers, much the same as one might play the water from a hose. In fact it worked so well I reversed my direction and sprayed tracers back across the field in the opposite direction. I could see George’s tracers, and a couple of planes on fire. How the two of us had missed one another on our turn-arounds is too late to worry about.
During the few seconds George and I were working over Kahili I could see tracers and ground fires over at nearby Kara, and I knew McGee and McClurg had been able to locate their target okay also. I couldn’t see any tracers coming up from the field, but my imagination, or my better judgment, compelled me to say, “Let’s get to hell out of here.”
In the process of turning east for Munda I saw that there was a Jap destroyer anchored in the Kahili harbor. This was no doubt one of the last that ever came to Bougainville. I found out later that the only means the Japs had for getting anything into most of these islands was by huge cargo submarines.
I wasn’t worried about the terrific fire power a destroyer is capable of turning on a plane, feeling that the night had me well protected, and decided the “can” could not see me coming until I opened up on her with my .50-calibers. I put an ungodly long burst into the can on my way out of Kahili, which resulted in an explosion and fire. But whether it sank was of little concern to me then; I was intent only upon arriving home in one piece.
I was ready, willing, and able to celebrate in those wee small hours in the morning because all of us had gotten back safely, but no one wanted to celebrate with me and I could find no brandy around camp, or I’d have done it by myself.
* * *
*For an exciting authentic biography of this famous Marine general read M
arine! The Life of Chesty Puller by Burke Davis. Another Bantam military book.
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20
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The most tired and rundown herd of Black Sheep anybody ever wanted to see landed in the DC-3 on the fighter strip back at Espiritu Santo just before sunset. It was dark before we were given a lift by truck to the group mess, which had been open for this late arrival of ours. Many of the pilots were too pooped to enjoy good food now that they had it, and plenty of it for a change.
The lot of us were either too tired or sleepy—just plain lazy in my case—to bother to make up our bunks, piling into them as best we could. One thing was for certain: we weren’t going to be bothered with routing out a quartermaster sergeant at that time of night to get bedding and mosquito nets. Besides, after the outstanding work by the Army Engineers, mosquitos had become a thing of the past in Espiritu long before November. So most of us fell asleep in our skivvies as soon as we peeled off our clothing.
It must have been close to midnight when I was awakened by a very bright light, shining squarely into my face, blinding my eyes so much I couldn’t see anything. I tried to turn my head to get away from the glare, but the light seemed to follow me whichever way I turned, so I could not see who was holding it.
A gruff voice came from behind the light, one that was only too familiar to me—and not pleasantly familiar, either. The farthest thing from my sweet dreams was there breaking up my sleep, none other than Lard himself.
At first I naturally assumed he was sore about my disregard for the orders concerning drinking, like they were so much confetti—because I’d witnessed these orders being torn up by another colonel up the line. But during the ranting about I soon discovered what this was all about as he kept mumbling: “Netting,” among other things, to be written down by the capable executive who was always standing one pace behind Lard.
“Don’t you know, Boyington, that there is an order against anyone sleeping without a mosquito net?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, but I thought: “This fat son of a bitch really had to dig deep in the old records to come up with this one on nets.” There were no mosquitoes then, and besides, we had taken atabrine while in the combat zone until we were almost the same color as the Japs, just so we wouldn’t miss a trip to Sydney. I don’t believe this joker ever destroyed an out-of-date order for fear he might have some use for it some time.
As he and his stooge with the pad and pencil moved away in the darkness with the flashlight, Lard was also mumbling something about restricting the lot of us from making the trip we had so dearly earned.
However, we did get our trip to Sydney, for there was no way he could logically prevent us without going through wing HQ. He was also aware of the fact that we had to have a negative smear for malaria before being allowed to go to Australia. Perhaps he was counting on some of us not taking our atabrine—if so, we would have been dead ducks for sure.
And I do not wish to bore you with more sex, as this trip was almost a repetition of the last trip, only different women in most cases. But women were a vital part of a combat pilot’s life, if only in his songs and thoughts, so I shall let it remain that way.
One thing was different from other trips for me because, although I had a date somewhere around the Romano night club, I shared the entire evening with General Nuts Moore. Everyone else but the general and myself who had been seated at the table had shoved off by either direct or indirect invitation, leaving the two of us alone to entertain ourselves after a fashion.
Moore informed me that the Bougainville invasion had been a success, although costly as usual, and that just enough of the island was taken to construct three airstrips. What remained of the island the Japanese were welcome to, for we didn’t want it at any price.
The reason that the other guests were forced to leave the table, one by one, was that the general and I were using the entire tablecloth for a war map, leaving only enough space for the two of us long before the club closed. We really had everything all doped out, but things didn’t quite work out in the exact manner we had planned. But come to think of it, the majority of these things did come awfully close. If only MacArthur and Halsey had been present, there would have been no need of further alterations, and then we could have rolled up the tablecloth and taken it along with us.
I was the most dumfounded person in the Corps when, because of my seeing eye to eye with the general, or vice versa, I was called into Lard’s office upon our return to Espiritu. This was three days prior to the date set for my squadron to go back into combat.
I must say, too—and almost every military person will appreciate what I mean—that there are times when we have to fight to be able to fight the enemy. This has occurred to many of us all along the line, and perhaps from time immemorial. We break all kinds of rules, local or standardized, in order to be able to do what we think we can do best. We certainly are not encouraged to go over people’s heads, even if the purpose is simply to get into combat during time of war. But as an early example of this, if I had not gone over people’s heads I still might be parking cars near Victory Square in Seattle.
Or another is that the Black Sheep Squadron would not have come into being. It was a case of doing what one thought was right, or what one thought just had to be done, and to take a chance on being reprimanded by some paper-wrestler who was a stickler on regulations.
There is a heel or two in every outfit, regardless of what it is. So in this connection I will again remember some good advice from Chesty Puller. He gave it back in basic school to us second lieutenants:
“A word of advice to you men. Many times in your Marine Corps career you are going to feel like resigning. But don’t forget: one son of a bitch or four or five cannot ruin the Corps.”
Through the years I always remembered those golden words whenever confronted by somebody who seemed deliberately to go out of his way to show his authority by keeping things stymied. Then fortunately his superiors would not be that way at all, and the higher they were, the more understanding they were, and also the more capable. And, in order to help get a war won, it frequently was up to the lot of us to take the chance and say something—as delicately as we could of course—but where it would count.
All of these things were rolling over in my mind on the way to Lard’s headquarters.
After I arrived at group headquarters, I was permitted to cool my heels for the prescribed amount of time outside the door of Lard’s sanctum.
Finally somebody said: “You may go in now, Major Boyington. The colonel is free.”
I entered and said: “Good morning, Colonel. You sent for me?”
“Yes, I did, because I’m going to have to jerk you out of 214, as I have a new job assigned for you.”
“But—but—I thought it was all settled when I talked to General Moore.”
“I’ll have you know I’m running this group, and I’ll be giving the orders around here, understand? We have to place senior majors into staff jobs as they come up, and that’s what I have to do in your case.”
“But, Colonel, who is going to command 214? They have to go back to combat in a couple of days.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Anybody can do it.”
“What is my new job, then?”
“Oh, it’s—er—ah—I’m not at liberty to say just now. This will be all for the present. I’ll get in touch with you later.”
I left Lard because I was at a loss for words, and besides I realized there was little use in talking any longer to anybody so stupid. My 214 had already destroyed over a hundred enemy aircraft, not to mention a bit of shipping, and had done loads of escorts and patrols. He had not explained his reasons, because he had none. Nor did he have any new job in mind, or he would have said what it was. He didn’t even have a squadron commander in mind to send in my place.
The pilots in the squadron were about as stunned and disgusted with the odd turn of events as I was. I had destroyed somewhere in the neighborhoo
d of twenty planes personally, and I was anxious to keep on knocking down some more, for, after all, that was the reason I was out there.
I could not quietly sit by and watch my Black Sheep leave old Espiritu and fly out for a combat tour again without me, nor could anyone else have, under the circumstances. What causes some people to change orders like that, without a reason or even an explanation, is something I cannot understand. It may have been jealousy over my record, or it may have been something else. But I did not know. I went to see General Moore, who happened to be on the other side of the island at wing headquarters.
I did not go to his office directly, for I had to be more subtle than that. I sort of timed myself to cross his trail while he was walking to his office. He was a great general, that man was, and after we greeted each other he wished me the best of luck on the next combat tour, coming up in three days.
“But I’m not going, General,” I said.
Moore looked puzzled; he invited me into the office and asked me why. He probably thought it was something personal.
I explained calmly that I did not know why but that my orders had just been changed today. In no time at all Moore reached for his telephone, called a certain office, asked for a certain group commander, and I sat there—still with a poker face—waiting for an explosion, I guess. But there was no explosion. Moore very quietly told this person he didn’t want any changes, adding that he might drop over to see him before he went north again.
But I was so happy about my reinstatement with my Black Sheep, and it occurred immediately, that the moment I left the general, I could keep my poker face no longer. Three of my pilots had accompanied me on this little mission of sorts across the island and had been waiting patiently for the outcome, one way or another. There was only one thing to do, and that was to celebrate another Black Sheep victory with this official good news. So we celebrated. And we celebrated too long. For when we finally broke up at the wing club, the time was midnight, the rain was a deluge, and we had to cross the island in a jeep to our quarters on the fighter strip.
Baa Baa Black Sheep Page 21