Baa Baa Black Sheep

by Gregory Boyington

  I was driving in the downpour when a sentry stopped me. He was as wet as I was, and in the darkness we could not see each other very well. But he said:

  “Major Boyington, you’re wanted at Colonel Lard’s quarters immediately, regardless of how late you get here.”

  In the hard rain I could barely make out the poor guy’s features, even when he was standing in the glare of the headlights. He was more than ankle deep in muddy water, and probably chilled to the bone. Knowing this was no ordinary challenge, I asked:

  “What’s up, sentry? And how come you were able to know me so well?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. It’s none of my business, but as long as you asked, I guess I can tell you.”

  “Certainly, you don’t have to worry about me, spill it.”

  “Well, the colonel called first on the phone, but because I couldn’t understand him over the wet line, he drove out here in a jeep. He was so damn mad I thought he had gone completely crazy. He was swearing and waved his arms around so hard he slipped and fell flat on his ass in the mud.”

  “Yes, yes, but what did he say?”

  “I didn’t know what he was yelling about, but he said he would handle it, and I was to have you report IMMEDIATELY. He also said I could smell when you were coming because you would be like a bourbon factory. He said you were a bull-necked, flat-nosed son of a bitch who would have no cap or raincoat because you didn’t have brains enough to wear them.”

  So I reported, and learned I was to consider myself under technical arrest for having violated some local code such-and-such for having seen the general without having gone through certain channels, and having done it for the “betterment of my own command,” or similar wording. I forget just what now.

  Anyhow Lard’s executive officer typed another set of orders for me to take along up north with me for the coming combat tour. Words to the effect that I was to be permitted to lead my squadron but was not to be allowed such privileges as going to the movies or any officers’ club, as if we had any where we were going. This was to be effective for a certain period of time. I forget now but took a copy of the set of orders along to remind myself.

  The following morning, while I was still in my tent, Bragdon and some other pilot entered my quarters all excited after an early breakfast. Bragdon said: “Hey, Gramps, we had a visitor real early this morning.”

  “What do you mean by visitor?” I asked.

  “The gent with the cane intercepted Lard as he was coming down the trail from his penthouse to breakfast. I saw him standing beside the trail and wondered what he was doing over here so early.”

  “What happened?” I asked, getting excited along with the pilots.

  “Believe us, it was a one-sided conversation, with the general on top.”

  “Well?”

  “It went something like this, and we pretended not to be eavesdropping.

  “ ‘Good morning, General—’

  “ ‘Say, Stud, I thought I’d better drop over and pay you a little visit; I’ve been neglecting you. I understand from more than several sources you like to keep the combat pilots in close touch. Well, I fixed it up so you can go up to the new strip and be with them as an operations officer!’ ”

  These pilots said Lard’s mouth kept opening and closing without making a sound until the general was through, like a big fish out of water.

  I asked: “What did Lard say when the general was through with him?”

  “Nothing but ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ because Nuts wheeled around and left him when he was through talking.”

  This was great as far as I was concerned, for Lard would be where he couldn’t do any good for himself or be of any harm for us. His feathers had surely been plucked. I wondered how he was going to get along without the palatial estate on the peninsula, or without a staff to help dig up dirt on anyone.

  Bell P-39 “Aircobra”

  Here was December, two years after Pearl Harbor, before the Allies were on the roll in the opposite direction for a change. We were thinking about the long way to Tokyo as we were flying in the DC-3 back to combat. We were to have a new home there this time, for the Vella Lavella strip had been completed.

  One of these big deals General Moore and I had worked out on our tablecloth down in Sydney was put into action. This was quite an operation and, because it involved passing a certain longitude, Halsey had had to obtain permission from MacArthur prior to our going on the mission, which involved all the Allies in the Pacific. Anyhow, with all the lengthy screwing around, I’m convinced the Japanese were let in on it too, for they were certainly waiting for us like they never had before.

  The long-planned operation, containing over a hundred Allied fighters, struck the Rabaul area in a fighter sweep. We had topped off our fuel on the new strip at Bougainville, and had started taking off on December 17 at the crack of dawn. This mass fighter sweep was led by Wing Commander Freeman of New Zealand in the P-40s, and included Aircobras, P-38s, Hellcats, and Corsairs.

  Whether the Nips had gotten previous word makes no difference now, but the strike was balled up from the very beginning. The Allied fighters were of so many different types, we might just as well have been escorting bombers. Because the five large airfields on New Britain and New Ireland were spread over a large area, the mission at least should have been restricted to fighters with the same flying characteristics.

  Commander Freeman and his P-40s were first off, and hit the Rabaul area without waiting for their high cover to get into position. They probably figured they had to chance it because they had been first off and knew their gas wouldn’t last for much more than the round trip. The individual take-offs from the new strip had been awfully slow to begin with, and we were too late to prevent Freeman himself and many other P-40s from being knocked down that morning.

  With all our fighters not more than a half-dozen Nips had been accounted for, at best, while the Allies lost close to thirty planes that day. Only one member of 214 had any luck, and he got two Nips. I came to the conclusion that these long-drawn-out affairs may have their place, but definitely not in aviation.

  This mass boober was just another thing in my life I couldn’t be proud of, for, even though I had not led the attack, my brain was to blame for thinking up this Frankenstein monster. But there was no way I could get back to that tablecloth at Romano’s and have the chance to start all over again.

  I was to brood over this more than I should have and was itching for an opportunity to square accounts somehow. I got it, and on Christmas, on the peace-on-earth-good-will-to-all-men day, I went around the skies slaughtering people. Don’t ask me why it had to be on a Christmas Day, for he who can answer such a question can also answer why there have to be wars, and who starts them, and why men in machines kill other men in machines. I had not started this war, and if it were possible to write a different sort of Christmas story I would prefer to record it, or at least to have had it occur on a different day.

  Come to think of it, there was undoubtedly some basis for my feelings this day, for as far back as I could remember Christmas Day was repulsive to me. Ever since my childhood, it had always been the same. Relatives were forever coming to our house and kissing my brother and me with those real wet kisses children dread so much, and making a number of well-wishing compliments that none of them ever seemed to believe.

  And then it started after everybody had a snout full of firewater, fighting and speaking their true thoughts. All Christmases were alike, my brother Bill and I ending up by going to a movie. And even after I was old enough to protect myself, I did the same damn thing, leaving the house and celebrating the occasion with people I didn’t know, in some bar.

  I was leading a fighter patrol that was intended to intercept any enemy fighters that followed our bombers, which had preceded us to Rabaul. We saw them returning from their strike at a distance, and saw that Major Marion Carl’s squadron was very capably warding off some Zeros, and before we got within range I witnessed three go up in flames
from the .50-calibers triggered by Carl’s pilots.

  We caught a dozen or so of these fighters that had been heckling our bombers, B-24s The Nips dove away and ran for home, Rabaul, for they must have been short of gasoline. They had been fighting some distance from their base, with no extra fuel because they wore no belly tanks. They had not expected us to follow, but we were not escort planes and didn’t have to stay with our bombers.

  Nosing over after one of these homebound Nips, I closed the distance between us gradually, keeping directly behind his tail, first a thousand yards, then five hundred, finally closing in directly behind to fifty feet. Knowing the little rascal couldn’t have any idea he was being followed, I was going to make certain this one didn’t get away. Never before had I been so deliberate and cold about what I was doing. He was on his way home, but already I knew he would not get there.

  Nonchalantly I trimmed my rudder and stabilizer tabs. Nonchalantly I checked by gun chargers. As long as he could not see me, as long as he didn’t even know I was following him, I was going to take my time. I knew that my shot would be no-deflection and slowly wavered my gun sight until it rested directly upon the cross formed by his vertical tail and horizontal wings. The little Nip was a doomed man even before I fired. I knew it and could feel it, and it was I who condemned him from ever reaching home—and it was Christmas.

  One short burst was all that was needed. With this short burst flames flew from the cockpit, a yellow chute opened, and down the pilot glided into the Pacific. I saw the splash.

  Using my diving speed with additional power, I climbed, and as I climbed I could see off to my right two more enemy planes heading for Rabaul. One was throwing smoke. I closed in on the wounded plane, and it dove. His mate pulled off to one side to maneuver against me, but I let the smoker have it—one burst that set the plane on fire—and again the pilot bailed out.

  His mate then dove in from above and to the side upon my own tail to get me, but it was simple to nose down and dive away temporarily from him. From a new position I watched the pilot from the burning plane drift slowly down to the water, the same as the other had done. This time his flying mate slowly circled him as he descended, possibly as a needless protection.

  I remember the whole picture with a harsh distinction—and on Christmas—one Japanese pilot descending while his pal kept circling him. And then, after the pilot landed in the water, I went after the circling pal. I closed in on him from the sun side and nailed him about a hundred feet over the water. His Zero made a half roll and plunked out of sight into the sea. No doubt his swimming comrade saw me coming but could only watch.

  This low altitude certainly was no place for me to be in enemy territory, so I climbed, but after searching for a half-hour I saw no more of the little fellows in this vicinity.

  I next decided, since I was so close, to circle the harbor of Rabaul so that I could make a report on our recent bombings there. Smoke was coming from two ships. Another had only the bow protruding from the water, and there were numerous circles all around that had been created by exploding bombs.

  While I was looking at all this, and preparing mental notes, I happened to see far below a nine-plane Nip patrol coming up in sections of threes. Maneuvering my plane so that I would be flying at them from the sun side again, I eased toward the rear and fired at the tail-end-Charlie in the third “V.” The fire chopped him to bits, and apparently the surprise was so great in the rest of the patrol that the eight planes appeared to jump all over the sky. They happened to be Tonys, the only Nip planes that could outdive us. One of them started after my tail and began closing in on it slowly, but he gave up the chase after a few minutes. The others had gotten reorganized, and it was time for me to be getting home.

  On the way back I saw something on the surface of the water that made me curious. At first I thought it was one boat towing another but it wasn’t. It was a Japanese submarine surfacing. Nosing my Corsair over a little steeper, I made a run at the submarine, and sent a long burst into her conning tower. Almost immediately it disappeared, but I saw no oil streaks or anything else that is supposed to happen when one is destroyed, so I knew that I had not sunk her.

  My only thought at this time was what a hell of a thing for one guy to do to another guy on Christmas.

  * * *

  21

  * * *

  Vella Lavella is a beautiful tropical island, though I wasn’t capable of appreciating it at that time, owing to the business at hand. But I enjoyed roaming the wooded hills near the camp occasionally, with what little time I had. It was during the walks that I seemed to be able to think more clearly than at other times.

  Vella had an abundance of fresh limes. I believe these were wild, although I am not positive. They certainly made a wonderful punch when mixed with crushed ice, medical alcohol, and issue brandy. There was only one drawback as I saw it: the island had far more of these tasty limes than Doc Ream had alcohol or brandy. My afternoons and evenings were free for these walks and drinking, while my mornings were occupied with flying.

  Daily routine from Christmas until January 3, 1944, was a predawn take-off, flying to the airstrip on Bougainville, refueling, then flying on over to the Rabaul area. It seemed monotonous.

  The day after Christmas I was awakened in the dark with some of the other pilots at three in the morning, and I had one hell of a tussle pulling myself out of the old rack. Too much celebration, no doubt. I was staggering about the tent, searching for my fatigues without much success. Knowing this would never do, I wobbled out of the tent to a rain barrel that was kept constantly full by the waters shedded by the tent top, and there I submerged my head and shoulders into the cool water.

  I repeated the dunking several times, blowing bubbles from my mouth and nose until I was able to steady myself down a bit. This little aid had become standard procedure with me by then, for the pressure was really on me, I felt.

  Some phenomenon of nature would cause some of these islands to have a very heavy rainfall, while others, for no apparent reason, seemed to be lucky if they received a little. In many cases these islands were only a hop, skip and jump apart. These conditions I took for granted while I dunked my head. I had no idea that I would soon be on an island, not too remote from Vella, praying for water to drink.

  I was feeling really rough as I drove in silence down the hill to our ready shack by the strip with a load of duty pilots. They were trying their best to cheer me out of my silent mood, but because I was anything but happy I just couldn’t laugh. After our arrival beside the ready shack Moe Fisher finally succeeded, by putting on a funny act while standing beside the bulletin board. It was his duty to keep it up to date and he was tearing some typewritten papers down, trying to keep a straight face. He said: “Gramps, I don’t believe we have any more use for these.”

  Glancing at the orders he was referring to made me break out laughing, for these happened to be the orders Lard had composed for my benefit and had sent up the line with us. Moe had thumbtacked these for a joke along with the so-called important material for the day. He pretended to be making a decision of great importance and said:

  “I believe these have been complied with because you haven’t attended a movie, and there is no officers’ club. It doesn’t say you weren’t supposed to shoot down four Japs while being under arrest. Anyhow, the time’s up, Gramps.”

  On one of these daily fighter-sweep jaunts over the Rabaul area we seemed to be parked at about twenty-four thousand feet, playing the usual hopscotch with the antiaircraft gunners. I was busy scanning the sky looking for Nip aircraft, occasionally moving the squadron to get away from bursts as soon as they seemed to have our address. Far below were two Jap seaplanes, so I imagined they were looking for submarines near the mouth of the harbor. I guess the Nips had every intention of keeping Rabaul, because there was one place that put up bursts almost thick enough for us to walk on.

  As I watched the two seaplanes, too far down even to recognize the make or insignia, I
saw a landplane approaching one of them. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this until the landplane opened fire and the other burst into flame and crashed in the water a few seconds later. At first I thought, “Can’t those dumb jerks recognize their own planes?” And before I knew it the landplane had disappeared from my vision. I then took a visual roll call up in the sky and found that I had one plane missing. While I was busy scratching my head and trying to remember everyone who was supposed to be along that day, I noticed a Corsair climbing up underneath the squadron. All of a sudden everything became perfectly clear to me when I looked through the canopy of this climbing plane. There was McClurg, with a cat-eatin’ grin that spread from ear to ear.

  This was the only plane shot down that day, and I thought that, for a clown who had so much trouble checking out in a Corsair, he had turned out to be quite a boy. I shook my fist at him, because I knew he had been lucky to get away with this stunt. There was no use arguing with him later when he said: “I didn’t think the Japs would bother with one lone plane if they knew the Black Sheep were circling up above them.”

  While gassing up at Bougainville for the return trip to Vella I had a little talk with the three members of my flight, especially McClurg.

  “I have some dope, fellows, about a few seaplanes operating out of the Shortland Islands. They’re probably anchored, as they’ve been reported only at night and in bad weather. I’d like to go over low and take a look-see, provided you clowns would like a chance to get some seaplanes.”

  As one they said: “What are we waiting for, Gramps? Let’s get going.” All three pilots had a light in their eyes, much the same as if I’d promised them a million bucks, especially Mac.