After the third day being aboard ship I was looking over the railing out to sea, and somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and there were about fifteen news correspondents staring me in the face. They had a microphone setup, shoved it in my teeth, and said: “Talk, brother.”
I did not know what to say, but finally I managed to blurt out how happy I would be to go home and whatnot, and then I said hello to my eldest child and told him when I got home I was going to take him hunting, for I remembered it was getting near the season, early fall, back home.
(Incidentally, after I did get home a long letter was waiting for me from some woman in New York. She had a cat monogram on her stationery, and after welcoming me home in one sentence she then went on at great length to write how horrible she thought I was to go hunting, as if “you haven’t had your blood lust satisfied now.”)
After being out in Tokyo Bay for four or five days watching our planes go by in review and formation over Tokyo, and this time they were not dropping bombs, I was taken to an airport outside of Yokohama, and I started for home in one of the first planes to go back to the United States.
On the flight from Tokyo to Guam the pilot of the DC-4 was an old friend of mine, and he asked me to stay in his quarters in Guam and not in the hospital. We got in his quarters and he, being real kind to me, fried up bacon and eggs, and also poured me a stiff drink of good old United States bourbon and soda. I got about halfway down this glass and said: “I’m awfully sorry to turn this down, I know it isn’t like me, but I just can’t seem to get it down.”
I labeled it stupidity for a long time, but now I appreciate that it was pure insanity. This reaction, or aversion to bourbon, really made my mind tick, for I was thanking prison camp for finally making alcohol difficult to swallow. Never, for a second, facing the fact that my run-down condition was the most logical reason for my not wanting it. And as time went on, I didn’t even thank prison camp or the Japanese for apparently removing my obsession to drink, as I was more than willing to accept all the credit for myself. My great will-power, that’s what did it!
Then I politely asked that if I got hungry later on would it be all right if I used their icebox. They said: “Sure, take anything you want in there.” About midnight I got hungry, and went out to this icebox and in it I saw three lovely steaks. I knew that there were three people who lived in this place and so I thought, rather than deprive just one of them of a steak, I might just as well fry all three. I fried all three steaks, ate them, and then I fried eggs, too.
Some of my old friends there on Guam took me around to all the supply places and outfitted me with adequate clothing, got me some snappy sunglasses, and so forth. Then one chap asked me: “Can you think of anything else you would like?”
I said: “I wish you would lend me a dime.” I didn’t have any American money.
He said: “What do you want it for?”
I answered: “Well, I would like to get three of those chocolate bars.”
He laughed and said: “Why, sure thing.”
But he stopped laughing a little while later because we had just finished lunch and I was about halfway down the third candy bar when I noticed that this chap was looking kind of sick around the gills. I said: “Oh, excuse me, Zack. I didn’t stop to think how nauseating it was to watch someone eat three candy bars.” I was thinking back prior to being shot down, and recalled how the non-alcoholic jerks wolfed down ice cream or something sweet, not understanding how in hell they were able to enjoy such things.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone can blame me for stating earlier that my life should have been taken care of by some fiction writer, or a cartoonist, perhaps. Especially when one of the persons I ran into on my first stop out of Japan was none other than my old nemesis, just like he had been waiting for me all these months. He hadn’t looked me up, though. We had run into one another, quite accidentally, during a staff lunch. A peculiar expression appeared on his ugly features, as I spoke first, saying: “Hi, Colonel, I’m back again!”
When he finally spoke, I thought I noticed a combination of coolness mixed with forced cordiality as he said: “Good to see you back again, Boyington.”
I could imagine that Lard had thought that fate had double-crossed him again, throwing one of his problems back, after he had gone to all the trouble of patting himself on the back. In my mind Lard had become unimportant, for by then I had heard so many compliments on my so-called greatness that I mentally shoved him out of my mind as any further source of hardship.
After spending a couple of days on Guam our DC-4 flew us to Kwajalein, remaining there only about an hour so so for fuel, then we were off for Pearl Harbor.
The meeting I shall never forget, and I don’t mean all the cameras and newspapermen, was when I stepped out of the plane at Pearl Harbor. For all this was not sufficient for a man who just wanted to be wanted, and for some reason or another had felt that he never had been since childhood.
Here at Pearl Harbor was where millions of Americans as well as their opponents had seen the beginning of a four-year stretch that was to send them far and wide, some never to return. And here, standing in the background for his station in affairs, more or less, letting the cameramen and newspapermen shove ahead, was an old friend.
The moment I saw him I started elbowing my way to him, and forgot all the others for a brief period. I was oblivious to cameras and newsmen as my old friend threw his arms about my shoulders, hugging me tight. And I did the same in return. My friend said: “I blamed myself for your getting shot down, and felt like I had killed you. You don’t know how wonderful it is to see you alive.”
I said: “Forget it, it was all part of the game. But, believe me, I am glad that it turned out this way.”
He said: “So am I, so happy for you, my boy.”
And as he backed away from his embrace, I thought there was something different about the wild eyes looking at me from beneath the thick bushy brows. I was correct, for I could see the eyes had glazed a bit, squeezing out a couple of tears upon those wrinkled and tanned cheeks.
I was happy as we walked along in an unmilitary manner, and I could see that my friend was too, for he was smiling and swinging his unnecessary cane. He was Major General Nuts Moore.
* * *
*For the full account of this great Marine battle read Iwo Jima by Richard F. Newcomb, another volume in The Bantam War Book Series.
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After reaching Honolulu I had my future all mapped out to perfection, part of which I falsely believed, and part of which I was willing to assume. This plan had grown gradually since my release, and seemed very logical because I had been reading a lot of stories that were quite flattering indeed. At first I thought there must be some mistake, somewhere, but no, there were my photographs with my name. It was almost too good to be true, I thought.
But I decided that I would smarten myself up a bit, so I might be in accord with the public’s conception. It was during the week layover at Honolulu that on Moore’s advice I decided to become this person they were writing about, because I definitely was pleased with the change in attitude. I was going to forget my past. I planned on accepting my newly found position in life graciously, modestly, and with dignity.
This character part had been growing in my mind since the end of the war, approximately the same length of time as the hair of my dapper mustache. Having never worn a mustache previously, I suppose I was trying to hide or change my appearance—therefore the bush.
During the layover the general talked to me like a father, giving all the help and advice he could think of. Before leaving to take care of his marine-aviation business, he turned his quarters over for my use, also his car and chauffeur, and just about everything with the possible exception of his command.
Giving an alcoholic power isn’t exactly the proper thing to do, but I doubt that the dear general was well versed on the subject, or probably had no idea that I was one. Hi
s only motive, I am certain, was to see that a Marine got a few breaks he thought he was entitled to. As he was leaving, he said: “Son, they have a habit of forgetting too soon. As long as you are a demand product, remain here an extra week, and we will get a few of the things they promised before you are forgotten. I am many years older than you are, and I’ve seen it all happen before.”
I promised my friend that I would remember to do exactly as he suggested. Considering that an alcoholic has difficulty keeping any promise, I have often wondered how on earth I was able to carry out everything he had suggested.
There was no question that Moore knew he was in the twilight of his career and could take liberties no ordinary officer would dare to. He cabled Washington and demanded that my regular commission be forwarded to the Hawaiian Islands prior to my returning to the United States. My regular status had been guaranteed through typewritten error (no regular officer was to have gone on the Flying Tiger mission). A special act was put through Congress in my case, because now that the war was over I was being billed as “The White Hope” of Marine Aviation publicity.
It was truly fantastic; the legend of bravery and idealism that had been concocted during those twenty months since I had last been seen going down in a ball of flames. And, on top of it all, the majority of all this had been released from Marine Corps Public Relations. There was no question in their minds that my watery grave would hold me, and that I would never return to disgrace them or haunt them, or, one thing for certain, they would never have let those releases out of their hands.
Actually, they did hold out for many months, using their better judgment. That is until three months after I was last seen, and the more stable characters would have held out longer, if it hadn’t been for pressure from the Executive Department.
As the story was told to me, the Executive Department had gotten a bit shaken by a certain editorial by a New York columnist. And I’m certain—because I have heard congressmen say: “The only way I know about what’s going on is to read the newspapers.” —that it was the only reason the Executive Department took notice. For over two years of war, and all the time overseas, I hadn’t been recommended for so much as a Purple Heart and I was supposed to be dead.
Anyhow, the columnist wrote an article titled “Two Soldiers and a Marine,” which caused the leveler heads in the Corps to act against their better judgment, in place of waiting until six months after the war to make dead sure. Of course, I believe they would still have remained firm if the Executive Department hadn’t gone in and said: “Who is in charge around here?”
The article stated: “To the best of my research, there have been over 200,000 medals of various types dealt out since the war began some two years ago. But here are two soldiers and a Marine who have done this, and have done that, and have been dead for a certain length of time. Yet, none of their families have been awarded so much as a Purple Heart, which, I am of the understanding, is the least that a fellow can receive for giving his life.”
Nuts Moore had used his influence or rank on his Navy medical staff, I was soon to learn, as they rather begrudged passing me for the promotion I should have had before I was shot down. One of the medicos caused considerable pain when he pressed upon my swollen spleen, asking: “What is this lump?” Another one said: “Good grief, I’m glad I’m not a regular officer—if we get caught for overlooking all this—our names are going to be mud.”
Anyhow, they passed me.
A former C.O. of mine was flown from the United States with the findings of a promotion board that had been assembled rather hastily for the purpose. He told me about the board members, although he wasn’t supposed to divulge this information. Half the board had argued that they couldn’t possibly recommend me because there weren’t any fitness reports on me for two years, and the last one Colonel Lard had filled out was nothing they could promote anybody with.
But the senior member, whom I was talking to, had had his orders unbeknown to the others, so I was a lieutenant colonel in the regulars again when I boarded a Martin Clipper for San Francisco.
At San Francisco I was given a most fantastic reception by the American public and press. More fantastic than I had ever dreamed possible, even in my drunken dreams. Now I appreciated the full meaning of General Moore’s advice. And how happy I was that I’d decided to be a dignified character behind a mustache, and how fortunate I was that liquor was no longer an obsession, so I wouldn’t louse up the act.
But I was soon to find that carrying on with this act wasn’t going to run as smoothly as I had planned, for I found that my drinking past was waiting back home, to pick up where I left off, whether I wanted to or not.
And I do not know what Lazarus found when he returned from the dead, but as for me I found myself and my earthly affairs in one hell of a state of confusion, and maybe Lazarus had found them that way too. Naturally, mine happened to be all of my own making, I know.
Anyhow, while honors were being pitched at me from one direction, and faster than I could receive them, from the other direction came flying equally as fast confusion and my past drunken dealings. To return from the dead, then, and to be back among mortal folks, may not always be the sporting thing for any of us to do.
Three years are a lot of years for any of us to be out of touch with what we have left behind “in case of death” or for any other reason. And it might be more graceful for us, or more sporting of us, if we could just return as some other person. I certainly had planned, but I should have known that it would not work out.
So, of all the banquets, dinners, and the like, which were showered by the bucketful, only one reception of the lot do I hold really glorious. And this was because of its sincerity, my own and that of the people in it. For these people were not out for anything, and neither was I upon this particular occasion. They were not out for monetary showmanship, or to parade me around for their own ends, or to have me raising money for this cause or that cause. No, these people were my people. They were twenty of my old squadron mates, twenty of my old Black Sheep.
Previous to my being shot down and lost I had said this to the squadron, for morale effect more than anything else: “Don’t worry if I’m ever missing, because I’ll see you in Dago and we’ll throw a party six months after the war is over.” And the reason I had used this six-month business, as I mentioned before, is that if one doesn’t show up six months after the war is over he is officially declared dead.
But, after leaving the Hawaiian Islands, I certainly had not expected to see twenty of these old squadron mates already waiting for me at the airport in Oakland. Oh, that was a wonderful feeling. They tossed me around on their shoulders, and they sang the “Baa-Baa Black Sheep” squadron song, and we had a great reunion.
Then one of the boys asked: “When are we going to have that party in Dago you promised?”
I laughed and said: “It may be a long time before we all hit San Diego. So, will you let me off the hook for throwing one in San Francisco instead?”
They all cheerfully replied: “Okay by us, Gramps. Dago is too long a time to wait for a drink anyhow.”
We had the party that evening in the St. Francis Hotel, and it was a party. But fortunately, after having been in the prison camps so long, I couldn’t seem to drink, and after trying my damnedest for a few hours I left the party with a few of the pilots, which was unusual for me. A few of us went on up to another floor and took a steam bath and got it out of our systems. I went to sleep on one of the cots in the steam room for the rest of the night.
But I must mention, too, that, of all the keys-to-cities and other junk that come the way of anybody being put on momentary exhibition, the only gift I truly value after having gotten back is what these boys themselves gave me. They gave it to me at the dinner that evening of the party. And it is a gold watch with the inscription on the back: “To Gramps from his Black Sheep.” When I asked the fellows how they had gotten the watch engraved so soon, they told me. They explained to me that they
had taken the watch into a jewelry shop and had told the jeweler what they wanted engraved on it. The jeweler had answered in customary procedure: “On account of the war that will take me about a month, fellows.”
The gang had answered: “Bud, we got news for you. The war happens to be over. We wont go into who won it right now, but you’re going to engrave the watch right now. And we’re going to stand here while you do it.”
So that is how the watch came to be engraved in one day, the same day as my return to the States, and in time for dinner.
All of which made just one more reason for a long time to come why I wished that all my own Black Sheep could have flown wing for me through all the problems that followed. Now I know that even my Black Sheep could not have helped.
During the day of the party, among the multitude of reporters were a couple of reserved gents who impressed me right off as nice guys. One said: “We understand you boys are having that party tonight. The one that was supposed to be in San Diego.”
“Yes, that’s right. By the way, if you’re not doing anything, drop over, and I’ll see you get a few drinks.”
The two men thanked me and left, and one of the Marine Corps Public Relations officers said: “Just how naïve can you be, Pappy? Don’t you know who those two guys are?”
“What difference does that make? How nice do you want me to be? I invited them to our party, didn’t I? By the way, who are they?”
“Stupid, those are Life magazine representatives. Don’t you know you can’t buy or even ask for mention in their coverage?”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said to this P.R. officer. “But how was I supposed to know? I’ll know better next time.”
It had completely left my mind, even when these two Life men showed up at the party, for I didn’t see any cameras. I figured they were just two nice guys who had accepted my invitation. I believed them when they volunteered to cover the party, but Life had never covered a drinking party since its beginning.
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