Baa Baa Black Sheep (17 page)

The
Lurline
remained in the harbor at Noumea, New Caledonia, only long enough to unload the troops and her small cargo, then she was off for the United States to pick up another precious load. Noumea was our first rear-area base in the South Pacific, and, as I happened to be classified as a replacement major with no command, I was free to do a bit of sight-seeing around the island. A hot and sticky feeling, a feeling that had become only too familiar, was back again. Yes, there were filth and dirty people as well, but one additional sight struck me in a repulsive sort of way.

While driving about Noumea I saw a long line of sailors and Marines, almost two blocks long, standing beside one of the buildings. Having been in the habit of waiting most of my life, or standing by, I don’t know why it occurred to me to ask what this line was for.

As it was explained, there were four lone prostitutes who were taking care of this mob of men as fast as they could. Of course, they had been examined by our own medicos, and from all outward appearances these four girls were capable of doing their job fairly rapidly, at that. Pay lines, chow lines, sick-bay lines, and now a line for this beat everything I’d seen up to date.

The following day I transferred to the
General Henderson
to complete my voyage to Espiritu Santo, an island in the New Hebrides group. The
Henderson
was an Army transport that was used along with other smaller ships to make the shorter interisland jaunts. For the United States had learned out here by sad experience not to risk large ships traveling at
slow speeds or in dangerous harbors. The ship was so old the termites had almost replaced the woodwork inside the metal hull, and some of its older passengers said the ship was old during World War I, when they went to France on it.

We arrived at Marine Aircraft Wing One Headquarters at a place called Tontuda, and disembarked. This area didn’t look too bad even in the rain, for it always seemed to rain in the New Hebrides, which I understand have one of the highest rainfalls in the world.

But this was not my destination, and it was another splashing six-hour drive to the other side of the island to a place they called the Fighter Strip. At the time this was the first strip on the island, and the Seabees, God bless them, had constructed it out of coral with bulldozers. Many of us believed these coral white strips were the finest in the world.

This had been a French plantation at one time. Many a coconut tree had been removed in order to make way for the Fighter Ship, its taxiways, and plane revetments. The base itself, which consisted of numerous quonset huts and tents, had been set up among coconut trees about a mile off to one side on a lagoon.

The base was infested with mosquitoes and flies. I believe the Army Engineers finally rid Espiritu Santo of its mosquitoes, but what a task it was to be, because they were forced to put DDT and oil over practically the whole island. And after they were through with Espiritu, they had to do the same to the neighboring island so the wind wouldn’t blow them back or some others in. We took care of the flies by cleaning up acre after acre of rotting coconut husks, the flies’ breeding place. Prior to cleaning up the coconut husks a person’s body would appear coal black from only a short distance away as he was walking into a shower because of being completely covered with flies.

There were cannibals in the mountains of Espiritu Santo all the time we were there, and I rather imagine long after we left. Occasionally we would make a trip into the hills and take a look at these primitive people with bones piercing their nostrils and ear lobes. One of our trips I recall a pilot saying, “I’ll bet these folks think we are crazier than hell because we don’t even save heads.”

The natives were typical of the others throughout the South Pacific, with great bushy mops of kinky hair, and feet
that looked more like shovels than anything I am able to think of now. They had been bleaching their hair various shades of red and blond by applying lye to the hair to rid themselves of lice.

This was a rear-area base that was bothered only on occasion at night by some lone Japanese bomber. Our job was to supply the fighting squadrons at Guadalcanal with supplies, and act as a re-forming place for squadrons coming out of action or going into action.

My new job was assistant operations officer of the strip, which was about as next to nothing as I had ever hoped to be in charge of in my life. I had the say of nothing. All I did was count the planes when they went out for training flights, and count them again when they returned. What a life!

The months seemed to drag on, and even though I didn’t feel as if I was a part of it, the Japanese were being well taken care of. For certain, somebody had to do rear-area work, but I knew I could never be happy doing it.

Major Bob Galer, with whom I had attended the University of Washington, and flight school afterward, had been CO of the first fighter squadron in Guadalcanal. Bob had been shot down three times but had returned through the enemy lines each time to fight again. He had been there when the Marines lived on captured Japanese food after taking the first foothold in the war, and my old friend Robert had knocked down eleven Japs when the going was the roughest.

Another friend, Joe Foss—whom I had met in Pensacola
as an instructor—came in and out of Espiritu between combat tours at the Canal. Joe was truly a gaunt specimen of life while flying the Wildcats against the Japanese. Joe’s final score was twenty-six before the Marines finally yanked him out of combat, full of malaria and worn down to a nub, and the first American to tie Eddie Rickenbacker’s World War I record.

Grumman F4F “Wildcat”

To me Joe has always been a great guy, even before he shot down all the planes. And I think that the people of South Dakota share my opinion, for Joe has been re-elected governor of their state. May Joe have many years to come, for there is one guy, in my opinion, who doesn’t ride in the same car with politicians as I see them.

Also, there was Joe Bauer, with whom I had had the pleasure of serving in each of the only two fighter squadrons the Marines had prior to the war. And Joe Bauer, superb pilot that he was, had done a terrific job by getting twelve when the going was real rough, but was shot down at sea, never to return.

There was another old flying-school classmate who had been a corporal when I was a cadet. Ken Walsh was among the first to fly the new Corsair against the Japanese in the Southwest Pacific, and he rang up twenty Zeroes before being shipped back to the States.

As an operation’s officer the closest I got to combat was by ferrying an occasional fighter into the Canal, remaining overnight for “Washing Machine Charlie,” as we called the Jap night bombers, and then being flown back to Espiritu the following morning.

Around May 1943 I finally thought my break had arrived at last, for Elmer Brackett was able to get me into his squadron as an executive officer. And we were off to the Canal. We had no more than arrived when Elmer was promoted out of the squadron, and I was assigned as commanding 222.

For four weeks—ordinarily a combat tour was six weeks—222 escorted dive bombers to various islands up the “Slot,” as this chain of islands extending from Guadalcanal to Bougainville was called. Besides, 222 patrolled the Canal skies for hours each day but never saw so much as the vapor trail of a single Japanese plane.

During my stay at the Canal I spent part of my time in
the famous Hotel De Gink, a real rat hole, but most of the time I lived in a tent not far from the Lunga River. The Lunga was the swift mountain stream in which so many of our valiant ground troops had drowned and shed their blood. We could see the fresh cool water from our tent area, which was concealed from the sky by tall jungle trees. Its refreshing waters were used daily to bathe and to rinse out sweaty clothes. Farther up the stream were crocodiles, and one of the sergeants I had met on the
Lurline
had been killed by one, but that didn’t slow down our swimming.

This is an aviation adventure of sorts, and I am not deliberately excluding my many many ground friends. But there is one incident I chuckle about that happened in this very same jungle tent-area when the Marines had no aviation on Guadalcanal and the Japanese fleet had just finished shelling them from behind as they were in the process of getting their first foothold. Admiral Halsey had come ashore after the Jap fleet had pulled out, because he thought that he had better boost morale and visit General Vandegrift. And it was at a time when the Marines were cooking, literally, in their tin hats.

An old sergeant who had about a four-hundred-word vocabulary at the outside was helping win the war for the second time; like so many he had the right spirit but not the youth to go with it. Vandegrift had made a staff cook out of this old sergeant, who was obviously very near exhaustion. “Bull” Halsey, attired in fresh khaki, had just finished dining with the tired and soiled Vandegrift and was going into expostulations over the wonderful meal. He said:

“And that apple pie, it was out of this world.”

“Admiral, if you thought it was so darn good, and want to thank somebody, why don’t you thank my cook?” came back the general.

“Great idea, I’d be only too happy to.”

With this statement from Halsey the general called to his cook, “Hey, Joe, come here a minute, I want you to meet somebody.” And the bedraggled old sarge in filthy T-shirt, and badly in need of a shave, came slowly over to this high-ranking pair on very sore feet. In his entire life the sarge had never been so close to so many stars as adorned the shirt collars of the pair.

“Sergeant, Admiral Halsey would like to compliment you in person on your cooking,” Vandegrift said.

“Why yes, Sergeant, especially the apple pie, it was terrific,” stated Halsey.

The old sergeant was embarrassed and fidgeted like a little boy, placing one sore foot behind the other while wiping a hairy forearm across his sweating and wrinkled face, and he answered:

“Oh, bullshit, Admiral. You didn’t have to say that.”

By now the Japs had been wiped out of the Canal, and the bulldozers had covered the last of the stinking bodies. The only Japanese thing of any use was the ice plant, which was inherited by the Marines, and they thoroughly enjoyed it. The capacity was limited, and the higher echelon had to come first which is only natural. And there happened to be a drinking general at the time for whom we had to commence cracking ice in the middle of the afternoon. By the time it was dark and Washing Machine Charlie started to come over, our drinking general was in real good shape—he really wanted to go into action.

The staff would have one hell of a time with the old general as he insisted upon staggering around beneath the jungle trees shouting orders. A few planes had been lost in such a manner before the staff learned how to keep him pacified. But a great person, nevertheless, who did a great deal of good, besides having a heart that was in the proper place.

By far the greatest thrill I got from this brief and fruitless tour was Admiral Yamamoto’s arrival by transport plane at Kahili, Bougainville. One night we were drinking with some Air Force pilots next door to us, and they informed us that the Allies had broken a coded message telling of the arrival of Yamamoto on the following morning.

I remember how we Marines envied these P-38 pilots, for we didn’t have enough range with our Wildcats to reach Bougainville and return to Guadalcanal. We even helped the P-38 pilots plan the whole trip, and were there beside the planes to wave good-hunting as they made an early take-off, although we found out later we weren’t supposed to know about this top-secret mission.

Man, oh man, what excitement in our tent area the afternoon these P-38s came back from Kahili and told us
about the rendezvous with Yamamoto’s transport as it was circling for a landing. They had gotten him all right. The whole world was soon to know, but we, even though we had not made the trip, were in on the very beginning. This must have been a horrible blow to Japan, not only to lose a great admiral, but also to know we could crack their code.