Baa Baa Black Sheep (22 page)

Anyway, this sad-looking sheep the sarge had drawn, with the position it was in, and the name Black Sheep were to stick. And we were free to go on with the business at hand.

My talk concerning the mission to Ballale, our baptism in combat as a squadron, was given to protect our lives and yet shoot down more enemy aircraft at the same time. There had been far too many probables. I realized, though, that the unexpected manner in which we had gone into action was the excuse for not following up. I also realized how bad I’d been in my first fight.

I informed the squadron of my own efforts in the past, all the hours I had flown searching and trying my best, that this was the first time in nearly two years I had been given an opportunity, that one has to plan, before the time arrives, just
exactly what one is going to insist that his plane do when the infrequent opportunity presents itself.

And when one gets some of these few chances, he has to know ahead of time how he is going to get into position. When in position, which is the furthest thing in the world from being permanent, he doesn’t have seconds. There is just a split second where everything is right, for the target is going to remain anything but stationary. During this split second the range has to be just right, the deflection has to be accurate, and the first squeeze of the trigger has to be as smooth and perfect as humanly possible.

In other words months of preparation, one of those few opportunities, and the judgment of a split second are what makes some pilot an ace, while others think back on what they could have done. Some of the boys took this message to heart, while others did not—or could not. I will never know. Or does it really matter?

Bob Ewing hadn’t shown up. We knew Bob was down. But whether he had made some island, of which there were few, and most of them Japanese-occupied, or, more than likely the wide, wide Pacific Ocean, we did not know. I couldn’t help thinking that he was in the beaten-up plane I had tried to help. Patrols of fighters were sent for several days until, at last, one of our pilots brought back a report. He had sighted a one-man raft, the type carried by fighters, and there had been a motionless body aboard. The pilot had flown within a few feet above the raft but had gotten no response, saying that the body appeared black and lifeless. We relayed this information to “Dumbo,” a PBY rescue amphibian that went out and circled the raft for twenty minutes at a speed much slower than the fighter’s.

Dumbo had wisely decided not to risk four lives landing in high waves so close in enemy waters, just to pick up a dead companion. Anyhow, whether this was Bob we never knew, and Bob Ewing had to be declared missing in action, like the majority of people who chose to fight in the air.

It has been said: “Who knows the man you are sitting next to.”

Bob McClurg, who was doing his best when he stayed in the same sky with his squadron, had blasted two Nips from this very same sky. His section leader had had to return to
base with engine trouble prior to the fight, but Bob stayed with the formation as best he could, and he said afterward that every time he joined up with a plane he discovered it was covered with angry red meatballs. The character. How in hell did he ever get home? There has to be a Supreme Power; that’s all there is to it!

PBY “Dumbo”

Bob Alexander, who was from Davenport, Iowa, a fellow with perfect white teeth that matched his clean-cut, youthful appearance, seemed definitely out of character as he gave his version of the encounter. He related: “I sent three bursts into this Zero, but it didn’t want to go down, so I flew alongside to see what was holding him up. It was really something. I could see the Jap’s face. His hands were flailing like windmills, batting at the flames in the cockpit. I was only a few feet away, staring right at him, as he burned to a crisp.”

McGee was standing there as he was always dressed, except, possibly, when we were on shore leave at Sydney. “Maggie” had swarthy features and always wore a bandana around his neck, and, except for the lack of golden earrings, I’d have sworn the gent under the mop of curly hair was a
gypsy. And he had also drawn blood the first fight but was not the demonstrative type by any stretch of the imagination.

It was almost securing time that afternoon, when a jeep drove up to the ready shack with the colonel in charge of the strip and his driver. Stan and I were off to one side of the shack talking, the occupants of the jeep had asked some questions, and some of the boys were pointing in our direction. The colonel walked over to where we were standing and started talking to my exec, leaving me completely out of the conversation. The pair conversed for quite some time, while I stood listening and chewing on a piece of straw. Finally Stan blushed so red it shined in the polished insignia on his collar, and he said:

“Colonel, you must think I’m the commanding officer.”

“Why, yes, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s Boyington, in the fatigue clothes.”

“Well, both of you are invited up to my quarters for dinner this evening,” the colonel skillfully replied, and then he shoved off.

Before the two of us drove up the hill to dinner, I wished that I had not been recognized at all, so that I could enjoy the evening with my boys, and some of Doc Ream’s brandy. But I got dressed in khaki and up the hilltop we went to accept the hospitality of the colonel in charge.

This colonel was one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met, and he was full of enthusiasm, as much so as any of the small fry in the squadron. He was all wrapped up with our tales of the action the day before in the skies under his command. Here was a fellow I believed when he stated: “I wish I could be demoted a couple of ranks so I could have gone with you.”

As soon as I entered the colonel’s quarters, I spotted several bottles of Old Taylor sitting beside some glasses and ice cubes on a drink service, and immediately my mouth began to water. My brain was going a mile a minute. I was thinking of the brandy I had enjoyed after the mission last night, and wondering if he could possibly know anything about this. And I wondered if Colonel Lard could have been so mean as to have forwarded those orders he had told me of.

While all this was going over in my mind, I heard my host say: “Water, soda, or straight, like the men you have proved yourselves to be?”

“Water for me, please, Colonel?” I vaguely remember
hearing Stan’s voice. Although I was thinking a great deal, words didn’t seem to want to come out of my mouth.

“I know how you like yours, Boyington—the same as I do.” And the old boy poured two water glasses over half full after handing Stan his mixed drink. There before my eyes was this straight bourbon staring me in the face, waiting for me to accept it from my host’s hand.

“Well, come on, take it, drink hearty.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and reached out, taking the offered glass from his hand. I thought: “What in hell is this, a trap of some kind?”

I sat there, not paying much attention to the conversation, just toying with the glass, when the colonel finally brought me back to this world.

“Come on, drink up. Don’t worry, there is lots more where this comes from.” He winked at me and pointed to a wooden case in the corner of the room.

I thought: “To hell with Lard. He will never be around where there are any bullets. So why should I let him worry me now?”

After the first large swallow had gone down my neck, the others took care of themselves; not the slightest worry concerned me. But as we three were leaving to go to dinner, the colonel informed Stan that we would be with him in a minute, as we had something to talk over privately. I found that Lard had sent those orders after all.

I thought: “What a hell of a world this is, a nice fellow like this trapping me,” and I believe the greater part of the delightful glow left.

The colonel said: “Have no fear, Boyington. I’ll show you what I think of Lard and his orders, ‘to be forwarded.’ ” With this statement he tore the orders to bits, extending a hand in warm friendship.

I had broken faith with Lard, but I was more determined than a little bit not to let an understanding gent like this down, and many others like him. Come to think about it, I didn’t have to worry, because a man like Lard had already lost his faith in everybody, himself included.

But it would seem that these white coral strips on the Russells were, like so many more, constructed only to be completed too late to be of much use. The Japanese were not sending their aircraft down this far any longer. For the
equipment we were using it was an ungodly long way from here to where the Nips were operating out of Bougainville. So we had to be content with escorting TBFs up the Slot afternoons until darkness set in, then we would fly to base, leaving them to go the rest of the way in the dark to bomb shipping and anything else on the schedule.

One of these TBF outfits we used to escort was commanded by Major Dooley, who was a cadet when I instructed at Pensacola. This young man had been badly burned as he bailed out of a flaming trainer with his instructor, and it had been doubtful that the Navy would permit him to continue training. I remembered that he had wanted his wings above anything else. And it was evident that he had stuck to it, for here he was, a major leading a squadron.

About a half hour before sunset Dooley would motion for me to fly alongside, so the two of us could use sign language and not have to open up on the radio. The gutty character would then pat the top of his head for taking over command, give me a cat-eatin’ grin, and blow me a kiss good-by with a gesture from one of his crippled hands. Then, as our fighters executed a 180° for the Russells, I would be thinking: “God, what a man!”

At Munda the obliterated Japanese landing strip was being reconstructed as soon as the Japs had been pushed off the field. When I thought of the thousands of tons of bombs dropped on this gutted place, I wondered how anything could have survived. But human life is very difficult to knock out, even though the terrain is pounded to a pulp. The cost in lives had been dear for the combined Army and Marine forces that went in by sea to take care of the final arrangements, as always. All air-power had accomplished was the removal of enemy aircraft, and our flyers had done a good job of clearing the air.

The Munda strip was being enlarged and lengthened while the fighting spread to the jungles of New Georgia—a repetition of Guadalcanal. Many of the Japanese ground forces had been able to get away to some of the islands near New Georgia and dig in, intending to make it costly to the Allies if they intended to take the islands. By this time the Allies had no intention of doing anything but silencing enemy airdromes and taking only steppingstones wherever they felt necessary.

Vought F4U “Corsair”

We patrolled and went along with the dive bombers to strafe gun positions on the islands surrounding the Munda area. The enemy was sending almost daily raids from Bougainville, but we never seemed to be around the area at the right time to tangle with these Jap air raids. But in a manner of no time at all, it seemed, the Seabees had made it possible for navy Hellcats and Marine Corsairs to operate from the old Jap strip at Munda. These fighters that first operated out of Munda were having all the luck—damn the lucky devils. We continued escorting. This escorting can be paralleled to the lineman’s duty on the football field—a lot of work and the backs make all the touchdowns.

With this escort work the Black Sheep had not bagged a single enemy plane since the first mission, and I was becoming desperate. I wasn’t the least bit content with patrolling our area under the supposition that we were keeping it free of enemy planes. Or even the slightest bit thankful that the Munda fighters were not permitting the Nips to come down as far as we were. This was bothering me so much I had to do something to change the pattern. I knew only too well that our squadron might be disbanded after the tour, and the number 214 returned to its rightful owners.

Then one day we escorted TBFs to Kahili, with weather
none too favorable for bombing. Our bombers had to release the bombs through a small hole in the clouds over the target, afterward turning back for home like a bunch of contented cows, as no Nips came up to heckle them. It was our duty to protect the bombers, but there was nothing in the rules saying that we had to land with them. When the TBFs had gone as far as I felt was a safe distance, I took the boys in 214 back to Kahili by themselves. We were able to play a game of hide-and-seek around the clouds, as the fighters were no longer encumbered by bombers.