Baa Baa Black Sheep (28 page)

Instead of talking about you had you not gone on them, all the pilots might be talking about you because you had not let
all
of
them
go.

Just a case of reverse English that further helps to explain the American boy.

Those hundred fighters that were sent into Bougainville prior to the November 1 invasion had to be liquidated. After we got our beach-head and could build a Marsten-matting strip on the beach, the situation wouldn’t be too bad, but something had to be done about these planes in the meanwhile.

Strike Command planned a little deal in late October that worked out to perfection. Three groups of fighters would take off for Bougainville one hour apart. The idea was to run these Nips short on gas with the first group then, at least, the second and third groups would have these planes at a sizable disadvantage when they arrived.

Lady Luck made the Black Sheep part of the third group over the target. Believe me, this was pure luck, as I didn’t pull any strings. For by this time, as one might well imagine, I was beginning to be suspected of having a hand in sorting out the best missions as they came along.

I was able to hear the jabber that accompanied the fight long before I ever reached Bougainville on this mission. And from bits of conversation the fight had to be between Kara and Kahili airdromes, which were but a short distance apart. It was also more than likely close to the ground, because as a dogfight progresses it usually gets closer to the ground. Many pilots missed these fights while they were trying to find them by the noise, by going over at such an altitude they couldn’t spot the fight below them.

The first thing I saw, and was too late to be of any help, was a Corsair proceeding at rather slow speed in more of a glide than anything else. And right on his tail was a Zero firing his 20-millimeter cannon, which fired at a much slower rate than our .50s. Before I was able to get even close to the Zero, this Corsair plowed into water, making a huge splash near the Shortland Islands. The Marine never got out.

Revenge is truly a hollow quantity, I thought as I sent the Zero into the drink beside him.

Immediately I trained my sights on another Nip who was scooting for Kara over the water, and I fired a short burst. I couldn’t be sure I ever hit the plane because it rolled over as if to reverse direction, but obviously didn’t have sufficient altitude to clear the water, for it crashed and sank out of sight in the mirrorlike reflection of the still water. Calm, bright waters have always been treacherous to maneuver about, whether in combat or not.

Having already learned my lesson, in addition to watching this Corsair prove it again, that it was unhealthy to scout for enemy planes too low off the water, I climbed to some altitude. While I was looking about for a target, occasionally covering up the sun with my little finger to make certain no Jap had me bore-sighted, the fight had apparently spread over quite an area, which was not unusual.

A feeling was going through my mind in this perfectly clear weather, almost like the lull before a storm. Actually, I couldn’t spot any Nips for some time, but I knew that I would shortly as there were dust streaks moving about down on Kara, and I knew that some more Nips were taking off. I anticipated the time, altitude, and a conventional left-hand climbing turn, and sure enough, when I lowered down to three thousand feet, there was my Zero.

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.

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.