Baa Baa Black Sheep (31 page)

During one of these daily hops over Rabaul I had reached a definite climax in my flying career without too much effort. I shot down my twenty-fifth plane on December 27. And if I thought that I ever had any troubles previously, they were a drop in the bucket to what followed.

There was nothing at all spectacular in this single victory, but it so happened that this left me just one short of the record jointly held by Eddie Rickenbacker of World War I and Joe Foss of World War II. Then everybody, it seemed to me, clamored for me to break the two-way tie. The reason for all the anxiety was caused by my having only ten more days to accomplish it; 214 was very near completion of its third tour, and everyone knew I would never have another chance. My combat-pilot days would close in ten days, win, lose, or draw.

Everyone was lending a hand, it seemed, but I sort of figured there was too much help. Anyway, I showed my appreciation by putting everything I had left into my final efforts. I started flying afternoons as well as mornings, and in bad weather in addition to good weather.

One predawn take-off was in absolute zero-zero conditions, and all we had for references were two large searchlights on the end of the Vella strip, one aimed vertically and the other horizontally. I wasn’t questioned by the tower whether I had an instrument ticket, like I am today. My last words to my pilots before I started my take-off through the fog were: “Please listen to me, fellows, and have complete faith in your instruments. If you dare to take one look out of the cockpit after you pass the searchlights, you’re dead.”

As I had always been unaccustomed to help or encouragement in the past, all the extra help did nothing more than upset me. But I couldn’t have slowed down or stopped if I had wanted to, simply because nobody would let me.

One fight made me desperate when I could not see to shoot with accuracy, because I wasn’t able to see well enough through the oil-smeared windshield. After several fruitless attempts I pulled off to one side of the fight and tried to do
something to correct it. I unbuckled my safety belt and climbed from my parachute harness, then opened the hood and stood up against the slip-stream, trying my darnedest to wipe off the oil with my handkerchief. It was no use; the oil leak made it impossible for me to aim with any better accuracy than someone who had left his glasses at home.

Soon I began to believe that I was jinxed. Twice I returned with bullet holes in my plane as my only reward. Twice I ran into a souped-up version of the Zero known as the Tojo. Though not quite as maneuverable as the original, it was considerably faster and had a greater rate of climb. Still no shoot-downs, and I was lucky the Nips didn’t get me instead.

Doc Ream was really concerned over the way I was affected by the pressure, suggesting we call a halt to the whole affair. He said that there were plenty of medical reasons for calling all bets off. But I knew I couldn’t stop. Whether I died in the attempt made no difference. Anyway, my last combat tour would be up in a few days, and I would be shipped back to the United States. I said: “Thanks for the out, Doc, but I guess I better go for broke, as the Hawaiians say.”

I knew that I was tired, and covered with what we called the tropical crud for lack of a medical word. Running sores
were in my armpits, on my chest, and in my crotch so badly I wasn’t able to sleep much when I had the time. My ears would be sealed tight with caked pus by morning, and Doc would have to break this away and blow sulfa drugs into them with a straw. He hated to do this painful operation daily, but if he hadn’t I wouldn’t have been able to hear a word over the radio.

Nakajima Ki 44 “Tojo”

In direct proportion to all the shoving from my own side the Japanese were making my way equally difficult from their side. During one of these fights I felt positive that the Jap pilots were getting better, or that I had lost my touch. It turned out to be no imagination on my part, for far below, bobbing like corks upon the swells, I could see two Nip aircraft carriers that looked about the size of postage stamps from altitude.

I had been told that Jap navy pilots were far superior to those based on land. And I thought what a time it was for me to prove this. But because I was worn out I wanted to have the tough ones first. Maybe it was just as well, for if pilots this good had caught me in my first fights, I no doubt wouldn’t have been around to do much worrying.

I couldn’t turn back, I kept telling myself, even though I honestly didn’t give one hoot in hell about breaking any record by then. But I was helpless. And even during this strain I came to realize that a record meant absolutely nothing; it would be broken again and again in spite of anything I did. I was worried only about what others might think of me.

This worry about what others think has only caused me to get into one predicament after another, all my life. I have driven myself half nuts, trying to imagine how far I could have gone if I had taken my time and not let others bother me. But now I am content with not worrying over the past, of which I have no control, and not worrying about the future, either. I am content by handling the one thing I have control over, one day at a time, the present, and I find I derive a considerable amount of happiness from this way of life.

But what odd things most of us do when under stress. We do things or say things for which we later feel ashamed or at least embarrassed.

I, for instance, once caused a plate of salad to leave my table and fly over into the lap of the correspondent. I had not
intended to do this, and I know that the correspondent also knew. But just the same it happened. Frequently during the days after the war, while answering my mail, I felt tempted to write a letter to him apologizing. For then maybe both of us could have a laugh and forget about it.

It had all started one October day in 1943 while I was working out of Munda. I had at that time twenty planes to my credit, and was called into a tent for an interview with this war correspondent, an able one from Chicago who had been a Pulitzer Prize winner.

After talking to me for a while, wanting to know how I had gotten these planes, and going through all the description and whatnot, he inquired into my personal life.

I was hesitant to tell him about it, as I didn’t see why these particular questions had anything to do with the war.

He answered: “Oh, that is what the great American public wants.”

But when I informed him of my age, and told him I had been divorced and had three children, and that at that time there was no lady in my life, he ended up his interview with me by saying:

“Well, I can frankly state, brother, that you just aren’t news!”.

I said: “Yes, I realize that. And it’s all right with me. I am some thirty years old, and without some so-called lovely young sweetheart. But I didn’t come out here to make news. I came out here to fight a war.”

He abruptly ended the conversation and stalked off. I don’t blame him.

But in late December, when I got to the place where I was only one plane less than a record, my score being twenty-five, I miraculously seemed to become what is called “news” anyhow, even though I was divorced and had three children and was some thirty years of age. During this era correspondents approached me every place I went, out in the field, up in my tent, anyplace, wanting to know: “When are you going to break that record?”

I tried to explain that it wasn’t like going out and grabbing a couple off the line and bringing them in, like they were a pair of socks. My duties were to run a squadron and run it properly, and that was what I was doing. So I had to say to them once again: “Just leave me alone. When I beat the
record, I’ll tell you all about it.” Yet even this didn’t seem to be enough explanation. Everywhere I turned there was a correspondent waiting for me and asking the same old question, and it began to get on my nerves something terrific. The best description I can give for this situation is that of having the reporters in the dugout with the players while the World Series is being played. One day I came right out and said to a group of them: “God damn it, you don’t give a damn whether I beat that record or not. It will make just as good a story if I get killed in the attempt to beat it or if I tie it.” The way it turned out, I was right on one of those counts.

When I got back home out of prison, I had no idea of all the publicity I had gotten, the stories had been written just that way, just as I had told some of them, that they didn’t care whether I beat it or tied it.

BOYINGTON DIED
IN TYING
RICKENBACKER’S RECORD

Oddly, though, it so happened that I not only had tied the record but had beaten it, but this was not to be known officially until later, when all the circumstances of my last fights were reported and tabulated. After beating the record I didn’t return to Vella.

But I am way ahead of my story about the correspondent, Fred Hampson. When I had twenty-five planes to my credit, Frank Walton, the intelligence officer, took me over one evening to give him the dope he wanted, and this is when I was sorry later for talking to him the way I did. Anyhow, he was supposed to leave me alone until the record was broken, and there wasn’t anything more to be said.

After spending some time talking with him in his tent, I went up to the mess hall, and, lo and behold, there, to the vacant seat right across from me came Hampson, the correspondent.

Immediately he wanted to know once again when I was going to break the record and I said: “God damn it, pal, I thought I told you that when I did I would let you know and you weren’t supposed to bother me in the meantime.”

Saying this, I slammed the table for emphasis but by accident hit the edge of my plate. The plate ricocheted in the
air, crossed the table, and the entire contents dropped squarely into his lap.

Frank Walton said to him: “Damn it, I told you to leave him alone or he would flip his lid. You can’t blame anyone but yourself.”

Hampson, however, was such a worthy reporter he realized at last that he had been crowding me too much. I saw the story he had written on me after I had broken the record and was “killed.” I saw the story, of course, not until two years or so later, but it was a “savvy” story.

Even today it is hard for many people to believe that we, or anyone else, were not out there fighting a war for medals or publicity. Almost all the boys were fighting the war because it had to be fought and had to be won. They didn’t give a damn whether their names ever hit the print or whether they ever received a medal.

Many men who never received mention gave everything they had—they’re still out there.

Never had I felt as tired and dejected as I did when I flew into Vella one afternoon in late December. Another futile attempt was behind me. The bullet holes in my plane were a far cry from the record I was striving to bring back. I was dead tired, I had counted upon the day ending, but a pilot had crawled up on my wing after I had cut my engine, and he had something important to say.

Marion Carl was scheduled to take several flights that afternoon to Bougainville, where they were to remain overnight, taking off on the following morning for a sweep. He said: “Greg, I want to give you a chance to break the record. You take my flight because you’re so close I think you are entitled to it. I’ve got seventeen, but I still have loads of time left, and you haven’t.”

Carl had been out previously in the Guadalcanal days as
a captain, piling up a number of planes to his credit, and was then back for the second time, as a squadron commander. He had just been promoted to major, and it was true that many chances were coming up for him. Great person that Marion Carl is, he was trying to give a tired old pilot a last crack at the title, even though it was at his own expense.

I can never forget George Ashmun’s thin, pale face when I mentioned where I was going, and he insisted that he go along as my wingman. Maybe George knew that I was going to have to take little particles of tobacco from a cigarette, placing them into the corners of my eyes to make them smart so that I’d stay awake.

Those close to me were conscious of what kind of shape I was in, and they were honestly concerned. But I was also happy to find others I hadn’t thought of at the time who were concerned for my welfare as well, though in most cases I didn’t discover this until after the war. And that was by mail.

Some of the letters were clever, but I especially remember one from a chap who I imagine must have been about eighteen. He wrote me that, after I was missing in action, his partner, “Grease Neck,” who worked on a plane with him, had said that I was gone for good, and the first chap said: “I bet you he isn’t.” The outcome of the discussion was that each bet a hundred and fifty dollars, one that I would, the other that I would not, be back home six months after the war was over. The six-months business referred to the fact that if you are missing six months after the war is over you are officially declared dead. And at one time I had said, just as a morale builder to the other pilots so that they would not worry about me: “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.”