Baa Baa Black Sheep (20 page)

It made some sense when I heard this, for I never recalled giving a student a down-check, as I had found it much more satisfactory to talk him into flying an up-check.

We were loaned the number 214 from another squadron that had just completed a combat tour, but a name was needed for our squadron. The majority of names have something to do with women. But these pilots had the idea that
we had been deprived of some of the things other squadrons enjoyed, so they agreed upon Boyington’s Bastards and seemed pleased with the name.

I didn’t bother to tell the boys that there was no need for feeling so sorry for themselves, as they had more than their share of firsts, but I certainly thought them over in my mind. They had the oldest active Marine fighter-pilot for a skipper. They had the highest rank of majors in the game, even though he had been anchor man in his class. They also had the biggest drunk in the Corps. Maybe I’d better not brag so much, and make this the biggest drunk for fighter-pilot commanders in the Corps during this period.

Our group commanders seemed to be coming and going like flies, and things finally got to the point where a fellow didn’t know who was going to run the camp at Espiritu next. Colonel Sanderson had been transferred to wing headquarters, with a new colonel in his place. I had had the dubious pleasure of meeting the new colonel when I was a cadet at Pensacola, and he had given me a down-check in Squadron Three there. He had rattled me so much by screaming at me I had no idea of what he expected me to do, so I don’t know how I could have flown properly.

Anyhow Colonel Lard took over, and good old Sandy was gone. As the British say, Lard was one of two bad “types” I met in the service. It’s true—we also had them in the good old USMC.

This type, and one I mentioned earlier, hid under the guise of the disciplinarian: the second was the colonel who had tossed out our records in Washington, D.C., and he was the smarter individual. For he used the regulations, in addition to any other means, to scuttle people over a long period of time, slowly, with premeditation. He is very close to the top of the heap now.

The other type spends his nights pawing over the Navy Regulations and the Marine Corps Manual, trying desperately to fit the personnel under him into violations of these regulations. Then he takes disciplinary action. He is just smart enough to know that no one is perfect, and if he looks through these volumes long enough, he will find something somewhere to hang somebody with.

The colonel was fortunate in having an executive officer who played the game by his rules. His exec had had a brief
opportunity at combat earlier but had found some regulation that made him too valuable to endanger his life (the regulation actually applied to officers commanding ground troops), so consequently spent his only opportunity directing the action from the ground.

These buckoes were as different as night and day from Colonel Sanderson, and many others in command, for that matter. They knew how to live—I have that much to say for them. They had the most pretentious set of quarters one would ever want to see constructed on a small peninsula outside of camp—for just the two of them. Servants and the works. Nothing was too good.

Two days prior to taking my squadron up north to the combat area Lard sent for me. When I arrived at his office, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the exec going out the back door, so I didn’t need my three guesses after I found why Lard sent for me. He said that someone had informed him that I was drinking quite a bit, that he hadn’t been cognizant of the fact. But he was going to forward written orders to the commanding officers I would come under in combat, and if I were to take a drink for sixty days I would be subject to disciplinary action of some nature.

I shall have to admit that a number of high-ranking officers fit Colonel Lard’s physical description, but there was only one Lard, and he had a very vital part in my feelings at the time. I have long since forgiven Lard, and even forgiven myself more recently.

It was indeed a relief to fly away from Espiritu and be on my way to a new strip on the Russell Islands, which are northwest of Guadalcanal. One of my pilots must have sensed my relief, for I recognized the voice, though he didn’t know it, as it came over the radio: “Hey, Gramps, look out, here comes Lard!”

I answered: “Just like waking up from a nightmare, isn’t it?”

On the way to a new base, the Russell Islands, I was doing some tall hoping, for if this conglomeration that I called a squadron didn’t see some action shortly, my combat-pilot days were over. I knew it. Age and rank were both against me now. Lady Luck just had to smile upon me, that’s all.

The afternoon of our arrival in the Russell Islands I was called by Strike Command. Our first mission was scheduled for a 7:00
A.M.
take-off the following morning, September 16, 1943. I had little sleep that night. For tomorrow, I imagined the ghouls would be watching and hoping to see the poor little old squadron flub its duff.

No one, I believe, noticed how concerned I was. Probably this escaped the officers in Strike Command, because I did nothing more than smoke one cigarette after another. This was not unusual. Besides, I smelled good, because I had refused all bourbon the previous night.

Not that combat worried me, for it didn’t. My great concern was that the squadron might fall flat on its face or do something ridiculous. We had had little more than three weeks together—most squadron were trained for months in the United States before they were sent out to a combat zone—and only three of my pilots had a taste of combat previously.

It was a temporary relief to get to hell out of the briefing shack and away from the officers in Strike Command. “Moon” was waiting patiently in one of the jeeps to drive Stan, myself, and a couple of the others down to the end of the strip, where our mighty Corsairs awaited like sleek, silent steeds. Truly a picture of beauty, in my opinion, were these new ships the Corsairs.

Twenty Corsairs—five flights of four from our squadron—and of course twenty pilots were to escort three squadrons of
Dauntless dive bombers and two squadrons of Avenger torpedo planes, totaling 150 bombers in all.

Grumman TBF “Avenger”

The mission was to wipe out Ballale. A small island west of Bougainville, heavily fortified, and all airfield, not unlike La Guardia. The main difference was that we knew the traffic was going to be much more congested than the New York area is today, without the aid of Air Traffic Control directing our flight patterns. Besides the lack of A.T.C., as we know and depend upon it now, our traffic would be further distorted by anti-aircraft fire, and God only knows how many Zeros.

And again, I don’t believe that I gave a second thought to the fact that we had to fly six hundred miles round trip as the crows fly, up and down the old “Slot,” sparsely dotted with tiny islands, most of these islands being Japanese held. The main worry was whether our seams would hold together as a squadron.

Our first problem was to get 170 aircraft off a single strip closely enough together, in time, that is, so that we would
have adequate fuel to complete the trip yet leave ourselves a half hour’s or more fuel for a fight at full throttle. A P & W 2000-HP engine at full throttle uses the old petrol much the same as if it were going through a floodgate.

Wandering around our aircraft, getting a nod, or seeing a wave that each one after the other was in readiness calmed me down rapidly. Soon we received the start-up-engine signal. One by one the shotgun starters audibly fired out black smoke. Each engine would go into a few convulsive coughs, afterward smoothing out into a steady roar. Everything seemed much smoother, smooth as the perfect Venturi form of water vapor formed in misty silhouette about each ship, caused by the propeller and the extremely high humidity of the island air.

Take-off time—the last Dauntless had wobbled lazily into the air, starting to turn in one gigantic join-up circle. We took off in pairs down the snowy white coral strip at about twenty-second intervals, which was a feat in itself, because none of us had more than approximately thirty hours in these powerful new speed birds.

As we climbed, in shorter radii than the bombers, we gradually came abreast of the bomber leader, pulling up above and behind him. Radio silence was in effect. We had no intention of broadcasting our departure to the Japanese. The squadron was spread out like a loose umbrella over the bombers by use of hand signals. A reminder of lean out and reduce prop r.p.m. was passed along to all hands, in order to conserve precious fuel.

We settled down to the monotony of flying herd on the bombers. Our huge paddle-blade propellers were turning so slowly it seemed as if I counted each blade as it passed by. Hour after hour, it felt. The magnetism of courting those blades was so great I was tempted on several occasions to blurt out over the radio: “Who could ever believe this damn ocean could be so damn big!”

The group commander, leading the bombers, was responsible for the navigation. I didn’t have that worry. Finally the monotony was to be broken up, because we were flying above fleecy layers of stratus that demanded all my concentration to hold the shadowy forms of the bombers below in sight. Actually, the reason we had this cloud separation was
that the bombers had to fly between stratus layers too. There wasn’t enough space for us to fly in the visual part of the sandwich and still remain above the bombers.

Thoughts of how we might louse up the all-important rendezvous after take-off were far behind. We had made that. And the rendezvous ahead, after our mission was accomplished, certainly couldn’t have bothered me. For the Brass couldn’t possibly see that, only the Nips could. And I don’t believe I gave too much thought to them.

A new worry took its place. The clouds being the way they were, no Nip planes could find us. No action. The high command would undoubtedly have us all back as replacement pilots, and there I’d be directing traffic once again. I thought: “Damn the luck … Why do I persist in planning the future when I know I can’t?”

Hardly had I gotten through feeling sorry for myself when I noticed the dive bombers had all disappeared from sight.

“What in hell goes? We must be over the mission.” I thought: “Jee—sus, if I lose these bombers, never showing back at home base would be the best fate I could hope for.”

I lowered the squadron through a thin layer of stratus to try to find the bomber boys. Upon breaking clear, the noise from my earphones almost broke my eardrums. One thing was for darn sure. There was no more radio silence in effect. After a few sensible words like: “Stop being nervous. Talk slower.” Words came back more shrilly and faster: “Who’s nervous? You son of a bitch, not me-ee.” Then communications settled down to a garbled roar.

Avengers and Dauntlesses, which appeared to be streaking downward in dives at all angles, were making rack and ruin upon what, I realized suddenly, was Ballale. Some had already pulled out of their dives. Others were just in the process of pulling out. And still others were in their dives.

Huge puffs of dirt and smoke started to dot the tiny isle. A white parachute mushroomed out amid the dirty grayish puffs. Of course I realized it was at a higher altitude. Then a plane crashed. Avenger or Dauntless? How was I to know?

There was enough thick clouds over nearby Bougainville so that I did not expect any Nippon Zeros to intercept us from there. I don’t know what I was thinking right at that particular moment. Or what I was supposed to be doing.
Maybe, as the proverbial saying goes: “I sat there—fat, dumb, and happy.” Perhaps I was watching the boy below in much the same manner as I witnessed the Cleveland Air Shows many times. Anyhow, for certain, high cover was about as close as I ever expected to get toward heaven. So we started down.

To add to my bewilderment, shortly after we cleared the last bit of fluff, I saw that we were right in the middle of about forty Jap fighters. As for us, we had twenty planes that day.

The first thing I knew, there was a Japanese fighter plane, not more than twenty-five feet off my right wing tip. Wow, the only marking I was conscious of was the “Angry Red Meat Ball” sailing alongside of me. But I guess the Nip pilot never realized what I was, because he wobbled his wings, which, in pilot language, means join up. Then he added throttle, pulling ahead of my Corsair.

Good God! It had all happened so suddenly I hadn’t turned on my gun switches, electric gun sight, or, for that matter, even charged my machine guns. All of which is quite necessary if one desires to shoot someone down in the air.

It seemed like an eternity before I could get everything turned on and the guns charged. But when I did accomplish all this, I joined up on the Jap, all right. He went spiraling down in flames right off Ballale.

The burst from my six .50-caliber machine guns, the noise and seeing tracer bullets, brought me back to this world once again. Like someone had hit me with a wet towel. Almost simultaneously I glanced back over my shoulder to see how Moe Fisher, my wingman, was making out, and because I saw tracers go sizzling past my right wing tip. Good boy, Moe—he was busy pouring an endless burst into a Nip fighter, not more than fifty yards off the end of my tail section. This Nip burst into flames as he started to roll, minus half a wing, toward the sea below.