Baa Baa Black Sheep (24 page)

PT Boat

The bomb string spaced itself across the tent area, but in the stinking ooze there were six naked bodies that were more irate concerning their present unpleasantness than they were about the bombs. I swore that I was going to teach the Nips a lesson by flying all night the following night.

There didn’t seem to be any difficulty in obtaining the permission to fly this night, which was to have a quarter moon. With no radar equipment in the planes and a moon of no value to me I would have to count upon the ground radar for everything. The ground station was to direct me by magnetic vectors in which the night bomber would be approaching Munda, for there were no city lights like back home to direct one by locality. I was fully aware while planning the flight that I stood little chance without moonlight; a night shootdown in the dark without radar had been a rare thing.

Our anti-aircraft batteries were informed that a plane was to be up and had orders not to fire when their searchlights picked it up because it might be a Corsair. I said: “I certainly hope you inform all of the anti-aircraft in the outlying areas, too.”

With the arrangements complete as far as we were able to think of I welcomed operations giving me the rest of the day off so I could get some sleep before my flight. I went to my tent and shed my fatigues and tried to catch a few winks on my cot. But I found that I could not fall asleep even though dead tired; maybe the mosquito net stopped any breeze from touching my body. There were no mosquitoes during the day, but the flies were impossible, so if I wanted any rest I had to stay under the netting.

A stiff drink would have helped me to relax, but I didn’t dare to take a drink because I knew only too well that my eyesight had to be at its sharpest that night. I wandered about some of the other tents, not looking for anything in particular, as I recall, merely to pass the time, or perhaps to see how the rest of the boys were living it up.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out who lived where, for there were photographs of nice-looking girls in the tents with “all
my love” or something written to so-and-so on each picture. There were the usual souvenirs about, like Jap automatics, swords, Nippon flags, and ammunition of various calibers with Japanese writing on the brass.

One tent I entered, with my mind miles away from Munda, caused me to take a walk into the jungle and get away from camp. Here beside a bunk, placed on top of a small wooden box, was a sightless, grinning skull staring from underneath one of Junior Heier’s baseball caps. I asked Junior later: “How can you stand that thing around you? Where did you get it?”

Junior had grinned and said: “Just outside of camp. And don’t think I didn’t have a time finding one without any extra holes in it.”

As I walked away from camp, I was reminded of walking along one of the cattle trails in Idaho as a boy, when I walked with my head down for fear I would miss any Indian arrowheads or pretty rocks. My thoughts were evidently back in the peaceful valleys of Idaho, recalling how I used to imagine the battles of the American Indians of yesteryear, for I had traveled miles back into the New Georgian jungle without realizing how far from camp I had wandered.

All of a sudden I came across the body of a Japanese soldier lying on the trail. No danger of the Japs being about, for this man had been dead for some time, and the maggots were busy taking care of him. Some person, or persons, had smashed his helmet and crushed in the entire face in a little added flurry of hate. Also, the soldier’s rifle lay in broken pieces beside the body.

I continued along the trail without being able to define any of my thoughts one way or another. Soon I came across two more dead Japs who had been mowed down by a cross-fire action as they were defending a lookout post of some nature, judging by what evidence remained. These too had been clubbed after being shot. Little wonder Junior had such a difficult time acquiring a perfect skull to make a hatrack for his bedside.

Farther on down the trail I was to learn what the outpost was protecting, for here I came upon a vacated camp in a silent little valley in the jungle. By browsing around I found how the enemy lived in the jungle, and how they slept. There were no dead here, so the outpost had served its
purpose, when the camp heard the firing, and was able to move on to a safer place. It was a good thing the Japs had decided to move in a hurry, or for that matter maybe I was walking among booby traps and didn’t know it.

The thought came to me that this was one hell of a place for a pilot to be, and that I’d better return to the flying field where I belonged, as the sun was better than halfway down to the horizon. There were a number of stray Japs roaming about during the mopping up of New Georgia, so I was doing anything but being sensible. I dog-trotted back to get prepared for my night skirmish with Washing Machine Charlie that evening.

The engine was purring like a kitten as I rolled faster and faster down the Munda strip, and continued to purr as I climbed in the darkness above the field. Every plane light was turned off, inside and outside, not only to enable better visibility but to minimize Charlie’s chances of spotting the plane. Nothing could be done with the exhaust, but anyone would have to be on top of a Corsair before the glow could be seen.

Control had agreed not to communicate until a positive image appeared upon the screen, and then I was to remain silent so the enemy wouldn’t get wise. Leaned out to my finest to lengthen the stay aloft to the utmost, I must have been up over an hour before I heard Control directing anti-aircraft and searchlight batteries on a bogey miles out on a certain vector. In easing around without getting any of the quarter moon behind my plane and the reported position, I focused my eyes so as to avoid missing Charlie. The fact that the searchlights were instructed not to light until he was close enough to track was probably reason for him to suspect something unusual. Charlie chose to be cagey, in any event.

For six hours I was vectored to the fringes of our radar screen, and only twice was I able to catch a glimpse of some object at an altitude different from mine. By the time I changed altitude and tried to close, there was nothing but darkness to be found. Not knowing about flying saucers when I was doing this, I mentioned that it was like chasing ghost riders in the sky.

Finally I was ordered to land, and even though I had a dejected feeling, there were a number of people who had a good night’s sleep for a change. I had taxied up to the flight
line and was enjoying a very welcome cup of coffee and a cigarette just as Washing Machine Charlie returned. Whether it was the same bomber or not doesn’t matter, but for some reason he was no longer suspicious. A string of eggs came whistling down on the field as the Jap decided to let all go at one time and head for home at dawn. My coffee and cigarette sailed into the darkness as I dove into a slit trench with the others and listened to the string of bombs galumph along the strip.

I was standing in front of the ready shack one morning when I noticed a familiar face from the past. The two stars on each side of his shirt collar were about the only change, and he was the general in command of Munda. A striking man with wild eyes that looked through one from beneath thick, bushy brows, and he had been nicknamed “Nuts” by his buddies many years before. Of course I didn’t take the liberty of addressing him as “Nuts,” though the older officers of his rank did, and I knew that the general was no more nutty than a fox.

The general was a character, however, who was always seen carrying a cane—for good luck. He had never let the cane out of his sight since the Shanghai Marine days when he had been stationed in China. Once he had been stunting a plane during an air show put on for the benefit of the Shanghai public, and the wings came off his biplane fighter. The openmouthed spectators had watched him as he descended over the stands, pulling a bit of air from the side of his chute to avoid landing on top of them. Just before he sat down in front of the grandstand, he shouted: “Yip Ho-ee,” and the thrilled spectators saw that he was twirling a cane in one hand.

Nuts was so genuine, in my estimation, that I simply adored the man, and he had always impressed me as a father rather than a superior officer. I recalled years before when I had been standing an officer-of-the-day watch one Sunday at North Island, San Diego, when a colonel had just flown in and I had gone out on the field to greet him. He had just completed a cross-country from Washington, D.C., and I might add that the colonel happened to be the highest rank in Marine Corps aviation.

I had saluted and started all the folderol procedure I was supposed to do, but Colonel Moore had stuck out his hand,
and said: “Hello, son, gosh it’s good to see you!” For he was the kind of a person who could make one feel wanted when I’m certain he barely recognized him.

Anyhow we renewed our friendship, and the general wanted to know if I would strafe the Kahili airfield the following morning because the bombs didn’t appear to be destroying the enemy aircraft; furthermore he had a deadline to meet. I said: “General, you don’t have to ask for anything; you just name it.”

“I know it, son, but you are busy now. How about having dinner with me tonight after you secure—about six, let’s say?”

“Invitation accepted, General, thank you.” As we were not getting enough to eat at this particular stage, I figured I could use a good meal even though I didn’t know how well he was eating.

My boys gathered around me and wanted to know what this was all about after the general and his cane drove away. About all I was able to say was that I had been invited to dinner at his quarters that night. Their faces looked like little children’s as they said: “Gee, Gramps, that’s great! Will you see if you can bring us back anything?”

Although I had not the faintest idea of what it could be, I promised just the same. The general had a meal that tasted all right by comparison, but I enjoyed the drinks before and after dinner more while he was talking over the intended mission the following morning. What I appreciated so much was that Nuts Moore told you the problem and then would sit back and listen while you told him how to go about getting it done.

As he was in the process of wishing us luck, and I was about to return to my brood empty-handed, the general asked: “By the way, how are you lads fixed for whisky?”

“The whisky situation is rough,” I lied, thinking that maybe I would not have to return empty-handed after all. “We have been completely out of it for some time.”

I could see the funny look that came into his eyes as he pointed with his cane to a wooden box underneath a bunk. He said: “This must be a coincidence. Here’s a case with no name on it. I don’t know who it belongs to, but take it with you.”

Not wanting to take a chance on this being an oversight,
I thanked the general profusely while in the process of backing out into the darkness outside his quarters with the wooden case clutched in my arms. I didn’t figure that Nuts Moore’s eyesight wasn’t what it had been, for I could plainly see that this case was addressed to another major general whose judgment in fine whisky had been respected for a good number of years. My conscience was clear as I walked back to camp with the heavy box across my shoulder, for the general had given this to me; I had not stolen it. Not until after the war was over did I mention the addressee, then Nuts got that funny little look again and said: “Yes, I was aware of it, but I thought my buddie had been drinking too much.”

When the boys ran out to greet me upon my return from dinner, I felt that this was the closest I had ever come to playing Santa Claus. They had faith in me, and it showed in their expressions. They must have known far better than I did that I wouldn’t return without bringing them some goodies. We were laughing and joking as we planned the dangerous mission for the following morning.

Twelve of 214 took off the next morning as planned, and flew low over the water along the north coast of Choiseul. This was according to plan. We didn’t want the Kahili Nips on Bougainville to pick us up on radar, and knew that the long east-west range of mountains on Choiseul would act as a shield. There were Japanese troops on Choiseul, but they would believe that we were on a reconnaissance mission by our flying so low along their coast line—we hoped.

When past the westernmost tip of Choiseul we were but a short distance over water north from the strong Kahili airstrip, a matter of a very few minutes. At this point eight of the pilots who were to be top cover climbed gradually above the four of us who would strafe. The Kahili strip ran east-west, one end of it being almost on the eastern shoreline of Bougainville. Not choosing to attack the field from the seaside where the Japs would be expecting an attack, we continued on west for a short distance before circling around behind their field, hugging the jungle as we went. Once over land, we added full throttle to pick up all the speed possible before making the low strafing run, as the Nip ground troops would be firing rifles and machine guns.

When I figured I was close to the west end of the Kahili clearing, I pulled our flight of four abreast up ever so slightly,
so I could sneak a last-second check that would enable a perfect line-up with the runways. This gave the maximum amount of target over the full length of the field as we strafed eastward with guns and throttles wide open.