Once They Were Eagles (10 page)

Only two Black Sheep made contact with the enemy, attacking ten Zeros that were harassing the rear of the B-24 formation. Ed Olander made his first sure kill in a high six o'clock run on a Zero as it made a pass at one of the B-24s. The Japanese plane literally flew to pieces in the air, and its debris sailed downward, burning.

Ed had already scored three probables in previous aerial engagements, so we were especially glad to see him get his first “certain.”

On 11 October, Bill Case nailed a Nip plane in an impossible shot from 800 yards out.

The 13th of October was the last day we had to live—the Emperor of Japan had so decreed in an Imperial Rescript, and Tokyo Rose talked about it on her excellent program (the only decent music we could get
down there): every white man on Munda was to be killed before 14 October. She didn't say exactly how—just that we were all going to be wiped out.

We did nothing different; no special precautions were taken, and we were all alive the next morning.

All, that is, except Virgil Ray.

Ray had left at 10:00
A.M.
of the 13th on an errand to Guadalcanal and the Russell Islands. He left the Russells at 4:30
P.M.
for the 45-minute return flight to Munda. A storm developed between the two bases after he took off.

Had he become lost in the storm, and crashed into a mountain on one of the islands? Had he run out of gas? Had a flight of enemy planes picked him off? “MIA” was the catchall for those possibilities.

At first light the next morning, and all that day, every available plane in the area combed both water and land for signs of him. He never showed up.

During the 14 October searches, Bill Case and Long Tom Emrich were scrambled to intercept approaching enemy planes. They caught up with two Zeros at 20,000 feet, 20 miles north of Vella Lavella. Case destroyed one, and Emrich probably destroyed the other. It was Case's fifth Zero, making him the second ace in the Black Sheep Squadron.

 

Around Munda, some of the pilots were developing a feeling of futility in our missions to Bougainville. Flying regular bomber escort, our fighter pilots would beat off the Zeros that attacked the bombers. Next day, the enemy fighters would be out again in full force.

Trying to protect the bombers while tangling with enemy fighters was like trying to box with one hand tied. Our planes were confined to the small escort area, while the enemy had the whole sky in which to
maneuver. We were pecking at them and knocking them down, but not nearly fast enough.

Before Bougainville could be invaded, Kahili had to be eliminated as a fighter base. Taking a page from World War I tactics, Boyington suggested the answer: the fighter sweep.

Why not send up fighters to
seek out
the enemy fighters and shoot them down? Taunt the enemy into fighting, keep after him, knock his planes down until his reserves ran dry—then, when his fighter strength was exhausted, let our bombers go in and plaster the place and soften it up for the Marine landing!

This would be something new in the Solomons—aerial combat in its purest sense. The two formations would battle it out in the skies, our advance agents clearing the way for the big, slow heavyweights to get in. It was a way to even up the odds.

Could our Corsairs and the Marines who flew them do it? Boyington was sure they could and laid his plan before the powers that directed our aerial campaign.

They were skeptical, but Boyington had an unplanned opportunity to show what he meant on 15 October. Scheduled to act as cover for a B-24 strike on Kahili, Boyington was held up at the takeoff. Thinking the B-24s would proceed directly to the target, he led three other Black Sheep in a high-speed, direct run to the Japanese airstrip, arriving well ahead of the bombers. With Kahili all to themselves, the four Black Sheep attacked 16 Zeros, destroying six and probably three more, without damage to themselves.

It was Boyington's tenth Zero for the Black Sheep Squadron. Case brought down two to bring his score to seven; Emrich got two (his first sure ones); and Burney Tucker made his first kill. The Black Sheep total was now 35, plus 17 probables.

No Japanese planes got within miles of our bombers that day. When the reports were in, there was no longer any opposition to Boyington's plan. A fighter sweep was scheduled for 17 October, and Marines were assigned the job; fittingly enough, Boyington and his Black Sheep were to lead.

On the 16th, Bolt, returning in extremely bad weather from an escort mission to Kahili, spotted Tonolei Harbor, on the southeastern corner of Bougainville, loaded with Jap ships and barges.

Although Bolt recognized the strafing opportunities, he was low on fuel. He turned his plane away and bent to his instruments to navigate back to Munda through the storm. On the way in idea struck him, and he changed course to land at Vella Lavella instead.

There, he ordered mechs to service his plane quickly. When they had done so, he took off and headed toward Bougainville, alone and on instruments.

Bolt broke into the clear at 15,000 feet, just short of the busy harbor, and roared down on the enemy shipping with his six guns blazing. Flashing up the entire length of the harbor, he left a swath of death and debris behind him.

His slugs chopped to bits a barge loaded with troops, leaving them dead and dying in their sinking craft. His shells walked up the water and sieved another barge, a tug, and a transport vessel, leaving them burning.

Reaching the end of the harbor, Bolt chandelled up and around, and came back down on a new path, braving the ground batteries that were opening up on him. His bullets beat down on a dock, two boats anchored there, and another barge before he headed for home, pursued only by a few shells that splashed in the sea behind him.

That was the Black Sheep spirit at it best—attack, attack, attack; hit 'em everywhere, anywhere, but hit 'em.

Bolt got the Distinguished Flying Cross and a personal” well done” message from Admiral Halsey for his action that day.

On Sunday, 17 October, we were up before daylight and down to the strip and into our ready tent, where we gathered around the hissing Coleman lantern to hear Boyington's final instructions for this new sort of mission. There was an unusual tenseness in the air.

“We'll go up at about 20,000 feet. One division will fly ahead at 6,000 to act as bait and get the Nips to come up and fight.”

This was not just defense; they were going out
looking
for trouble. The Marines loved it. The night before, Boyington had had trouble selecting the 13 Black Sheep who were to accompany him. All of them wanted to go. He finally chose Moore, Case, McClurg, Olander, Matheson, Bolt, Harper, Hill, Ashmun, Magee, Heier, Mullen, and Tucker.

With the Black Sheep were to be seven Marine fighter pilots from Squadron 221.

“There's going to be action,” Boyington went on. That's what we're going for. If they won't come up and fight, we'll make them. Just keep your altitude; if you lose your division, join with someone else.

“Let's stay in there. The sooner we shoot down all their planes, the sooner they'll have to give up.”

We didn't know they were to do their job so effectively that Marines would land on Bougainville just 16 days later with virtually no aerial opposition.

With four Corsiars out in front at 6,000 feet as bait, and the remaining
17 planes climbing, the formation headed north past Kolombangara and Vella Lavella. Through scattered clouds in a now bright blue sky, the Marines reached Kahili without incident and made a lazy circle over the field. Black puffs of AA bursts appeared beneath them. Streaks of dust showed on the airstrip as Japanese fighters began to take off in twos and threes.

“Here they come, boys,” called Boyington into his throat mike. “Don't get too eager. Pick your targets.”

Boyington did a perfect job of tactical organization with his flight. He took two divisions down in big, sweeping S-turns, instructing the remainder to stay on top till the fight began. This the remainder of the formation did, making a slow figure eight turn over the strip.

Boyington led his eight-plane formation in an attack on 20 Zeros that were climbing to meet them. Above him the remainder of his flight contacted 35 Zeros, and the battle was joined: 21 Marines against
55
Zeros!

For the next 40 minutes, the sky was filled with heaving, roaring, whining, and straining planes, the chatter of machine guns, flashes of flame—and falling Zeros. The radios went wild: “Look out!” “I got the bastard.” “Coming in at eleven o'clock.” “Watch behind you.” “Watch him burn!” The fight ranged all over the sky from Kahili to Ballale and Fauro Island to the Shortland Islands. The Marines fought the Nips right down to the water. Then the fight was suddenly over as the Marines ran too low on fuel to pursue the fleeing enemy.

Back at Munda, we tallied up the mounting score as our pilots straggled in.

The 21 Marines had, without a single loss, shot down 20 Zeros for sure and God only knew how many probables—the battle was too violent to worry about probables. Black Sheep pilots had scored 12 of the kills, to bring our squadron total to 47. Bolt had downed one to make his third. Junior Heier had knocked down his first two. Olander had got his second one, and Burney Tucker had scored a double to bring his total to three.

Wild Man Magee got two to bring his score to four, and Mat Matheson had downed his first Zero. Boyington had blasted three Nip planes out of the sky. He now had 19 (counting his six in China) and was within sighting distance of the record of 26 held jointly by Eddie Rickenbacker and Marine Joe Foss.

The Black Sheep had not escaped completely, however. Moore, Matheson, and Harper had their planes shot up extensively; the three aircraft came home with total of 123 bullet holes and six 20-mm shell holes. Both Matheson and Harper had been wounded by 7.7-mm
bullets that shattered as they entered their cockpits. Matheson was hit in the legs and Harper in the neck.

In the midst of a sudden tropical storm, Matheson made a perfect landing despite serious damage to his left wing and elevator. Harper, his hydraulic system destroyed, had to make a belly landing when his wheels refused to come down.

Nevertheless, our ready tent was a scene of wild hilarity as the victory-high Black Sheep crowded around my table, all talking at once, while Doc bandaged up Harper's and Matheson's wounds and dispensed small bottles of anti-jitters brandy. Rain beat down on the roof, blew in under the side of the tent, and muddied the coral floor, but the Black Sheep continued to talk, laugh, and shout like a football team that has just won the big game.

I leaned my chin on my hand, watching them. To have told them that they were heroes would only have invited a jeer.

After the excitement had calmed somewhat, Harper came over and stood beside my table. “You know,” his face serious, “I learned something up there today.”

It was the third time he'd told me this. Twice before he had flown back from Kahili with his plane full of holes, and the men in the squadron were calling him “the Sleeve,” after the tow targets on which they practiced gunnery runs.

Today, I said, “Did you, Harpo?”

“Yes, Red, I really learned something up there today. They can't touch me now!”

I looked out at his perforated plane, which was being hauled away, and then back to the bandage that Happy Jack Reames had put on his neck. “They can't touch you, huh?”

“No, they can't touch me now.”

And though he was in several actions after that, in which he shot down a Zero and two probables, no enemy aircraft ever did put another hole in his plane.

Navy Corpsman “Weavo” Weaver was a big help, not only to the Black Sheep, but to all pilots based at Munda. He set up a tent behind our quarters in the camp area, installed a couple of homemade rubbing tables, and worked most of the night, every night, massaging the tension out of tired pilots' bodies. We never knew where he came from or how he got started. One night we came in from the strip and there he was, all set up for business. He never had to drum up trade; there was always a string of pilots waiting their turn.

It was amazing to watch a highstrung, jittery pilot calm down under Weavo's ministrations. Fighter pilots are sort of like racehorses.
They're an entirely different breed from bomber pilots. Accustomed to hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, they think fast, move fast; their minds and bodies are alert, quick. The mere taking off or landing of a red-hot fighter plane requires the fullest concentration and coordination of mind and body. Add to this the constant threat of death in the air all about them, and it is no wonder the pilots were tense and jittery after a day of combat.

Weavo would stretch them out and probe into taut nerves and muscles with his capable fingers, and the pilot would loosen up, relax, and often fall asleep on the table. All that Weavo expected for his timely treatments was a signature in his logbook. During the time he was operating, he got signatures and notes of gratitude from all the pilots who flew out of Munda; his logbook was a fine souvenir. Weavo had the last signatures of some Marines who never came back, some of the high-scoring aces, and some who were given up for lost and then incredibly returned.

At 9:00
A.M.
on 18 October, Boyington led 12 Black Sheep to cover a bombing strike on Ballale. The bombing was highly successful and enemy fighters were observed in the vicinity; but none came in to challenge. Bob McClurg's engine cut out on him at 26,000 feet and he nosed over in an attempt to get it started. He got it running—but running rough—at 15,000 and headed for home. Spotting two Zeros at 2,500 and aware that attack was his best move, he slid down and knocked both out in one continuous run. It was his first positive score.

At 3:30 the same afternoon, Pappy zoomed off the Munda strip to seek out the enemy once more, leading 11 Black Sheep and eight Marines from Squadron 221. Matheson and Harper insisted on going in spite of their wounds.